Sooley

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 A&M, 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.

Chapter 28

Beatrice kept her coins hidden in a small plastic pouch that never left her body. She hid it in a cotton scarf tied tightly around her waist. She had shared some of the money with her two friends from Lotta, and had sworn them to secrecy. No one had money in the camps, and any rumor of it would be dangerous.

The new arrivals were being housed in tent cities, or at least the lucky ones. Thousands more were outside the gates, waiting to be admitted, registered, and hopefully fed. Once inside they slept on the ground until a tent was available.

In the older sections of the settlement, where many of the refugees had lived for years, the homes were made of wood, baked bricks, and thick straw, and built to last for years. The Ugandan government had given some of the homeowners a small plot of land to grow vegetables and raise chickens and pigs. This created commerce, and there was a busy market area in the center of Rhino Camp South. Refugees with a little money could buy better food, medicine, clothing, and other necessities. There was a lot of bartering and trading.

With the $100 Samuel had sent her, Beatrice bought a few items that would not attract attention. He said he had a job, in addition to being a student, and that he would send more. “Don’t send too much,” she had said. He always promised to come rescue them, but cautioned that it would take a long time.

Knowing her oldest child was safe and prospering was enough to lift her spirits, but the monotony of life in the camp was taking a toll. There was so little to do to pass the time. No home to clean; no food to cook; almost no laundry and no creek to wash it in; no school for the children. The weekly outdoor Mass attracted thousands and gave them a hint of normalcy.

On a Wednesday, she was up early with the boys and chatting with her neighbor about the daily search for food. There should be three food trucks within a half hour’s walk and they debated which might have the shortest breakfast line. This was a favorite topic of conversation for people with little else to do, and since food and water dominated their lives they talked about them nonstop.

When the children, all eight of them, were awake, the three women began the trek toward the chosen food distribution point. They chose badly and waited two hours for a bowl of rice and small loaf of bread. When they finished eating, Beatrice sent James and Chol with her two friends and began the sixty-minute walk through the crowded streets to the Doctors Without Borders hospital.

Each week more people packed into the camps. She passed tent cities, streets lined with shanties that looked flimsier than tents, and other streets with sturdier homes. In some sections the people were packed tightly together, and in others the sprawl went on for miles. All were displaced, all driven from their homeland by men with guns. Her parents had talked of the old days when famine forced people to leave their homes in search of food. Now they were driven out by warlords and their heavily armed militias.

Christine appeared at the hospital’s entrance a few minutes before two, on cue, and as they waited for the call the nurse asked about James and Chol and about their health. As usual, the hospital was crawling with patients and long lines branched out in every entrance.

Her phone buzzed. She smiled, said “Bonjour,” and handed it to Beatrice. Christine left them to their private moments and went to check on patients.

On Wednesday, November 11, Samuel finished the call with his mother with the usual mix of emotions, but couldn’t dwell on his family right then. It was an important day because the first game was that night, and though he wouldn’t play, he would wear the Eagles game uniform for the first time and yell from the bench. He returned to his room, woke up the deadhead Murray, and took off for the gym. He shot for an hour, went to all his classes — he hadn’t missed a single one now that he knew that someone was watching — and washed dirty football jerseys for an hour. The team had lost four straight and a bad season was finally coming to an end. At 5:30, he was in the basketball locker room playing video games and listening to rap as his teammates drifted in.

Four of the starting five had been set since before the first practice. Mitch Rocker was a senior point guard who had started the past two seasons and was captain of the team. Two more seniors, Dmitri Robbins and Roy Tice, started last year at forward and had not been challenged. A junior, Duffy Sunday, played 20 minutes a game the prior season and was much improved as the shooting guard. None of the three big men had dominated in practice, but Melvin Montgomery, another junior, had more experience and would get the start at center.

It was a veteran team and the players had high expectations. They certainly expected to rout their first opponent, a small private college from Charlotte that no one had ever heard of. It was one of those ridiculous preseason sleepers, anything but a real game, and few fans showed any interest. When the Eagles took the floor, The Nest was not even half filled, but that made no difference to Samuel Sooleymon. He smiled at his teammates in their handsome maroon-and-gray uniforms, just like the one he was wearing. Number 22, one of the few remaining numbers but Samuel didn’t care. He would have taken any jersey. He smiled at his coaches, the ball boys, the team managers, the referees. No one in the building was as happy as Sooley. He savored the pregame warm-up, but missed every shot from long range. He laughed on the bench, yelled at his teammates on the floor, and glanced occasionally at the student section. No benchwarmer ever enjoyed a game more.

