Sooley / Сули (by John Grisham, 2021) - аудиокнига на английском

CHAPTER 1 In April, when Samuel Sooleymon was invited to try out for the national team, he was seventeen years old, stood six feet two inches tall, and was considered to be a promising point guard, known for his quickness and vertical leap, but also for his erratic passing and mediocre shooting. In July, when the team left Juba, the capital of South Sudan, for the trip to America, he was six feet four inches tall, just as quick but even more erratic handling the ball and no more accurate from the arc. He was hardly aware of his growth, which was not unusual for a teenager, but he did realize that his well-worn basketball shoes were tighter and his only pair of pants now fell well above his ankles. But back in April when the invitation arrived, his neighborhood erupted in celebration. He lived in Lotta, a remote village on the outskirts of Rumbek, a city of 30,000. He had spent his entire life in Lotta doing little more than playing basketball and soccer. His mother, Beatrice, was a homemaker, with little education, like all the women in the village. His father, Ayak, taught school in a two-room open-air hut built by some missionaries decades earlier. When Samuel wasn’t pounding the basketball on the dirt courts throughout the village, he tended to the family’s garden with his younger siblings and sold vegetables beside the road. For the moment, life in the village was good and fairly stable. Another brutal civil war was in its second year with no end in sight, and though daily life was always precarious, the people managed to make it through the day and hope for better things tomorrow. The children lived in the streets, always bouncing or kicking a ball, and the games offered a welcome diversion. Since the age of thirteen, Samuel had been the best basketball player in the village. His dream, like every other kid’s, was to play college ball in America and, of course, make it to the NBA. There were several South Sudanese players in the NBA and they were godlike figures back home. When the news of his invitation spread through the village, neighbors began gathering in front of the Sooleymons’ thatched-roof hut. Everyone wanted to celebrate Samuel’s breathtaking news. Ladies brought pitchers of cinnamon tea spiced with ginger and jugs of tamarind juice. Others brought platters of sugar-coated cookies and peanut macaroons. It was the greatest moment in the village’s recent history, and Samuel was hugged and admired by his neighbors. The little ones just wanted to touch him, certain that they were in the presence of a new national hero. He savored the moment but tried to caution everyone that he had only been invited for tryouts. Making the Under 18 team would be difficult because there were so many good players, especially in Juba, where the leagues were well established and the games were played on tile or even wood floors. In Lotta, like other remote villages and rural areas, the organized games were often played outdoors on concrete or dirt. He explained that only ten players would be chosen for the trip to America, and there they would be joined by five more players, all from South Sudan. Once combined, the team would play in showcase tournaments in places like Orlando and Las Vegas, and there would be hundreds of college scouts. Perhaps a few from the NBA as well. Talk of playing in America added more excitement to the occasion, and Samuel’s cautions were ignored. He was on his way. They had watched him grow up on the village courts and knew he was special enough to make any team, and to take their dreams with him. The celebration lasted well into the night, and when Beatrice finally ended it, Samuel reluctantly went to bed. But sleep was impossible. For an hour, he sat on his cot in his tiny bedroom, one that he shared with his two younger brothers, Chol and James, and whispered excitedly with them. Above their cots was a large poster of Niollo, the greatest of all South Sudanese players, soaring high above the rim and slamming a dunk in his Boston Celtics uniform, one which Samuel often fantasized wearing. He rose early the next morning and collected eggs from the family’s flock of chickens, his first chore of the day. After a quick breakfast, he left for school with his backpack and his basketball. James and Chol followed him to their neighborhood court where he shot for an hour as they retrieved the ball and fed it back to him. Other boys joined them, and the familiar noise of bouncing balls and friendly banter echoed through the sleepy morning. At eight o’clock, the games reluctantly broke up as Samuel and his brothers left for classes. He was in his last year of secondary school and would graduate in a month. He considered himself fortunate. Less than half of his peers—boys only—would finish secondary, and only a fraction even dreamed of university. There were no classes for the girls. As Samuel dribbled off to school, his dreams were now drifting to colleges far away. CHAPTER 2 Two weeks later, early on a Friday morning, the entire family made the long walk to the bus station in Rumbek and watched him leave for Juba and a long weekend of vigorous competition. They waved him off, with his mother and sister in tears. He would return the following Monday. The departure was an hour late, which for South Sudan was quite prompt. Because of bad roads and crowded buses, the schedules were flexible. Often there was no bus at all and breakdowns were common. It was not unusual for a bus to quit in the middle of the road and its passengers be sent off on foot to the nearest village. Samuel sat on a crowded bench in the front of the bus, wedged between two men who said they had been riding for three hours. They were headed to Juba to look for work, or something like that. Samuel wasn’t certain because their English was broken and mixed with Nuer, their tribal tongue. Samuel was Dinka, the largest ethnic class in the country, and that was his first language. English was his second. His mother spoke four. Across the narrow aisle was a woman with three children, all of them wide-eyed and silent. Samuel spoke to them in English but they did not respond. The mother said something to the oldest child and Samuel understood none of it. The bus had no air-conditioning and dust from the gravel road blew through the open windows and settled onto everything—clothing, bags, benches, the floor. It rocked and bumped along the main gravel road to Juba, occasionally stopping to pick up a hitchhiker or let off a passenger. Once it was known that Samuel was a basketball player who just might be headed to games in America, he became the focus of attention. Basketball was the new pride of South Sudan, a bright promise that sometimes allowed the people to set aside their violent history of ethnic conflict. Generally, the players were lean and tall and they played with a fierceness that often surprised American coaches. So they talked basketball, with Samuel holding forth. They stopped in every village and took on more passengers. Full capacity was a moving target and before long the younger men, including Samuel, were ordered by the driver to crawl on top of the bus for the ride and to make sure none of the bags and boxes fell off. As they approached Juba, the gravel turned to asphalt and the constant bumping eased somewhat. The passengers grew quiet as they passed miles of shantytowns, then blocks of sturdier homes. Six hours after he left Lotta, Samuel got off the bus at the central station where swarms of people were coming and going. He asked directions and walked for an hour to the University of Juba. He had been to Juba once before and was again struck by its modern facilities, paved streets, frantic traffic, tall buildings, vibrancy, and well-dressed people. If he failed to make the team, he planned to continue his studies in the city. If at all possible, he wanted to live there and pursue a profession. He found the campus and then the gym and stepped nervously inside. It was new, cavernous, with three full-length courts and few bleachers. There were no intercollegiate sports in the country, no college teams with schedules and logos, no fans to watch the excitement. The gym was used for intramural sports of all varieties, and for assemblies and rallies. At the far end he saw a man with a clipboard and a whistle tied around his neck, watching a four-on-four scrimmage. Samuel walked around the court and approached him. · · · Ecko Lam was forty and had spent his first five years in southern Sudan. His family narrowly escaped a guerrilla attack on their village and fled to Kenya. They eventually settled in Ohio and assimilated into an American lifestyle. He discovered basketball as a teenager and played four years at Kent State. He married an American of Sudanese descent and pursued his dream of coaching at the Division I level. He bounced from job to job, rising to the level of an assistant at Texas Tech, before being hired by a nonprofit to scout for talent in Africa. Two years earlier he had been selected to establish leagues and coach summer all-star teams in South Sudan. He loved his work and was still driven by the belief that basketball could make a difference in the lives of South Sudanese players, male and female. Taking his Under 18 team to the U.S. for the showcase tournaments was by far the best part of his job. He had never seen Samuel play in person but had watched some tape of the kid. A coach from the country had passed along a glowing recommendation, saying that he had the quickest hands and feet he had ever seen, not to mention an astonishing vertical leap. His mother, Beatrice, stood six feet tall, and the scouting report predicted that Samuel was still growing. At 6'2", he was the shortest invitee. On film, a video from a cell phone, Samuel dominated on defense but struggled with the ball. Because he lived in a village, his experience was limited, and Ecko suspected he would have difficulty competing against kids from the cities. Twenty players from around the country had been invited to try out, and they were trickling into the gym as the afternoon went on. Ecko noticed Samuel as he slinked around the edge of a court, obviously a kid from the country intimidated by the surroundings. He finally approached and timidly asked, “Excuse me, but are you Coach Lam?” Ecko offered a wide smile and replied, “Yes sir, and you must be Mr. Sooleymon.” “Yes sir,” he said and thrust forward a hand. They shook vigorously and touched each other on the shoulder, the standard Sudanese greeting. “A pleasure to meet you,” Ecko said. “How was your trip in?” Samuel shrugged and said, “Okay. If you like the bus.” “I don’t. Have you ever flown on an airplane?” “No sir,” he said without the slightest embarrassment. Of the twenty invitees, Ecko was almost certain that none had ever seen the inside of an airplane. “Well, if you make my team, we’ll fly halfway around the world. How does that sound?” Samuel couldn’t stop smiling. “Sounds wonderful.” “It will be great, son. The locker room is over there. Get changed in a hurry and start shooting.” Samuel entered a long room lined with small wire cages. He picked an empty one and changed quickly into gym shorts, a tee shirt, and his well-worn shoes. Five minutes later he was back on the court. Ecko tossed him a ball, pointed to an empty basket at the far end of the gym, and said, “Stretch and warm up, then start shooting from the arc.” “Yes sir.” He dribbled away, using only his right hand, went through a quick series of rather lackadaisical stretches, and began shooting. Ecko smiled at the fact that yet another seventeen-year-old was bored with the notion of stretching. Ecko monitored the scrimmage while watching every move Samuel made. His shot needed work. On the plus side, he delivered it from the top on an impressive, fluid jump. But he cocked low, at his forehead, and his right elbow strayed. Not uncommon for a kid with little coaching. He missed his first ten shots. Nerves, thought Ecko. By late afternoon, all twenty players had arrived. Ecko gathered them in a corner of the bleachers and asked each one to stand, give his name, and describe where he was from. Half were from Juba. Two were from Malakal, a war-ravaged city three hundred miles away. A few others were from the country, the bush. Ecko’s next order of business was the most problematic. He said, “We are all South Sudanese. Our country is torn by civil strife, where warlords fight for power and our people suffer, but this team will be united as one. You will be followed closely by our country. You will be its newest heroes. The quickest way to get cut from this squad is not by a lack of talent or hustle, but by any show of ethnic rivalry. Understood?” All nodded in agreement. Ecko Lam was a legend in their circles and they were desperate to impress him. He and he alone held the key to a trip to America. They envied his coolness, his perfect English, and, most especially, the latest Air Jordans on his feet. He picked up a uniform and continued, “This is what we will wear.” He held up a jersey. “As you can see, it is plain, simple, reversible, something you might see in a gym class here in Juba. Gray, no color, no fancy logo. We wear this to remind ourselves of where we come from and of our humble roots. I wish I could give this uniform to all twenty of you, but I cannot. Only half will make the team and I do not look forward to giving the other half the bad news. But ten’s enough, and will be joined by five more South Sudanese now living in the U.S. My assistant coach, Frankie Moka, is holding a similar tryout in Chicago. We will meet his players in Orlando for a few days of practice before the games begin. There will be sixteen teams in all, four from the U.S., the others from places like Brazil, the U.K., Spain, Croatia, Senegal, Italy, Russia, and I can’t name them all. There will be eight teams in Orlando and we will play each one. The other eight will compete in a similar tournament in Las Vegas. The top four from each tournament will meet in St. Louis for the national showcase. Any questions?” There were none. The boys were too shy to ask and none wanted to appear too eager. “And just so you’ll know, this trip is sponsored by the big shoe companies. You know their names and they’re being very generous. Some of the money is also coming from the Manute Bol Foundation, and some has been donated by other NBA players from our country. At some point, when we’re over there, we’ll write thank-you notes and do photographs. There is a chance that we’ll meet Niollo, but no promises.” They were too stunned to respond. He split them into four teams, assigned their positions and matchups, warned them against excessive fouling, and started the two scrimmages. With no refs to interfere the play was extremely physical, and that was okay with Ecko. He whistled a few of the more brutal fouls, but for the most part let them play. After twenty minutes of nonstop action, he called for a break and offered them water. As they sat sprawled in the bleachers, dripping with sweat and catching their breath, he paced with his clipboard and said, “Nice work, men. Lots of good hustle out there. I expect that to continue because we are South Sudanese and we play from the heart. Nobody quits, nobody loafs, nobody goofs off on the court. Now, in about an hour we will walk around the corner to a dormitory where you’ll stay. We’ll have dinner there, then watch a movie, then go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep because tomorrow will be a long day.” CHAPTER 3 On Saturday morning, Ecko marched them back to the gym, half of which had now been taken over by a city youth league. Confusion reigned for the first half hour as Ecko argued with a recreation official and threatened to call someone with clout. An uneasy truce was ironed out and the Under 18 practice was given two of the three courts. Once the youth league coaches realized who Ecko was, they grew quite cooperative. Their younger players watched Samuel and the others in awe. Two assistant coaches arrived to help Ecko with his day. They organized the first event, a series of suicide sprints from mid-court to the baseline, about fifty feet. Racing in three groups of guards, forwards, and centers, the winners faced off for a two-out-of-three contest. All of the players were quick and fast, but none could touch Samuel. He won every sprint going away. One coach then took the four centers under a basket for a rough session on rebounding and blocking out. Ecko took the guards and forwards and, using two cameras, filmed their jump shots. Samuel had never had a coach break down his shot, and it was not a pleasant experience. “A mess,” was how Ecko described it, but with a smile. They started at the beginning and with the basics. “Think of all the shots you’ve ever taken, Samuel. Probably a million, right?” “At least.” “And they’ve all been wrong. Time and time again all you’ve done is reinforce bad habits. If you want to play at a higher level, start over and start now.” They watched the film again and again. Ecko had averaged 15 points a game his senior year at Kent State and knew what a perfect jump shot looked like. “No two are the same,” he explained to Samuel, “but the great ones have the same basic parts. Three things. Start just above the head, aim the elbow at the basket, and take the pressure off your left hand.” Samuel was eager to be coached and tried to unwind his bad habits, but it would take time. Ecko sent him to the free throw line to do nothing but shoot for ten minutes with both feet on the floor. Before each shot he was to say out loud, “Aim the elbow at the rim.” The drills continued throughout the morning and by noon the boys were bored. Ecko finally split them into four teams and unleashed the scrimmages. He again warned them about rough fouls and for good measure assigned an assistant coach to referee. He took a seat in the bleachers and studied every player. By far the best point guard was Alek Garang, a well-known player from Juba who had starred on every tournament team since he was twelve years old. A scout had passed along his name to some American coaches and he was getting letters. The trip to the U.S. was crucial for his future. The dreams and best-laid plans were to play well enough to be noticed by an American coach, who would then pull strings and “place” the recruit in a boarding school for a year of elevated competition and more stringent classroom work. Ecko knew every college coach, every boarding school, every high school basketball factory, and every rule in the NCAA handbook. He knew the cheaters, their bagmen, the schools to avoid, and the facilitators who should be indicted. He also knew that every kid on the floor right then in Juba needed an extra year of coaching and polishing before entering the rough world of American intercollegiate basketball. · · · After showers and pizza for dinner, the tired players stuffed themselves into two vans and rode through central Juba to a modern shopping mall near the capitol. Ecko let them go with instructions to meet at the cinema on the first level promptly at eight for a movie. The boys stayed together as they drifted from store to store, gazing into windows, shaking their heads at price tags, trying on caps and shoes they could not afford. Samuel had a few coins and wanted to buy souvenirs for his younger sister and brothers, gifts they were certainly not expecting. The movie was Focus starring Will Smith, the most popular American actor in Africa. Though he didn’t say so, watching it was Samuel’s first experience in a real cinema. It was a thrill and only reinforced his desire to live in the city, but he also kept thinking of his brothers, James and Chol, and his sister, Angelina, and how proud they would be to see him in such modern surroundings. Watching Will Smith race through the streets in a sports car with a slinky woman on his arm was certainly entertaining. And Samuel, along with the other nineteen players, believed in his soul that it was not just a dream. The Miami Heat were currently paying Niollo $15 million a year to play basketball, money they could not comprehend. And Niollo was one of them, a poor kid from the bush of South Sudan, a Dinka, now starring in the NBA and most likely driving fancy cars and living the big life. Back in the dorm, Ecko gathered the players in a television room and ordered more pizzas. Growing boys who were tall and skinny and burning thousands of calories each day could not be fed enough, and they devoured the pizzas. They were curious about his life, his upbringing and education, and how he discovered basketball. Why had he not made it as a pro? Why had he chosen to become a coach? Now that he had seen them play, could he say they were good enough for a college scholarship? Could he tell who might just make it to the NBA? No, he could not. They were still growing and their skills were developing and in need of competition. Some had plenty of natural talent but all were rough around the edges and inexperienced. At least four of them would be sent home at noon the next day. At the moment, Samuel was on the bubble. Alek Garang was the number one point guard, with Samuel a distant second. Ecko talked to them, listened to them, and watched them carefully. For young men who had seen plenty of war, poverty, and violence, they, at least for the moment, preferred to talk about basketball in America, and movies and pizza and girls. Ecko was always listening and waiting for words or comments about the conflict. Each of them had been touched by it. Each knew someone who had died or disappeared. But on that Saturday night, in the safety of a modern dormitory on a campus, the boys were safe. Their future was nothing but basketball. CHAPTER 4 At only six feet two inches, Samuel still had trouble folding his legs onto his bunk for a night’s rest. Above him, his bunkmate, Peter Nyamal, was five inches taller and somehow slept with his feet dangling in the air. Early Sunday morning, Samuel eased from the room without making a sound and left the dorm. He strolled through the campus and enjoyed the solitude and again vowed to study there, if, of course, things didn’t work out in the NBA. He sat on a bench and watched the sunrise and smiled as he thought of his family back in Lotta. He had never left them before and they seemed so far away. At that moment, James and Chol were gathering eggs for breakfast while Angelina stood at the kitchen table with an iron heated by a fire and pressed her dress and their white shirts, their Sunday best. They would walk as a family to the village church for nine o’clock Mass. Samuel roamed some more and found the student center, the only building open at such an hour on a Sunday morning. He paid five cents for a carton of mango juice and smiled at a pretty girl all alone at a table. She was pecking on a laptop and ignored him. About a year earlier, he had actually seen and touched a laptop. There had been only one in his school, and for a brief period of time there had been internet service in Lotta. That, along with cell phone coverage, had been knocked out by the guerrillas. Roads, bridges, cell towers, and utility lines were favorite targets. They were destroyed so often that the government stopped building them. His mother, Beatrice, had no education. His sister, Angelina, was being taught at home by their father. How, then, was it possible for some young women in South Sudan to make it to college? He rather liked the idea. He had watched several college games on television and had always been surprised at the number of female students screaming in the stands. Another reason to play basketball in America. In a reading area, he flipped through the Juba Monitor, one of two dailies in the country, neither of which made it to Lotta. He found a copy of the other one, The Citizen, and reread the same news. As he was finishing his juice, three college boys came in and looked him over, then ignored him. They chatted away in their big-city English. Their clothes were nicer; their shirts had real collars. Samuel knew it was time to leave. He found the gym and the front doors were locked. As he walked away, he saw a janitor exit from a side door. He waited a moment until the janitor was gone, then tried the door. It opened and he walked into the same locker room the team had been using. The courts were dark but the early sun was flooding one end of the building. Samuel found a bag of balls and, without even a hint of stretching, began shooting. An hour later, Ecko Lam entered through the same side door, and as he walked through the locker room he heard the familiar sound of a bouncing ball. He eased into the shadows and peeked around the bleachers. Samuel was glistening with sweat as he fired away from twenty feet. He missed, sprinted after the ball, dribbled between his legs, behind his back, feinted right then left all the way to mid-court where he turned around, took a few quick steps, and fired again. Another miss. And another. The form was better and he was trying mightily to break old habits, but the elbow was still straying too far. And, for the moment Ecko really didn’t care. The gorgeous part of his jump shot was the point of delivery. Off the dribble, Samuel pulled up and in a split second rocketed upward and flicked the ball away at a height few other guards could match. If only he could hit. After a few minutes, Ecko strode onto the court and said good morning. “Hello, Coach,” Samuel said, flinging sweat from his forehead. It was not yet 8 a.m. and the gym was thick with humidity. “You have trouble sleeping?” Ecko asked. “No sir. Well, yes, I guess. I wanted to walk around and see the campus, and I found a door back there that was unlocked.” “I watched your last fifteen shots, Samuel. You missed twelve of them. And you were as wide open as you’ll ever get.” “Yes sir. It will take some work, Coach.” Ecko smiled and said, “The scouting report says your mother is six feet tall. Is that right?” “Yes sir. All my people are tall.” “When do you turn eighteen?” “August eleven.” “You could try out next year, Samuel.” “Thank you, Coach. Does this mean I’m done for this year?” “No. You want to shoot some more?” “Yes sir.” “Okay. Go to the free throw line. Keep both feet on the floor. We know you can jump. Take the ball higher. Aim your elbow directly at the rim and deliver it slowly. When you make ten in a row, come find me.” “Yes sir.” · · · The first drill was a shooting contest, held on two courts. Every player took 20 shots from the free throw line, and the hits and misses were recorded. The top four were then put in a shootout, complete with banter, catcalls, cheap shots, laughter at misses, all manner of verbal abuse. “This pressure is nothing,” Ecko kept saying as he offered up his pointed observations. “Imagine you’re in the Final Four with the game on the line and a hundred million people watching, including everyone here in South Sudan. This pressure is nothing.” Alek Garang shot 90 percent and won going away. Samuel struggled to hit half of his shots. They moved back five feet to the college arc—20 feet, nine inches—and started with the guards. Each took 20 open shots in a row. Garang hit 11; Samuel only 4. The forwards went next and Ecko was not pleased with their percentages. The best hit only a third of his shots. Because every big man fancies himself a long-range gunner, Ecko humored the centers with 10 shots each. Few found the bottom of the net. He broke them down into teams of three for half-court scrimmages. His tone changed dramatically as he stopped smiling, yelled more, whistled more, found far more deficiencies to point out. The gym became tense as Ecko went on the warpath. A bad shot got a whistle and harsh rebuke. Samuel rested and watched from the bleachers. It had been a terrible morning and things were not improving. His shooting was pathetic, so bad that in the scrimmages he hesitated