These kids are incredible and I am absolutely blessed for this opportunity.

Pp31-33…

02.03.09

These kids are incredible and I am absolutely blessed for this opportunity.

It’s Monday again, and I am sitting at my computer again, searching for the quote that I want to summate today’s practice. As a student in the Service Learning and Community Development course I am enrolled in here at Stellenbosch University, it is my job to compliment classroom learning (social theory pertaining specifically to community development) with an on-site experience. Blessed being the key word of my life right now, of all the opportunities available I was chosen to work with the Kayamandi Basketball Team.

Kayamandi is a community resting just outside of Stellenbosch, across a bridge that connects quite literally a world of change. Forget your wineries, forget beautiful Afrikaans women, forget decadence and materialism, forget plumbing and definitely forget infrastructure. Forget your preconceptions about native Africans, forget your notions of what a ghetto really is, forget everything you know and look at this community exactly as you see it. In desperation, in need of serious help, its people seemingly shattered, beat down, losing the good fight, the bad fight. Yet embrace that fear of doing without, embrace the idea that you can forget all those things and still be happy. Embrace the people of Kayamandi, that is where its heart lies. In the eyes of the youth, the future rests; in their hands, a basketball.

As head coach for the Kayamandi Basketball Team (simple, but they all like the name) it is my job to be a leader of the team, to encourage each and every one of the players to give it their best everyday at practice. Today I roll up to practice as always, in a pure white vehicle from the university, emerging with five other white people. They are all volunteers, part of the International Student Organization of Stellenbosch, who have expressed a distinct interest in the youth of basketball.

Mylene, from France, is the veteran of the coaches, as she worked with the players last semester as well. She has this way of handling issues with vigor and tenacity, very knowledgeable about the game, and surprisingly tough. Raissa, from the Netherlands, is about 5’11” and has broader shoulders than I do. She plays basketball for the Maties team at Stellenbosch, so her skill is real and tangible as a coach. Siobhan, is American, but her family has very thick Irish roots, and her boisterousness is evident at practice. She has less obvious talent and knowledge as a player, but her enthusiasm and rapport with the players is awesome. Dave, also from America, came to Stellenbosch as a junior in college, and is now back for his Master’s degree. Aggressive in a fun but forceful way with the players, he is a laidback guy off the court. He is married, 22, that still freaks me out for some reason. And finally Nik, Russian-born, German-bred, a definite personality on and off the court, an amiable and carefree guy (perhaps because he is a huge pothead).

As per usual, we are immediately attacked by the trail of tiny black children who followed our car up the alleyway. I still remember the first time I saw them. Hair frazzled in variations of afros and braids, cute pastel shorts that complement their Miley Cyrus and WWF shirts so well. Yeah, it shocked me too. They smile with the brilliance of 17 suns (one for each child), and laughter rings out, the only universal language spoken. Many of the children are without education yet, and all they speak is their native tongue, isiXhosa. It is a tribal language, one of 11 in South Africa, featuring clicks and guttural speech.

Yet you really don’t need to understand what they are saying at all, because it is all in their eyes. Deeper no abyss goes as you look into their dark, dark, dark brown eyes. You see where innocence remains and you want it for yourself, but can’t take it away. “Come play with me”, “Walk with me” “Laugh with me” “Throw me through the air and catch me” “Pass the ball to me” “Share your life with me”. Each set of eyes says the same thing, but something completely different. Moments like these is why we live to see.

One of the newer players, I am still having trouble with his name, came into practice today with 4 young girls and three young boys, all around 12-15 years of age, a big difference from the 16-20 year olds on the team. “Hey man. Are these friends, family, players?” I ask him as hopeful as possible. “Yeah coach, they are kids that I work with and I told them about the practices we are having. I thought it would be a great idea to bring them along to see if they enjoyed playing. I think it would be great for them and for the team.” He had brought them there because he felt the need to begin establishing a foundation for a younger Kayamandi basketball team. My job as a coach was brimming with optimism already.

This young man did not even realize it is my duty, and a goal of the team’s, to recruit young players in hopes of establishing a future for the Kayamandi Basketball Team. Many of the players have graduated high school and their schedules are becoming too crowded to make a long-term commitment to the team, thus it is critical for the continuity of the program to develop skills and dedication in younger players. The fact that this young man, whom I had once perceived as having a bad attitude, took this initiative upon himself really gave me hope for the future of this team and this organization. I knew at that moment that the task of recruiting a new generation of basketball-ers was underway. I embraced this new opportunity, doing my best to make the new players feel comfortable and at home.