There were thirteen players in uniform, including Sooley and one of the walk-ons. The other had not made the cut. The two transfers were not allowed to dress out but sat at the far end of the bench and were expected to make noise. Of the thirteen, everyone saw action but him. Even the walk-on, Rontae Hammer, played five minutes and hit a three. In the second half, the Eagles played down to their opponent’s level and the game turned sloppy. Afterward, Coach Britt yelled in the locker room and seemed unhappy, but a 30-point win against a bunch of short, slow white boys was what it was.

Four nights later, while the football team was on the road, the Eagles hosted another mystery school that started five players who would have struggled against Central’s women’s team. In an embarrassing blowout, nine players scored in double figures, a team record. Murray hit three bombs and had 12 points. He was firmly entrenched as the number two point guard behind Mitch Rocker, and it looked as though he would see limited playing time. In Samuel’s muted opinion, his roommate was simply not quick enough. After three months on the practice court, Samuel could easily dominate Murray in one-on-one drills.

After two pushovers, it was time for the NC Central Eagles to go from bully to patsy, though that was certainly not their plan. They rode the bus ninety minutes to Winston-Salem and took the floor against Wake Forest in Joel Coliseum in front of 9,000 rowdy fans. For Samuel, it was a breathtaking moment to trot out for warm-ups in front of a packed house. Though he would not get near the court after the whistle, his stomach was flipping nonetheless. Evidently, the entire team had the nerves and nothing fell for the first five minutes. Down 14–0, Lonnie called time-out and asked his starters if any of them had plans to score that night. They wanted to and tried mightily, but their rim had shrunk. Wake was up by 20 at half-time, and Samuel, unsmiling, rather enjoyed Lonnie’s half-time histrionics.

They were not effective. After clawing to within 15 early in the second half, Central withered under the pressure of a full-court press and fell to pieces. Lonnie yanked his starters but the second team was even more confused. With the offense out of sync, the defense lost focus and Wake got red hot. The 30-point loss made for a long bus ride back to Durham.

On Saturday, November 21, the Eagles flew on a charter to Knoxville for another game they would have preferred to avoid. Playing in front of 20,000 fans, none of whom were rooting for them, the Eagles fought respectably but still lost by 20. Afterward, back in the dorm, Murray would explain that the big schools need a few easy wins early in the season and were happy to pay a weaker program up to $100,000 to drive over for a butt-whipping.

“So Tennessee paid us to come into their place and get slaughtered?”

“Sure. They’re called ‘guarantee’ games. They’re guaranteed a win and we’re guaranteed a check. Everybody does it. Just part of a typical season. Plus they cover our travel expenses.”

“What do we pay our victims?” Sooley asked.

“A lot less. I’ve heard ten thousand. Plus they buy their own bus tickets.”

“Only in America.” At least once a day Sooley was stopped cold and shook his head in amazement at the excesses of American culture, especially college athletics. He still had trouble grasping the idea that his full scholarship, valued at about $22,000 a year, was free, and that Central was paying him $7.25 an hour to fold towels and clean up after the football team.

On November 24, the last day of classes before the Thanksgiving break, Central hosted Campbell in another sleeper. With only a few hundred fans watching — the students had already fled — the Eagles proved that twenty-year-olds can easily lose focus. They were going home tomorrow, for four days of Mom’s cooking and no practice and no classes to worry about, and they didn’t bring their game. But Campbell did. According to the Vegas odds, another American oddity that Murray was still trying to explain to his roommate, Central was going to win by a dozen points. Instead, the Eagles lost by 10, at home, and Coach Britt was furious. He told his players to get out of his sight — he didn’t want to see them until Sunday afternoon, at which time they had better show up ready for a grueling practice.

Chapter 29

For the past fifteen years, Christine Moran had tended to the dire medical needs of the poorest people on the planet. She was from the lovely town of Besançon in eastern France, near the Swiss border, but had not been back there in a decade. She had studied nursing in Paris and wanted to see the world. Médecins Sans Frontières, Doctors Without Borders, signed her up and sent her to Bangladesh for two years. From there she went to Tanzania and spent three years caring for people from Burundi who were fleeing genocide. After five years with refugees, she returned to France and worked in a hospital in Lille, but quit after four months when she realized her patients were hardly ill compared to those in the developing world. She returned to Africa and was assigned to the Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya, home to 200,000 displaced souls, most from Sudan and Somalia, though they came from twenty other countries as well. Many of them were children with no parents, and it was those faces that haunted her when she tried to live in France. The sad hopeless faces of malnourished children, some dying, others hanging on and slowly improving. She had held hundreds of them as they drifted away forever.