to take a shot. Hard to score when you don’t shoot. He had guarded Alek Garang for 15 minutes and the slick one had scored almost at will. Ecko yelled and whistled and seemed irritated by Samuel’s presence on the court. By noon, Samuel knew he was finished. After a break and some cold pizza, Ecko divided them into groups of four for half an hour of incredibly dull drills—ball screens, pick-and-rolls, and such. One of the assistant coaches led four players to the locker room where a chalkboard was wiped clean and apparently ready for Xs and Os. Instead, Ecko appeared and addressed them by saying, “Look, men, there’s no easy way to do this. It’s by far the worst part of coaching, but I have no choice. You are great players with great futures, but I cannot include you on this trip.” They slumped in their chairs and looked at the floor. Ecko continued, “We have some money for the bus rides. I wish you the best. Be careful out there.” Though he had done it before, it was still heartbreaking. The boys would travel by bus and on foot back to their homes with their magnificent dreams broken. They would continue to play, and to grow, but he knew that none of the four would play in America. And without that chance, their futures were bleak. They were too stunned to speak. Ecko said, “Look me in the eyes.” All four eventually did. He said, “I wish I could take all twenty, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” Peter Nyamal slowly stood and wiped his cheeks with the back of a hand. He said, “Thank you, Coach, for the opportunity.” They shook hands and embraced. Ecko said, “I wish you the best, I really do, and I hope to see you again.” The other three stood, proudly, and embraced their coach. An assistant led them through the side door and walked them back to the dorm. They quickly gathered their things and headed for the bus station. Two hours later, the same scene was repeated as Ecko said goodbye to four more. He hated this part of his job but had learned that it was best to get it over with. As the team enjoyed a long break back at the dorm, Ecko and his two assistants debated the last two cuts. He wanted to break camp with four guards, four forwards, and two centers, but the two bigs were lacking. The team would find help in the U.S. where a high school All-American named Dak Marial would join the team. Dak was a rising senior at a fancy California prep school and had already committed to UCLA. Most rating experts put him in the top three prospects in the country. He had fled South Sudan with relatives when he was a boy. Ecko did not want to take either of his two centers, but finally settled on one. Neither assistant wanted to include Samuel, who, so far that weekend, had looked terrible on offense and mediocre on defense. Both rated him as the third best guard. One referred to him as a “nonshooting guard.” But Ecko loved his speed, quickness, and leap, and he was convinced that the kid would put in the hours necessary to become a marksman. They finally agreed to cut one center and one forward. Samuel Sooleymon was the last player chosen, though he would never know it. · · · The players did know that some serious roster trimming was under way. Eight of their friends had vanished, their lockers and rooms cleared. Who would be Ecko’s last two victims? As they played foosball, shot pool, and looked at girls in the student center, they laughed and joked about who might be next. But it was a nervous laughter. · · · Coach Lam’s favorite restaurant in Juba was Da Vinci’s, a place known for good food and even better views. It sat practically on the Nile River, on the eastern edge of town, and most of its tables were outside on a deck beside the water. He arrived first with a van loaded with five players and they followed him to a secluded corner of the deck where he congratulated them on making the team. Moments later, the two assistants arrived with the other five, and when the boys realized that they had been chosen they wanted to celebrate. Their frayed nerves were finally put at ease. Samuel had convinced himself that his long ride back to Rumbek would be a dreadful one. He had tried to imagine the pain of telling his family and friends that he didn’t make the cut. They would be crushed and he would never get over the disappointment. Now, however, the future was glorious again. He was headed to the U.S. to play basketball against the world while a hundred head coaches watched intently and their assistants filmed every move. He would proudly carry the dreams of his people on his broad shoulders and soar, just like the great Niollo. The players and coaches sat around a long table and ordered soft drinks and juice. The mood was joyous and every conversation was about the trip, from the airports and jets, to the long flights, to the hotels and amusement parks, to the games and the arenas and all those scouts. Were they really going to Disney World? It was Ecko’s third Under 18 team to take to the U.S., and he reveled in their excitement. CHAPTER 5 At seven Monday morning, a van left the dorm again as Ecko took four of his new players to the bus station. He parked in a gravel lot outside the bustling terminal and took the boys to the rear door of the van. He handed each a handsome vinyl gym bag with the South Sudanese flag brightly embroidered on both sides. “Inside you’ll find a new basketball, some practice tee shirts and shorts, along with some caps and other goodies. Before we leave in July, you’ll be fitted for new shoes, but that comes later.” He walked them inside and said goodbye to each with a warm embrace. They thanked him again and again, and they hugged each other, said goodbye again, and got lost in the crowds. Samuel’s bus to Rumbek left at 8:30, only half an hour late. It was not crowded and he had an entire seat to himself, for the moment. Beside him was his old duffel and his shiny new gym bag, which he continually checked on. It was already hot and the bus inched along in city traffic. Once again, Samuel marveled at the city noise—the relentless horn-blowing, the angry shouts, the friendly greetings, the rattle and roar of old engines, the sirens. Finally, the bus picked up speed as the traffic thinned and they left the central city. The road was still asphalt as they passed through the shantytowns but soon became gravel. Suddenly, the bus stopped, its passenger door jerked open, and three smartly dressed and armed government soldiers hopped on board. They wore identical khaki uniforms, maroon berets, shiny black boots, and all three had the same cocky smirk that was expected. Each carried a Kalashnikov rifle, or a Kallie as they were called in many parts of Africa. Samuel immediately recognized the weapon because there were so many of them in his country. The soldiers glared at the passengers—the usual collection of harmless peasants, students, commuting workers—and didn’t like what they saw. They ordered the first two rows cleared and sat down. One barked at the driver to proceed, and the bus was off again. It was not at all uncommon for government soldiers to hop a ride on the buses. They were given priority and no one objected. They expected to be accommodated and had the weaponry to get what they wanted. But their presence could mean something far more ominous than simply catching a ride from here to there. It was not uncommon for the military to accompany buses into the rural areas where bandits thrived and guerrillas waited to attack. After half an hour it was obvious, at least to Samuel, that the soldiers were not just along for the ride. They were on high alert, watching the road, the traffic, the settlements, the trails. They whispered among themselves. One talked on a satellite phone. Cellular service outside of Juba was scarce and unreliable. The bus stopped in a village and four passengers got on as one got off. Minutes later they were back in the bush, the gravel road dry and dusty, the sun baking the fields and woods. The ambush happened so fast it must have been carried out by experienced thieves. An open cargo truck suddenly appeared from a dirt trail in a bend and blocked the road. The bus driver said, “This is it!” He hit the brakes and the bus rocked to a halt. The soldiers lowered their heads, clutched their Kallies, and prepared to attack. One yelled at the passengers, “Heads down! Everyone!” Two crouched by the driver. The third moved to the rear and put his hand on the door latch. Then, the sickening sound that was all too familiar. The Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak of an assault rifle. Samuel ducked even lower but was still watching. The leader of the gang was in the middle of the road firing at the sky. Beside him were two others, just boys, probably Samuel’s age or younger, dressed in their best imitation of real soldiers, a hodgepodge of leather ammo belts and guns on both hips, along with their rifles. One wore a white cowboy hat. One had on basketball shoes. They swaggered toward the bus, all three yelling threats, as two others hustled to the rear of the bus. A soldier squatting inside the front door said, “Go,” and all hell broke loose. The driver opened the door and two soldiers rolled out and landed on their knees with Kallies blazing. The thieves were stunned and their hesitation cost them their lives as the better-trained government soldiers wiped them out. At the same moment, the third soldier kicked open the rear door and shot the two thugs at near point-blank range. The gunfire lasted only seconds, but it was horrifying nonetheless. One of the bandits managed to spray the front of the bus and shatter the windshield before going down, and the sounds of exploding glass and ricocheting bullets hung in the air long after the shooting stopped. Samuel, head still low, quickly checked on the other passengers. “No one’s hurt,” he yelled to the driver. He walked to the front, looked through the pockmarked windshield, and saw a sickening scene that he would never forget. A boy of no more than twelve was walking from the cargo truck toward the soldiers. He held a rifle with both hands, high above his head, as if to surrender. He was frightened and may have been crying. A soldier ordered him to lay down the weapon and he did so. He fell to his knees, touched his fingertips to his chin, and begged for his life. The two soldiers stood over him. One kicked him in the face and knocked him flat, facedown. The other raised his Kallie and fired away, strafing the boy’s back and head. Tak! Tak! Tak! Tak! When all was quiet, the passengers cautiously lifted their heads and watched as the soldiers cleared the road, then dragged the six dead bodies to the cargo truck and piled them together near the fuel tank under the driver’s seat. In no hurry, they searched through all pockets and kept the money and valuables. They confiscated their weapons and found two sat phones in the cab. They turned a valve, drained the diesel from the tank, and let it run over the dead bodies. One soldier ripped off a tee shirt from a corpse, soaked it with lighter fluid, and wrapped it around a large rock. They backed away, lit the tee shirt, and tossed it at the cargo truck. Whoosh! The noise startled even the soldiers and they stepped back again. The fire roared and engulfed the truck and sent thick, black exhaust boiling upward. Flames shot from the dead bodies as the clothing caught fire, then the flesh began sizzling. The soldiers laughed and admired their work. The bus driver swept glass from his dashboard and resettled into his seat. Along with his passengers, he watched the fire and waited for the soldiers. On the bench in front of Samuel, a mother with a small child was crying. Samuel looked at a man across the aisle, but both were too stunned to speak. Eventually, the soldiers retreated to the bus and got on. No one made eye contact with them. The driver waited until he was told to proceed. As they drove away, Samuel looked through his window at the awful scene. His lasting image was the burning bodies. The road ran straight for a mile or so, and when it swept to the right he turned and saw a tall, thick cloud of grayish smoke drifting high into the air. What would the next bus see as it approached? Who would clean up the mess? Take away the bodies? Report the incident to the authorities? In South Sudan, many obvious questions went unanswered, and survivors knew to stay quiet. The soldiers were laughing among themselves and ignoring the passengers. The driver pointed to holes in his windshield, said something funny, and the soldiers laughed at it too. After half an hour, one of them stood and walked down the aisle, looking at the passengers and their bags and sacks of goods. Samuel’s new gym bag caught his attention and he asked, “What’s in it?” Samuel smiled and replied, “Basketball stuff.” “Open it.” The soldier was Dinka—all three were—as was Samuel, and with the endless ethnic conflict raging through the country he felt somewhat comfortable being among his own. Certainly they wouldn’t steal from him? He unzipped the bag and showed it to the soldier, who asked, “Basketball?” “Yes sir. I’m on the national team. We’re going to play in the United States in July.” The soldier grabbed the bag and took it up front and showed it to his buddies. They removed the new ball, two practice tee shirts, two pairs of gym shorts, two pairs of white socks, and three caps with a South Sudan Under 18 logo on the front. They examined them, then removed their maroon berets and put on the caps. One of them turned and looked at Samuel and said, “Up here.” Samuel walked to the front and took a seat behind them. They asked questions about the team, the tournaments, the trip to the U.S. One claimed to be a fan of Niollo and said he loved the Miami Heat. They asked if Samuel would play for an American college. What about the NBA? The bus stopped at another village and two passengers joined the ride. Back on the road and still sitting with the soldiers, Samuel asked, “Got time for a question?” “Sure,” said the biggest talker, undoubtedly the leader of the gang. All three were still wearing the U18 caps. “Who were those men back there?” “A band of thieves, some nasty boys who’ve been causing trouble around here.” “But no more,” said another with a laugh. Samuel said, “How did you know they would stop the bus?” One picked up a sat phone and smiled at it. “They use these too and we like to listen. They’re not really that smart.” “So, they’re not guerrillas?” “No, just a gang of raiders looking for someone to rob, rape, and kill.” “They would have killed us?” “You never know with these thugs. Last week they stopped a bus on the main highway west of Juba. At night. Got everybody off the bus and they lined them up along its side. Made the driver get on his knees and beg, then they shot him. They robbed everyone, took their bags and luggage. There were two young ladies, one with a child. They took them back on the bus and raped them for an hour or so while the other passengers listened. Two boys sneaked off in the dark and escaped.” Samuel glanced to his left and looked at a peasant woman of about forty. Her teenage daughter sat next to her. How close had they come to a disaster? The leader continued, “You? A fine young man of, how old?” “Seventeen.” “I joined the army at seventeen. Three years ago. You, they probably would not have killed you, but there’s a good chance they would’ve taken you and forced you to join the gang. If you resisted, then they would’ve shot you.” He lowered his voice and looked at the girl. “She wouldn’t have stood a chance. And the driver? Well, they always kill the driver.” “Standard procedure,” added another. “I guess we owe you a big thanks,” Samuel said. “It’s our job.” They removed the caps and put them back in the gym bag, along with the ball, shirts, shorts, and socks. The leader said, “So, when you make a million dollars in the NBA, you’ll come back here and buy us a beer, right?” “All the beer you can drink.” “We’re going to remember that.” They handed back his gym bag and Samuel returned to his seat. He was four hours from home. CHAPTER 6 There was no welcoming party at the terminal in Rumbek. Samuel saw no one he knew. The bus was hours late and he was not expecting anyone to wait on him. He flagged a moto-taxi and hopped on the back, clutching his two bags. The driver, a kid of no more than fifteen, handled the bike like all the rest, reckless and daring and determined to terrify his passenger. Samuel hung on for his life and managed to follow the custom of not complaining about the daredevil antics. The walk to Lotta was three miles and would have taken an hour under a blazing sun. The taxi ride was twenty cents, so Samuel splurged and laughed to himself about spending big money now that he was a star. Beatrice was behind the house watering her vegetables when she heard Angelina squeal with excitement. She ran inside and saw Samuel standing in the kitchen, wearing a South Sudan practice tee shirt, modeling it like he owned the world. “I made the team, Mom!” he yelled as he grabbed his mother and lifted her into the air. Beatrice hugged him back and began crying as Angelina bounced around the house, looking for someone else to tell. Finding no one, she ran into the street with the unbelievable news and within seconds the neighbors knew that their dream had come true. Samuel Sooleymon was going to play basketball in America! A second celebration materialized within the hour as the village gathered on the street in front of the house. As Ayak came home from school with James and Chol, a loud cheer went up when Samuel ran to greet them. The neighbors brought boiled peanuts, sesame snacks, cinnamon tea, and mandazi, a popular fried pastry. Samuel proudly showed off his new weapon, a Spalding NBA Street Ball, and explained that it was made of a durable rubber and designed for outdoor play. He tossed it to James who passed to a friend and before long the shiny new ball was crisscrossing through the crowd as the older boys passed it, held it long enough to admire, then zipped it to the next one. A radio began playing music as the day grew long and the shadows crept in. As the sun set, the most glorious day in Lotta’s history was coming to an end, and there was so much hope for even more excitement. Their native son was on his way. · · · The family sat in the dark house until late in the night, talking and laughing and dreaming of what might happen in America. Back on the bus, Samuel had decided not to tell his family about the bandits, the soldiers, the ambush, the smoldering corpses. He would be on the bus again in early July as he headed back to Juba for the trip and he did not want them to worry. Later in bed, though, he could not shake the image of the young boy being killed for no reason. He was about the same size and age of Chol, who was twelve. Who was he? Where was he from? Did he have family? How did he end up raiding highways with a gang of thieves? Would anyone grieve over his death? Would anyone even know about it? And though the soldiers had done their duty and probably saved a few lives with their ambush, Samuel was still bothered by the ease with which they killed and the complete lack of remorse over any of it. They had laughed as they watched the fire. They had reboarded the bus as if nothing had happened. Was it possible to kill so many and do it so often that they had become numb to any feelings? But they were young, like Samuel. Their fathers and grandfathers had probably fought the North in civil wars that lasted for fifty years. They had grown up with violence and killing. It didn’t bother them. Now, with yet another civil war raging through South Sudan, the bloodshed and atrocities were only getting worse. Beatrice had a cousin who’d been murdered in a village slaughter only an hour away. Everyone in South Sudan had a story. From burning bodies to basketball glories, Samuel’s mind raced back and forth when he should have been sleeping. He woke up at dawn and felt tired, but life had a new meaning and there were important matters at hand. He dressed, gathered his eggs, swallowed breakfast in three bites, kissed his mother goodbye, and took off down the road, backpack over his shoulder and his new street ball bouncing away. All alone on the dirt court where he had spent half his childhood, Samuel vowed to perfect his jump shot with endless hours of practice. He would see Coach Ecko Lam and his new teammates in just over two months when they reunited in Juba for a week of practice, and he was determined to handle the ball like Steph Curry, shoot like Kobe, and play both ends like LeBron. No one would work harder. No one would spend more time on the courts than Samuel. At seven, James and Chol appeared with their old basketball. Three more boys arrived with theirs. The five became rebounders and feeders as they retrieved Samuel’s shots and fed the ball back to him. Ball high, elbow aimed, shoulders squared, an easy jump. Samuel repeated Coach Lam’s instructions before each shot. And for some reason he counted. After 200 he began to tire. At 300, it was time for school. He’d read that Kobe took 500 shots a day when he was a teenager. He’d also read that Steph Curry once hit 77-straight three-point shots in practice. He liked those numbers. · · · At the end of May, Samuel finished his final year of secondary studies and was given a certificate in an outdoor graduation ceremony. There were ten others in his class, all boys, and their principal reminded them of how lucky they were to complete their studies. Across their young and troubled nation, only a third of all boys got a certificate. One in ten for the girls, and those graduates were found only in the cities. Samuel had applied to the University of Juba and been accepted. He planned to enroll there in the fall, though he did not have enough money for the meager tuition and expenses. If things didn’t work out in the U.S., he would return home, move to Juba, find part-time work, hustle for student aid, and somehow get by as another starving college boy. He had seen the bright lights, was about to see even brighter ones, and vowed to seek a better life away from the poverty and violence of the bush. Those thoughts, though, were rather remote as he proudly held his certificate and listened to the principal go on and on about the country’s need for younger leadership. He tried to listen but his thoughts were on July and the trip of a lifetime, the incredible opportunity to play in front of college scouts. He did not want to spend the next year studying economics or medicine at the University of Juba. · · · The send-off was not what the neighbors wanted. They fancied another block party with music and dancing late into the night. Beatrice and Ayak were grateful but felt otherwise. They wanted their son to go to bed early, get plenty of sleep, and make a quick getaway. The family breakfast was quiet. They ate eggs and pastries and drank tamarind fruit juice, coffee for the adults. Angelina, James, and Chol were torn between the excitement of their brother’s big adventure, and the sadness, even fear, of him leaving home. The family had always been together, and the thought of Samuel going away, now or next month for university, was unsettling. He joked with his siblings and promised to send postcards, though mail service in rural South Sudan was virtually nonexistent. He promised to call whenever he could. Coach Lam, of course, had a cell phone and had promised to devise a method of calling home, though it seemed unlikely the family would get a call so far from Juba. When it was time to go he grabbed his carefully packed gym bag and stepped outside where a dozen neighbors loitered in the front yard to say goodbye. He thanked them, hugged a few, then hugged his siblings. Angelina was wiping tears. Beatrice gave him a small cardboard box filled with food for the bus ride, and he hugged his mother for a long time. For the occasion, a cousin who owned one of the few pickup trucks in the village had washed the dirt and mud off and parked it in front of the house. The tailgate was down. He took Samuel’s gym bag, tossed it in, and patted a cushion on the tailgate. A throne for the guest of honor. As the crowd inched closer, Ayak pulled a small envelope out of his pocket and gave it to his son. “What is it?” Samuel asked. “It’s money, cash. From all of your friends. They collected a few coins from everyone and the bank converted them to pounds. About ten.” “Ten pounds?” Samuel asked in disbelief. “Yes.” “That’s far too much money, Father.” “I know. But you can’t give it back, can you?” Samuel wiped his eyes and stuffed the envelope into a front pocket of his only pair of pants. He looked into the faces of his friends and neighbors and softly said, “Thank you, thank you.” His cousin said, “We’re going to miss the bus.” He got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and started the engine. Ayak stepped forward and embraced Samuel. “Make us proud,” he said. “I will. I promise.” Samuel took his place on the cushioned tailgate, his long legs dangling almost to the dirt street. He waved at Beatrice and his siblings, nodded again at his father as the truck moved away. Ayak stood there, waving goodbye as only a proud father can do. Samuel returned the wave and wiped his cheek. He would never see his father again. CHAPTER 7 Ecko Lam was lounging in the bleachers with three of his players and waiting for the others to arrive. The gym, the same one they had used in April, was busy with a summer basketball league on one end and a volleyball tournament at the other. Things would clear out somewhat tomorrow, and Ecko had been promised one full court for practice. He was desperate to get his team to Orlando and to a real gym for more intense workouts. He knew that for the next three days his players would practice hard but would also be distracted by thoughts of the trip. He saw Samuel enter the gym with his team bag and look around. Ecko realized immediately that he was taller than in April. He called him over and they went through the standard handshakes and embraces. “How much have you grown?” Ecko asked. “I don’t know,” Samuel said. “Come on, Samuel, you’ve grown several inches.” “No way,” Samuel said. Ecko looked at the other three and asked, “Right? He’s taller?” “Maybe an inch or so,” said Riak Kuol, a forward. “You were six feet two the last time you were here, right?” “Yes.” “Come here.” They walked into the locker room where a narrow board eight feet tall was attached to the wall next to a chalkboard. Ecko nodded and Samuel pressed his back to the yardstick. Ecko smiled and said, “Six feet four. You’ve grown two inches in the past two and a half months. What are you eating?” “Everything.” “Keep it up. Taller is always better.” · · · By dinner, all ten players had reported. Ecko gave them the night off and instead of a hard practice they ate pizza in the dorm and talked about life. The coach said little and wanted the boys to get comfortable with each other. They would live together for the next month, sleeping three and four to a room, eating every meal together, sweating buckets in practice, winning and losing and pushing each other to whatever limits were in their way. They would laugh and probably cry, and along the way they would discover a small slice of America. Ecko saw basketball as one of the few bright spots in his native land, and he dreamed of returning with his players and helping to build a new nation. He asked if any of the boys had encountered violence. Riak Kuol, a Murle from Upper Nile state, said that a relative had been murdered in a village burning only two weeks earlier. The man’s family had fled and disappeared and were probably hiding in a refugee camp. Samuel told the story of his bus ride home back in April and his close call with the bandits. Quinton Majok, a Nuer from Wau, the fourth largest city, had relatives in a refugee camp in Uganda. They talked late into the night, and Ecko became convinced that he had chosen well. They were kids, just boys about to leave on a journey they could hardly imagine. They spoke the same English, though some better than others. Abraham Bol, an Azande from Upper Nile, won the award for the most languages. He spoke five—two tribal, English, Arabic, and some pretty good French he picked up from a missionary. His dream, after basketball of course, was to speak ten languages and work as an interpreter for the United Nations. At midnight, Ecko shut down the party and ordered them to bed. He promised tomorrow would be brutal. · · · However, the next day began not with a half hour of painful stretching, nor with a round of Coach Lam’s much dreaded suicide sprints, but with a most exciting order of business. It was Shoe Day! In the locker room, Ecko stood in front of a stack of identical bright boxes with the Reebok logo on all sides. He explained that the major apparel companies—Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Under Armour, Puma—were not only sponsoring the tournaments in the U.S. but also providing plenty of gear. In a random drawing, Reebok had picked the team from South Sudan. Some of the players may have preferred other brands, but in an instant they were forgotten. Reebok was now the favorite as they happily ditched their old shoes and began trying on the new. Ecko looked at the pile of battered, torn, and slick-soled old shoes and shook his head. How many hours had they pounded away on dirt and mud courts? All of them should have been discarded months ago. Every decent high school player in America had a collection of basketball shoes, some of which they actually wore on the court. For his players it was Christmas morning as they opened boxes, held up the pristine Reebok Revenge models, and slowly, gingerly, tried them on. They passed them around and helped each other get the right size as all ten seemed to chatter at once. Samuel’s old pair were size elevens and had been too tight for a month or so. The 12.5 fit perfectly. At the rate he was growing, he wondered how long they would last. When they were all fitted and admiring their new shoes, Ecko called them to order and began a mini-lecture on proper attire. They should notice that everyone now had the same shoe. All were identical, all were equal. In practice, everyone would wear the same shorts, socks, and shirts. Nothing else. No bandanas, no sweat bands, nothing to draw attention to the individual. They were a team of equals, with no stars and no scrubs. As a coach he would strive to keep the playing time equal, at least in the early games. However, as they proceeded, it might become obvious that a player deserved more time on the court, and perhaps another player deserved less. He would make those decisions later. For now everything was equal. He picked up a game jersey, the same one he had shown the team back in April. “You’ve seen this before. It’s a plain gray jersey with matching shorts. No fancy logo. No name on the back. Nothing that says ‘Look at me.’ We will wear these unremarkable uniforms to remind ourselves of the simple and humble origins of our people. These uniforms will constantly remind us of where we come from. And when we distinguish ourselves on the court, and we are asked why we wear such simple clothes, we will proudly say that we are South Sudanese. Our country is young and poor, but we will make it a better place.” · · · Two days later, the team met for an early breakfast in the dorm cafeteria. Most had been awake for hours. The excitement was palpable as they chattered away and ate cereal and toast. Ecko encouraged them to eat heartily because it would be a long day. They wore identical yellow tee shirts with the South Sudan flag brightly printed on both the front and back. Coach Lam explained that such shirts were necessary because they would be passing through crowded airports and it was often easy to get separated. The words “crowded airports” only added to the excitement. Two vans unloaded them at the Juba International Airport. They were limited to one item of luggage, the vinyl gym bag they had been given back in April. Twenty pounds max because Coach Lam wasn’t about to pay extra for baggage. With the flashy black, red, green, and blue national flag also printed on their bags, the South Sudanese Under 18 team was a veritable wave of color as it filed through the airport’s lobby and began getting second and third looks. Ecko had not embarrassed all of them by asking who had or had not been on an airplane. However, he knew for a fact that none of them had passports or visas. Given the nature of the trip, getting them from the government had been relatively easy. As they stood at a large window and watched an airplane taxi away from the terminal, Samuel reached into his pocket, removed his passport, and stared at it, almost in disbelief. A passport! Their airline was Ethiopian Air, a major carrier on the continent and one with an exemplary safety record. Ecko had assured them that the flight would be safe, even fun. No one had doubted this. Not a single player seemed even remotely reticent about flying. When the Boeing 737 pushed back, Samuel closed his eyes and savored the moment. He thought of his parents and his siblings and already missed them. Would they ever have an opportunity like this? He got lucky and had a seat by the window, and when the plane lifted off, his stomach floated a bit, much like a good case of the butterflies before a game. At altitude, the flight attendants served peanuts and sodas, and Samuel fell in love with at least three of them. The flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital, took two hours. They disembarked and killed three hours roaming the terminal, soaking in all the sights and sounds, and especially keeping an eye out for more pretty flight attendants. They boarded a 777 and flew eight and a half hours to Dublin, Ireland, where they stayed on the plane for an hour before taking off for Washington Dulles. When they touched down they had been traveling for twenty-six hours. And they weren’t finished. Because of delays, they had to hurry from one terminal to another and sprint to catch a Delta flight to Orlando, by way of Atlanta. The thrill of aviation dissipated somewhere over the Atlantic, and when they stumbled out of the Orlando airport and into the sweltering Florida heat they had been traveling for almost thirty hours. They folded themselves into three taxis for the ride to their hotel somewhere in the sprawl of central Florida. It was an inexpensive hotel just off an interstate, and Ecko, always budget-minded, put three and four to a room and cautioned them against complaining. They did not; they were too tired. CHAPTER 8 Francis Moka was thirty-five years old and worked as a scout for the Denver Nuggets. He was born in London after his parents fled Sudan in the early 1990s. At the age of twelve he was six feet tall and caught the attention of a youth league coach who signed him up and taught him the game. At seventeen, he was recruited by a private academy in Florida to play basketball and, of course, become a student-athlete. He accepted a full scholarship to Stanford but was hounded by knee injuries and played little. He excelled in the classroom and graduated with honors. Like his close friend Ecko, Frankie, as he was known to everyone, aspired to coach Division I college basketball. Frankie and his five all-stars strode into the spacious high school gym and were introduced to Coach Lam and his gang from the mother country. Of the fifteen, all but one had been born in South Sudan. For a moment there was the typical awkwardness as the players looked each other over, sized up one another, wondered if this or that one could really play, while Ecko and Frankie tried to keep it light. The team would have no rivalries, no squabbles, no grudges. They would compete for positions but each would get an equal chance, and the coaches demanded allegiance to the team. Not surprisingly, Dak Marial got more attention than the others. According to several recruiting sites, he was either the third- or fourth-rated high school prospect in the nation and had already committed to UCLA. In other words, Dak was already riding the rocket his teammates were dreaming of. But his story was even sadder than most. When he was seven years old, he watched as both parents were burned alive in the family’s hut during a raid. An aunt fled with him into the bush and they almost died of starvation before stumbling into a refugee camp. Remarkably, the camp had a dirt basketball court with two backboards and plenty of balls, courtesy of the foundation established by Manute Bol. Dak started playing and grew up with the game. After six years in the camp, Dak and his aunt arrived in the U.S. where relatives were waiting. After an hour of conversation, during which every player was required to say something, Ecko split them into five teams of three for half-court scrimmages. · · · It was Ecko’s third South Sudanese team to compete in the showcase. The sites were moved each year to encourage participation by scouts, but the venues didn’t really matter. The games attracted hundreds of college coaches and their assistants, but the stands were usually empty. Few American basketball fans were curious about eighteen-year-old players from Croatia or Brazil, especially in the middle of the summer. Two years earlier, Ecko brought his team to Orlando for the first time and learned the valuable lesson that the theme parks were too strong a distraction. Sure, the players were eager to strut their stuff and impress the scouts, but they were just as eager to see Disney World. Therefore, on the second full day in Orlando, Coaches Lam and Moka loaded the team into two long white vans and took them to the Magic Kingdom. They drove to the front gate, laid down a few rules, gave them passes and cash allowances, and said so long. See ya at six. Ecko had been there twice and loathed the place. A long hot day in the sun, fighting crowds, waiting in lines, and the players should be ready to forget about Mickey and concentrate on basketball. The two coaches drove back to Orlando, to the campus of the University of Central Florida. They parked near the CFE Arena, went inside, and made their way to the floor where the team from Brazil was practicing. The coach was unhappy and had a deep voice, one that boomed with what was certainly some very colorful language, in Portuguese. Ecko and Frankie weren’t there to watch a practice, though their team would play the Brazilians in a few days. They were there to pick up their packets, team guides, schedules, etc., stuff that was all available online, but the real reason was to see their buddies. Several dozen of them were sitting courtside, in the expensive seats, ostensibly watching the action on the court but in reality just checking to see who showed up next. The world of college coaching is small and insular and everybody knows everybody else. Gossip roars through its ranks: who’s got a new contract and who’s headed for the chopping block; who’s looking for an assistant and who wants to get rid of one; which school wants to up its game and which one is short on money; which school is planning a new arena and which school desperately needs one. And the deadliest rumor: Who’s being investigated by the NCAA? And that was the light gossip. When the chatter turned to recruiting, everyone talked at once, but little was actually said. Secrets were jealously guarded. Ecko’s team was getting more and more attention. The year before, the South Sudanese had placed third in the tournament, but his boys had stolen the show with their rim-rattling dunks and gravity-defying blocked shots. What the scouts and the media loved was their enthusiasm for the game, their endless hustle, their selfless play, their support for one another, and their smiles. They came from a troubled land, but they were proud of their country and wanted the world to know it. “Got any five-stars?” asked an assistant from Missouri. “They’re all five-stars,” Ecko said. “I don’t fool with four-stars.” “So you’re going all the way?” “We got it won, fellas. My boys are already at Disney World celebrating.” “Seriously, who’s your best?” “That would be Mr. Marial.” “Okay, okay. I think he’s spoken for. Who’s number two?” “A guard named Alek Garang.” “From where?” “Juba, but he may go to Ridgewood this season.” The coach shrugged it off and feigned disinterest. It was well accepted that the South Sudanese who were playing high school ball in the U.S. were a year or two ahead of their friends back home. The competition and coaching were simply stronger in the U.S. The great ones would catch up and compete at a higher level. The good ones would likely not make it. “Who you watching?” Ecko asked another coach. “Americans?” “No, we know them already. The foreign kids.” “Well, everybody’s buzzing about that Koosh Koosh kid?” “Beg your pardon.” “You know, that big guy from Latvia with the last name that sounds like Koosh Koosh. Only he can pronounce it. No one can spell it.” “Latvia?” “Yeah, he plays for the Croatians?” “Makes perfect sense.” “One of those Eastern European teams. Kid’s six ten and can shoot from mid-court.” “We got three of those,” Frankie said with a straight face. “Gimme their names.” “Not now. You gotta watch ’em.” “Yeah, yeah,” his friend said, waving him off. Other coaches, almost all of them assistants, came and went. There was a hospitality room in one of the luxury suites, and Ecko and Frankie parked themselves there for lunch and enjoyed the camaraderie of old and new friends. · · · After dinner at the hotel, the team gathered in a small conference room on the second level. Frankie passed out schedules and practice plans to each player. Ecko called the team to order and demanded attention. He said, “Okay, here’s our schedule for tomorrow, so listen carefully. At seven a.m. sharp we meet here in this room for the first call home. Tomorrow is July the fourteenth and your families are waiting to hear from you around two p.m. East Africa is seven hours ahead of Orlando. Breakfast is here at the hotel at seven-thirty. I know you’re still jet-lagged, so go to bed early tonight. Very early. At eight-fifteen, the vans leave for practice back at a high school. We practice from nine to noon, three hours and it will be intense. Memorize the practice plans before you go to sleep tonight and memorize them again before breakfast. At noon we return here to shower and eat lunch. At one-thirty we leave for UCF where we’ll stay for an hour, watch part of a practice, then leave at three and go to Rollins College to check out the venue and watch part of another practice. At five we leave Rollins, come back here, change, leave here at six-thirty, go back to the high school for a one-hour shootaround. Back here for dinner at eight, bed at ten.” As he spoke his tone became sharper, and by the time he finished he sounded like a drill sergeant. “Got it?” he barked. The responses were the usual, casual acknowledgments that the coach had said something. Ecko looked at Quinton Majok and asked, “Quinton, who, in your opinion, is the dumbest player on this team?” Majok, already established as one of the team clowns, pointed without hesitation to his roommate, Awino Leyano. “Him,” he said. Ecko said, “Stand up, Awino.” He slowly unwound all eighty inches and smiled at his coach. Ecko said, “Okay, Awino, give me back tomorrow’s schedule, in perfect order.” Awino stopped smiling and said, “Well, first of all, Coach, I’m much smarter than Quinton.” “We’ll see. The schedule, please.” “Okay, here at seven to call home, then breakfast at seven-thirty, then take the van to practice, from nine to noon, three whole hours which is a lot more than I need, then back here for lunch. Leave here at one-thirty for UCF, stay there until three, then go to Rollins, stay there until five, then back here to change and go to a shootaround, then come back here and eat.” Ecko stared at him as if he had just stabbed someone. Finally, he asked, “What time do we leave here for the shootaround?” “Uh, six.” “No! Wrong! Sit down.” Awino folded himself back into his chair. Ecko glared at the others and growled, “Samuel, what time do we leave here for the shootaround?” “Six-thirty.” “And what time is dinner tomorrow night?” “Eight.” “Thank you.” As Ecko paced a bit his team seemed stunned by his harshness. Then he continued, “If you’re late for, or miss, a meal, a meeting, a van ride, or anything scheduled, it’s an automatic one-game suspension. No questions asked. Listen to me and to Coach Moka and hear what we say. Each night I will give you the schedule for the next day and I will ask one of you to recite it back to me perfectly. Understood? Pay attention.” CHAPTER 9 There was no cellular service in Lotta and very little in Rumbek, but Ayak Sooleymon had arranged a favor from a local military leader, a lieutenant in the regular army. At exactly 2 p.m. on July 14, he was sitting under a shade tree near the Sooleymon home holding a satellite phone and chatting with Ayak, Beatrice, Angelina, James, Chol, and about a dozen curious neighbors. The call came from an American number at ten minutes after two. Samuel was on the line, using Ecko’s cell phone. The lieutenant said, “Greetings, Samuel, how are you?” “Very fine, sir. I’m in Orlando and we are preparing for the games.” “Excellent, Samuel.” “How are things in Lotta?” Always a dangerous question. “We are good, Samuel, and we are very proud of you. I will now hand the sat phone to your father. Good luck over there, son.” Ayak took the bulky sat phone, said “Hello, Samuel,” then listened as his son asked about each family member. All were doing well. How was the flight? Samuel said it was long and tiring but also exciting. Beatrice took the phone and asked what he was eating. A lot of pizza and tacos, delicious stuff. Angelina was next and Samuel described their day at Disney World. Epcot was next, after a lot of basketball. James and Chol got only a few seconds of air time, but they were thrilled nonetheless to hear Samuel’s voice. Ringing off, he promised his father he would call back in five days as scheduled, and he would have much more to talk about. He thanked the lieutenant, who promised to make his sat phone available for all calls. Samuel handed the cell phone to Ecko, thanked him, then raced to breakfast. Quinton Majok was on Frankie’s phone. Other players were waiting. The five living in America had cell phones. None of the South Sudanese owned one. Game One: South Sudan versus Croatia In the handsome locker room of the Alfond Sports Center at Rollins College, the boys from South Sudan dressed quietly in their humble uniforms and new Reeboks and listened to their coach. Ecko was saying, “For the tournament here in Orlando, the games are a bit different. There will be three periods of ten minutes each with five minutes in between, no half-time. The games will last about an hour instead of two. You’ve seen the schedule and you know the games are stacked up. You’ll play seven in eight days, so someone here is worried about your legs. Not me. Not Coach Moka. If we make it to St. Louis, the format will revert to two twenty-minute halves with a fifteen-minute break. Right now I’m not thinking about St. Louis. They’ve placed us in the bracket with the toughest competition. Any questions?” Nothing from the team. “Now, C Squad will play the first period, B the second, A the third. There is no first string or second. Frankie and I will rejuggle the squads before the next game. Each of you will play ten minutes and we expect ten minutes of all-out, balls-to-the-wall hustle.” Quinton Majok shot up a hand and said, “Coach. Balls-to-the-wall? I’m sorry.” Ecko laughed and said, “Yeah, right, my bad. It’s American slang for throw everything you’ve got at your target, your opponent, whatever you happen to be doing or facing.” Quinton said, “I like it.” “Good. Anyway, nonstop hustle. Aggressive man-to-man D. Crash the glass. Block out everybody. Take only good shots. Let’s start out rough, lots of hacking and holding and see how the refs will call it. These are Division I refs and they’re used to a physical game. Any questions?” “Yeah, Coach, where did balls-to-the-wall come from?” asked Quinton. “I think it was Michael Jordan. That good enough?” They took the floor in their simple uniforms, no fancy warm-up outfits, no customized jackets or tear-away pants. As they jogged through the standard layup line, they shot glances at the other end. In a stark contrast, the Croatians were all white, and very well turned out in red-and-white warm-ups with the pants boldly striped, obviously copied from Indiana. Samuel bounced on his toes, fidgeted nervously, fist-pumped his teammates, waited for the ball, and couldn’t help but take in the surroundings: the beautiful and modern gym of a wealthy small college, the scouts lounging in the seats at midcourt, the three cocky refs, the atmosphere of big-time basketball in America. But where were all those cute cheerleaders they always showed on television? He was the point guard for C Squad, up first and raring to go. Ecko huddled the entire team for a few fiery words. He said he wanted mayhem on the court and nonstop racket from the bench. Koosh Koosh was six feet ten, two inches taller than Awino Leyano, but he came nowhere near the tip-off. Awino slammed it back to Samuel who sprinted past everyone, drove hard to the rim, and missed an easy layup. On offense, the Croatians took their time and screened hard. With four seconds on the shot clock, Koosh Koosh got the ball behind the arc and nailed a beautiful 30-footer. A 2-3 zone awaited Samuel when he crossed mid-court. Ecko had predicted this. His players were known for their soaring dunks, alley-oops, and easy put-backs, but not for their long-range bombing. They could expect tight zones that dared them to shoot long. Samuel missed his first, and badly. Koosh Koosh hit his second three. Evidently, he was immune from the jitters. Three minutes in, the first foul was called, a shooting violation on a Croatian forward, and Riak Kuol went to the line. The pause was needed, and Samuel stopped near the bench and looked at Ecko who said, “You gotta relax, man. Run the offense, take your time. These guys are a bunch of douchebags.” Samuel, breathing heavily, repeated, “Douchebags, Coach?” “Sorry. Cocky, overrated. Just settle down.” Riak missed the first, made the second, and they were on the board, but behind 12–1. At five minutes, Croatia sent in three subs, but Ecko had no plans to substitute. At six minutes, and trailing 16–1, he called his only time-out of the period. He sat down the five starters, smiled at them though they did not return the smiles, and said, “I assume you guys plan to snag a field goal or two here in the first period.” All five looked at their Reeboks. · · · The tournament was about winning and losing, and national pride, and bragging rights, and all that. It was about the folks back home, watching, when able, the games on a large-screen television hung outside a town hall and yelling at the sight of a player they knew. It would be a notch in Ecko’s belt, were he to win or place, something to add to his r?sum? as he dreamed of a head coaching job. But it wasn’t called a showcase for nothing. It was more about the players and the scouts there to watch them, and boys’ dreams of playing in America. Ecko wanted to win as badly as any coach, but beyond that he wanted his kids to have more opportunities. So, he encouraged them to take chances, to shine. He loathed selfish players and promised to bench anyone for taking a terrible shot, but he wanted every kid to look good. · · · Awino Leyano put back a miss, stuffed it hard, and there was the first field goal. Riak Kuol blocked a shot at the stripe, swatted the ball to Samuel, who sprinted downcourt but pulled up. When the defense relaxed he was wide open and nailed a 25-foot jumper. It was gorgeous, and Ecko glanced at Frankie. From way behind the arc, Samuel jumped high, though unguarded, and released the ball with near perfect form. After ten minutes of frantic play, the buzzer sounded—the first period was over. Croatia led 21–15. C Squad was drained, drenched, ready to sit for a few minutes. They watched B Squad struggle with the same jitters and fall behind by 12. Samuel enjoyed the break, the cold water, the role of a temporary spectator. He had scored two buckets, had a steal and only one turnover. Not a bad first outing. He caught his breath and looked at the scouts sitting across the way behind the scorer’s table. Half were white, half were black, most were young, under forty, all dressed casually, not a single necktie or suit anywhere. Most wore polo shirts with school colors and logos, and from across the court Samuel could spot assistant coaches from UNC, Syracuse, Kansas, and Oregon. They laughed and talked and had only a casual interest in the game. They all seemed to know each other. Behind them was a row of video cameras, and Ecko had explained that all games are filmed and any coach can get all the tape he wanted. What would it take to make an impression? That was the question every player was asking himself. For Samuel, it was speed, quickness, his extraordinary vertical leap, and the fact that he was growing like a wild weed. After the second period, Croatia was up 40–30. Samuel and C Squad were rested and ready to go, but they were done for the day. In the last period, Mr. Dak Marial established himself as a true All-American and took charge of the game. When Alek Garang hit two straight threes, the Croatians ventured out from their suffocating zone and Dak went to work underneath. Samuel watched the game and cheered for his team, but he also kept an eye on the scouts. With Dak in the game, along with Koosh Koosh and Alek Garang, the scouts were showing more interest. All had cell phones and worked them constantly. With a minute to go, Alek tied the game at 52 with another three-pointer, and the South Sudan bench went wild. Both teams missed bad shots, and with 18 seconds to go Riak was called for a shooting foul. With an exuberant wide grin he asked the referee, “What?” The ref wanted to tee him up but relaxed and warned him. The Croatian guard hit both free throws, and Alek missed a last-second shot. Game over. Croatia 54, South Sudan 52. · · · No team was expected to go undefeated. The year before, Ecko had taken a 5–2 team to the finals and almost won it all. In the locker room, he reminded the team of this and told them to shake it off. They had six more games and shouldn’t worry about the first one. They showered, changed, and went back to the court to watch one of the American teams play the Italians. CHAPTER 10 Game Two: South Sudan versus Italy As promised, Ecko and Frankie retooled the squads and started C against the Italians, who had lost by 20 to a hotshot American team. The game was at CFE Arena, on the UCF campus, and it was by far the finest basketball court any of the South Sudanese had ever seen. There were almost 10,000 seats, and though most of them were empty they still made for an impressive sight. Dak Marial was on C, along with a 6'6" shooting forward named Jimmie Abaloy, a Sudanese American who had lived seventeen of his eighteen years in Trenton, New Jersey. He started the game nicely with three consecutive long-range jumpers, and the Italians never caught up. Samuel played the second period with B Squad and missed all three of his shots. After two games, it was clear to him that he was the third-best point guard, after Alek Garang and Abraham Bol. But, at 6'4" and growing, he wasn’t sure how long he would be considered a point guard or even a shooting guard. Ecko wasn’t sure either. After a 13-point win over Italy, the players showered and watched the next game. Each took up at least two seats and they enjoyed popcorn and sodas, just like real fans. Four players from the U.K. stopped by and said hello, and soon they were making friends. Two of the Italians saw the crowd and came over. One had signed with Texas Tech, the other committed to Central Michigan, and their English was quite good. An assistant coach in an Auburn shirt appeared and said hello to Jimmie Abaloy. They stepped away, walked to an upper level and sat in a section all alone. They talked and laughed for a while. Samuel watched them with great envy. So, that’s how it happens. Game Three: South Sudan versus Ukraine It was Thursday, July 16, the day the players would remember because all eight teams would play in four straight games at the Amway Center, the NBA palace that was home to the Magic. Ecko and his team arrived early and were given a tour of the cavernous arena. They walked around the empty court and soaked in the incredible atmosphere of basketball heaven. Samuel tried hard to convince himself that he was standing on the same wood where LeBron had played, and Kobe, Shaq, Niollo, and Steph Curry. Their guide led them off the court, through a tunnel, and they stopped at a wide door with the words “Magic Locker Room” painted in the team’s colors. She opened the door and they stepped inside for the highlight of every tour. The locker room was hard to grasp—wide and round, wood-paneled with thick, luxurious blue and silver carpet. There were fifteen lockers in a semicircle, each wide and deep enough to hold a small vehicle. There were luxury recliners, large television screens, anything a player could really want. Down the hall was a team room, a television room, a cafeteria, a training room, a weight room, a media room, and a shower with enough private stalls to accommodate several teams of sweaty players. And there were other rooms that they didn’t have enough time to explore. After the locker room, they rode an escalator to the second level and strolled along an empty concourse that looped around the entire court. They stopped at the luxury suites, one with an open door, and were invited to take a look from the corporate view. A hostess fixed them sodas and offered snacks and they were enjoying the fine seating when a vice president popped in and said hello. He welcomed them to the home of the Magic, and to Orlando, and to America, and said he was looking forward to the afternoon’s games. It was almost noon and he asked if they’d had lunch. Ecko said they had not, and the VP spoke to his assistant and arranged lunch back in the locker room, in the players’ cafeteria. He told them to finish their tour and he’d meet them down there in half an hour. All fifteen players dreamed of the NBA, but at that moment each one knew that this was his future. The guide took them to the top level, to the cheap seats, and from way up there the court did indeed look far away. There were 20,000 seats in the arena and Samuel knew that the Magic had been averaging about 17,000 per home game, so he figured many of these seats had not been used that much. However, he did not ask the guide for any figures. That might have been perceived as unkind. Ecko insisted on perfect manners and behavior off the court. They were representing their people and others were quick to judge. Nothing but politeness, lots of smiles, and humility. They were lucky to be there and should show their gratitude at every chance. They were excited to return to the locker room. The dining table was prepared for them with box lunches and soft drinks, and they were eating and chatting excitedly when, suddenly, everything went silent. The great Niollo walked into the room. The boys froze. All food and drink were forgotten. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, stunned, they gawked at him and tried to decide if he was really there. Ecko, an old friend, embraced him and introduced Frankie, then said to the team, “Gentlemen, Niollo has driven up from Miami to watch you play.” Niollo smiled and said warmly, “Welcome to Florida, my brethren, and greetings from Miami. I’m sure you feel right at home here because it’s almost as hot as South Sudan.” They laughed nervously. Niollo! The greatest of all players from their country. He continued, “As you know, I was born in Wau, but left the country when I was a kid and went to the U.K. with my family.” They had his bio memorized. As he talked, reality slowly settled in. They knew he had just finished another losing season with the Heat, his fourth team, after spending his first eight seasons with Boston. Things were not going well in Miami and he was expected to move on. He was now thirty years old and at his peak, still great and always a legend back home. Ecko thanked him for dropping by and said, “What Niollo would never brag about is that he has won both the NBA Sportsmanship Award and the Citizenship Award. He supports many charities and youth sports programs in our country, and he is responsible for you being here. Thank you, Niollo.” Niollo smiled and tried to deflect any more attention. Instead, he said, “Thanks. Can I have a sandwich?” He sat at the table, surrounded by the starstruck kids, and between bites talked to them for half an hour. When it was time to go, a photographer with the Magic took a hundred photos and promised to deliver them later in the day. Niollo walked with them out of the locker room, onto the court, and into the prime seats where they watched the U.K. beat Brazil in the first game. In the second one, with Niollo cheering them on, they played their brand of inspired basketball and easily manhandled a bunch of Ukrainians, 73–43, with half the team getting double figures. Samuel did not, but was happy he hit three of six from long range. Game Four: South Sudan versus Brazil On the front page of its sports section, the Orlando Sentinel ran a large photo of Niollo sitting in the seats surrounded by his boys from South Sudan. That, plus the 30-point thrashing of a good Ukrainian team, brought more attention to Ecko and his players. When they tipped off against the Brazilians, there were a few more spectators in the stands at UCF. And, more important, more scouts, or at least that’s what Samuel thought he saw during pregame warm-ups. He realized he preferred the college court over the NBA arena. The seats, though empty, were closer, and the rims and backboards didn’t look as far away. Then he laughed at himself and remembered the dirt and mud courts where he came from. He didn’t start against Brazil. His squad for the game was B and Ecko planned for them to play the third period. However, bad luck struck just seconds after the opening tip when Alek Garang went down with a pulled hamstring and limped off the court. Trainers from UCF took him to the dressing room and sent for the team doctor. Ecko yelled for Samuel to get in the game at the two—shooting guard. Abraham Bol had the point, Samuel’s usual spot, and the offense was disoriented and sputtered badly. South Sudan trailed by 10 after the first period. Squad C, with Dak Marial hammering inside, cut the deficit in half, and after two the score was 41–36. In the third period, Samuel returned to the court at the point and the offense found its rhythm, especially when Jimmie Abaloy got hot from the arc. He loosened up the defense and Samuel began feeding the ball inside to Quinton Majok. After a 14–2 run the Brazilians used their only time-out in an attempt to regroup and cool things off. It didn’t work. Samuel hit two consecutive threes and South Sudan was up by 13. Brazil had more inside height and heft than any team in the tournament and kept going low for easier buckets. That didn’t work either. Time and again, their shots were blocked, swatted away, and slapped into the stands by the kids who could seemingly spring over the backboard. With two minutes to go, Ecko noticed their big man, Daniel Abdul-Gaber, trailing a play. He was winded and needed a break. Ecko used his only time-out and asked Daniel if he wanted to come out. On this team, the answer was always no. “Good,” Ecko said. “Look at me. We’re up by fourteen and we got the game. Let’s win by twenty. These guys are cocky and think they’re good. Right now we’re handing them their asses, but I want more. Two minutes to play and I want nonstop balls to the wall, okay? Can you do it?” All five smiled, grabbed hands, and yelled, “Let’s go.” Showing no mercy while still playing with their usual exuberance—high fives, chest bumps, low fives, shouts of encouragement, even laughter—they ran the Brazilians out of the gym and won by 24. CHAPTER 11 After four straight games it was time for a break. On Saturday, July 18, Ecko and Frankie filled the two vans and took the players back to La-La Land, this time to Epcot. They deposited them at the gate with the same instructions and warnings, gave them enough cash to enjoy themselves, said they would be back promptly at six, and said goodbye. The boys were almost as excited as they were before a game. Ecko and Frankie returned to UCF and went to the coaches’ suite for a long day of private, unscheduled meetings with scouts. It was the networking game, the match-making, the convincing, evaluating, and promising routines that were part of their job. Because South Sudan was so far away and so far off the radar, and because its competitive leagues were still primitive compared to most of the world’s, especially those of the U.S., U.K., and Europe, its coaches felt compelled to lobby harder for their players. An assistant from Ohio State asked about Alek Garang’s hamstring. As expected, Alek was getting his share of interest, and his injury was generating plenty of gossip. Ecko repeated what the doctor had said: It wasn’t a severe pull but he would need to sit out a few games. An assistant from Memphis wanted to talk about Riak Kuol and worried that he needed another year of high school play, in the U.S. The head coach from Lehigh was impressed with Quinton Majok. Ecko thought the kid could play at a higher level and said so. The head coach from Overland, a well-known New Jersey prep school that was nothing but a basketball factory, wanted to talk about Abraham Bol, and Ecko gave him plenty of time. However, he would never advise one of his players to enroll there. An assistant from Eastern Illinois was a former teammate at Kent State and wanted Ecko’s inside scoop on Awino Leyano. Ecko thought it was a good match, but he knew that his old pal had one more year on a contract that would not be renewed. And so the day went. Greetings from an old friend or a new acquaintance, followed by a private chat as they stepped outside the suite and walked around the arena. All conversations were private, all scouts careful not to say something that might be heard by another. Ecko played it straight and was honest about each of his players and their potential. It was counterproductive to exaggerate someone’s talent, or brag about his work ethic, or pass along inside information about the kid and his family. The proof was on the court for everyone to see. Three of his players were drawing no interest, and he understood why. They would never play in the U.S. After four games, the players had been watched by hundreds of college and high school scouts, and as the tournament progressed the interest in the best ones intensified. After lunch, in the suite, the head coach at North Carolina Central appeared and got a bear hug from Ecko. His name was Lonnie Britt and he had played four years at Toledo. He had also played against Ecko, and they had been friends ever since. For three years, they had been assistants together at Northern Iowa and had spent many pleasant hours together with their wives and young children. Ecko thought Lonnie had the potential to head coach at the highest level, but so far his four years at NC Central had not attracted much attention. He took a seat between Ecko and Frankie and asked loudly, “Okay, who do you have for me?” “Who do you want?” “Give me Alek Garang, Quinton Majok, and Jimmie Abaloy, for starters.” “Is that all?” Those three were likely headed to bigger programs. NC Central was a historically black school in Durham and played in the Mid-Eastern Athletic Conference against similar colleges. It was often referred to as “that other school in Durham.” “How about Abraham Bol?” They were watching a loaded American team, Houston Gold, pick apart the team from Croatia. Frankie was called aside by an assistant from Southern Mississippi, and they soon drifted away. Ecko said, “Bol says he’s too good for college, gonna declare for the draft.” They laughed and joked some more. When the suite was practically empty, Ecko said, “Let’s take a hike.” They walked to the upper deck and found seats. Ecko said, “I got a kid that I really like. Samuel Sooleymon, still only seventeen and growing.” Lonnie said, “I saw him Thursday against Ukraine. Didn’t show too well.” “He’s a little rough around the edges, needs another year of high school here, but so far no luck.” It was often harder to match up players with private high schools than colleges because so few of their coaches were at the tournaments. And virtually no public high school coaches bothered with the events. Getting a foreign kid assimilated into a new town meant moving the family, and finding a host, and then there was the always troublesome issue of being accused of recruiting. The public high school coaches had plenty of homegrown talent and the foreign kids were usually headaches. The prep schools and basketball academies were more aggressive in their recruiting, but they too had plenty of players. “I didn’t see much,” Britt said. “Give him another look. We play this Gold team tomorrow at Rollins and he’ll see more action with Garang on the sideline.” “He’s not a point guard.” “No, he’s not. At the rate he’s growing he’ll be playing the three by the fall.” “I didn’t like his shot.” “He’s a work in progress, Lonnie. Trust me.” “That’s just what I need in my program right now. Kids who can’t play but just may have some potential.” “I know, I know, but right now your program needs some help.” Lonnie managed to laugh. “Who else is looking at him?” The great question. College coaches were cocky in their belief that they could spot talent, but they were always insecure enough to want validation. Thus, the standard question: “Who else is looking at him?” “Everybody,” Ecko said with a laugh. “Gee, I’ve never heard that before.” · · · Other than the three open-air schools, the only building with any official status in Lotta was Our Lady’s Chapel, a small handsome stone-and-brick sanctuary built by the Rumbek diocese ten years earlier. A priest from there arrived each Saturday afternoon for Mass and the entire village turned out. The front pews were reserved for the village elders and their wives, some with multiple spouses, and the younger families who arrived early found seats inside. The crowd always spilled out and covered the small courtyard. Long before the service began, the priest sought out Ayak and Beatrice. He had a small gift for them, a copy of Thursday’s edition of the Juba Monitor. On the front page of Section B was the photo of Niollo sitting in the seats at the Amway Center, surrounded by the smiling faces of the team from South Sudan. Above his left shoulder and leaning into the picture was Samuel. His parents were thrilled and gawked at the photo before sharing it with everyone else. Beatrice was so excited she could hardly breathe. Later, from the altar, the priest waved the newspaper and informed the congregation that after four games their team had won three and lost one. According to the newspaper, the boys were playing well and getting lots of attention. And he had even better news. Tomorrow, Sunday, a wide-screen television would be hung above the front steps of the church, and at 8 p.m. sharp the game would be televised for the entire village to watch. The Sooleymon family would be given front row seats. Nothing else he said during Mass would be remembered. CHAPTER 12 Game Five: South Sudan versus Houston Gold Gold was a nationally known AAU program financed by a wealthy Texas businessman who loved the game, had played in college, and wanted his three sons to excel and become stars. It was his pet project and he spared no expense. The teams, and there were at least a dozen of them for ages twelve through eighteen, held tryout camps throughout Texas and recruited the best players. Making the team meant a year-round commitment to playing in the top showcase tournaments, being taught by coaches who were well paid, traveling by luxury bus or even by air, and being inundated with gear and equipment most colleges would envy. The boss cut a sponsorship deal with Nike and the players were rumored to have at least five different uniforms. Not surprisingly, the program had produced dozens of college players and two alumni were in the NBA. Playing for Houston Gold meant scouts were always watching. The players were gifted and special and they were constantly reminded of this. Their swagger was legendary, to the point that some college coaches shied away from the program, but not many. For the early game at Rollins, they took the floor in their snazzy NBA-style warm-ups and refused to look at the other end of the court. There, the boys from South Sudan were hamming it up in their simple, phys-ed-style uniforms, unimpressed with Gold’s greatness, unbowed by their four easy wins. Gold had played the day before. Ecko’s team had not, and he decided to go with tempo and try to run them into the ground. He pressed full-court and wanted shots early in the clock. It worked beautifully in the first period as Samuel and Abraham Bol forced three turnovers and Riak Kuol blocked two shots down low. All five Gold starters were rising high school seniors. Four had committed to big schools. Though they were well coached, they were, of course, individual stars, and this often led to some low-percentage circus shots. Feeling the pressure, their guards missed four straight from downtown, and their fiery coach used his only time-out for a tongue-lashing. · · · On the other side of the world, the village of Lotta was packed around the television hanging below the cross of Our Lady’s Chapel and roared with every good play. When Samuel hit his first, and only, three-pointer, his people screamed, yelled, gave glory to God, jumped up and down, and pounded Ayak on the shoulders. There were some chairs scattered about but no one could sit. · · · South Sudan led by 11 at the end of the first period. Ecko put in C Squad, his best in his opinion, with Dak Marial and Quinton Majok at the forwards. Gold went with a smaller lineup and fresher legs, and the coach slowed down the game. The highlight reel shooting stopped and its offense began to click. After the second period South Sudan was up by 9. The third period belonged to Benjie Boone, a 6'5" shooting guard who had committed to play at Kentucky but was rumored to be reconsidering and thinking about the NBA draft. He hit three straight bombs and tied the score. There were six lead changes down the stretch as both teams fought and clawed. Gold kept substituting. Ecko did not. He had promised his players equal time on the court and would stick to his word regardless of the score. He rotated Samuel and Bol at the point, but only because he had to. Alek Garang was suited up but couldn’t play. And he was greatly missed. Neither Samuel nor Bol could buy a basket late in the game, and with no threat outside, the defense smothered Dak Marial and Quinton Majok in the paint. Gold pulled away and won by six. In the locker room, Ecko took responsibility for the loss, said he’d been outcoached and had decided to try something different. After five games his goal of equal playing time wasn’t working and he and Frankie would start substituting more. More hustle, scoring, and defense would mean more playing time. The boys were crushed and understood what Ecko was saying. He reminded them that last year’s team lost two games but qualified for the national showcase, then almost won it. They were still alive with two games to go but they could not afford another loss. Samuel stood and said, “Say, Coach. We got the rest of the day. How about we find a high school gym and have a good practice?” Ecko replied, “I don’t know. You play tomorrow.” “Come on, Coach,” said Dak Marial, the unofficial captain. Others chimed in and the request quickly became unanimous. · · · In Lotta, the villagers were much quieter as they drifted away from the church and returned home. The loss stung but the thrill of seeing Samuel playing in America had not dissipated. Tomorrow’s game would not begin until 10 p.m. their time, and everyone would be back at the church to watch their hero. · · · Late Sunday night, after the players were in their rooms and all lights were off, Ecko went down to the hotel bar and met Lonnie Britt for a beer. They had shared many in their younger days when coaching at Northern Iowa and they treasured these little reunions. In a dark corner they replayed the day’s game, with Lonnie full of wisdom about what his friend did wrong. Ecko listened and agreed with most of the criticism. He would have done the same if Lonnie had lost. Lonnie said, “But you’re not supposed to beat those guys, Ecko. They’re cherry-picked and treated like pros. They dressed out twelve today. Twelve seventeen-year-old kids who are still in high school and who’ll sign with big schools. It’s a pretty amazing program. A lot of talent.” “We should’ve beat them,” Ecko said, sipping his beer. “I’m worried about advancing. My guys are not ready to go home.” “You’ll win the next two.” “Don’t say that.” “You know the greatest play I saw today?” Lonnie asked with a smile. “The block?” “The block. That kid came out of nowhere and looked eight feet tall.” “I told you.” With four minutes to go and South Sudan up by one, Benjie Boone bounced off a screen at the top of the key and pulled up wide open from 25 feet. Samuel, who was guarding him, was nowhere to be seen, until the last possible second. Boone, smooth as silk, lifted high with his perfect and uncontested jump shot. Samuel launched himself from the free throw line and slapped the ball hard just as it left Boone’s right hand. The ball landed in the third row of seats. The All-American was so rattled he did not make another shot. Lonnie shook his head and said, “He looked ten feet off the ground.” “Well, his standing vertical leap is thirty-four inches. Forty-five when he’s moving. Give him a running start and he can jump over the backboard.” “But he can’t shoot and he can’t dribble.” “He’s coming around, okay? He works incredibly hard and he’s still growing.” “Who else is looking at him?” Ecko smiled and shook his head. “Truthfully, no one right now. If I were you I’d take a chance.” A waitress brought a bowl of pretzels and inquired about another round. No thanks. Maybe later. Lonnie frowned and glanced around. “I got a problem, Ecko. A new one.” “What is it?” “Two of my players were arrested last night in Durham.” “For what?” “Armed robbery.” “Oh, come on, Lonnie. You serious?” “As a heart attack. A couple of real blockheads. They’re in summer school, most of my kids are, and they went out on Saturday night and found some serious trouble.” “What happened?” “I don’t know all the facts but I’ve been on the phone all day. My AD. The President. The police. But they ain’t saying much. Looks like the boys went to a party, smoked some pot, and got in the car with the wrong guy. They had plenty of pot but ran out of beer. The driver stopped at a convenience store, and for some reason decided it would be smart to pull a gun and rob the cashier. Fortunately he didn’t pull the trigger. All three are charged with armed robbery. AD says they gotta go. Now.” “Good kids?” Lonnie took a sip of beer and kept frowning. “Good guys, I love ’em, but both come from bad homes. One, Clancy, has a brother in prison. He was my number seven last season, played 15 minutes a game. A junior with little time for classwork. The other, Fonzo we call him, will be a sophomore and is pretty lazy. I have great kids, Ecko, for the most part.” “But the kids are not armed robbers. Sounds like little more than a dumb mistake.” “Yeah, but they’re facing serious charges.” “You gotta replace them?” “Yep, for this season anyway. I have to meet the AD and the lawyers tomorrow and they’ll try to work a deal. But the kids are out of the program for at least a year.” “Sooleymon?” “I’m thinking, okay? Be honest with me, Ecko.” “When have I ever been dishonest?” “Never. But you do love your players.” “Same as you.” “Sure, most of the time.” “Lonnie, Samuel could be the steal of the tournament. He’s not getting looks because he’s not scoring. But he will. When I first saw him back in April he had the worst jump shot in Africa. He’s come a long way and he’s still working hard. And growing.” “He’ll never be a point guard.” “No. Forget the point. He’ll be at least six six by Christmas.” “What about classwork?” “He’s from the bush, okay? He just finished secondary school in his village so you gotta figure he’ll need some help. Surely you can get him in.” “Probably so. Central is not exactly like the other school in Durham.” “Oh, so you think Duke worries about SAT scores?” They shared a laugh and ordered another beer. Ecko was excited by the possibility and pushed even harder. At midnight, Lonnie glanced at his watch and said, “I need to go. I can’t stick around for the game tomorrow. I have an early flight to Durham and meet with the AD at noon. Then, I have the pleasure of going to the jail.” “Sorry man. Gotta be tough.” “You got it. Imagine telling two twenty-year-olds that they’re kicked out of school for at least a year.” “Sounds like they have bigger problems.” “Can you believe that my entire career hinges on the decisions made by a bunch of immature kids?” “Didn’t we have this conversation twenty years ago?” “We did. And nothing has changed.” “Sign Sooleymon. He’ll make you a genius.” CHAPTER 13 In 1979, Chevron discovered oil in the southern region of Sudan and soon realized that the country had the third largest reserves on the continent. After a few years, the Sudanese ruling party in Khartoum nationalized its oil fields, kicked out the Americans, and signed a lucrative deal to sell all its crude to China. By the mid-1980s, $12 billion a year was flowing into Sudan. With various civil wars raging throughout the country—North versus South, Islamic versus Catholic, tribe versus tribe—the oil riches only intensified the conflicts. In 2011, South Sudan was given the right to choose independence, and it did so overwhelmingly. Supported by billions in foreign aid from the U.S. and Europe, and propped up by oil revenues, South Sudan became the world’s newest country and its future seemed bright. Most of the money, though, remained in Juba as the ruling elites siphoned off billions and feasted on the unlimited cash. While they stashed it in Swiss banks, and bought apartments in London and mansions in Melbourne, and sent their kids to the Ivies, and armed their soldiers with an astonishing arsenal of guns, tanks, and helicopters, the people suffered even more. The money was not used for schools, hospitals, roads, or infrastructure. The peace was fragile and temporary. Ethnic rivalries grew more bitter as half a dozen warlords and strongmen jockeyed for more of the money and a seat at the table. In 2013, yet another civil war erupted and the new country spiraled into violent chaos. Tribal lines were fortified as heavily armed militias attacked and burned villages, then waited for retaliation. The atrocities shocked the world. At least 400,000 people were murdered. At least four million, mostly women and children, were displaced and forced to scramble to safety in sprawling refugee camps. Peace agreements came and went. The best way for a guerrilla commander to get the attention of Juba, and a bigger slice of the pie, was to burn some villages, commit some atrocities, and leave the rotting corpses in the mud for the benefit of Western cameras. After some of this mischief, Juba might offer another peace deal, with cash and arms to boot. · · · Among the proud villagers who watched Samuel and his team on the big screen were some spies, sent in to take the measure of the town. Just after midnight, the gunfire erupted. Beatrice heard it first, woke Ayak from a deep sleep, and yelled for the children to put on their shoes. The sickening Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak of the Kalashnikovs was a sound they had heard before. The family ran outside and joined their neighbors who were trying to determine where the gunfire was. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, and plenty of it. People were yelling, pointing, and running in different directions. Suddenly, lights appeared and a military truck rumbled down the dirt street. Soldiers jumped out, brandishing their Kallies. One look and the people knew they were rebel soldiers, not regular army. They fired at random into the air and began yelling for the men to form a single line. A fourteen-year-old boy, a neighborhood kid well-known to all, broke and ran toward an alley, and was gunned down like a stray dog. His mother screamed and his father started toward him when a soldier knocked him down with the butt of his rifle. “Hands up! Hands up!” the commander barked at the other men. Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak. The gunfire was horrifying and more soldiers swarmed through the village, grabbing men and older teenage boys. Ayak managed to say to Beatrice, “Run! Take them and run to the bush.” Other women and children were scurrying about, not sure which direction was safe. Was anywhere safe? A gasoline bomb was tossed into the hut across the street from the Sooleymons’ and it was quickly engulfed in flames. Then there were fires everywhere, up and down the street. The men were marched in a group toward the center of town, passing other burning homes. A fifteen-year-old girl was wrestled away from her mother, stripped naked, and shoved to the rear of a troop truck. Near the church, men from throughout the village were streaming in, all with their hands up. “We’re just having a meeting,” a commander kept yelling through the mayhem. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” When the men were out of sight, some of the soldiers remained and went about their business of torching the homes, laughing as they did. Beatrice managed to ease into the darkness with Angelina, James, and Chol, who tripped over a dead body and shrieked. “Hush!” his mother warned. Other women and children were looking for places to hide and somewhere to run. For a moment they stopped and listened to the horror of popping fires, Kallies, and the screams of their neighbors. At the church, the men were ordered inside, and when it was full the rebels kept packing in more men and boys until they were pressed together so tightly they had trouble breathing. More kept coming and when they could no longer fit inside, the commander ordered them to lie down, outside, in the dirt around the church. Two soldiers opened fire on the wide-screen television and destroyed it. The gunfire rattled the men inside and they cried for help. On cue, incendiary bombs were tossed through the four windows and the front door and three hundred prisoners screamed in blazing agony. One man, his clothing on fire, jumped through a window and was met with a hail of bullets. Other men jumped too and were easily gunned down in target practice. Ayak made it to the front door and was killed on the steps under the remnants of the television. Outside, some of the men lying facedown in the dirt broke and ran, only to be slaughtered. The killing was for sport and thoroughly indiscriminate. Flames and thick black smoke poured from the windows as the dying prisoners continued to scream, their voices fading. Beatrice and her children crept in the black darkness and found a pig trail that led out of town. Hundreds of other women were moving and whispering. The lights of a troop truck washed over them and they hid in a patch of thorns. Suddenly there was gunfire nearby and the voices of angry guerrillas. A woman screamed as she was shot. The women saw the silhouettes of more soldiers on foot behind them, coming, looking for them. The children followed Beatrice through a thicket away from the road and were soon lost in the blackness. In a small opening they stopped and looked down at their village. Dozens of fires were raging and the guns were still rattling away. James and Chol were crying and Angelina hushed them into silence. They eased on, always aware that others were nearby, moving as quietly as possible, going somewhere. They stumbled into an opening and came face-to-face with a squad of guerrillas guarding a group of women and children. They barked at Beatrice and her children to sit down and they did. “Where are you going?” the leader demanded. She was too traumatized to respond and had nothing to say anyway. A teenager with a gun walked over and told Angelina to stand up. Another joined him and they stripped off her clothing. “Please, no, please!” Beatrice begged, and one of them kicked her in the face. Another teenage girl was stripped, and she and Angelina were led away, naked. Minutes passed as Beatrice tried to breathe and fight back the tears as she wiped blood off her forehead. Without a word, the guerrillas disappeared into the darkness, and the women scrambled away with their children. · · · At noon, Monday, July 20, the players met in the hotel conference room for their scheduled calls home. Using Ecko’s cell phone, Samuel punched in the number of the lieutenant’s satellite phone. There was no answer. He tried again, and half an hour later tried once more. This was troubling but not terribly disturbing. All communications in South Sudan were unreliable. CHAPTER 14 Game Six: South Sudan versus Newton Academy The Nukes, as they were known, had become one of the more noted basketball factories in the country. Nestled in the Smoky Mountains north of Knoxville, the school had only a hundred students, half boys, half girls, all serious and talented basketball players. Tuition was low, scholarships abundant, academics touted but not stressed, and admission was impossible unless a player had the skills to play in college. Virtually every student signed a scholarship at some level. Few public schools would play them, and so they feasted on other like-minded sports schools and travel programs, like Houston Gold, a team their U18 boys had beaten a month earlier in another showcase. With redemption on their minds, not to mention a painful trip home that would be far earlier than expected, Ecko’s players took the floor with determination and resolve. In the first period, Dak Marial lived up to his hype and dominated the inside on both ends. He scored 12, blocked three shots, and led his team to a 10-point lead. Samuel played the second period, and though he didn’t score, he blocked two shots, stole the ball twice, and had two perfect assists to Abraham Bol deep in the corner. Ecko got every player in the game, but with five minutes to go, and their lead down to 7, he reinserted Dak, who, along with Quinton Majok, shut down the Nukes’ inside game. Samuel reentered with three minutes to go and promptly drained a long three that put them up by 15. The thumping did wonders for the team’s morale and they hung around UCF to watch Houston Gold eke out a two-point win over Croatia. Gold was still undefeated and clinched the first seed. Croatia and Brazil were both 4–2, as was South Sudan. The U.K., their last opponent, was also 4–2. The winner of that game would likely advance to the national tournament in St. Louis. · · · During the game, as Ecko and Frankie lounged in the coaches’ suite and worked the scouts, a call came from a sat phone in Rumbek. It was the lieutenant, and he had some dreadful news. Ecko stepped outside the suite and walked to the upper deck. The city of Rumbek was under siege by rebel forces and many of the surrounding villages, especially Lotta, had been destroyed. The lieutenant called it a massacre. An army helicopter had flown over Lotta and reported that the destruction was thorough, devastating, and the fires were still smoldering. Hundreds of dead bodies, mostly men and boys, were lying in the streets and on the roads. Government forces had been unable to retake the area and were fighting for their lives. The situation was dire and reinforcements were on the way. It was impossible to identify bodies at the time, but the casualties were staggering. Indeed, identification might never be possible. Lotta was deserted but for the guerrillas, who were mopping up. The helicopter was hit by fire and barely escaped. After the call, Ecko sat for a long time far up in the cheap seats and watched his players in the reserved seats. They were laughing, bantering, savoring their win and itching for one last victory to send them on. He watched Samuel, and his heart ached. Almost twenty years as a coach, and Ecko had never been faced with such an awful task. He reluctantly returned to the suite, pulled out Frankie, and delivered the news. They discussed what to do next, but neither had a clue. No one was equipped for such a nightmare. They walked back to the suite and Frankie opened his laptop and began searching for headline news from South Sudan, but there was nothing. Evidently, massacres were so common that another one was not newsworthy. He found a site from Juba but the reports were only of a rebel attack on the city of Rumbek. · · · They waited until after dinner at the hotel, and when the team retired to a large conference room to watch soccer reruns on ESPN, Ecko pulled Samuel aside and said, “Follow me.” The kid seemed to be expecting bad news and had worried since his attempts to call home. He sat on the edge of a bed and faced his two coaches. “What’s happened?” he asked, bracing himself. There was no way to soft-pedal it, so Ecko relayed the conversation with the lieutenant and spared no details. He ended with, “It looks like all the homes have been burned and everyone has fled the village, and there are many, many casualties.” Samuel leaned back, lay on the bed, and covered his face with both hands. He cried for a long time and was unable to speak. His coaches cried with him, unable to say anything that would help. Frankie whispered, “I’ll go tell the team,” and left the room. He walked downstairs to the conference room, turned off the television, and told them what had happened. · · · “I have to go find my family,” Samuel said. Ecko shook his head and replied, “You can’t do that, Samuel, not now anyway. It’s a war zone and you can’t get near it.” “I have to go.” “I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen, at least not now. Maybe later.” Samuel sat up on the edge of the bed and wiped his face with a sleeve. “I should’ve been there.” “You can’t blame yourself, Samuel. For now, until we know more, let’s pray for a miracle.” “I have to go.” “No, Samuel.” He wiped his face again and took a bottle of water from Ecko. “I just knew something bad was going to happen. When I left home, I just had this feeling down deep that something bad would happen. I shouldn’t have left.” “You couldn’t have stopped it, Samuel.” “I just knew it. I just knew it. My father, my mother, Angelina, James and Chol. Why wasn’t I there with them?” “Because you were here and they were so proud of you for being here, Samuel.” He wept again, deep painful sobs that shuddered through his body. The door opened and Frankie walked in, followed by all fourteen players. They huddled around their friend, hugged him, said they were so sorry, and wept with him. CHAPTER 15 They stopped at the edge of a dry creek and rested on some boulders. There were twenty of them, six women who were now widows, and their children, and they huddled together in the predawn darkness and whispered now and then. Beatrice knew two of the other women; all were from her village. All believed that their husbands and sons were dead, though they could not yet dwell on the massacre. It felt as though it was still happening. They were desperately thirsty and hungry and had nothing but the clothes they were wearing. The smallest children whimpered and clutched their mothers, who were dazed, exhausted, and stricken with fear. They did not know where they were, nor where they were going. They weren’t sure they were fleeing the carnage in one general direction, or whether they had been moving in circles. The narrow footpaths they had tried to follow forked and twisted and led them nowhere. Several times during the night they were aware of others moving silently in the pitch blackness of the woods. The sky to the east began to lighten, so they at least had a sense of direction. East over there, north to its left. But what did it matter when they had no destination? All that mattered was food and water. And safety. There were no sounds; no gunfire, no trucks. Nothing. Did the silence mean they were safe? Emmanuel, a teenage boy from Lotta, appeared and asked if he could join them. Of course he could, but they had nothing to offer. He said he had passed a small farm an hour earlier and thought they should try to find it. Maybe the farmer would give them food and water and tell them where to go. Beatrice asked him if he had seen Angelina but knew the question was useless. He did not know her. His own family had been slaughtered by the rebels—mother, father, three older brothers. If he had a gun he would go back and kill the rebels. Going back might be suicide but they still wanted to see their homes. Maybe there were survivors. Maybe Angelina had somehow been spared. And maybe Ayak had escaped and was looking for them. Beatrice desperately wanted to go search for her daughter and husband. Emmanuel said that he had escaped into the woods and climbed high into a tree on a hill, and from there he had watched the village burn. There was nothing left. The gunfire had continued as the rebels executed the men. Weak and bone-weary, they followed Emmanuel along the creek bed, hoping to find a pool of water or even a puddle, but it was the dry season and the ground was parched and cracked. The sun was up and getting hotter, but mercifully the creek ran beside the woods and there was shade. Emmanuel turned onto a dirt path made by livestock and they walked half a mile and stopped. He told them to sit and wait while he approached the farmer and asked for help. They waited in the shade and listened for sounds of other people, possibly soldiers. They prayed for food and water. Emmanuel came back with nothing. The farmer had little food for his own family and he was out of water. He said they were about six miles south of Lotta and that other villagers had stopped by in the night, begging for help. He felt sorry for them but had nothing to share. There was a camp further south and he had heard the rumor that there was water and shelter there. That sliver of hope lifted their spirits somewhat, and they began walking. And walking. · · · The coaches were up early. They ignored the free breakfast in the lobby and took their coffee to the conference room where they opened their laptops and began searching. There was nothing on the U.S. sites, nothing out of Johannesburg. The BBC was reporting a fierce conflict in and around the city of Rumbek, but the story was not significant. After decades of conflict and massacres, and broken peace accords, and countless dead civilians, more bad news from South Sudan was not worthy of coverage. On the fourth try, Ecko got the lieutenant on his sat phone. According to him, the battle had shifted and their army was gaining on the rebels. They hoped to reclaim the villages in a day or so. Lotta was still controlled by the rebels and it was in the hardest hit area. The lieutenant asked about Samuel, and Ecko said things were awful. No, he did not know if Samuel had relatives in other parts of the country. Ecko called a coach in Juba but the guy knew almost nothing. They were fighting in and around Rumbek, but there was plenty of bad news across the entire region. The coach promised to work the phones and call back if he found something. After an hour, they had learned little. Evidently, Samuel was the only player touched by the fighting. The other nine from the country had all spoken to their families the day before. Frankie said, “I sort of hate to bring this up, but we have a game at two o’clock.” “Oh yeah. That. Any ideas? Our team is not exactly in a competitive mood right now.” “But we have to play. Right?” “The boys will want to play, I’m sure of it.” “And Samuel?” “Let’s talk to him.” Game Seven: South Sudan versus the United Kingdom There was no chatter in the vans as Ecko and Frankie drove the team to Rollins College for the seventh and final game. None of the usual banter and joking, no singing. The players had convinced Samuel to dress out and sit with them on the bench, so they could stay close to him. He had no desire to play and just wanted to leave and go find his family. It was Frankie’s idea to start the five from the States, including Dak Marial and Jimmie Abaloy. Perhaps they might not be as affected as their teammates from home. Besides, it was their strongest lineup and a rousing start might inspire the others. The U.K. team had won three straight and its two losses had been by a combined six points. Watching his team warm up, though, Ecko knew they were in trouble. They were listless. The smiles were gone. He tried to fire them up with his usual pre-tip-off pep talk and warned them of what they already knew. A loss would send them packing. Fortunately, the U.K. came out cold and missed its first four shots. Dak hit his first two short jumpers and yelled at his teammates on defense. When Jimmie Abaloy took a low-percentage shot from too far away, Ecko yanked him out of the game and chewed on him. Anything to get their attention. Samuel sat between his coaches and tried to encourage his friends, but the bench was flat. After the first 10 minutes the game was tied at 14, and Ecko sent in his B squad. Midway through the second period, the U.K.’s star forward took charge of the game and couldn’t be stopped. His name was Abol Pach, and, to rub salt in the wounds, he was one of them. He had been born in London to Sudanese parents from Juba, and he had verbally committed to Michigan State. Pach hit from everywhere—behind the arc, the top of the key, inside, outside. When pressed he streaked to the basket and slammed down impressive dunks. Pach scored 14 points in the second period alone and his team led by 10. The sky was falling and there was no way to stop it. Ecko put in his best players and they chipped away at the lead, but Pach was on fire and wanted the ball. When he hit back-to-back bombs, the air left the building for the boys from South Sudan. There were tears in the locker room and little was said. Ecko and Frankie talked to them, told them how proud they were, what an honor it was to coach such great people. Samuel sat in a corner, blaming himself for everything. But his thoughts were back in Lotta and he just wanted to go home. CHAPTER 16 They walked for an hour and stopped when they found shade. Emmanuel went ahead to look for water and came back with nothing. But he found a gravel road and saw other people from the village moving south and east. They decided to follow it. Beatrice tried not to think of what was behind them. She tried not to think of Samuel. James and Chol complained of headaches and hunger, and she kept promising them that they would find water soon. Their crying had stopped and they, along with the others, moved in silence, their gazes fixed on the path in front of them, dazed, traumatized, and frightened. The group followed Emmanuel to the gravel road and saw a dozen or so mothers and their children. The sight of more people was not comforting. They, too, were desperate for water, food, and shelter. There must be hundreds if not thousands searching for help, and even if they got lucky there would not be enough for everyone. They rested again and Emmanuel disappeared. He returned, smiling with the news that a camp was not far away. He was told there was water. On the gravel road, they heard a truck and quickly ducked into the bush. Peeking through weeds, they watched and listened as it approached. There was gunfire, the familiar sound of Kallies, and the children began crying. It rolled past them with dust boiling in its wake. A troop truck full of soldiers. Rebels. For fun, one of them aimed his rifle in the air and fired a few shots. They were laughing as they disappeared in the dust. · · · Ecko was tired of Orlando and ready to leave. As the players hung out by the pool, he and Frankie put together a plan. There was some expense money left and they decided to spend a couple of days sightseeing in Washington. Frankie called their travel agent, who booked rooms and changed their flights. The following day, they packed and went to the airport where they said goodbye to the Americans. Jimmie Abaloy and Dak Marial boarded a flight to Newark. Nelson Wek was headed to Omaha, by way of Chicago. Nyal Roman boarded the same flight and would go on to Akron. Ajah Nyabang had the longest flight, to San Francisco. Before breaking up, the players huddled around their coaches and Ecko offered a short, emotional prayer. There were long hugs and sad farewells and promises to keep in touch. He sat next to Samuel on the flight to Washington and talked about the future. Ecko was of the firm opinion that Samuel should stay in America and apply for citizenship, but that plan raised more questions than he could answer. He would seek advice from their embassy in Washington. Samuel was overwhelmed by thoughts of staying. Ecko repeatedly reminded him that he could not go home because there was no home. Ecko had friends in Juba but they were in no position to adopt an eighteen-year-old kid. Samuel could not think of a single relative who could take him. All of his extended family lived in Lotta. And that was where he was going, to find them. Ecko showed him a list of a dozen NGOs and relief organizations working in the refugee camps, both inside South Sudan and in neighboring countries. He promised to contact all of them, and to hound them until he found someone who knew the Sooleymon family. If they survived, they would eventually make it to a camp, he was certain of that. Once they were found, he would try to arrange a trip for Samuel to go see them. But it would take time. Going back now would be dangerous and unproductive. At Reagan National, Ecko rented two white vans that were remarkably similar to the two they had used in Orlando. Their hotel was in McLean, near an interstate. They checked in and the players went to the pool. · · · Lonnie Britt had resisted the suggestion that he make the four-hour drive from Durham to Washington, but Ecko had insisted. The two old friends talked for an hour as Lonnie fought the traffic on Interstate 95. By the time he arrived in McLean, he knew he had just landed another basketball player, one that no one else was looking at. Lonnie had dinner with the team and tried to cheer them up. They were tough kids, resilient and still hopeful, but they were crushed by their elimination. They knew they were as good as any team they had played, and to be going home with nothing was so disheartening. Of the nine who would make the long flight to Juba, only three—Alek Garang, Quinton Majok, and Riak Kuol—had a chance of playing in college. Had the team advanced to the national showcase, perhaps two or three others could have been noticed. Afterward, Ecko asked Samuel to stop by his room. Lonnie was waiting and offered his sincere condolences. Samuel thanked him but said little. However, his demeanor changed when Lonnie said, “Samuel, I want you to come play for me at North Carolina Central. I’m offering you a full scholarship to come play for the Eagles.” Samuel was speechless and looked at Ecko in disbelief. Lonnie said, “I’ve seen you play and I’m impressed with your game. Ecko says great things about you and he’s convinced me to take a chance. What do you say?” “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything right now. Thanks, I guess.” Ecko moved in for the kill. “Here’s the deal, Samuel. We’re going to the embassy tomorrow to talk about immigration. Lonnie’s going with us and we’ll explain that you’ll be staying here and headed down to Durham. We’ll ask the embassy to pull strings and help expedite a student visa.” Samuel shook his head and said, “Thanks, Coach, but I need to go home and find my family. They’re alive and they need me.” Ecko said, “Listen to me, Samuel.” “Maybe not all of them, but I just know that my mother is alive and she needs me right now.” “We’ll find them, Samuel, but you can’t do it by yourself. Right now we have no idea where they are. The village is gone and Rumbek is not safe. What good will it do your family if you get killed too?” Lonnie said, “We’ll do everything we can to help you find them, Samuel, I promise, but for now, play it safe. Come to Durham with me. You can stay in my house, with my family, until classes start. Then you’ll move into a nice dormitory and meet all your new friends. They’re a great bunch of guys, Samuel, and they’ll be glad to meet you.” “But I don’t have a dime. How am I supposed to go to college?” Ecko said, “Let me worry about that. Your scholarship covers tuition, room, board, and books. Coach Britt can find you a job. We’ll make it happen.” He buried his face in his hands and managed to say, “Thank you.” CHAPTER 17 The camp was between two small hills that cradled a narrow creek. Bunched along its banks were dozens of makeshift tents and lean-tos made of stripped branches and dried scrub. Smoke from two fires drifted upward and at first gave them hope that food was being prepared. The creek bed was dry but there were pools of muddy water. Women and children shuffled about with little to do. Emmanuel told them to wait under the shade of some trees as he left to scope out the camp. He disappeared down a trail and as he approached the settlement he was stopped by two men blocking the trail. “What do you want?” one of them asked. Both were armed, one with a club, the other with a machete. Emmanuel said, “I have women and children with me. We’re from the village of Lotta and we were attacked.” “You can’t stay here,” said the man with the club. “Please. We are starving and need water. We’ve been walking for two days and nights.” “You can’t stay here. There’s no food and the water is almost gone.” “Please. We’re dying. There are children.” “We’re all dying. And the farmers have told us to leave. We’re using their water and they are not happy about it. They have threatened to call soldiers to clear the camp.” “But we can’t keep going. Please help us.” “There is no room for you here and it’s too dangerous.” “You have no choice,” said the man with the machete. “Please. Just some water and something to eat.” The men looked at each other. The one with the club tossed it aside and disappeared. The other one said, “Just wait.” “How long have you been here?” Emmanuel asked. “About a month. Most of us are from the village of Ranya. Where are you from?” “Lotta. It was burned Sunday night by the rebels.” “They burned our village too. We’ve been here but now we have to go. The farmers are very angry and do not want us on their land.” “When will you leave?” “Tomorrow.” “Where will you go?” He shook his head as if he had no idea. The other man returned with a bucket of water and a cloth bag filled with something. They followed Emmanuel up the trail to the trees where Beatrice and her group waited. One of the men said, “I’m sorry but you cannot stay here. It’s too dangerous.” He put down the bucket and held a small wooden ladle. “The water is dirty but we’ve been drinking it. We have no choice.” As he gave each person a few ounces of the brownish