As soon as practice began, the guys on the team helped the younger guys lead the stretches, cheering them on all the way. It was an awesome feeling to see the present and the future of the organization working together in a cohesive group. Next, the volunteer coaches really stepped up and worked with the younger kids on one side of the court while I worked with the older guys. At the end of the practice we ended with a head-to-head competition, a shooting competition. As soon as the competition began, the older guys began missing very simple shots. At first I was disappointed and got on their case, until I realized that they were doing it on purpose. Every time they missed a shot, the guys would clap, and every time they made it they would “Boo”. They were allowing the younger players to win the competition, and absolutely loving it all the way. I had never seen them come together so well, and enjoy themselves to such a genuine extent since the beginning of my coaching.

I was so happy that I just sat back and observed, taking in the moment, appreciating the natural way in which the guys actions symbolized an acceptance and welcoming of the new kids into our group.

I thought to myself, life is beautiful, and your job as coach is what you are doing right now. I cannot express how that pride has filled in me, and how hopeful I am for the future of this team. I am so anxious to see what they will accomplish, how far I can watch them succeed. Blessed.

Pp 93-97…

The funny thing about alarms is that on the days most important to set them, the days that it is oh-so-critical to be on time, are the days that you accidentally “no honestly, it was a human mistake” set the clock to 8:08 PM instead of 8:08 AM. The day of the Kayamandi Klassic Basketball Tournament. It is my one tangible measure of success as a coach of the Kayamandi High School Basketball Team. Surely there will be other ways to understand the impact I had on these boys, and the consequent impact they had on me, but this is the first chance I will have to really coach them in a live situation, to understand how Team Africa (baby blue) plays against Team Africa (navy blue), not how they play against Team World.

As my alarm won’t go off until 8:08 PM, I am conveniently awakened by the pounding of the rain outside my window. Great, the one day we want to play basketball on the outside court, nevermind it being the biggest day of the basketball year in Kayamandi, the rainy season has decided to shed its overcast light on the streets of Stellenbosch, and surely the nearby streets of Kayamandi as well.

I text Mike about how sorry I was for being late. Texting can either be super convenient, super romantic, or super cowardly, not really anywhere in between. This time its super cowardly. He says to swing by anyways, and by this point I already have my high tops laced up and I am running out the South African door.

We are in Kayamandi now, Mike told us we had to do something with the fresh fruit that we bought for the tournament today. The rain will not cease and desist, only comes harder. It really is a shame too, the guys were pumped about today. I could see it on their faces when we watched Space Jam just the other day. I had spent all day calling throughout Stellenbosch, all the movie rental places in town, asking them what basketball movies they had. “Basketball movies? We have Remember the Titans.” “No no, that’s football, I need basketball movies”. “Oh, of course. We have Like Mike”. Rinse, lather, repeat.

I ended up going onto DC, the underground system at Metanoia, and by the grace of God, someone had downloaded Space Jam. I secured it, as well as Rocky, unsure if they would be up for Space Jam. But surely enough, amidst the 10 large pizzas from Roman’s (for less than R500, a steal), and after witnessing highlights of ESPN’s “Top 50 Dunks of 2008”, they welcome Space Jam with arms wide open. There is no possible way these boys from an African township have the sentimental or pop-culture understanding to appreciate the movie the way I do, but they appreciate it in another way. Lesotho, (he is one of the more soft-spoken characters, everyone laughs when I say his name. Not really sure why) started cracking up at some comment Larry Johnson made about someone’s momma. It is the most animated I have ever seen him, and it caused the whole room to erupt. The energy in the room was overwhelming, and I had no idea they were ready for today. I burned them all copies of Space Jam, the soundtrack, just to make sure they were extra psyched for the big day.

Sox faces up against one of the stronger looking Africans I have yet to see in person, and the game begins. Only an hour ago, we were about to leave Kayamandi, having dropped off the fruit with Mafa, Prince’s younger brother, he has a great amount of talent for fourteen, I am excited to see where it takes him. A van, filled with about ten Africans in sweatshirts and rain-jackets, pulls up behind our car, and that strong looking African emerges.

These are the boys from the township of Mbqweni (Buh-kway-knee), otherwise known to the boys of Kayamandi as the fearless men of Desmond Tutu High. Their leader approaches me and tells me that they never got the message about the tournament being cancelled. Seeing the disappointment growing in his eyes, I realize that these guys have driven quite a ways to play basketball, and to turn them away now would be to go against the spirit of not only Africa, trudging through rain or shine, but the spirit of competition. “Rally the men! We are playing ball!” Nik flanked to the left with Siobhan to go back to Stellenbosch and get the jerseys, Raissa staged right to keep the young African children busy, Mylene and Dave tag team the phones in hopes of contacting Wilson to find the key to open the gate to get inside, and I charge down the middle sending the rest of my men to grab the other players from around Kayamandi. The battle has begun.