Three years ago, she had been assigned to Rhino Camp South and found it to be a better settlement than most. They were all overcrowded and depressing, all packed with displaced people who had lost everything, but the Rhino camps were somewhat organized and the food and water usually arrived on time. DWB ran two large tent hospitals, and the staff, a mix of European, American, and African doctors and nurses, worked nonstop for at least twelve hours a day. It was an arduous schedule, a challenging way of life, but they were driven by a deep humanitarian desire to make a difference, one patient at a time. Most burned out after a few years and retreated to the safety of the civilized world, but even then they never forgot their work in the camps and took quiet pride in the lives they saved.

Christine kept her cell phone close but not on display. Their coverage was limited and air time was cherished. She enjoyed sharing it with a few of her patients, those with relatives in the U.S. or Europe. She had spoken to Samuel on two occasions and asked him to call relatives of other people in the camp, and he happily agreed to do so.

Each Wednesday at precisely 2 p.m., she walked to a certain corner of the hospital tent, made eye contact with Beatrice, and led her to a small room where supplies were stored. They waited until 2:05. The phone rang. Christine said, “Bonjour, Samuel.” She handed the phone to his mother for a brief chat and went outside.

Lonnie’s wife kicked him out of bed at six because he was fidgety and kept waking her up. It was obvious, at least to her, that he couldn’t sleep. But she could if he would just leave.

At his favorite diner he flipped through the newspaper, but only to have something to do as he ate. The only news he cared about was basketball and he monitored the sport ten hours a day online. Duke was 6–0 and its closest game had been an impressive 18-point win on the road over Villanova. Kentucky and Kansas were numbers two and three, both undefeated.

Lonnie put the paper down, worked on his breakfast, and began fuming again about the previous night’s loss to Campbell. As always, he expected to split the pre-conference games and he was realistic about the early losses. But he and his staff had pegged Campbell as a win.

He drove through the empty campus and parked by the gym. He walked through the locker room, approached his office door, and stopped when he heard a bouncing ball. It was 7:20, the day before Thanksgiving, and the only students on campus were foreign and all were still sound asleep. Except Sooley. Lonnie peeked around the bleachers and watched the kid dribble and shoot. He shook his head, went to his office, and watched the edited version of last night’s fiasco. He called Jason Grinnell, his associate head coach and closest friend, and replayed the game again. He called two recruits to wish them Happy Thanksgiving.

At 10:30 his wife called with a short grocery list. He asked if it was okay for him to return home. She said yes, but only if he could forget basketball for the next forty-eight hours. He said he could but both knew it was a lie. He locked his office door and had taken a few steps toward the locker room when he realized the basketball was still bouncing.

Sooley was soaked and broke into his customary grin when he saw his coach walking toward him. “How long you been shooting, Sooley?”

“I don’t know, Coach. Two or three hours.”

“How many shots?”

“Six ninety.”

“And how many have gone in?”

“Three forty-three.”

“That’s almost fifty percent.”

“Yes, but, as you say, there’s no one guarding me.”

“And all from the arc?”

“Ninety percent.”

“Do you know what our team is shooting from the arc?”

“Twenty-eight percent.”

“Twenty-eight percent. That’s pretty lousy. What do you think of our team, Sooley, after five games? You have a different perspective from your end of the bench. I’d like to know what you think.”

Sooley smiled, dribbled a couple of times, said, “We’re good, Coach. It’s early. We have a lot of experience. Once we get into conference we’ll be okay.”

Lonnie smiled and asked, “Where’s Murray?”

“Sleeping when I left the room.”

“He needs to spend more time in the gym, don’t you think?”

Sooley wasn’t about to pass judgment on his roommate or any other member of the team. Murray’s problem was that he’d rather spend time with Robin, his latest girlfriend. Evidently, they couldn’t get enough of each other and the dorm room was their favorite love nest. Sooley was spending at least an hour in either the library or the commons each night, waiting for the text that all was clear.

“He’s good,” Sooley said. “Just needs some more playing time.”

“Gee. I’ve never heard that before. If you were me, would you give him more playing time?”

“Sure, Coach, I’d give everybody more playing time.”

Lonnie laughed and glanced at the backboard. “So how many shots today?”

“A thousand.”