liquid, the other one opened the bag and began handing out fistfuls of raw peanuts. The water was wretched but it quenched their thirst. The peanuts tasted like chocolate candy. “Eat slow,” Beatrice whispered to James and Chol. “Make it last.” But they couldn’t eat slow. · · · The two vans stopped near the Lincoln Memorial and the team got out. Frankie gave them instructions and left to find a place to park. The boys were soon lost in a throng of tourists visiting Abe and milling around the Reflecting Pool. Ecko drove Samuel and Lonnie to the embassy of the Republic of South Sudan on 31st Street near the Naval Observatory. Their ten o’clock appointment was with a Ms. Maria Manabol, a pleasant young lady Ecko had spoken to three times already. She met them in a small conference room and offered them coffee. After a round of chitchat, during which she expressed her condolences to Samuel for the tragedy, and managed to get in a word or two about the basketball team, she asked Ecko and Lonnie to step into the hallway. They left Samuel at the table and followed her to an office. She closed the door and motioned for them to have a seat. She began with, “My father was a government soldier who was killed in the war when I was a little girl, so I know what he’s going through. Luckily, I had an uncle here in the States and he sent for me and my brother. I’m very sorry.” They nodded gravely and waited. “Yesterday, government troops pushed the rebels away from Rumbek and secured the area. They went into the villages and found what they expected. In Lotta, the rebels herded several hundred men into the parish church and set it on fire, so we’ll never know the exact number of casualties. Most of the victims were badly burned. So far they’ve found over two hundred bodies scattered around the village, mostly men and teenage boys. Sad to say, but this is not uncommon in this war. The atrocities are beyond description. The cleanup is dreadful work. About a hundred men have been identified, primarily by the voter registration cards in their wallets. The female casualties are more difficult because the cards were left at home when they fled. All the homes were burned.” She picked up a remote and aimed at a television on the wall. “This is difficult to watch and I didn’t want Samuel to see it.” The video was shot with a handheld camera by someone walking with the soldiers. The corpses were grossly swollen and stained with dark blood. Soldiers with masks and gloves were tossing them into the rear of a troop truck. After thirty seconds, Ecko looked away. She punched a button and the screen went blank. “Does Samuel have a laptop or cell phone?” “No,” Ecko replied. “Good, then maybe he won’t see this. It’s out there, on the internet.” “We’re planning to get him a phone and a laptop this morning. He’ll need them.” “Okay, well, maybe he won’t look for this. They found his father, Ayak Sooleymon, and identified him with his registration card. Evidently, he was in the church and managed to get outside before he was shot. So, his death is confirmed.” “Any idea about his mother and siblings?” “No, nothing. As you know, over four million of our people have been displaced by the wars and are living in refugee camps. Let’s hope she finds one. It is extremely difficult to locate people, but we try every day and sometimes we get lucky. Most of them, though, are in camps in neighboring countries. Some have been there for years.” “I can’t imagine,” Lonnie said. “As I understand the plan, he will be going with you to Durham.” “Yes, to play basketball.” “Well, thanks to you, Coach, he’s a very lucky young man.” “He doesn’t feel so lucky,” Ecko said. “I’m sure that’s true. We’ll expedite a student visa and Samuel will be free to enjoy college. I’ll need a few signatures today and we’ll contact Immigration.” Ecko and Lonnie said “Thank you” at the same time. She said, “I’ll wait here for a moment while you tell him about his father.” “I think he knows.” “I’m sure he does.” Ecko and Lonnie stood, and as they opened the door, Lonnie said, “We play Howard here on December the nineteenth. I expect Samuel to be in uniform. We would love to have you as our guest.” “Why, thank you. My husband and I enjoy college basketball, and we’ll be there.” · · · Samuel and Coach Britt were in the hotel lobby, fiddling with his new cell phone and laptop, when the players returned. They had been briefed and knew that their friend would not be returning to Juba. His bag was packed, with some new items from J.Crew, all courtesy of Ecko and his dwindling expense account. After a round of long, emotional farewells, they watched him walk out the door with Ecko and Lonnie. As wounded and hurt as he was, Samuel was living their dream. He would stay in America, and study on a scholarship, and play in nice gyms and fine arenas. And they were so happy for him. At the car, he hugged Ecko and thanked him for everything. Looking into Samuel’s sad eyes, Ecko was certain he had grown another inch. | Part Two | CHAPTER 18 The days didn’t matter anymore. They were all the same. They walked for three days, then another three. They walked early in the morning to beat the sun and rested during the hottest hours, then walked again at night. They slept on the ground, close together for protection. They were starving and beyond thirst, and when the fatigue was so numbing they could not go on, Emmanuel found rotten fruit from a cape fig tree and they devoured it. He cajoled a bag of peanuts from a Dinka farmer, along with a gourd of water. Another farmer, one of the Nuer tribe, cursed and threatened them with a machete. They slowly walked on, listening always for the sounds of trucks and soldiers. Ten or twelve days after the massacre they joined another group of refugees and word filtered back that they were going to Uganda. Beatrice did not want to leave her country—she had never left it before—but Emmanuel had heard more than once that the camps were more dangerous in South Sudan. Rebels raided the settlements, killing and raping, and taking what little food there was. He became convinced that Uganda was where they should go, and the more he talked to the other men the more he was certain that they were going in the right direction. Uganda was keeping its borders open and trying to help the flood of refugees, but its camps were being overrun. So many were fleeing South Sudan, desperate to get away from the violence. Ethiopia and Kenya were also rumored to be safer, but they were much further away. They walked on, weary and hungry, hoping to see the border just around the next turn. There were over a hundred of them, almost all women and children, one long sad parade of misery. Most were barefoot. Few carried belongings. None had food or water. Near the border a large crowd had stalled where the road was blocked by a row of tents. They rested beside the road as Emmanuel went to gather information. People kept coming by the hundreds. Beatrice pulled James and Chol close to her on the ground and looked behind them at the endless line of refugees. There had to be food and water in the camp. Why else would so many be drawn to this place? They spent the night there on the ground, and early the next morning moved forward. When they passed through a checkpoint they learned that they had now left their homeland. A sign in English read: “Welcome to Uganda—Rhino Camp Refugee Settlement.” A man in a uniform directed them to a tent where they joined a line to be processed. As they waited, Beatrice asked the man if there was any food and water. Her children were starving. He smiled and nodded and said there was food and water, just beyond the tents. At a table, she gave another officer their names and said they were from the village of Lotta. She asked if anyone had seen Angelina, but the officer shook his head and said, “No, we’re taking in a thousand a day and we can’t keep up.” “Please look for Angelina Sooleymon, please.” He nodded as if he’d heard this before and entered their names in a registry. He asked if she had any documentation. No, she did not. She explained that everything had been lost when their house burned. She had no money, nothing but the filthy and ragged clothes they were wearing. From the tents they shuffled on and were directed to a long line of starving people waiting behind a large truck. Beatrice could smell something in the air. At the truck, workers were dipping ladles into large vats and filling tin bowls with hot porridge. Others were handing out plastic bottles of clear water. The refugees waited patiently, dazed and in disbelief that they were finally getting food and water. Beatrice thanked the workers and sat with her boys beside the truck to eat and drink. · · · After a week in Coach Britt’s basement, with warm family meals cooked by his wife, and hours of video games with his children, Samuel moved into his dorm room on the NC Central campus in south Durham. It was modern, more like an apartment than a dorm room, and not far from the athletic complex. He would share it with another basketball player who was expected in a few days. Lonnie moved him in, then walked with him to the football field and locker room, and introduced him to his new boss, T. Ray. For the unheard-of wage of $7.25 an hour, the state minimum wage, whatever that meant, Samuel landed his first job—assistant equipment manager of the football team. “Football players are a bunch of pigs,” T. Ray growled as he walked Samuel around the expansive locker room. “Right now you’re the lowest man on the pole so you get to help clean the locker room after every practice. Then you’ll help with the laundry, then you’ll spend every afternoon on the practice field doing whatever else I tell you to do. Got it?” “Yes sir.” “Report here at eight each morning and we’ll get to work. Coach Britt says you need all the hours you can get until classes start, right?” “Right.” “Okay. Welcome aboard. I’ll introduce you to some of the assistant coaches. The players will start arriving in an hour or so. They’re pretty rough on equipment managers, at least at first, so don’t take it personally.” Samuel nodded but had no idea what to expect. “Here’s Rodney, your new best friend and head student manager.” Rodney welcomed him on board, gave him a proper team polo and shorts and told him to change clothes. Rodney was impressed with his state-of-the-art Reeboks. From there they went to one of the many storage rooms, and together loaded a cart with freshly cleaned practice tee shirts, jerseys, pants, and socks. Each article had a uniform number marked on it. Using the team roster attached to a bulletin board, Samuel began placing the practice uniforms into each individual locker. Rodney showed him the right way to arrange things just so. The work was light and easy and Samuel was thrilled to be so close to a team. His practices would not start for another month and he had no friends on campus, other than Rodney. He was also thrilled to be earning $7.25 an hour and grateful to his coach for securing the job. He had no money and needed the income. All of his meals would be in the student cafeteria, but he had to purchase a service contract for his new cell phone, plus a few other incidentals. As soon as possible, he planned to start calling the two dozen aid organizations he had researched online. After practice, he found the library, then the Wi-Fi, and he figured out the printer in a copy room. He began printing color maps of his country and those around it, and piecing together a large collage of an area roughly three hundred square miles. He pinpointed the known refugee camps and settlements within the grid. And he read, article after article, newspaper and magazine stories, and reports filed by the United Nations and an impressive group of NGOs. With no internet service in his village, he had limited skills with his laptop, but he was learning quickly. If finding his family depended on his technical skills, he would not rest until he mastered the internet. It was a gargantuan, uphill struggle, and he had only the slightest clue of the challenge. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he believed he would find them, somehow, some way. At night, he covered one wall of his room with maps and made notes on them. He read online for hours. For his entire life he had heard stories of the diaspora of the South Sudanese but had never grasped the enormity of the crisis. Four million people, one third of the country’s population, had been displaced by decades of wars, with half living in camps and settlements inside the country. The surrounding countries were absorbing the other half of a massive and unmanageable overflow. There were 900,000 in Uganda, 200,000 in both Ethiopia and Sudan, another 100,000 in Kenya. Other South Sudanese had scattered even further from home, all in search of safety and food. Bidi Bidi, the largest settlement in Uganda, now held over 200,000 refugees and was beyond the breaking point. The governments of these countries were doing all they could do, and appealing for international help. It was arriving, but there was too little of it. Eighty percent of the refugees were women and children. The men were either dead or off somewhere fighting. Only Syria and Afghanistan had more refugees. One United Nations study predicted that without a meaningful peace agreement, South Sudan would soon displace more of its people than any other country. Working late into the night, Samuel marked the location of each refugee camp, and there were dozens of them. In some of the older settlements in Uganda and Kenya, the refugees were given small tracts of land to grow vegetables and construct shanties. Some residents had been there for years and had lost hope of returning home. Makeshift schools were being run by aid workers. In the camps, which seemed to be newer and less organized, the conditions were often far worse. Cholera outbreaks were common. There was little or no health care. The refugees lived in tents and huts and began each day with the quest for food and water. When he was exhausted, Samuel said his prayers and asked God to save his family, whatever was left of it. CHAPTER 19 Beatrice and two other women from their village had managed to stick together and vowed to continue to do so. Three women with eight children, ages four to thirteen. They slept the first night at Rhino Camp in a field on the edge of the sprawling settlement. At dawn they began walking toward the center and soon found a food distribution point, a place where trucks rolled in with vats of warm porridge and rice. The line was long and slow-moving. The women, desperate for information, talked to other women as they waited. They learned there was an area on the far side of the settlement where aid workers from many countries operated under large tents and handed out clothing and medicine. There were a few doctors but getting to see one was difficult. James was having fevers and needed to see a doctor. The women wanted to bathe and find better clothing. They were wearing rags, and their shoes had been abandoned days ago. After breakfast, they drifted with the crowd, past rows of flimsy dwellings, ramshackle lean-tos, and dirty tents. They noticed small fires where women were cooking and saw hundreds of teenage girls hauling water in pots on their heads. They stepped over a narrow creek choked with sewage and waste, then saw another long line and joined it. There was a food truck far ahead, and food was their priority. Their first days in Rhino Camp were spent waiting in long, slow lines for food, and sleeping on the ground with their children pulled close. · · · On August 11, Samuel woke up early and wished himself a happy birthday. He was now eighteen, but he was not in a mood to celebrate. He knew that he would go through the entire day and keep his secret to himself. He said his morning prayers and ached for his mother and family. After he showered, his phone rang and he grabbed it. Ecko Lam was calling to wish him a happy one, and they talked for half an hour. Ecko was still in South Sudan and would be returning home soon. Samuel was thrilled to learn that his coach was in Rumbek, meeting with the military, looking for Beatrice and her children. But the news was not good. According to survivors in Lotta, the people had fled in all directions. Some had been hunted down and killed by the rebels. The nearest camp was the Yusuf Batil settlement in the state of Upper Nile, a hundred miles from Lotta. There were many camps, some run by the government with basic services, others created by hungry people desperate for protection. In the government camps the refugees were registered and received better care, but it was still the old “needle in a haystack” scenario. Ecko planned to use his time gathering information and making contact with aid groups and military leaders and would report back when he returned to the States. He wanted to know every detail of Samuel’s first days on campus, and was delighted to hear he was working and loved his job. Classes would start in two weeks and he was eager to make friends. The football players were nice enough but it wasn’t his sport. He longed to get in the gym and start practice. When the call ended, Samuel sat on his bed and had another good cry. And he thanked God for people like Ecko Lam. · · · The unquestioned leader in the clubhouse was Devon Dayton, a burly middle linebacker from Charlotte. He was loud, funny, cocky, and always carrying on some nonsense with his teammates. He was also intimidating, as were most of the large young men. Samuel had never seen so much bulk in one place. As the locker room bustled with early morning preparations, Samuel walked through with a stack of clean towels and Devon called out, “Hey you.” He was sitting on a bench with two other heavy linemen and seemed irritated. Almost a thousand pounds of muscle and beef. Samuel set down the towels and walked over. “What’s your name?” Devon demanded. “Samuel Sooleymon.” “That’s a mouthful. Too many syllables. Where you from? You talk funny.” “South Sudan,” Samuel said timidly. Others had gathered around to enjoy the moment. “Where’s that?” “I think it’s in Georgia,” said another. “Africa,” Samuel said, waiting. Devon said, “Well, my gym shorts were still a bit damp when I put them on this morning. You know what it’s like running around out there in wet gym shorts?” Samuel had watched practice for two days and knew that all gym shorts would be soaked with sweat within the hour. “Sorry,” he said. “Samuel Sooleymon,” Devon repeated loudly. “Can you spell it?” “I can.” “Okay. Walk over to that chalkboard and write your name.” Samuel did as he was told. Devon and the others studied the name with disapproval. One of them said, “That’s pretty weird.” Weird? The roster was loaded with some first names that Samuel had never seen before and wasn’t sure how to pronounce. Devon said, “We need to shorten it. How about Sam? Just plain ol’ Sam?” Samuel shook his head and said, “My father didn’t like Sam.” “I got it,” another one said. “Let’s go with Sooley.” “I like that,” Devon said. “Sooley it is, and Sooley, from now on, I prefer dry gym shorts in the morning.” A coach barreled through the door, screaming, and the team suddenly lost interest in changing names. They scrambled out of the locker room and when they were gone, Samuel erased his name from the board, picked up the towels, and put them on a rack. T. Ray told him to hustle up and get the bottles of cold water to the field. Football was a strange game. Its practices were organized mayhem as a hundred players covered the practice field and did drills while half a dozen coaches yelled and blew whistles. The morning sessions were noncontact and primarily conditioning, brutal calisthenics as the sun grew hotter, and enough wind sprints to cause the heavier guys to collapse. After two hours, the players returned to the locker room, stripped, showered, and left their dirty clothes in a pile for Samuel and the other equipment managers to wash, dry, fold, and place neatly in the lockers. After a long break for lunch and rest, the players were back for an hour with their coaches—offensive linemen in one room, wide receivers in another, and so on. At three, they suited up in full gear and walked back into the sun. Samuel and two other equipment managers tidied up the locker room, then hurried to the field to resupply the water and sports drinks. At first, the full-contact drills were frightening, as three-hundred-pound brutes tried their best to kill one another as their coaches yelled at them to hit even harder. Indeed, the hardest hits, the bone-jarring collisions and vicious tackles, excited the coaches the most and drew the wildest cheers from the other players. Samuel was thrilled that he played basketball. After three hours of violence, and as the players melted in the heat and humidity, the head coach finally relented and blew the last whistle. Samuel hurried to the locker room to clean up. The mood was much quieter as the players dragged themselves in, stripped, and headed for the showers. They took their time getting dressed. They would break for dinner and return for more meetings that night. Samuel was working ten-hour days and counting his money. As he scooped up a pile of filthy practice jerseys, Devon yelled, “Hey, Sooley, over here.” Samuel stepped over, anticipating a gag of some variety. The team quickly bunched around Devon, who said, “Say, look, Sooley, we know it’s been a rough summer for you, and we know today is special. Since you can’t be home to celebrate, we figured we’d do it here.” A wall of bodies opened and Coach Lonnie Britt stepped forward with a large birthday cake, complete with candles and the words “Happy Birthday Sooley” scrawled in maroon and gray, the team colors. Like an amateur choir director, Devon waved his hands and the team sang a boisterous rendition of “Happy Birthday,” most of them deliberately bellowing off-key. Samuel was stunned and speechless. Devon said, “We’re glad you’re here, Sooley. We know you’re playing the wrong sport, but we love our basketball players. Most of them anyway.” Coach Britt handed the cake to Devon and hugged Samuel, the kid with the big smile and very sad eyes. · · · Beatrice and her little gang spent the third night on the ground but under a large military-style tent with a hundred others. After two meals that day, the hunger pangs were subsiding and the children were coming to life. The future was bleak and the past too painful to dwell on, but maybe the worst was behind them. As she huddled with James and Chol and waited for them to drift away, she knew it was the middle of August. Samuel was turning eighteen, somewhere, and she prayed for his safety. CHAPTER 20 The following Saturday, the team had a light practice in the morning and was released for the rest of the day. Samuel and the three other equipment managers finished the laundry and cleaned the locker room. He left the field house and returned to his dorm to find someone else moving in. It was Murray Walker, his new best friend. They said hello and shook hands and sat on their beds. Coach Britt had given Samuel the name of his roommate and said he would call. Samuel, living online when he wasn’t working, had checked out the kid and knew he was a rising sophomore who had averaged only five minutes a game during his freshman season. Five minutes, two points, one rebound—the slimmest production of all thirteen players. He was six feet tall, had walked on, survived the cuts, and made the team. “What’s all this?” Murray asked, nodding at the wall covered with maps and notes. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? I’ll be happy to take it down.” “No, that’s okay. Coach told me that you’re from South Sudan, in Africa.” “What else did Coach tell you about me?” Murray smiled and shrugged. “Well, he said you’ve been through a lot lately, I guess. I’m real sorry.” Samuel rose and stepped to the wall. “I’m from a village near the city of Rumbek, in central South Sudan. The village is gone now, and my mother is somewhere there.” He pointed at the wall as if he had no idea where she was. “I’m hoping my brothers and sister are with her.” “Refugees?” “Something like that. My father was murdered by rebel troops last month.” “Oh man, I’m real sorry.” “Thanks. It’s been pretty bad.” “I can’t even imagine.” “The website says you’re from here, Durham.” “That’s right. Born here.” “Why’d you pick Central?” “Because nobody else wanted me. I wasn’t exactly heavily recruited. Coach Britt invited me to walk on and I made the cut. My parents went to school here so I’ve always pulled for Central.” “Your family’s here?” “Yep. Ten minutes away. My Mom’s a lawyer and my Dad runs a food bank.” “What’s a food bank?” “It’s a nonprofit charity that collects food and gives it away to folks who’re hungry.” Samuel sat down on his bed and looked oddly at Murray. “Hungry people around here?” “Lots of them.” “You’re not kidding?” “I’m dead serious, man. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but here in the land of plenty there are a lot of poor people. You want to go see some? I need to make a delivery.” “Not really. I saw enough back home.” “Let’s get a burger and I’ll show you around. My truck is loaded with food for a pantry.” “You have a truck?” “It’s a hand-me-down but it works.” “What’s a pantry?” “Come on, I’ll show you. My Dad asked me to make a delivery.” “Well, I’m kind of low on cash right now.” “Okay, I’ll buy you a burger. You can buy next time.” They parked in a McDonald’s and got out. Samuel noticed the stack of boxes in the bed and asked, “So, where does the food come from?” “We buy some, a lot is donated. We have a warehouse full, actually three warehouses, and we’re feeding ten thousand people a week. My Dad’s the boss and he runs a tight ship. I work there part-time.” They sat in the window, ate, and talked basketball. Murray wanted to know everything about the tournament in Orlando, the wins and losses and all the scouts watching. Two years earlier, his summer team played Houston Gold in Atlanta and got crushed. They talked about Coach Britt. Murray loved the guy and Samuel said he had probably saved his life. They talked about the two former players arrested for armed robbery. Murray described them as a couple of good guys known to make bad decisions, said the rest of the team was worried about them. They had lawyers and there was a good chance they would take pleas to lesser charges and avoid jail, but they would miss a year of school and basketball. He said Coach Britt was careful who he signed, but when it came to recruiting nothing was for certain. They talked about the conference, the other schools, the road games, and life on campus. “Plenty of girls?” Samuel asked. “Oh yes, lots. And they like athletes. With your strange accent they’ll be all over you.” “Sounds awful. Wait till I speak to them in Dinka.” Which led to a long discussion of life in South Sudan. They talked nonstop and left the restaurant friends for life. CHAPTER 21 Now Chol had the fevers and his seemed to be worse than his brother’s. After breakfast, Beatrice made both boys follow her through the dirty and hectic streets of the settlement as she asked directions to the clinic. There were three, she was told, or maybe four, and the largest one was a mile away. She led the boys in that general direction. With each step she looked at each face, hoping to see Angelina. She had dreamed she would find her here, along with Ayak, and they would be together. Beatrice eventually found the clinic and was not surprised to see a long line of mothers and their sick children waiting in the blazing sun. The morning passed before they made it inside the sprawling and packed tent. They missed lunch and needed water. The clinic was run by a Lutheran ministry out of Hamburg, and the doctors and nurses were German and spoke with accents. James and Chol were fascinated to see white people, a rarity in that part of the world. A nurse examined the boys and determined they had malaria, a common affliction in South Sudan. And they were probably malnourished, but otherwise healthy. She gave Beatrice a bottle of pills with instructions. “How long have you been here?” the nurse asked. “I don’t know. Maybe a week.” “Are you getting enough to eat?” “No, there’s never enough, but we’re not starving anymore.” “Where are you staying?” Beatrice shrugged and could think of no response. “Okay, where are you sleeping?” “On the ground.” “You have no roof?” “No.” The nurse opened a drawer and pulled out two cards with numbers stamped on them. She handed one over and said, “There is a distribution center around the corner. Take this and go there and get clothing and water.” Beatrice thanked her and grabbed the card. The nurse handed over the second one, light blue in color. “There is a new section of the settlement that is opening up. At the distribution center, you will see a sign that says ‘Housing.’ Hand this to them and they will assign you a new tent, one large enough for your family.” Beatrice wanted to cry but immediately thought of her friends from Lotta. “But I am with others,” she said. “And they have children.” “How many?” “Two families.” The nurse handed her two more blue cards, smiled, and said, “You will sleep in your own tents tonight. Bring the boys back in a week.” Beatrice forgot about the missed lunch and hurried to the distribution center where she found yet another long line of people waiting to get inside. She heard a loud voice and looked across the street. Under a canopy, a priest with a bullhorn was conducting Sunday Mass and thousands were sitting on the ground around him. For the first time in forever, Beatrice knew the day of the week. · · · Sleep was difficult and Samuel wasn’t getting much of it. He awoke in the dark Sunday morning and remembered that Murray had not made it back. He had a girlfriend in town and said he might stay at home. Samuel showered, put on his best clothes, ate breakfast in the cafeteria, then walked two miles to the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. He enjoyed the service, thanked God for his goodness, and prayed fervently for his family. There were few black people seated around him. Murray, a Methodist, said there were not many black Catholics in the South. Evidently, he was right. Sunday’s practice would be a three-hour scrimmage, at night, when supposedly things would be cooler. But in the middle of August nothing was cool, and by the time Samuel returned to his dorm his shirt was soaked. He changed into gym shorts and walked ten minutes to Central’s gym, officially the McDougald-McLendon Arena, but a title that unwieldy begged for a nickname. For decades the gym had been known simply as The Nest. Samuel had his own key, thanks to T. Ray. He found a rack of balls and began shooting for the first time in days. It felt good to be bouncing the ball, taking shots, retrieving at a leisurely pace, dribbling, then pulling up for another shot. The air in the building was only a few degrees cooler than the outside heat, but for the moment it was the perfect temperature. His shots were hitting home with a remarkable frequency. He backed further away and found his range. How many shots could he take alone in one hour with a reasonable amount of hustle? There was a clock on the wall and he timed himself. He talked to himself before each shot and mentally went through the basics. From behind the arc, he hit the first two, then missed three. Two-for-five. Three-for-six. Four-for-ten. Six-for-fifteen. Twelve-for-thirty. Sixty minutes later, he had taken 200 shots and made a third of them. That wasn’t good enough. · · · The tent was six meters by six with a thick plastic floor, a door that zipped open and closed, and three windows that opened for ventilation. Beatrice, a tall woman, could almost stand upright without ducking her head. It was too large for a hiking tent and too small for the army, and must have been designed for refugees. Beatrice didn’t care how or why it was designed. It gave her and the boys their first moment of privacy and sense of place in many days. After they moved in, with nothing to move, she zipped the door and windows closed and huddled with James and Chol in the complete isolation. But as the air grew thick and hot, she quickly unzipped it all and stepped outside. Her friends from Lotta were on either side, and both were convinced she had managed a miracle to get the tents. Their journey was over. They had survived the massacre and the nightmare of fleeing, and they had arrived in a place that promised safety, food, water, and now a roof. The children at first hung around the tents, too timid to venture far, but by dark they were playing down the street with a group of kids. The tents, and there were thousands of them, all identical, were staked in a perfect grid, block after block. Each tent was exactly two meters from the one next door, so that through the vinyl fabric walls a family spat four tents down was shared by many. Once inside, the women and children soon learned to whisper about everything. The small plots provided for two meters of ground in front of the tent and next to the street, and two meters behind for cooking and urinating. A few outhouses were scattered through the community, but not enough. Long lines of people waited while others relieved themselves wherever they could. The stench of shit and urine permeated the air. The acrid smoke from cooking fires hung like a fog over the area. Beatrice longed for the day she would have something to cook. CHAPTER 22 Monday, August 17, the first day of classes. Samuel woke up early, turned on lights, slammed drawers, showered making as much noise as possible, but was completely unable to rouse his roommate from his nightly comalike hibernation. Samuel dressed, left the dorm, and hustled over to the student union to drink coffee and watch the coeds. He had roamed the campus for hours and knew every building. At nine he had Sociology; at ten, African Studies; at noon, General Math. The most exciting part of the day would begin at three in The Nest when the team met with the coaches for the first practice. Under the current NCAA rules, they could be on the floor for exactly one hour four days a week until late September when the real work began. The first game was in early November. He had been in the U.S. now for almost six weeks, and on campus for the last two, and the culture shock was fading. He marveled at the students and their affluence. Every single one had a cell phone and laptop, and most of them, especially the girls, did little but stare at their screens. And the clothes. Most wore cut-offs, tee shirts, and sandals, but there seemed to be an endless supply. Murray’s small closet was filled with more shirts than any ten men had in Lotta. Samuel realized immediately that no student could function without just the right backpack. He purchased one with his first paycheck, and with Murray’s help. He was startled at the number of students who owned cars and brought them to school. Parking on campus was difficult and highly regulated, but the traffic was still a mess. In spite of his burdens, he was thrilled to be on an American campus and starting classes. When he walked into Sociology, there were a hundred students in a large hall, and at first glance he didn’t know a soul. Then, near the back, he saw the smiling face of a freshman football player. He sat beside him as the professor called things to order. All laptops opened. Samuel took a second and closed his eyes and thought of his mother. · · · At 2:55, Coach Britt blew his whistle and all warm-ups stopped. He herded the players to a section of the bleachers and said hello. There were sixteen of them: ten returning, two transfers, two freshmen, and two invited walk-ons. Of the ten returning, three were seniors, five were juniors, two, including Murray, were sophomores. Coach Britt began by introducing the Director of Athletics and invited him to say a word or two, which he seemed delighted to do. He welcomed the team, talked about what a great season it would be, and so on. His real purpose, though, was to talk about their two teammates, both now out of jail but facing serious charges. He took responsibility for their dismissals and said the university had no choice. If they were eventually cleared, then he and the President would consider reinstatement. He did not want the incident to distract the team. The AD left, and Coach Britt took over. He introduced the five student managers, all volunteers, and went on about how important they were to the program. He introduced his associate head coach, Jason Grinnell, and his two assistant coaches, Jackie Garver and Ron McCoy. The four had been together throughout Lonnie’s four-year tenure at Central. He introduced the director of basketball operations, the director of player development, the assistant director of operations, the team doctor, and the two trainers. In Lotta, Samuel had two friends whose families owned small televisions with satellite reception, and generators, and he had watched plenty of college and professional games from the U.S. He was mesmerized by the spectacle of the game and motivated by its excitement, popularity, and pageantry. He understood most of it, but there were always lingering questions. The most puzzling was: Why do college teams have so many men in dark suits on the bench? Who are these people? Does a team with only five players on the court really need half a dozen coaches? Often, there were more men in dark suits than players in uniform. He had posed these important questions to Murray, whose response was something like “That’s what everybody else does. Why does the football team need a hundred players?” Coach Britt said there were six new faces in the crowd. He introduced the two walk-ons, then he introduced the two transfers, the first being Sherman Batts, who played the previous season at a community college in Florida. The second was Trevor Young, a high school all-American who hadn’t played much at Virginia Tech and would sit a year. Then the two freshmen. Samuel Sooleymon, from the African republic of South Sudan, and Michal Rayburn from Wilmington. He bragged on each for a moment, then glanced at his watch and said, “All right, the NCAA says that we have only forty-five more minutes today. Let’s move to the dressing room and pick lockers. Seniors first, as always. Then we’ll hand out practice uniforms, new shoes, anything else you might need. Tomorrow you’ll get your first physical exams so be here a few minutes early.” CHAPTER 23 Each day began the same. There was nothing to vary the routine, nothing to change schedules that did not exist. For the displaced and war-scarred, waking in safety with the promise of food and water was a gift from God. They knew so many who had not survived. Beatrice woke first and gently shifted her weight on the hard ground, careful not to wake her boys. The first rays of sunlight peeked through the mesh-covered window above her. She heard a few soft whispers from the nearby tents as mothers moved about. As always, her first thoughts were of her children. James and Chol were with her and they would soon be awake and asking about food. Angelina was gone and finding her would be a miracle. And where was Samuel? The team was scheduled to return by the first of August at the latest. Return to what? Surely Samuel by now knew of the massacre. There was no home, no village. Where would he go? In her dreams he finds Ayak and together they find Angelina, and the three of them are here, somewhere in the settlement, looking for Beatrice and the boys. She had her morning prayer, followed by her morning cry. It was best to cry alone while the boys slept. For a long time she softly rubbed their legs as things came to life around her. More voices from the tents, more people moving in the mud street in front of the tents. Soon, they would embark on the daily adventure of finding breakfast. The food drop-offs were well-known. The sounds of straining truck engines usually meant aid workers were arriving. Everyone in the long lines knew how to wait patiently for hours. There was plenty of food, and once those who had been starving realized this they were content to wait. They waited an hour for a breakfast of porridge and water, an hour for a lunch of beans, rice, and a small loaf of bread, an hour for a dinner of whatever was left over from the earlier meals. No meat, no fruit, nothing with a hint of sugar, but there were no complaints. The people had known the fear and physical pain of hunger and were relieved it had ended. Beatrice and the boys moved around the sprawling and growing settlement. They waited in numerous lines at food points. They waited in lines for secondhand clothing and shoes. They roamed the dirt and mud streets with no destination in mind. They found a small market area and wondered how anyone had money to buy anything. They heard Dinka, their language, and Nuer, that of their biggest rivals, and Azande, Bari, Murle, English, and other unknown tongues. Like many of the mothers, she was searching. She had taught the boys to watch carefully, to quickly examine the faces of all teenage girls. It was possible that Angelina was in the camp and they might find her. Beatrice saw an aid worker, a white woman, in a smart shirt with the words “Doctors Without Borders” monogrammed over the pocket. She was talking on a mobile phone and standing outside a large military tent being used as a hospital. She lowered her phone, took a deep breath, and noticed Beatrice staring at her from five feet away. Beatrice assumed she spoke English and said, “May I ask you a question?” “Of course,” the lady replied with a warm smile. “Is there any way to use a phone around here?” “There is some cellular service but not much. Here at the hospital we have our own antenna and generator. There are a few others in the settlement.” She had one of those European accents. “I’m looking for my children. My son went to America this summer to play basketball. I don’t know where he is and he doesn’t know where we are.” “Does he have a mobile phone?” “No. All I have is the name of his coach.” “Where does the coach live?” “Somewhere in America, but he’s South Sudanese.” “Somewhere in America,” the lady repeated, amused. “Okay, give me his name and tell me what he does and I’ll try.” “His name is Ecko Lam and he coaches the basketball teams from South Sudan. All the paperwork was in my house.” “I see. Okay, here’s what I suggest. Meet me back here around noon the day after tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” “Thank you so much.” · · · The first football game was at Bethune-Cookman in Daytona Beach. For budgetary reasons, only half the team and four of the managers made the flight. To which Murray observed, “Surely they can play the game with fifty players.” Samuel had a free weekend, his first since arriving. Late Saturday morning, after he had managed to get Murray out of bed, they walked to the gym, flipped on some light switches, and loosened up. It was an unwritten policy that any player on the team could shoot baskets during the off-hours, as long as no coaches were present. Every player was handed a key to the outside door, shown the light switches, and given the code to the locker room. After four practices, it was obvious to the rest of the team that Sooley was blessed with lightning speed and quickness. He had easily won the suicide sprints. His running vertical leap was measured at 45 inches, higher than any of the coaches had ever seen. He weighed in at 190 pounds and measured six feet four and a half and was still growing. He loved the game, loved being on the floor, and regardless of how grueling the conditioning, he kept a smile on his face. But he couldn’t shoot and he couldn’t dribble, a couple of the basics for a point guard. On defense, he could spring like a gazelle and slap away shots, but his quickness was often a liability. A simple pump fake would send him soaring. After shooting for half an hour, Murray walked him through some ball handling drills and showed him the secrets of protecting the ball while watching everything on the floor. On the depth chart he was the number three point guard, behind Murray and Mitch Rocker, a senior and three-year starter. Another inch of growth, and another bad scrimmage kicking the ball out of bounds, and Sooley would become a small forward. Clearly, he was about to be redshirted. He had just turned eighteen and had little to add to a team with plenty of experience. Coach Britt was expecting to start three seniors and two juniors. · · · The Walker family lived in Durham’s Trinity Park neighborhood, ten minutes from Central’s campus. Their house was on a shaded street of two-story homes built before the war. Murray’s mother, Ida, was born and raised in Durham and had never ventured far from home. Her father had been an executive with one of the largest black-owned life insurance companies in the country and her family had enjoyed a comfortable upbringing. Her husband, Ernie, was raised dirt poor in the tobacco fields north of Raleigh and had vowed to never forget the pain of hunger. He was the executive director of the Durham County Food Bank and took great pride in feeding 11,000 people a day. Ernie had certainly not missed many meals recently. He was grilling chicken breasts on the back patio when Murray and Samuel arrived late Saturday afternoon. The heat index was close to a hundred and Ernie was soaked with sweat as he labored over dinner with a set of steel tongs and listened to the Central football game on the radio. He welcomed Murray’s new roommate, said he’d heard nice things about him and so on, and talked football. After a few minutes in the heat, the boys went inside to the kitchen where Mrs. Walker was grating cabbage for slaw and boiling ears of corn. Miss Ida, as she would be called from then on, was the executive director of Durham Legal Aid, where she oversaw a staff of twenty attorneys serving an endless supply of poor clients. She hugged Samuel as though she had known him forever and told him to sit at the table while she sliced him a wedge of banana nut bread. Murray fancied himself a chef and commenced poking through her slaw and this drew a rebuke. Samuel was instantly enthralled by Miss Ida. He had never been in the presence of a woman who was the unquestioned boss of everything around her. She quizzed Samuel about his classes and his adjustment to life in America, and she was careful not to mention his family. Murray had briefed them on the tragedies and the ongoing uncertainties, and they were already prepared to support Samuel in every way possible. As she buzzed around the kitchen, she asked Murray about his professors and which ones he preferred. After only two weeks there was little to report. They talked about Jordan, Murray’s older sister. She was in law school at Vanderbilt and Samuel was in love with her, though they had yet to meet. He was following her on social media. They talked about Brady, an older brother who had dropped out of Yale and was disrupting the family. But that conversation was cut short. Ernie entered the much cooler kitchen with a platter of barbecued chicken and Miss Ida told him exactly where to put it. As he listened to the family chatter on, Samuel could not help but think of his own poor mother. He had no idea where she was, or even if she was alive. Where was she living? Who was she with? Please, God, let her have Angelina, James, and Chol with her. Let them be safe. Beatrice was as warm and personable and intelligent as Ida Walker, but she had never been given the chance to enter a school. In Lotta, as in much of his country, the luckiest young girls were given only a few years of basic instruction before being sent home to wash and cook. Most received no education. Beatrice could read and write, nothing more. Samuel longed for his mother and said a quick prayer for her well-being. Even as Ida cooked and talked and bossed around her husband and youngest son, she kept one eye on Samuel. He was a deeply wounded boy who needed all the love and support they could give. CHAPTER 24 Near the end of practice, as the players were winding down and finishing the obligatory 50 free throws in a row, Samuel heard Coach Britt say the magical name, “Ecko.” Samuel turned and saw his old coach stride onto the court, and he ran over for a hug. Ecko said he was passing through and wanted to say hello. Samuel thought it was odd that he had not bothered to call. Coach Britt blew his whistle and told the team to go shower. Later, in Coach Britt’s office, Samuel sat and they talked about the team from South Sudan and caught up with all the gossip. Murray joined them, and when Lonnie closed his door, Ecko stopped smiling. He said, “Look, Samuel, I have good news and bad.” Samuel closed his eyes as his shoulders slumped. Ecko said, “Two days ago, I received a call from a French lady, a nurse working for a nonprofit called Doctors Without Borders. She’s in Uganda at the Rhino Camp Refugee Settlement.” “I know where it is, Coach. I have it on a map. There are over one hundred thousand of my people living there.” “Including your mother. Yesterday I spoke to Beatrice. She is safe and doing okay.” Samuel placed his palms over his eyes and fought back tears. “Thank God, thank God,” he whispered. They watched him for a moment, then Ecko said, “I told her where you are, what you’re doing, and so on. She was excited to know that you’re here, in college.” “You spoke to my mother?” “I did, and she’ll call back in the morning, around seven. She’s using a nurse’s phone. They will call your cell.” Samuel breathed deeply and wiped his cheeks. A long minute passed before he said, “Okay, and the bad news.” “Your brothers are with her and everyone appears to be healthy. However, Angelina didn’t make it.” “Didn’t make it? What happened to her?” “She was taken away by rebel soldiers when they burned the village.” “No!” Samuel bent over, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face again. The emotions came in waves as his body shook and he kept whispering, “No, no, no.” Murray, Ecko, and Lonnie glanced at each other then studied the floor as the long minutes passed. There was nothing to say, nothing to do but sit and be there for support. They could not begin to imagine the horror of what Samuel and his family were going through. In a file, Ecko had some paperwork for each of his players and he knew that Angelina’s sixteenth birthday had been September 2. Whether she lived to see it could not be known. Ecko had doubts, as did Samuel. The killing was so casual, the atrocities so unspeakable, it was difficult to believe that the enemy would have much use for the girl after a while. “I should’ve been there,” he finally whispered. Coach Britt stepped out of his office to make sure the locker room was empty. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go to my house. Agnes is cooking dinner and my kids would like to see you, Samuel.” · · · His phone rang with an international call at 7:04 the following morning. Samuel was staring at it, waiting. He’d been awake for an hour, though he had slept little. Murray was dressed and sitting on his bed, waiting too. A pleasant lady with a slight accent identified herself as Christine, and when Samuel said hello she handed the phone to Beatrice Sooleymon. When Samuel said, “Mother, is it really you?” Murray eased by him, patted his shoulder, and left their dorm room. They talked for twenty minutes. As difficult as it was, Samuel wanted to know what happened that night in Lotta, and Beatrice, through many tears, told the whole story. She wasn’t sure what had happened to Ayak but she feared the worst. Samuel confirmed that his body had been identified by government troops. Beatrice took it as well as could have been expected. She’d been almost certain of it anyway. She described how they took Angelina, then their flight away from the village, the days and days of travel with no food and water. But they were in a better place now, safe and surrounded by good people who wanted to help each other. She wanted to know all about his new college and life in America, and, well, everything he was doing. They cried a lot but also managed a laugh or two. Samuel wanted to go home, to reunite with his family, to somehow rescue them, but it was not possible. He asked what he could send them, but Beatrice said she wasn’t sure. Maybe later. Maybe if and when they were given a more permanent residence he could send packages. From his research, Samuel knew there were people who had fled his country with nothing and had been living in the settlements for many years. Most lived in harsh, unsanitary conditions with barely enough food to survive. Violence was rare, but disease was common and spread by raw sewage, dirty water, and contaminated food. Efforts to provide education were hamstrung by a lack of facilities and teachers. Dozens of aid groups from around the world labored heroically in the camps and settlements. The more Samuel had read, the more discouraged he became. They had lost their home, many of their friends and family, and their way of life. As he talked to his mother, he could almost feel the strain of hopelessness in her voice. In two months her world had been rocked and violated, and there was no going back. He realized that he was her bright spot, and it would be his challenge to lift her spirits. When it was time to go, he chatted with the French woman, Christine, and was told he could call her number once a week. They agreed that every Wednesday at 7 a.m. eastern time would be the chosen hour. Beatrice and her boys would appear outside the tent hospital and Samuel would call from America. Christine warned that the cellular service was not always reliable. · · · He stuck his phone in his pocket and left the dorm. He had no desire to talk to Murray or anyone else. He needed time alone to think about Angelina and grieve. He took a long walk around the campus and sat for an hour on a park bench as the university came to life. Classes were not important. Basketball could wait. He would call T. Ray and get excused from work. His day would belong to Angelina. He thanked God for the safety of his mother and brothers, and vowed to one day extricate them from the camp and bring them to America. For the moment, though, he just wanted to be alone. He tried not to think about her final hours, but chose instead to dwell on childhood memories of his little sister picking fruit in their rear yard, eating too many berries and getting sick, and tagging along behind her big brother to the basketball courts. He should have been there for her. · · · Ecko and Lonnie Britt were shown to a corner table in an elegant downtown restaurant. Once seated, Ecko picked up his sparkling white and perfectly ironed cloth napkin and said, “Wow. You did say you’re treating, right?” “I got it. No problem. They’re afraid I might leave so they jacked up my expense account.” “And salary?” “They want to talk but I’m not so sure.” “Is that why we’re having lunch in a swanky place? The privacy?” “Yes. We probably won’t see anyone from Central in here for lunch.” A hostess handed them menus and asked about drinks. They were fine with water. “All right, let’s hear it,” Ecko said. “You know it, Ecko. I’m forty-one and I’ve been here for four years. Won almost seventy percent of my games and I don’t want to get stuck here. I want to move up. The question is: Who’ll be in the market come next April?” “Who’s on the hot seat?” “Yep. Who’s on the hot seat? I figure Dulaney at Iowa is toast. Lost twenty games the last two years.” “I can’t believe they kept him.” Ecko was scanning the menu and shaking his head. “Thirty bucks for smoked salmon?” “It’s worth it. I’m buying, okay?” “Forgive me, Lonnie. I’ll always be an immigrant.” “Yes, and you instinctively order the cheapest thing