So this African man. Number 10. He is a menace and a threat to my ego as a coach, and to any chance of my boys coming out on top. Therefore he must be eliminated. The battle plan is to prevent him from ever getting the ball and if he does, to not let him do anything with it, and if he does just makes sure it doesn’t go towards the basket, and if it does…well damn.

This guy is good, I’m talking single handedly operating the game as he wishes. Strength, agility, form, he embodies them all in respects to a true specimen of a basketball player. His passers are crisper, shots smoother, movement grander, than the rest of the team combined. There is no way to stop his greatness, just inhibit it as much as possible. We are playing a four man zone defense, with one man guarding number 10 at all times. Sox was not up for the job, so the far shorter Lesotho has been given the task, and he is doing wonderfully.

Halftime. I get to do my coach thing. “Alright fellas…” “Coach! What we tell you about that?” Prince speaks up, the most dynamic personality on the team. I look baffled, and he responds accordingly. “You can’t call us ‘fellas’. Its not a good word to use to us”. Thinking I understand I continue. “Alright fella… excuse me, men, first of all I am so proud of you guys. I know this isn’t what we expected for today, but you are doing great out there. Lesotho (giggles scatter) awesome job guarding number 10. I know he is still scoring a lot, but you are stopping him from taking over the game, so well done. Sox, slow down, relax and take your time with the ball. Let’s really try and run the offense we have been working on. Siya, great hustle off the bench, we need that energy the rest of the way. Again, take your time, all of you, relax, enjoy yourselves out there. You all are facing a tough opponent and you are sticking with them. Whatever happens, it makes me so excited to see you guys play. I really feel like your coach now. Thank you for being my players…Alright enough emotion, let’s kick some Tutu butt! Victory on three.” 1,2,3…Victory!

My warriors trudge off the field, haggard, worn. “We were so close guys, and for that I am so proud of you guys. You faced a stronger and more mentally prepared team, and you fought with them tooth and nail. I know its tough to lose after being so close, but now you can at least smell victory, so you can put that forward to the real tournament. The one that truly counts.” It came down to the buzzer too, we had a chance, and they couldn’t execute the inbounds play, number 10’s press was too hard. I was frustrated but hold it back to be strong for my men, my pride for them is far greater than that for myself. I see appreciation for these words resting underneath their defeated faces, and so I take their disappointment and throw it to the wolves. “You know what guys, who ever made the rule that only the winning team gets to celebrate? You guys are the only winners I see out here today. Let’s head to Roman’s! Pizza on the coaches!”

Fifteen African boys and several white people, all here to celebrate their loss in statistics, victory in spirit, fill all of the seating at Roman’s Pizza. African boys around pizza is similar to watching a magic trick. Now you see it, now you don’t. The pizza was gone in minutes. I set aside my hunger, realizing how much more they need it, how much more they deserve it. I just stood there in my Banana Republic tie, khaki cords and high tops, as they ran across all points of the court in their baby blue, head bands, and high tops.

Prince is doing his thing, which involves a lot of talking and nonsense. The guys love it though. “Speech, speech, speech!” they all chant directed at the MC himself. Not normally the bashful one, Prince refuses, pointing the speech chant in my direction, and at the behest of the group, I emerge from my chair, empty orange soda bottle in hand, my mic for the moment. “Wow guys. I’m not really used to talking for long periods of time, I get kind of nervous…” Laughter at my obvious self-deprecation follows, I am rather known for my diatribes that come as often as I have inspiration. This moment is certainly one of those moments. “You know watching you guys out there made me proud, but I feel like my warriors need battle names, for your personalities are different on the court. First off, Prince, since you so kindly handed the mic, I will provide your nickname. You have this way of prancing across the court, always making sure you aren’t sweating too much, just glistening, tucking in your shirt just oh-so-right. You aren’t a Prince, you’re a princess!” Prince says “Aah, Coach” only in the way he can, and the boys laugh, primary amongst those Sox. “Sox, you have no reason to be laughing. At least Prince knows how to dribble the ball. I thought you were dating the basketball as much as you were carrying it. For that reason I deem you Travels”. A roar emits from the room, and Sox is smiling bigger than ever. “But seriously guys, I was so proud of you out there. Watching you from that sideline, I swelled with excitement, and the reward of seeing my boys turning into men on the court. I am so blessed to be a part of your team, and I thank you all for having me as your coach.” Applause and a chant “Coach. Coach. Coach.” fills the room as I take my seat. The strength I felt in that moment, not only as a coach, but as a person, is indescribable. We took a picture shortly after, I hope it comes through in my smile.

Pp121-131

11.05.09

Some things in life are beautiful. Some things in life are too good to be true. Some things in life are beyond explanation. Some things in life are all of those things combined. I say it in this way for I do not know the word to describe the actual feeling. I'm not sure how many feelings of this combination are available to one in a lifetime, but I hope I have more to come, because the feeling I had this weekend was most certainly that indescribable something feeling.