“Atta boy. I’m picking you up at six for dinner at our place, right?”

“Yes sir. And thanks, Coach.”

“And Murray is joining us?”

“Yes, he said so.”

“Have you ever eaten turkey?”

“No sir, don’t think so.”

“It’s overrated. Agnes is roasting a duck instead.”

“Never had that either.”

“And you’re staying with the Walkers?”

“Yes sir. They’ve invited me for the break.”

“Good. I imagine the dorm can be a lonely place.”

Not for Murray. “Yes sir, but I’m fine.”

“Did you talk to your mother this morning?”

“Yes sir. They’re doing okay, I guess. Life in the camps is not easy but at least they’re safe.”

“And no word on your sister?”

“No sir. Really, Coach, we’re not expecting to hear anything. She’s gone and we know it. We still say our prayers but it would take a miracle.”

“We’re saying our prayers too, Sooley, all of your coaches.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you at six.”

Samuel had spent many nights at the Walkers’. His spot was on a long sofa in the basement, between a ping-pong table and a sixty-four-inch flat screen where he and Murray watched ESPN on Friday and Saturday nights. Robin was usually there, though Miss Ida would not allow her to sleep over. In Samuel’s quiet and humble opinion, Miss Ida wasn’t too keen on her youngest child getting so serious with a girl at the age of twenty. But it was also evident that Murray was somewhat spoiled and usually did what he wanted.

This visit was different, though, because Jordan was home from law school. Samuel had followed her on social media, and was thoroughly smitten long before she walked through the door and hugged everyone. She was twenty-four, gorgeous, sexy, smart, and unattached. Samuel was scheming of ways to propose marriage, something he would have done without hesitation back home. There, though, the rules were different. Marriage proposals were often made to fathers of young teenage girls. A man could have more than one wife. A father could give his daughter as a gift. And so on. A rather different world.

Late Wednesday night, the family watched a movie in the den, a tradition, and Samuel couldn’t keep his eyes off Jordan. Miss Ida caught him a couple of times but he couldn’t help himself. She missed nothing.

He slept late on Thanksgiving Day, and, following the aromas, went upstairs to the kitchen where the entire family was buzzing around, all talking and laughing. Brady, the wayward son, had arrived after midnight, and was eager to meet Sooley. He’d heard so much about him. Each Walker seemed to be preparing a dish of some sort and everyone had opinions about the others’ technique, knowledge, and ingredients. Samuel found a seat at the table and stayed out of the way. Pecan waffles, another tradition, were served and everyone sat down for a long breakfast. A massive turkey stood ready in a pan on the stove, waiting to be roasted for at least six hours. Five, in Ernie’s opinion. At least seven, in Murray’s.

As they ate, the family went through the menu for the afternoon’s feast. In addition to the turkey, there would be oyster dressing with cranberry sauce. Candied yams. Collard greens in ham hocks. Corn fritters. Giblet gravy. Jalapeño cornbread. Pumpkin and pecan pies. At first, as he stuffed another pecan waffle in his mouth, he thought they were joking about so much food for one meal. Then he realized they were quite serious.

He enjoyed the rowdy bantering and warmhearted fun, but there were flashes when he couldn’t help but think of his mother and brothers, and his neighbors and friends from Lotta. Some dead. Some missing. The lucky ones barely surviving in makeshift huts, shanties, and tents, patiently waiting in line for hours for another bowl of rice.

Chapter 30

Late Sunday, the team gathered at The Nest for a much-dreaded practice. Their coach, though, was in a better mood. In the film room, he made them watch the Campbell game and replayed some of the worst of it. Then they took the floor for two nonstop hours of drills, with all four coaches yelling at even the slightest mistake.

Two days later they rode the bus ninety minutes to Greenville to play East Carolina, a 10-point favorite, and lost by three in overtime. It was their fourth straight loss and led to another quiet bus ride back to campus. Other than the loss, the most disturbing event of the night was a bad injury to Evan Tucker, a second-string forward. Midway through the second half he went up for a rebound and landed on his elbow, shattering it. He was still at the hospital in Greenville with Coach Jackie Garver. The X-rays were not promising and he would not be returning anytime soon.

The football season was over and the team won six and lost that many. Samuel had made many friends in the locker room and hated to see it end. Lonnie pulled some strings and kept him on the payroll, a couple of hours a day tidying up the weight room and doing whatever T. Ray wanted. The $7.25 an hour was important and Samuel spent little of it. His goal was to send as much as possible to his mother.