on the menu. Relax. This is on Central.” “Dulaney’s buy-out was too big so they kept him for one more year. Should be a disaster. They’ll fire the AD too. Talbott at Miami is retiring.” Lonnie smiled at the news and asked, “Has he announced it?” “Not yet.” “Where do you get your gossip?” A waiter approached and described the specials. Both ordered tomato salads and grilled trout. As soon as he left, they jumped back into the gossip mill that all coaches found irresistible. Lonnie was ready for a move up and Ecko believed his friend could handle a bigger program, though perhaps not in a Power Five conference. The guy at Richmond was on the ropes, but Lonnie had something bigger in mind. Ecko knew the AD at Creighton and knew he wasn’t happy with their program. The coach at Texas wanted a new contract but the school was balking. And so it went, around the country in half an hour as they ate their salads and schemed of ways to find bigger jobs. When their entrees arrived, Ecko changed the subject with “What are you going to do with Samuel?” “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly want the kid, as you might remember.” “Thank you, again, Coach. Together we probably saved his life.” “How’s that?” “Well, if I had not chosen the kid back in April, he would have been at home with his family when their village was raided. Knowing him the way we do, he would have tried to save everyone. He’d probably be dead now.” Lonnie shook his head and mumbled, “What is wrong with those people?” “We, those people, are cursed, and we’re not happy unless there are at least two civil wars raging. You gave the kid a scholarship, a dorm room, a team, an education, a chance to play here, his dream. If he had gone home with the team, who knows what would have happened. His village was burned to the ground.” “What a nightmare. I can’t imagine.” “I’ll hang around and see him tonight. Why don’t you give him a week off, let him mourn in private.” “Sure. Whatever. I’ll probably redshirt him anyway, though that’s the last thing I need.” “So, he’s not lighting it up in practice?” “Let’s just say his game has not changed in the past two months. He’s a great kid. He fits in. Always a big smile. Plays hard and all that. Can jump out of the gym. There’s just no place to put him right now.” “Be patient with him. He might surprise you.” “That’s what you keep saying. And I admit there are moments when he springs up, lifts the ball high, lets it go when he’s forty-five inches off the court, all smooth and fluid and he just sort of hangs there like Michael Jordan, but the damned ball never goes in.” “That could be a problem.” “His ball handling has improved a little but he’ll never play at guard.” “Give him some time. He’s just a kid.” “They’re all kids, Ecko.” “They are indeed, but this one is special.” CHAPTER 25 Murray and Samuel finished unloading a truckload of canned vegetables at a pantry and stopped by the offices of the International Rescue Committee in central Durham. Miss Ida was familiar with its work and mentioned it to Sooley, who researched it online. A Ms. Keyser was expecting the two basketball players from Central. She gave a quick overview of the IRC’s history and work: It was founded by Albert Einstein in 1933 to help European Jews resettle in the U.S., and had grown into one of the world’s largest humanitarian organizations. It worked in the regions hit hardest by war, persecution, genocide, and natural disasters, and provided shelter, food, and health care for the most vulnerable. In many instances it relocated them in Western countries. In the past forty years, the IRC office in Durham County had helped over eight hundred refugees from twenty-five countries resettle in the area, including eighteen from South Sudan. “Do you know anyone here from your country?” she asked. “No.” “No relatives here in the States?” “No.” “The relocation process can be long and difficult. Demand is great, supply is not. U.S. Immigration is currently allowing only five thousand a year into the country from South Sudan. The need is much greater. Not surprisingly, many of the world’s refugees would like to come here. I believe Ida Walker said that you plan to seek citizenship.” “Yes I do.” “That’s good. The fact that you’re already here is crucial. Please, don’t even think about going back.” “He’s not,” Murray said and got a laugh. She continued, “There is no easy way to get your family here, but your best chance is after you have become a U.S. citizen and can sponsor them. Without a sponsor, it’s almost hopeless.” “How long will it take?” She smiled and glanced at her notes. “A long time, Samuel, a very long time. First, you need to finish college. That’s four years.” Murray interrupted with “Probably five, the way he’s playing.” “I’m sorry.” “He’ll probably redshirt this season, so he might get another year of college.” “Right. Okay, whatever, but staying in school and graduating are important. Then get a job and start a career. The more success you have here the better your chances of sponsoring your family.” “That’s not really what I wanted to hear,” Samuel said. “I know. It’s a long process, even when it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.” “But they’re in a camp, barely getting enough food and water.” “Along with many others. Look, I’m happy to open a file and you can call me anytime. You can stop by. You can even volunteer if you’d like. We have a college internship program and we love our students. Ida said you’ve made contact through Doctors Without Borders.” “I spoke to my mother two days ago through them. Is it possible to send her money?” “I don’t know but I’ll find out. We have an office in Uganda, in Kampala I believe. Rhino is an established camp and I’m sure we have someone there.” “I’ve read everything about the camp that’s online. There’s a small market where you can buy food and basics. They have nothing, only one change of clothes from a distribution center in the camp. They sleep on the ground, no blankets. I’d really like to get some money to them.” She smiled warmly and said, “I’ll figure it out. Call me tomorrow.” · · · The food trucks were delayed and delayed again, and then they stopped coming. But the lines held firm and continued to grow as desperate people waited in the sun. Beatrice and the boys left one line and went to another, then another. Rumors were flying that there was food on the west side of the settlement and when they arrived there was a swarm around a United Nations truck. Workers frantically dipped small portions of rice into whatever bowls the people brought. Those with none were simply given two handfuls. The hunger terrified the refugees because it brought back painful memories from the recent past. They had all been hungry and their primary prayer each day was for enough food to sustain life. Ninety-seven percent of the water in Rhino Camp was trucked in, and when those trucks too failed to show there was an uneasiness in the streets. Hungry children bawled as their mothers went door-to-door and begged for food. The tent hospitals, all run by foreign NGOs, were inundated with thousands of desperate people pleading for something to eat. It rained for a week, nonstop, and the gravel highways used by the trucks flooded and washed out, cutting off food, water, and supplies. The dirt streets turned to mud and the rainwater pooled in puddles and began running down the hills. The narrow creeks rose with raw sewage and spilled out of their banks. The tents leaked around the windows and tore along the roofs and before long the deluge sent filthy water running under the floors of tents. The boreholes used for pumping water collapsed under the weight of the softening soil. The outhouses and crude privies filled and flooded and human waste ran free. It rained until everything—every person, every tent, every shanty, every jeep and truck, every field hospital—was soaked and caked with mud. When the rain stopped and the skies cleared, the sun bore down on Rhino Camp and before long the mud returned to dirt. The doctors and aid workers braced for another wave of malaria. · · · Bright and early on Wednesday morning, September 30, Samuel eased quietly out of his dorm room, leaving Murray dead to the world, and went outside where he found a park bench. He punched in the number for Christine, the French nurse. He could almost see her and wondered what kind of person leaves behind safety, security, a much easier life, to volunteer in one of the worst humanitarian crises in the world? Samuel considered himself to be a compassionate soul, but his sympathy had its limits. He was awed by aid workers willing to risk their health, even their lives. Perhaps it was because he had just escaped the harshness of the developing world that he had such a dim view of going back. Perhaps some privileged people carried a bit of guilt and wanted to get their hands dirty. Or, perhaps they did indeed value every life. He had a list of things to discuss with his mother, the most important of which was how to send her money. With Murray’s help, he had opened a checking account and applied for a credit card. He was saving his money and proud of the fact that he could handle it himself, just like every other student. Ms. Keyser at the IRC had come through and referred him to yet another NGO, one that specialized in routing money back to Africa. Each year immigrants scattered around the world remitted home over $2 billion, money desperately needed by their families. Though South Sudan was a small, poor country with a limited number of expats abroad, its immigrants were sending back $300 million a year. Coordinating these payments and making certain the money arrived at its intended destination was a challenge, but Samuel had found a way and couldn’t wait to explain it to his mother. There was no answer on Christine’s end. CHAPTER 26 He went to the gym, turned on only one row of lights so he would attract no attention, stretched for all of five minutes, and began shooting. When he thought about his family, he missed. When he concentrated on his form, he hit. An hour passed and he realized how much he enjoyed the solitude of a deserted, semidark gym, with 3,000 empty seats, and not another person around. At 8:30, when the count was at 420 shots, a janitor walked under the backboard and said good morning. Samuel said good morning, said he was on the basketball team and had a key. The janitor didn’t care and disappeared. Samuel stopped for water at ten o’clock and realized he would miss his first class. He decided he was taking a break from classes, if only for a day, and would do nothing but shoot. He skipped them all and stayed in the gym until noon when a group of alumni appeared for a meeting. He hustled back to his dorm and took a shower. Coach Britt was old-school and believed that basketball players should be lean, limber, flexible, and quick. He preferred finesse over bulk and muscle. Therefore, he did not stress weight training. As an assistant at DePaul, he’d witnessed an entire team decimated with torn muscles and spasms a year after the program hired a drill sergeant who loved barbells and bench presses. Coach wanted speed over strength. But Samuel had been mightily impressed with the play, not to mention the physique, of Abol Pach, the U.K. shooting forward who had almost single-handedly sent South Sudan packing in their last game in Orlando. Pach was one of them, a Dinka from Juba, lean and fluid but thicker in the arms and chest than most young African players. The program listed him at 6'7" and 220 pounds. Though Samuel had watched the final game from the bench and in a dizzying fog of uncertainty over events back home, he vividly recalled Pach’s strength and intimidation around the rim. There was a rumor that he spent an hour a day pumping iron. Samuel also had an indelible memory of the vast and modern weight room where the Magic players lifted when off the court. If the game’s best players wanted strength, then that was good enough for him. An assistant football coach named Willis, one of two white guys on the staff, was in charge of bulking up the team. At first he told Sooley that the weight room was a waste of time for basketball players, but Sooley persisted. By then the African kid with the big smile was one of the more popular fixtures in the locker room. Willis found a workout plan for basketball players, one designed to strengthen the core and add a few inches to the chest and biceps without restricting flexibility. He showed Samuel the proper and safe way to use the weight machines, weighted bars, bands, and dumbbells. He measured him at 6'5" and weighed him at 195. And he gave him a key to the weight room. After six weeks on campus, Samuel had fallen into the rather enjoyable routine of beginning each day with an hour or so alone shooting baskets, then an hour or so working as an equipment manager, then at least two hard hours on the court in practice, and a final hour in the weight room. His studies were not motivating and he was cutting more classes than permitted. He had trouble concentrating and was bored with the notion of homework. Besides, he was on the slow track to diddle for a year as a redshirt. That meant five years of college. Surely that was enough. He could always catch up later. · · · Ernie Walker put the finishing touches on a pork shoulder that would be roasted for two hours in the same deep dish with potatoes, beets, and carrots. He admired his work, checked the oven, and slid in the pan. He and Ida both enjoyed cooking, and they had decided that Wednesday nights would be the family dinner with Murray and Samuel. Though the Central campus was only ten minutes away, they had seen little of their youngest son during his first semester. He wanted to cut the cord and they did not resist. But during the spring of freshman year, word spread among his teammates that his family had a nice house in town and there was always something good to eat. Ida and Ernie had found themselves cooking more and more. Now that they had quietly decided to unofficially adopt Samuel, they were enticing the boys with Wednesday dinners, Saturday cookouts, and Sunday brunches after church. Ida called and said she was running late. Ernie assured her that their dinner was in good hands. She called him at least four times a day with updates on her hectic schedule, and around five every afternoon she called to inform him she was running late again. He always listened patiently and reminded her to slow down. She was the boss and could come and go as she pleased, but with a staff of younger attorneys she believed in setting the right example. She worked harder than any of them and often needed the calm, steady voice of her husband to settle her nerves. Ernie checked the oven, set the table, poured himself a glass of ice tea, no sugar, and went to the den to read for a few minutes. He had a stack of newspaper and magazine articles he’d found on the internet at his office and began reading a long piece from The Guardian. The journalist had visited four of the refugee settlements in Uganda and described the daily lives of the people, almost all of whom were from South Sudan. The disconnect seemed too far-fetched. It was difficult to believe that the nice young man rooming with their son had a mother and two brothers living in a dismal place known as the Rhino Camp Refugee Settlement. Ernie and Ida were talking to Ms. Keyser at the IRC and brainstorming ways to extract Beatrice and the boys, to get them into the immigration pipeline to America. But the sad truth was that there were at least half a million South Sudanese ahead of them, most with sponsors and paperwork properly on file. Ms. Keyser was too professional to use the word “hopeless,” but after several conversations it was apparent that the chances of a family reunion were slim. Ida arrived after six and immediately went to the oven for a quick inspection. “Who’s coming? Do we know?” she asked Ernie. “Of course not. That would require some forethought.” The table was set for five but the number was always a moving target. Murray was often not bothered with notions of planning and was known to invite anyone he passed in the dormitory hallway. He might call home with the number of guests, or he might not. His invitations were usually limited, though, by the number of friends he could stuff into the cab of his Toyota pickup. Four long-legged basketball players seemed to be the max. When he walked in with just Samuel, his parents were relieved. Murray immediately went to the oven and as his mother said, “Don’t open that!” he yanked it open and took a whiff. “Smells delicious.” “I’m glad you approve,” Ernie said. “Close the oven!” Ida growled as she stepped toward him. He grabbed her and lifted her and spun her around as she tried to free herself. Ernie laughed as Ida squealed, and once again Samuel was astonished at the horseplay. The men sat around the table as Ida sliced tomatoes for the salad. “Any luck this morning?” Ernie asked. It was Wednesday, and all of them knew the importance of the phone call. Samuel smiled and said, “Yes, I spoke to my mother this morning.” “Hallelujah,” Ernie said, rubbing his hands together. “How is she?” Ida asked. “She is safe, as are James and Chol.” He said the rains had stopped and the food trucks were running on time. The U.N. had completed a water pumping station and each person was getting almost twelve kilos of water a day, but the lines were long. The money Samuel had wired the week before had arrived and Beatrice said she almost felt wealthy. She was very careful with it because the neighbors watched each other closely and money could cause trouble. She had been able to buy some canned foods and personal items, and she had shared these with her two friends from Lotta. They were still living in the tents and had no idea how long they would be there, or where they would move to next. They had been told, though, that the tents were only temporary. When dinner was served, the conversation shifted from Africa to the basketball team. They were practicing two hours a day and Coach Britt was trying to kill them. As a sophomore, Murray was worried about playing time and moving up the bench. As a redshirt, Sooley was just happy to be on the court. His four-year career was well ahead of him. As always, he quietly enjoyed the meal. The meat and vegetables were delicious, the sauce rich and tasty. But he had seen too many photographs and videos of the long lines of hungry refugees waiting for a bowl of gruel. The internet brought life in the camps to his laptop in living color, and he could never again savor a fine meal without thinking of his family. CHAPTER 27 Lonnie Britt was not an early riser and for about half the year he managed to sleep at least until seven. But from late September when the real practices began until March when the season was over, he was usually awake before six and worrying about something. The day’s practice plan; the first game only five weeks away; a recruit who had committed then changed his mind; the starting five; and the next five; who wasn’t going to class; should he cut a walk-on who could add nothing but locker room humor; and recruiting. Always recruiting. And if he didn’t have enough on his mind, add the drama of a kid whose father and sister had been murdered and the rest of the family was living in a refugee camp in Uganda. Plus, two former players had lawyers who were haggling with a prosecutor over the terms of a plea agreement. He was wide awake at five and at 5:30 his wife kicked him out of bed so she could sleep another hour. He showered quietly, checked on the kids, and left in the dark for his favorite coffee shop near the campus. There, as he ate scrambled eggs and sipped black coffee, he scanned the Raleigh newspaper and noticed that the preseason collegiate rankings had been announced. Not surprisingly, Duke was the consensus number one pick, primarily because it was likely to start four eighteen-year-old freshmen who would be gone by next June. Like all coaches, Lonnie loathed the idea of freshmen entering the NBA draft, the infamous one-and-done game, but it was not something he worried about. It was rare that a player in the Mid-Eastern Athletic Conference was drafted after only one year. It had never happened at Central. Lonnie knew his freshmen were safe. And, like all coaches, he was openly envious of the remarkable talent that the one-and-done programs attracted. Not surprisingly, Central was not in the top 25. It had never made the list—pre, during, or post season. According to the online buzz, the Eagles were expected to finish fourth in the MEAC, behind Delaware State, Florida AandM, and Norfolk State, but those predictions were proven wrong every season. Two years earlier, they had won 23 games, took the conference tournament, and made it to March Madness before getting bounced in the first round. A year ago, they had won 20 games but didn’t qualify. Another 20-win season and Lonnie would be in a position to move to a bigger school. He drove to The Nest and parked in his reserved space. The small lot was empty. It was 7:30. He unlocked the door that led to the locker room, flipped on some lights, and was headed to his office when he heard a bouncing ball. He made his way to the bleachers and peeked around a corner. Sooley was all alone at the far end, in the dim light, launching bombs from deep, and rarely hitting. His shirt was off and his dark skin was glistening with sweat. After each shot, he ran for the rebound, dribbled this way and that way, took it behind the back, between the legs, then squared up and shot again. The leap was always extraordinary, even if the ball kept bouncing off the rim. The most impressive image at the moment was the kid in the gym at 7:30, and he had been there for a while. One of the problems with his game, and perhaps his biggest one, was where to play? He was not going to be a guard and not ready to play forward. Lonnie had already decided to delay those worries and watch the kid develop. He would sit the upcoming season as a redshirt. He watched him for a long time and tried to imagine the fear and confusion in his world. On the court, he was all smiles and energy, even when he was screwing up. Off the court, though, he often gazed away, his smile gone, his thoughts drifting to another continent. Lonnie had coached plenty of players from broken homes and rough neighborhoods, but none with problems as complicated as Samuel Sooleymon’s. He eased onto the court and said, “Good morning, Sooley.” The nickname had become permanent. Samuel resisted at first, at least with his team, but he soon realized that nicknames were common in the U.S., and usually endearing. He was surprised and dribbled over to mid-court. “Hey Coach.” “Getting an early start.” “I’m here every morning, Coach.” “How many shots so far?” “One forty-two. Just got started.” “How many have you made?” “Forty-nine.” Lonnie rattled the numbers for a second and said, “That’s about thirty-five percent. And there’s no one guarding you. Not too impressive.” Samuel shrugged and said, “Well, that’s why I’m here, Coach.” Lonnie smiled at the perfect answer. “I guess so. Look, Coach Grinnell got a call yesterday from an assistant dean who said you’re missing classes. What’s going on?” His shoulders sagged as he glanced around and looked thoroughly guilty. “I don’t know, Coach. No excuses.” “I know you have a lot on your mind. I can’t imagine, and you know we’re concerned about you and your family.” “Yes sir. Thank you.” “But, you’re here on a full scholarship, Sooley. Do you know what this means?” “I think so.” “It means that someone else is paying for your college education. It means that the taxpayers of North Carolina are on the hook. The janitors who work here. The bus drivers. Your professors. Murray’s parents. Me. The other coaches. All of us are paying taxes, and some of that money trickles down to Central. It allows you to study here for free and to earn a degree. The least you can do is go to class and make the grades.” “Yes sir. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.” “From now on, Coach Grinnell will check every day. When you miss, I’ll know it.” “I won’t miss anymore, Coach.” Lonnie clapped his hands and Samuel bounced the ball to him. “Top of the key.” Lonnie got in the lane and began rebounding as Sooley shot from 20 feet. After a few misses, Lonnie said, “Slow it down. You’re working too fast. Concentrate on making each shot perfect.” A moment later, “Square up, shoulders at the basket.” A moment later, “Keep the elbow in. Visualize each shot. Watch the ball go in before you shoot.” After 50 shots, 18 of which went in, Lonnie kept the ball and walked to the top of the key. “You need some water?” “No thanks.” The managers had noticed that Sooley consumed far less water than the other players. Lonnie said, “Murray is passing the hat around the locker room to raise some money for your family. I’m sure you know this.” Samuel looked surprised and said, “No sir. He hasn’t told me.” “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Point is, the coaches can’t help out. If we donated we would violate NCAA rules against financial assistance to a player, or some such nonsense.” “Thanks, Coach, but I would never ask for that kind of help.” “I know. I’m sure you’ve met his mother, Miss Ida.” “Several times, yes.” “Ida Walker is a force and she wants to organize an effort to help your family. She called last night to check on NCAA rules and regs. I have to talk to the school’s lawyer today.” “But she’s a lawyer.” “Different kind. Not many lawyers understand the NCAA. Coaches either.” “She didn’t tell me about this.” “Sounds like she’s just getting started. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but I want you to know that your coaches and the school are behind you a hundred percent.” “Thanks, Coach. But I don’t want the other players donating money. I would never expect that.” “Sooley, they don’t have any money, okay? They’re a bunch of broke college kids, same as anywhere else, but they want to help. They know what you’ve been through and they know about your family. They care, and we care.” Samuel bit his lip and nodded. Lonnie said, “I’m keeping the ball. You get to class.” · · · In response to the ongoing and worsening crisis in South Sudan, the United Nations, in 2015, budgeted $800 million in aid to the region, with the money to be divided primarily among the neighboring countries. Aid aimed directly for Juba had become suspect. Reports from the field repeatedly said that the desperately needed cash was bottled up and diverted by the government. Uganda was to get half of the money. Over 700,000 South Sudanese were living in twenty refugee camps and settlements, and by midsummer around a thousand were arriving each day. The situation was dire. The demand for food, water, medicine, and shelter became overwhelming. For several reasons—lack of funds, bureaucracy, regional feuds, corruption—less than one third of the U.N. commitment arrived. Uganda did its best with the money as NGOs scrambled to plug the gaps. Camps hurriedly designed for 5,000 refugees were overrun with five times that. Children died of starvation, malnutrition, malaria, and other diseases. The current crisis attracted the world’s attention again and was well covered by the Western press. Late each night, Sooley read the stories and reports online. After lights were out and the dorm was quiet, he sat on his bed and scrolled through the internet. Occasionally he found photos of the Rhino camp—Beatrice had said they were in Rhino South—and he studied the faces of hundreds of his people, hoping desperately for a glimpse of his mother, or James or Chol. He still clung to the prayer that Angelina was there, somewhere, searching for her family. When he was certain Murray was sound asleep, he turned off his laptop, pulled the sheets over his head and said his prayers. Often, he allowed himself a good cry.