Let's call it, this feeling "Kayamandi". It is isiXhosa, the language of the Xhosa people, the native Africans of the Western Cape. Let it not be confused with the place, Kayamandi, of which it gains inspiration. Rather it is a completely independent term, used to describe the feeling while in that place, for there is no other word.

…

Since my journey across the South African coast occurred during the week, I feel confident in saying that the weekend of the Kayamandi Klassic Basketball Tournament may be the most memorable of my life, to this point, almost a year later, and spanning over 21 and a half years of weekends before that. I entered the picture we took together in several contests, I don’t know how it didn’t win. If only they could know the story behind it. I like to think it speaks for itself.

I wrote the players on the team about four months ago, letters, personalized to their addresses in Kayamandi. The only response I have gotten has come from Mana, Siya’s cousin, one of the younger players on the team. On my birthday I received a Facebook message that said, verbatim “Happy birthday coach hope you will enjoy your day and thanks for the letter prince gave them to us we realy mic you and good luck on your work our memories with you will always be in our minds and hearts we mis you coach and dave is doing good work we realy calling him coach like we did and still to you best wishes on your birthday”. I cried when I got that message. I few days later he talked to me in real time on Facebook chat, (the only thing I like about Facebook is people from South Africa), and told me that it meant so much to him, to all the players that each letter was so personal, they could see how much I cared about them. He said I mean so much to the players and they learned so much from me and that I am remembered in all that they do. I cried again. He told me that all the players were going to write a letter back and then they were going to send it in one big package. Then he told me how Siya was doing. He said he was feeling better since the accident (he got stabbed, Jesus my heart hurt for days when I found that out) and is back on his feet with the team. I told him to tell Siya to reach out to me in some way, so I can just feel his voice again.

Maybe he forgot to tell Siya, maybe Siya forgot to reach out, maybe they forgot to send the package, I doubt they would just not do it. But it makes me wonder, almost a year has passed and I have not heard from Siya. The package thing doesn’t bother me as much. What bothers me is that I loved that guy like a brother and have never heard a word. The words I shared with him in Africa, the passion that was a part of our relationship, the way he said to Esté, “We will create a club, an ‘I miss Adam’ club, you can be in it,” I remember that as clear as day. It is hard, wondering if I meant as much to him as he meant to me, if I possibly could when new Americans come in all the time to try and share in his life, but its not everyday that warm-hearted, wonderfully witty and full of wisdom Africans enter your life and want to be a part of your family. Wherever he is now, I just hope that he is happy, that he remembers me fondly. Mostly I just pray that he is happy, its all I can do now. God I do miss him.

…

The funny thing about alarms is that on the days most important to set them, the days that it is oh-so-critical to be on time, are the days that you accidentally “no honestly, it was a human mistake” set the clock to 8:08 PM instead of 8:08 AM. Thunder never strikes the same place twice, and today is not such a day. Mind you, the importance is ever-so-great, as great as the previous Kayamandi Klassic Tournament, for today is the same day, just two weeks postponed. Except it is not the same day at all. I wake up at 8:08 AM for my alarm is set at that time. I need not concern myself with raincoats (I don’t have one anyways) or rolling up my khakis to avoid the splashing of water on the cuffs (found out that’s why the kids in high school said my pants were flooding, because you roll them up when its flooding. I always thought it was contradictory, because if my pants were flooding they would be too long, right?). No, I lace up my Nikes and tighten up my tie, smiling as the South African sun pours through my South African window. Today is the day for South African basketball.

Yesterday I spent in bouts of sadness, happiness, without Esté, with Esté. The sadness occurred when I found out I couldn’t go to the ballet that Esté had asked me to on that shining Sunday afternoon, with two bikes. “A-dihm, I am soooo sorry,” and she was. Her friend didn’t reserve enough tickets and there wasn’t enough room at her friend’s mothers place, for the Afrikaans girls were staying the night in Cape Town. Key word being Afrikaans girls, I had a sneaking suspicion it would just have been taboo to bring along an American boy, have him spend the night with Afrikaans girls in any capacity. Of course I don’t say this to Esté, but I am not afraid to express slight disappointment. “I was so excited too, I would love to be on the town with you,” and I would. “I know, Cape Town is so lovely, it is one of my favorite places to be and I would certainly love to be there with you too. I really am very upset, but there is nothing I can do at this point.” After vain suggestions of buying my own ticket, sleeping on the floor, or outside in a tent, anything just to be with her, I realize it would be so difficult to be back in time for this day, this big big day.

