My Sandlot

Growing up, I always envied the boys from The Sandlot. I always knew I would love the kind of simple lifestyle that revolves around a community of friends and passion for a sport. Of course, I played a lot of sports growing up, but it was always in the convoluted environment of leagues, teams, organizations, rivalries, playoffs bureaucracy and multiple ranks of coaches. It was rarely in that carefree arena where the only things that matter are that your friends showed up and the ball lasted until the end of the day.

After living in Rwanda for about nine months, I realized my life was starting to parallel that of Smalls, from the Sandlot. I was the new kid in town. I was shy and didn’t really have many friends. I eventually found some people to play ball with. After a while, I learned all their nicknames, was welcomed into their community, and played with them almost every single day. Eventually they invited me to their tree house for a sleep over, and I learned about the scary dog that lived next door. The scary dog would later steal my step dad’s basketball, which was autographed by Wilt Chamberlain. Manasse, the best player, jumped over the fence and got my ball back. The owner of the dog turned out to be James Earl Jones, and Manasse went on to be a professional basketball player.

Well, some of that really happened.

Regardless, the most important part of my day was lacing up my decaying sneakers and heading to the court where I could count on a group of guys ready to play ball.

***

Manasse really was the Benny of our basketball community. He was the most gifted athlete, had the strongest passion for basketball and was just a really nice guy. Everybody liked him. Sometimes he coached a group of girls, which I really respected. The girls in the community rarely got to play. I would try to get the boys, especially students from my school to share the ball with them. Manasse, however, was the only one I ever saw put any effort in supporting girls basketball.

Manasse is an unstoppable force.

He can't be stopped.

***

It took a while to learn everyone’s nicknames, and I wasn’t even sure where most of them came from. There was Pastor (Pasteri), who I assumed had earned the moniker for his staunch protestant beliefs…until I bought him a beer while watching the world cup. Fizzo might have gotten his name from his slight stature, since sometimes it was spelled or pronounced “fils”, the French word for son. Sometimes Epa tried to give himself the nickname “Reblon”, a mispronunciation of Lebron. Luckily for him it didn’t stick. I was never sure if the lanky kid referred to as Hamza was Muslim, or somehow he had just acquired the Arabic word for 5 as a nickname. My snaggle-toothed friend who wore a jersey that had somehow made its way from Coeur d’Alene’s alternative high school introduced himself as Gavin. Everyone called him something that sounded like “Jivva”.

At some point, Moise started going by Moses, the English version of the French name. And my nickname? Well, it might as well have been Joel, since most people couldn’t comprehend the name “Joey.” A few people caught on, but in general, I was Joel. 

Epa has a sick jump shot.

Pastor takes his signature jump shot from the free throw line.

***

The basketballs we played with were perpetually over-inflated. I always lectured the guys not to over-inflate the balls, but they never listened. The lifespan of the balls was short. Sometimes they would develop a bubble. One time, I threw the ball from under the hoop and it caught the bottom corner of the backboard and exploded. It was the end of our game for the day.

***

Basketball with these guys was rough. I regularly walked home limping, bleeding or smarting from a fresh lump on my head. I sprained my ankle once, took a few game-ending nut shots and once went flying head first into a pole at full speed after getting tripped on a fast break. That last one terrified me as it was the kind of injury that could have easily been life changing. Usually when I went down from slamming into poles or twisting an ankle, my teammates would find the damaged area and start massaging it intensely. I usually had to yell through clenched teeth to get the hell away from me. They didn’t understand why I didn’t want their help. But maybe there was something to their methods. I can’t remember a single time when someone seemed even remotely in pain from the constant jostling and violent fouling that went on under the hoop. The day after I sprained my ankle, Baya visited me with some imitation tiger balm and leaves from a citrus tree. He said he would help my swollen ankle. I was more curious than optimistic. He rubbed the balm over my ankle while boiled the leaves. Then he took the leaves packed them in a hot wad and started pressing them into my ankle with his palms. I winced and squealed as he kneaded the leaves into my ankle. It was incredibly painful, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness. I have no idea if this helped, but within a few days I was playing again.

Taking it inside is a dangerous activity in Rwanda.