Murray and Mitch Rocker, the captain, had organized a small relief fund for refugees in Uganda. They had a website and were soliciting donations from the student body. Without naming Samuel, the website painted a grim picture of life in the camps and settlements and pleaded with the students for humanitarian relief. By December 1, they had raised almost a thousand dollars, and Sooley was grateful beyond words. The challenge was getting the money into the right hands. Beatrice had warned him that refugees with a little cash were often targets.

Beatrice had managed to discreetly buy shoes and clothing for the eight children, James and Chol and the six others from Lotta. This had not gone unnoticed in their neighborhood, and it was well known that her son was studying and playing basketball at an American college, but so far there had been no trouble.

Their dismal existence improved dramatically with the news that a new school was opening at the far edge of Rhino South. Early one morning, she and her two friends and their eight children walked an hour, following the crowd to see if the rumors were true. They were stunned to find a spanking-new modern building that workers were still finishing. A sign announced the opening of a U.N. school for all children and the excitement was palpable. They waited in line for hours, filled out the paperwork, and left to find lunch. The following day they returned to the school and handed over their children. Well-dressed administrators and teachers, all Ugandan, all men, welcomed them and handed out pencils, pads, and workbooks. The women left their kids and drifted back to their tent village, childless for the first time in months. A long school day meant everything — education and a nice lunch.

And uniforms. When the children were released late in the afternoon, they were given identical outfits — white shirts and navy shorts for the boys, white shirts and navy skirts for the girls. They were excited to be dressed alike. All were suddenly equal now, all accepted members of a real school.

A four-game losing streak will breed discontent in any locker room, and Central’s was no exception. Jabari Nix was a sophomore forward who had averaged five minutes a game the year before and got about the same in the early games. His best friend was DeRell Compton, a 5'10" guard who couldn’t shoot. They were dissatisfied with their playing time and it was obvious they were unhappy.

Samuel stayed away from them. He wasn’t playing at all but was still delighted just to be on the team. He watched as Mitch Rocker and Roy Tice, two of the seniors, tried to offer them encouragement. Murray was playing ten minutes a game and not happy about it, but he was still optimistic things would improve. He had said several times that Jabari and DeRell could cause trouble.

After Friday’s practice, Sooley and Murray showered and returned to their dorm room. Robin had gone home for the weekend and Murray was lost without her. He suggested they eat out and they drove to a pizza place. There was a home game tomorrow and Coach Britt had imposed a strict 10 p.m. curfew. Coach Garver had threatened to check their rooms.

While they were eating, Murray’s phone rang and he talked to Harry Greenwood, a junior forward who lived off campus. Harry’s father was a lawyer in Charlotte and the family was more affluent than most. After the pizza, they drove to Harry’s apartment where a party had materialized. The whole team was there, along with some nonathletes and a bunch of girls. The music was loud, the beer flowing, and the girls were friendly and flirting. Sooley had quickly learned that on campus the athletes were special and admired by the other students. Murray, single for the evening, soon zeroed in on a couple of coeds and introduced his roommate.

Samuel declined a beer. Where he came from, kids, as well as their parents, couldn’t afford alcohol or drugs, and he had not been exposed to the temptations. He was chatting with a pretty coed named Nicole, who seemed curious about where he was from. A friend handed her a joint, and, quite casually, she took a hit and offered it to Sooley, who declined. He was suddenly aware of the aroma in the apartment and realized that pot was everywhere. He was not that familiar with the smell but it was obvious. Several students, nonplayers, were crowded over a small table in the kitchen doing something that they preferred to keep out of view. He found a bathroom, locked himself inside, collected his thoughts, then, without a word to anyone, left the party. Central was at least an hour’s walk away.

Without the benefit of an automobile, he had not seen much of the area and was not sure where he was. The sky to his right was illuminated by the brighter lights of downtown Durham, but they were far away. He zigzagged for a while in that general direction but was soon lost. He turned along a narrow street with fancy modern condos on both sides, no doubt a white section of town. There were no sidewalks, and as he walked at the edge of the street he was aware that he was being followed by a car. It was the Durham police, inching along behind him.

It was Friday, December 4, and the air was cold. Sooley kept both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his Central pullover.

He had been in America long enough to understand the rules of engagement for young black men walking through white neighborhoods at night, and he was suddenly stricken with fear.

The car pulled beside him and a gruff voice said, “Stop right there.” Sooley stopped and waited as two policemen, both white, got out and slowly made their way over to confront him. His knees were trembling, his hands shaking.