I walk onto the court, looking around at the God-given beauty of a background for today’s action. The grandiosity of the majesty cannot be accurately described, for the jagged peaks that thrust forth from the depths of the wine lands defies definition. The definition that it defies provides the same in the contrast of natural beauty to rugged reality. As African children scatter themselves across the court, you see others in the unkempt grass next to the court, littered with brokenness and more. Still others peer in through the chain link fence that separates the wanted spectators from those unwelcomed. Others still wander on the rolling Kayamandi streets, into their homes hidden in shame behind wooden fences. Homes that are composed, on a good day, of cardboard roofing, corrugated and corroded tin in once cohesive sheets, all packed tightly together in sad solidarity.

More are removed as they walk the bridge that connects Stellenbosch to Kayamandi, a moving representation of the bridge that when you cross it you become somebody, and on the other one of the others. You move, in a matter of moments from stark starvation to superficial satiety, from winding winelands to wandering wastelands. But with every loss is a gain and with every gain a loss. If coming into Kayamandi across that bridge means losing wealth, your shoes, your opportunity, let it be so. Because when you lose all these things, you gain the spirit of the people of Kayamandi, a fascinating strong and incredibly well-preserved sense of unity, family and love that is found where you are afraid to look.

The foreground is simpler, but just as meaningful. It is a testament of the hard work and persistent effort of the players, the coaches and myself just a sunset ago. Brooms swept hard across the blacktop on both sides of the court. Only one side has basketball goals, still not sure what the other side is for. Nevertheless, we went to work. Siyabonga, Monde, Prince and a few of the younger guys were the only players who showed up, but their work ethic made up for the other absences. To watch these African boy-men at work, MP3’s clipped to their pants pocket, earphones resting gently underneath their baby blue headbands, is to witness a microcosm of the subtle differences, in my opinion, of the American vs. African culture. The way they push a broom and carry their posture so proud is natural to them, but to me it is a sign of their upbringing, the lives they have led and will continue to lead. The court is left shining in a matter of an hour and a half (the shine is a matter of perception, but I can see the reflection of champions in it) and it remains so today.

Back when the team was down and out, frustrated and discouraged, I sent them a text message that said “Hey guys. Missed seeing you on the court this week. Know that I will be at practice today ready to play. But also know that this is your team and it is what you make it. If you want to succeed, I expect to see you at practice today as well, ready to play.” That day the entirety of the team showed up and we had an incredible conversation about the future of the team, what they wanted (out of themselves and me) and set the tone for the rest of the season. I sent out a similar text this morning.

“Where the hell are Ayanda,Prince and Sox?” Apparently no one heard me so I repeated it with greater tenacity and force. You have to turn the volume up for a moment at times just to make sure you can hear as clearly as everyone else the words in the air. “I don’t know coach, I saw Sox this morning with Prince, but Ayanda lives near the High School, I don’t know about him.” I receive variations of this answer and look at the sun in the sky. “It is 11 o’clock, time to begin and all the teams are here except for ours,” brief moments of disappointment and frustration relieve themselves now instead of later, “and we even have the home court!” I send Mbuphulele, Siya’s younger brother, to go find the other players and in the meantime attend to my other coach-ly duties.

I don’t really need a megaphone. “Hello everyone, and thank you for coming out on this beautiful day to be a part of this beautiful gathering of basketball players from around the Western Cape. In other words, I am happy to see you all and have your colors and teams represented in the Kayamandi Klassic Basketball Tournament.” The kids on the unkempt grass cheer the loudest. “Each team will play every other team once, guaranteeing three games for each team. After all the teams have played one another, the two teams with the best record will face off against one another in the championship, and the winner crowned champions.” I imagine the teams licking their dark brown lips, tasting the victory that is imminent, but they all tease themselves except for one. “Thank you all again for being a part of this day, play hard and play strong, but most importantly have an incredible time and cheer your teammates on!”

I give a quick sideways look to Ayanda, Prince and Sox, but Prince’s charisma turns it into a smile. “Ay, coach, you look shaahhp today,” says Prince as he tugs on my tie. I swallow a little bit of my pride. “It’s 11:15. I’m glad you are here, you look pretty good yourself.” And he does. They all do. I stand back for just a moment and soak in the glory that will surely reveal itself when I least expect it. I admire the simple regality of the Kayamandi Outdoor Stadium (or so I have deemed it called. In the email to the teams I just said “the basketball court underneath the bridge”. This sounds a bit more proud).