***

While I loved the fact that everyone was friends and played together peacefully, sometimes I felt like there wasn’t enough trash-talking, showboating or overall competitiveness for street ball. I, on the other hand, got out of control on a regular basis. I am a pretty good sport with a mild temperament. I don’t even think I have felt a competitive emotion well up in me since I was in high school. But getting back on the basketball court brought out a side in me I forgot existed. I lashed out at people for calling fouls, I cursed and smacked the court when I missed easy shots and I threw the occasional cheap shot at people who had recently committed flagrant fouls. What made my lack of control worse was that Rwandan culture dictates strict management of emotions. Losing your cool is, well, not cool. It makes everyone uncomfortable, and people generally respond by laughing awkwardly. When things got intense on the court, I turned into Charles Barkley with a twist of Dennis Rodman. My most shameful moment came when I was blatantly pushed out of bounds on a fast break. Our acting referee didn’t blow his whistle. The aggressor, who is really one of the nicest, most genuine guys in town, denied blatantly pushing me out of bounds when I protested. My emotions got away from me, and I shoved him in the chest. He looked as surprised as I felt as he stepped to me. All eyes were on us now, and I suddenly came to my senses. I smiled, tried to act like it had been a joke, and went back on the court. I apologized after the game for taking it too far.

The positive energy was also a bit lacking. Whenever a game came down to the wire and I was at the free-throw line, I would insist that my teammates and the kids watching cheer for me. Sometimes I felt like I was channeling Kenny Powers and his quest for baseball stardom in Mexico.

My biggest fan.

Manasse shoots a free throw.

***

The only player who ever showboated was a young up and comer named Mucoma. At first he would only get a spot when we were short on players. He was fundamentally weak and clumsy. He was rough, out of control and missed too many easy shots. He didn’t know how to pass. However, he played harder and with more heart than almost anyone else on the court. Suddenly, he became a player, slowly scoring more baskets. It took a while for him to be seen as a real threat and was generally left unguarded. The more he scored, the more confident he became. He started celebrating after nailing 8-footers, running around with his arms extended, pumping up the imaginary crowd and yelling, “THE CHAMPION!” I found it obnoxious, and eventually made it my duty to knock this guy back on his place. I would cover him tightly and make sure he would go scoreless. This frustrated him to no end, and he would actually get mad at me for not guarding him. I enjoyed matching up with him because no matter how physically I played against him, he would always be rougher than me. He was one of those guys that didn’t know his own strength and couldn’t control his body. The blows he delivered when contesting a drive to the basket were lethal. I was often on the ground when matched up with him. My dislike for Mucoma grew, over a long time, into a reserved respect. I appreciated that after a few games, he was the only one still playing at 100%. I rarely let my admiration show, though.  I just continued to battle him for every rebound and contest every one of his drives to the hoop with the well-intentioned maliciousness of an older brother. As he got better, I think I was the only person who noticed that Mucoma was often the highest scorer on his team (when I wasn’t guarding him) and was the deciding factor in a lot of games.

Mucoma takes it to the hole.

Not in Mucoma's house.

***

The hoops were a little under 10-feet tall, so it wasn’t surprising that I saw a couple of guys learn to dunk while I was there. Pastor and Moise were the first to dunk during games. When we were shooting around, Mucoma always tried to dunk. For a while he would either get rejected by the rim, or would turn his attempt into an awkward finger roll at the last second. Little by little, however, he got better. Eventually he could get the ball over the rim, but it would either slam off the backboard or the back of the rim. Then, I remember when it happened. He told everyone to clear the lane. He ran with in a slight arc toward the hoop, the ball clasped between his hands. He leapt up, put the ball over the edge and grabbed the rim. The ball clanged and he released the rim. The rim snapped up and shot the ball soaring fifteen feet in the air. It came straight down and went right through the center of the naked hoop. Mucoma accepted this as a successful dunk and ran around court with his arms extended, and cheering for himself. I reluctantly applauded.

Mucoma knows how to dunk.

Moise also knows how to dunk.

***

Most villages in Rwanda don’t have a functional basketball court. We were lucky, however, that the cement factory in the community not only owned one, but maintained it and kept it, somewhat, open to the public. I was excited when I returned from Christmas break to find the court re-painted, the fallen rim replaced and both backboard refurbished. We could finally resume our full-court games.