One flashed a bright light into his face, then clicked it off. A nearby streetlamp shone enough for the three to see one another clearly. Officer Swain said, “May we ask where you’re going?” He was polite and even smiled.

“Yes sir. I’m a student at Central and I’m just trying to get back to campus.”

“Do you have a weapon? Anything in your pockets?”

“No sir. I’m a student.”

“We heard that. Please remove your hands from your pockets. Slowly.”

Sooley did as he was instructed.

Swain said, “Okay. You’re not required to show us any ID, but it might be helpful if you did.”

“Sure. My ID is in my pocket. Shall I reach for it?”

“Go ahead.”

He slowly reached into a front pocket of his jeans and handed his student ID to Swain, who studied it for a moment and asked, “What kinda name is Sooleymon?”

“African. I’m from South Sudan. I play basketball for Central.”

“How tall are you?”

“Six six.”

“You’re only eighteen?”

“Yes sir.”

Swain handed the card back and looked at Gibson, who said, “I’m not sure you’re safe in this neighborhood.”

The neighborhood was perfectly safe, but for the police who were causing trouble, but Samuel only nodded.

Swain pointed and said, “Central is to the south and you’re headed west.”

“I’m lost.”

They laughed and looked at each other. Swain said, “Okay, we’ll make you an offer. Get in the back seat and we’ll take you to the campus. It’s cold, and you’re lost, so we’ll just give you a ride, okay?”

Sooley looked at the car and glanced around, uncertain.

Swain sensed his hesitation and said, “You don’t have to. You’ve done nothing wrong and you’re not under arrest. It’s just a friendly ride. I swear.”

Sooley got in the back seat. They rode for a few minutes and Gibson, the driver, said, “You guys have lost four in a row. What’s going on?”

Sooley was gawking at the gadgets up front. A busy computer screen. Radios. Scanners. Of course, he had never been inside a police car. “Rough schedule,” he said. “We opened with some tough games, as always.”

Swain grunted and said, “Well, you got an easy one tomorrow. Bluefield State. Where the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, sir, I’m lost right now. Never heard of them. I’m a redshirt and won’t play this year.”

Gibson said, “I like Coach Britt. Great guy. Rumor is he might be moving on after this year.”

“I don’t know. Coaches, they don’t talk to us about stuff like that. I guess you guys are Duke fans.”

“Not me, can’t stand ’em. I pull for the Tar Heels. Swain here is a Wolfpacker.”

The car turned and Sooley recognized the street. They were indeed headed to the Central campus. As the front gate came into view, Swain pointed to a parking lot and said, “Pull in there.” Gibson did so and stopped the car.

Swain turned around and said, “Just so you won’t run the risk of being embarrassed, we’ll let you out right here. Okay?”

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

“Good luck with the season, Mr. Sooleymon.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter 31

After three weeks on the continent, Ecko was tired and homesick and missed his family. He had scouted a tournament in Cape Town, attended conferences in Accra and Nairobi, and watched a dozen games with coaching friends in Senegal, Cameroon, and Nigeria. He’d logged 8,000 miles between countries and spent Thanksgiving Day stranded in an airport in Accra, the capital of Ghana.

But he had one more stop, one that he could not, in good conscience, blow off, though he desperately wanted to. He landed in Kampala and was met at the airport by an old friend named Nestor Kymm, a coach of the Ugandan national team. Kymm’s brother ranked high in the government and knew which strings to pull. Early the next morning they drove to Entebbe International Airport and were directed to the cargo field far away from the main terminal. There they met a smartly dressed officer named Joseph something or other. Ecko could neither pronounce nor spell the man’s last name so he simply called him “sir.” Joseph seemed to expect this.

They piled into his jeep and circled around two long, wide airstrips lined with taxiways choked with cargo planes, some waiting to take off, others landing. Surrounding the runways were endless rows of huge military tents shielding tons of crates of food. Joseph parked his jeep by an administration building and they hopped out. He glanced at his watch and said, “Your flight leaves in about an hour but nothing runs on time. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you can get on it, so don’t be disappointed if you don’t. We won’t know until the last minute. It’s all about weight and balance.” He waved at the chaos and asked, “Want a quick tour?”

Ecko and Kymm nodded. Sure, why not?

The tents were in a large grid and separated by gravel drives. Cargo trucks and forklifts bustled about as hundreds of workers loaded and unloaded the crates. Joseph stopped and waved an arm. Before them were the tents. Behind them airplane engines roared as they took off while dozens more waited.