The Kayamandi Outdoor Stadium is the battleground of four teams from around the greater Stellenbosch area. The beauty, the weathered look of Xhosa boy-men as they handle this round ball, passing it back from one to another, exchanging smiles, withholding pride, is a look that I have never seen from someone with a basketball. The nets hang from the baskets with masking tape, the tables and chairs sit between concrete and unkempt African grass. The white board used for a scoreboard seems so strange sitting there, the Xhosa children gathered round it, fighting over the marker to keep the score of their elder athletes. Teams wear their colors proudly, rest against their dark skin the boldness was more pronounced, the strength apparent in their bodies. My team wears baby-blue, and they wear it with the ferocity and pride that the Tarheels did those years ago when a young Michael Jordan crossed the court. Prince looks the closest thing to MJ, the rest too dark, too native, too unique to be compared to a basketball player from America. No, they look stronger, more ready in their relaxed intensity. Their shorts hang loosely just at their waists, sagging is a misconceived trait of the street. These guys are tougher.

Prince is bald-headed, Wonga undulating waves of Afro close to his head, Siya with baby-blue headband to match, Mana with tightly woven dreads that fall inches to the foot around his head, Lesotho the same dreads but they stick straight up, shorter more firm. The diversity of their personalities is held on their heads, but their solidarity on their feet. They all have their Nikes laced up tight, their prized pair they got on a grand donation last season. Their eyes hold a fierceness, yet a relaxed and friendly quality all at the same time. They are all here to compete, but most of all to enjoy their brotherhood, their bond. The competition begins.

My clipboard in hand, more a symbol of status and decoration than anything, I approach my guys with the first words of the day. “You guys look great, you look proud. And I am proud of you. I am just so excited to see you all play, to put into play what we have worked so hard on this year at practice. Siya, you and Prince, Sox, Wonga, and Ayanda start it out for us strong.” “Nah coach, I don’t want to start,” Siya says. “Let me come off the bench”. When someone is amazing they continue to amaze you. “Alright then, Lesotho, we need your ball-handling out there, can you handle the offense?” Light laughter crosses the huddle, “Yeah sure coach, no problem.” “Alright then, Team on 3. 1…2…3… “Team!” It resounds through the air like the pulse of sound created from a waterfall. I watch patiently as my men walk onto the court against their toughest opponents of the day, Mbqweni, the team of the Goliath number 10.

We lost. A poor basketball performance overall, but we are just getting warmed up. Earlier that week we had secured a ghetto-certified, 1980s boom-box, which of course provided the oh-so-needed adrenaline once the teams oranges, bananas and Gatorade ran out in a matter of minutes. Electricity hard to come by in Kayamandi, we got lucky with our 50 feet extension cord, which we plugged in through a neighboring house (with the help of some Xhosa brothers using their language to work magic) and stretched it as far as we could onto the non-used court and plugged the bad boy in. Conveniently a tire rested nearby, and one of the many African children grabbed it and brought it to me. I put two and two together, placed the boom-box on the tire, popped the CD in and let the good times roll.

Now the experience would not have been complete without the proper music, but lucky for me I happened to bring along the Space Jam soundtrack-it was legendary. "Everybody get up, it's time to jam now..." It's unbelievable what will happen next "...welcome to the Space Jam". I attempt awkward solo dances and the players turn the crowd into a perfect circle in a matter of seconds, and it was lights out after that. Player after player hit the middle of the circle, to a chorus of "whoomps" and "ohs" and "aaaaah snaps". Break dances, pimp dances, Kayamandi dances, American dances, the whole circle is filled with an energy that is hard to describe. Monde, bless his soul gets the MVB (Most Valuable Booty) for his gyrating rendition during the chorus. He let his shorts down just a little bit in order to give the innocent bystanders their moneys worth. I rolled up my chords and realized that I would never look at Monde the same again.

Now R.Kelly has made one legitimately class-act song, and it is on this soundtrack. “I Believe I Can Fly”, comes on and again, so naturally, I embrace my brothers, and in a matter of moments the entire team has their arms around one another and are swaying back and forth in the spirit of a gospel choir. Prince is the director, waving his arms back and forth in time to Kelly’s soul, singing the loudest. Siya is next to me, he belts it quite strongly as well. I follow the words of the song with my body, doing the running man when he says “see me running through that open door”, fist clenched tightly as I give thanks to the Lord up above. Then the guys yell “Coach coach coach,” and push me into the center, for my solo. Without hesitation I give them everything I got, the years I have waited for a moment like this shows in my passion as I act as their coach, their leader, their friend. The energy that was indescribable before is overflowing now, gushing from the hearts, the voices of the boys in baby blue around. Little African eyes watch their older brothers, the boys they want to become in the future. I pinch myself to understand that I am breathing. This is not something out of a dream.

It was like something out of a dream. I have been listening to this soundtrack since I was eleven years old. I have danced to “Space Jam” thousands of times in my backyard as a boy mowing yards, in my car driving across San Antonio, TX. I have rehearsed the dance moves so many times in the mirror it truly is not even funny. And now here I am, surrounded by African boys and African men and African girls and African women, breaking it down to my favorite pump up jam of all time. Only in Kayamandi.