Manasse with a reverse layup.

The most exciting moment, however, was the night they turned the lights on. Sure, I had always noticed that the court had four stadium lights, but never even considered that they might work. Then, one night, they just came on. It was like 4^th of July in The Sandlot. We played an hour past sunset that night. After that we often got extra time on the court after dark and even got to play an organized game at night.

***

That game, between the secondary students in the community and the adults was a highlight of my Rwandan basketball career. I didn’t play well, and the game wasn’t close, but the atmosphere of playing under the lights, with a small crowd watching took me back to the days of high school sports.

The two teams, as labeled on the scoreboard etched on the cement with a red stone, were “Students” vs “Old Man”. I was on the team of Old Man, and I thought we were going to get crushed. However, what we lacked in bottomless energy, speed and fundamental skills, we made up for in teamwork. We won with a score of something like 142-84. We only played three quarters, as the security guards kicked us out at 8 PM.

***

I sweat a lot in normal life. I sweat even more when playing basketball. I sweat buckets when playing full court basketball in a swelteringly humid climate. I was constantly battling to keep hydrated. However, it didn’t matter how much water I brought to the court, it was never enough. I was the only person who ever brought water (hydration isn’t a big thing in Rwandan culture). Everyone else was always thirsty, and when things enter a public space in Rwanda, they tend to become public property. So I had to share my water with everyone as soon as I took my bottle out of my bag. This wasn’t a problem when there was a tap by the court. For some reason, though, the tap was turned off, and the nearest water source was a few minutes away. Sometimes boys were sent to refill my bottles, but not always. After a long game, one day, I went looking for my water bottle. We had sent a boy to refill my reused disposable water bottle, but it was nowhere to be found. I was furious. I never bought bottled water, so I clung tightly to these bottles. “Where is my bottle?!” I yelled. One of the players shrugged and said one of the boys probably took it. They are always asking for my bottles, but only once had one of them actually stolen it. I slammed the ball onto the ground in anger. The ball did what overly inflated balls do: it bounced back at me with shocking force and jammed two of my fingers. My right middle finger would remain puffy and sore for a couple of months. Just as I realized I was embarrassing myself again, I saw a six-year-old boy in ripped shorts and a filthy shirt waddling toward me with an arm extended, holding my full water bottle.

The next day Hamza brought me a box with about 12 empty water bottles. It might have been one of the most thoughtful things anyone had done for me in Rwanda. It was also kind of awkward.

***

My neighbor Baya is one of my best friends in Rwanda. He comes to the court sometimes, but usually isn’t good enough to get a spot on the court. His sport is soccer. Usually only the best players get to play, and I was never one to decide who got a spot. One day, Baya was playing when I showed up and they immediately gave me his spot. I refused and said he could continue. I would wait until someone was tired. Baya, knowing his place in the social order, also told me to take his spot. I refused again. The older players said that Baya covldn’t play because he was wearing flip-flops. That had never been a problem for some of the more skilled players, but if that was their reason, I would respect that. So I took off my shoes, to everyone’s wide-eyed amazement, and handed them to Baya. I was trying to make a point, but I could tell I was putting Baya in an awkward position. I insisted he put them on and keep playing. He continued for a few plays, but then came out, telling me to replace him. I was done fighting this, but I still wasn’t going to take my shoes back. Most people that played regularly had shoes, but occasionally there was someone in flip-flops or barefoot. I wanted to make the point that not only could I play without shoes, but that they should be more inclusive with who they let play, regardless of footwear. I wondered if it was worth it though. I don’t think it changed anyone’s mind, and I think I shamed Baya by trying to come to his rescue.

***

While a lot of my time in Rwanda was bland and forgettable, I will always miss the Cimerwa basketball court. It was the strongest community I had and I don’t think I would have lasted long without it. It was also a vital release valve for my pent up emotional energy that built up throughout the day. While I may have let my emotions get the better of me on the court, I imagine I would have had much more damaging incidents if I didn’t have basketball. 

The one time you will see me willingly pose for a group photo. From left: Epa, Manasse, Moise, Pastor, Mucoma, Joel.