Joseph said, “We’re feeding a million refugees a day and they’re scattered throughout the country in about fifty settlements. Some are easy to get to, some almost impossible. All are overcrowded and taking in more people every day. It’s a terrible humanitarian crisis and we’re barely hanging on. What you see here is a frantic effort by our government and the United Nations. Most of this food comes from the U.N., but there’s also a lot from the NGOs. Right now we’re working with about thirty relief organizations from around the world. Some bring their own airplanes. Some of these are from our air force. Others from the U.N. At certain times of the day, this is the busiest airport in the world. For what that’s worth.”

Ecko asked, “How far away is Rhino Camp?”

“An hour, give or take. There’s a Danish group that flies from here to Rhino four times a day and I’m trying to squeeze you on board. If that fails, we’ll try another one. As you can see, there are plenty of planes.”

It was a stunning assemblage of aircraft, almost all twins and turboprops, short-field workhorses built for narrow and uneven dirt strips. On the ground they zigged and zagged their way from the warehouses to the taxiways where they fell in long lines and waited. On the other runway, a steady stream of the same planes landed every thirty seconds and wheeled onto the nearest taxiway. Every takeoff and landing created another boiling cloud of dust. The runways were asphalt and could handle the biggest jets, but the connecting roads were dirt and gravel. A mile away, in a much more civilized part of the airport, commercial flights came and went at a leisurely pace.

They watched the show for a few minutes, and Joseph said, “As you might guess, traffic control is a nightmare, ground and air, but we do okay. Haven’t had a fender bender in over a month.”

“How safe are the flights?” Ecko asked.

Joseph smiled and asked, “Getting a bit nervous, are we?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, we can fly only in good weather. These planes are headed to the bush where only a handful of towns have proper runways and traffic control. Most are going to dirt strips with no navigational support. So, what you see here are some of the best pilots in the world. They can fly in all kinds of weather, but often they can’t land. So we ground them when it rains.”

“Where are the pilots from?”

“Half are from our air force, the other half come from around the world. A lot of U.N. guys, and a surprising number of women. To answer your question, we haven’t had a crash in seven months.”

Seven months seemed like an awfully short period of time to Ecko, but he firmed up his jaw as if he had no fear. There was no turning back anyway. He’d made a promise to Samuel.

Joseph’s radio squawked and he excused himself. Ecko and Kymm retreated to the safety of a warehouse tent, and in the shade watched the incredible, organized chaos before them.

Joseph was back, driving his jeep, and he barked, “Get in. Let’s go.”

They weaved through the grid and were soon lost in a cluster of tents. When they emerged there were three identical turboprops with workers stuffing boxes inside. On each tail was the name of the nonprofit, something in a foreign language, but under it in small print was “Denmark.” Joseph approached one of the pilots, evidently a Dane, and said the magic words. He looked at Ecko and Kymm and waved them over. As they crawled on board and settled into the cramped seats just behind the pilots, Joseph said, “Good luck, lads. I’ll see you when you get back, if you make it.”

They strapped in and began to sweat in the stifling humidity. A ramp boy closed the door and the pilots began flipping switches. Ecko and Kymm watched them with fascination. As the turboprop began to taxi, the copilot opened his window and a fresh wave of hot air blew in. The line was slow but steady.

Though he was nervous about the flight, Ecko was thrilled with the adventure and was once again pleased with his decision not to tell his wife about this little side trip. He would describe it all when he got home.

From 10,000 feet the Ugandan countryside was beautiful, and Ecko absorbed it all. He was struck by the lack of roads and the remoteness of the villages. And he was once again grateful that his parents had settled in America.

Behind them were three large crates of food, with smaller boxes crammed into every available space. The plane rattled, shook, and vibrated, and this never ceased. Remarkably, he caught himself dozing off.

The descent became interesting when Ecko and Kymm had their first glimpse of the runway. From three thousand feet it appeared to be nothing more than a pig trail hacked out of the middle of a forest. Huts from a nearby village could be seen, but there were no other signs of civilization. On final approach, the copilot turned around and yelled, “Hang on.” This was not comforting. The landing was a hard slam dunk that caused Ecko to dig his fingernails into the left knee of his co-passenger. When they could breathe again they managed to laugh. Every successful landing is a good one.

Two cargo trucks were waiting at a small metal building that housed racks of food and water. When the engines died, a crew of teenage boys yanked open the rear doors and began unloading the crates. Within minutes, the trucks were loaded and the plane’s engines restarted. The pilots waved goodbye and taxied out.