The next two games are critical, as they determined if we reach the championship game. So, essentially, to become champions we have to win the next three games. Of course we just take it one game at a time. Game one, won, but barely. Game two, won, healthily. It was that time. Game three.

In between preparing my boys for the championship and preparing myself for this moment, I make the time to call back Esté, she must have just returned from the ballet. “Hey there, it is such an amazing day, you are still coming, yes?” “Of course, but how do I get there?” In the next few minutes I get a hold of Bradley, who said he was coming out to support me, ask him if he can go get Esté and be here in time for the championship. Bradley hasn’t failed me yet and he will not do so today.

This is no average Kayamandi Klassic, no we are coming full with not only oranges, bananas, Gatorade and an awesome atmosphere provided by the boom-box, no we are going to have a 3-point competition. “Alright, each team please select their two best three point shooters and send them to half court. Each player will have one minute to make as many three pointers as possible. Whoever makes the most, wins their team a new basketball.” The boys select Sox and Prince to represent them from behind the arc, but as soon as number 10 steps up, the game is over. He of course wins, my boys put on a sad performance, they are just getting their anxious nerves out before the big game. I take the opportunity to act all diplomatic and important, posing in a picture with the winner.

…

Emotion is scattered across the court like the pieces of a puzzle; separate they mean nothing, but together they form the picture perfect. This 8 piece jigsaw comes together now in the emotion of Kayamandi. They come together in the spirit of Kayamandi. They come together with a mission-not to win, not to lose, but to play the game of basketball the way it is meant to be played. There is a moment in the midst of human interaction when nothing can be said with words. It is the eyes. Each of the players pupils, dark abysses of vigor, strength held in their irises, brows furrowed as if "champion" is something not to attain, just to wait for with arms wide open. My job as their coach was done.

The halftime buzzer (Mylene’s whistle) is called with the waving of Mafa, Prince’s brother, who is in charge of keeping time. Now as I mentioned this is no ordinary Kayamandi Klassic. Not more than an hour ago Rebecca arrived with her dance squad in order to perform for the halftime show. Absolutely, a half time show is very important to making any tournament a success. See, Rebecca, several months ago was blessed with the opportunity of teaching a group of 12-14 year old girls in Kayamandi how to dance. Who would’ve thunk it that a white girl from Washington D.C. would be teaching native African girls to dance? Well its true, and I could think of nothing better to provide the entertainment. The boom-box doesn’t allow you to skip songs, no you have to listen through until that song. Well we don’t have time to listen until track 11, so Mike Leslie, the supervisor of the ISOS-Kayamandi Project, comes through big and decides to drive the Stellenbosch University vehicle behind the court as close to the goal as possible and blast track number 11 as loudly as possible.

Fifteen Kayamandi girls in three rows of 5 each dance proudly confidently and with as much soul as possible, to Jesse McCartney’s “Beautiful Soul”. If this is what he was talking about, I need to reevaluate my opinion of the song, for this is truly a moment that combines beauty and soul in such a cohesive way. This wonderfully pudgy girl in the front row has the most precious energy. She shakes it back and forth and back again, not thinking about what happens next, only that she is at all times a foot in front of the rest of the dancers, that way she stands out in all her glory. I call for an encore and they find the beat, and do it all over again. I am thoroughly impressed and the entire crowd gives it up for the Kayamandi girls. I turn around and smile at Rebecca, give her a big hug and say thank you so much for doing this, they were wonderful.

Then I turn to the other side, the side I wanted to be on and smile at Esté so carefully so gently. She smiles back as she stands strangely unfamiliar next to Lisa and McKenzie, who stand next to Bradley. Bradley wears this wonderful little cap on his head and is smiling just as big, quite taken with the whole scene. If Bradley wasn’t taken with something I feel I wouldn’t be able to tell, for he always is cheerful and just as jovial as the moment before. I know that Esté is quite out of her element, this is a big step, coming out with American girls on your own to watch this new American boy as he shows you all about himself, what helps him to breathe. All I want is to hold her in my arms for more than a moment. But here is not the place, now is not the time, I have a championship to win.

I have played basketball my entire life. But this day was perhaps the first day I truly watched basketball. The Kayamandi players have participated in tossing a ball through a hoop for several months now, but never have they played basketball. Nor had they on this day until now. No scattered interaction, no flailing of bodies back and forth across the court, no lacking of experience was evidenced by the players on the court. The harmony of hands, the strength of the arms that passed this ball, were one. The communication was silent but so loud between the individuals, now one.

One minute. So much can happen in sixty seconds. I call a timeout. “Look at you all. I am proud to look at you and call you my team. Rather to say that I am a part of your team. It has been a blessing to be your coach, and all of the hard work is paying off right now. You guys look beautiful out there. You are playing basketball. You are working together. Most importantly you are having fun. Go out there, give it all you got, and smile, because today, win or lose, you are champions in my eyes. Champions on 3, 1…2…3 ‘Champions’!”

The emotions again scatter for all those playing, all those watching. Yet for those waiting, knowing the moment is but seconds away, the picture remains clear. I am one of the scattered, running up and down the sideline as if I were a reserve, waiting for my chance to fight alongside my men. The air brims with excitement. The game is all tied up. Basket good, Kayamandi is up by two with thirty seconds to go. Rarely do my feet touch the earth as I bounce like a rabbit for the last half minute.

Mbqweni marched down, and it appears to be the march of a champion. They get a chance for a three. I close my eyes and hear the clanking of rim. Number 10 gets another chance from behind the arc, I close my eyes again. Oh God, they still have the ball. The last 10 seconds is lasting a lifetime, as the final battle takes place around the rim for the ball. All I can do is watch. Each man leaps with all the energy left in his body for that rebound, as if the ball contained an elusive remedy. The ball, gravity appearing to have chosen a side, would not go in the hoop, and the baby blue jersey comes down with the ball. 3...2...1...

The ball rises into the air as the whistle blew and a sea of Kayamandians charged the court fists pumped in the air, I number amongst them. One would have thought we were world champions by the looks on their faces. I certainly feel like one. The emotion that followed is no longer scattered, but focused in grand shouts of euphoria and arms waiving in invincibility, high fives are thrown in such intensity they become high tens.

He barely has room to move. “I would like to award the championship trophy of the 2009 Kayamandi Klassic to the Kayamandi High School basketball team. Congratulations to all the players for their hard work and congratulations to Kayamandi for their victory!” A trophy (one that I had engraved for the tournament that was supposed to be two weeks ago, so the date says April 22, 2009) is held in Mike’s hands. It is less of a handoff than a returning of what was seemingly rightfully theirs to begin with and the meager 12 inch trophy is held so high as if to say "this is bigger than anything than you have earned".

And in a way it is. This is a moment that truly had been earned, with all the energies and emotions fit for only a champion to have. The boys of Mbqweni had the skill, the talent, the know-how to be champions and they probably should have been. But the men of Kayamandi had the heart, the perseverance, the wherewithal and they did win, and in such poignant fashion I embrace as many as I can and we smile for the camera. Kayamandi children of all shapes and sizes are present for the photo, and it takes some effort to have a frame filled with only baby blue jerseys and a white face with a whiter smile, bigger than I have felt in a long time.

Remember that indescribable energy I mentioned earlier, the one that was overflowing? Well it doesn’t take much more now than a quick glance to my immediate left and right (African smiles are bigger than yours, more heartfelt than yours just by their nature) and right behind me (Afrikaans smiles, nestled between sinuous strands of brown hair and just below discovering eyes, are bigger to me than yours, more heartfelt to me than yours just by her nature) to realize that energy is about to flood over me in a newer and more profound way than even now, the celebration has only just begun.

…

I reach for the wine, taking a deep breath, slowly and in appreciation of the moments like these, and pour her another glass. “Oh, this is my favorite, Beyerskloof, yes I drink it all the time,” she speaks purposefully but energetically yet beautifully all at the same time. I watch her drink the wine and become inspired. “A toast! To you, Esté, to the boys of Kayamandi, to this gorgeous and never-ending day!” A quick sip and then I put my glass down, the sudden urge to hold her hand, to kiss her. We inch closer, sitting at a four person table at 5 Ryneveldt outside along the cobblestone street with the same name. We are sitting next to each other now at my request, instead of across from one another, it feels too far away. I hold her hand tighter, look into her eyes once more and kiss her. She kisses me back, but not too much, we are in public and she is a still very freshly in this relationship. This relationship, oh goodness what is it called. I dare not breach the subject just yet.

“Esté, it meant so much to me that you came out today, I loved seeing you there with my friends, Bradley is a sweet man, isn’t he?” “Yes, he was quite charming. I can see why you like him so.” Dammit. I hate it when I make a statement and then get carried away with another question so the person only answers the last question in the full expression. Patience. “I did love watching you out there, you looked very strong and handsome in your coach’s outfit. You must be very proud of those boys.” Oh, I was. It gave me the greatest joy in the whole wide world to introduce Siyabonga and Esté, my two favorite South African people. What a sensation it is to see lives collide, to see the Afrikaans girl embrace the African boy, and share nothing but love for one another because they both have something in common-a love for this American boy. “I am so blessed, I just cannot get over how incredible all of this is. Esté, I have never seen my boys play like that before, it made me so proud.” She gets this cute grin on her face, where you can tell that something beautiful will emerge from her lips in a matter of moments, she doesn’t think just reacts.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04