The truck driver was another Dane. He introduced himself with a big smile and told them to get in the cab. Half of the grounds crew hopped on board and settled among the cargo. Rhino Camp was half an hour away.

Ecko’s first look at it caused him to shake his head in disbelief. Tents and shanties stretched for miles and thousands of refugees, most of them his people, South Sudanese, walked the dirt roads, seemingly going nowhere. The truck stopped at a distribution point where other trucks were arriving and unloading. A Ugandan army private was waiting for them and they immediately left on foot. Ecko carried a small gym bag filled with supplies and gifts. For almost an hour they walked through the settlement, passing countless refugees milling about with nothing to do. They passed long lines of women and children waiting patiently for the next meal, and more lines of people outside clinics and makeshift huts where relief workers filled out forms and handed over food, medicines, and secondhand clothing. They passed hundreds of women and teenage girls walking elegantly with pots of water balanced precariously on their heads.

At the Doctors Without Borders hospital, they asked around and found Christine Moran, who led them to a small exam room where Ecko finally said hello to Beatrice and her sons. Chol and James were nattily attired in their spotless school uniforms, though they were skipping classes on this special day.

From the gym bag, Ecko pulled out tee shirts and caps adorned with the NC Central lettering and logos. Eagles everywhere. He handed Beatrice an envelope with a long handwritten letter from Samuel, and a smaller one with cash. For James and Chol, there were colorful Christmas cards signed by the Eagles players and coaches. They talked for an hour about Samuel and his new life on campus, his classes, his friends, his basketball. On his cell phone, Ecko showed them a video of Samuel and his roommate, Murray Walker, as they sent along their love and Christmas greetings. Another video was of Samuel slamming dunks in practice.

Kymm took dozens of photos with Ecko’s cell phone.

Six hours later, the empty Danish cargo plane landed at dark at the Entebbe airport, and Ecko said thanks and goodbye to Kymm. As he waited three hours for his flight to Nairobi, Ecko sent the photos to Samuel.

Roaming the terminal, killing time, he vowed to do whatever he could to rescue the family, though he was well aware of the long odds against it. He called Samuel and they talked for half an hour, expensive minutes on the international plan. He loved the photos and wanted to know everything about his mother and brothers. Ecko walked a fine line between being honest about their living conditions and giving the kid some reason to be hopeful.

Down three players due to curfew violations, and including a redshirt freshman, the Eagles rode the bus to the campus of Furman, in upper South Carolina, for a Wednesday night game. Coach Britt played all nine, and nine were not enough. The Eagles lost by 15 to go 3–5.

Mercifully, there were no games for the next week as the schedule broke for exams.

Chapter 32

Early Friday morning, December 18, the team once again loaded onto a charter bus for the four-hour ride to Washington, D.C. The mood was light; exams were over, the Christmas break was just around the corner. One more game and they would be off for a few days and all the players, except Samuel, would go home to their families. Inside the Beltway, he replayed his last trip to the capital, back in August when he had spent two days with his South Sudanese teammates as they licked their wounds from the showcase tournament in Orlando.

Those had been painful days for him, the shock still fresh from the news from home. Four months later, his life had changed dramatically, but not a minute passed when he didn’t think of his late father and the indescribable fate of his beloved sister. His teammates were excited as their bus inched through central D.C., and, subdued as he was, Samuel tried his best to smile and go along.

The team checked into the Hyatt near Capital One Arena, had a quick lunch, then reboarded the bus for a few hours of sightseeing. At six, they changed into practice gear and drove to the campus of Howard University for a one-hour shootaround. At eight, they walked four blocks to a restaurant and were greeted by Maria Manabol from the embassy of the Republic of South Sudan. She had met Samuel and Coach Britt, along with Ecko, in August at the embassy and confirmed Ayak’s death. She had also handled the paperwork to facilitate Samuel’s student visa, and since then she had monitored his immigration file. She had called him every other week to make sure he was acclimating to college life. She and her husband, Paul, an American from Pittsburgh, were gracious hosts and welcomed the team to a private dining room where they feasted on prime rib with all the trimmings. After dinner, she spoke briefly about her country and its challenges. She did not mention the plight of the Sooleymon family, though everyone in the room knew their story.

The team was in bed by eleven, with strict instructions to sleep as late as possible Saturday morning. Brunch was at 10:30.

In spite of its usual role of being the early-season patsy for bigger programs, Howard had lost only two games and had won 10, including a double-overtime upset across town at Maryland. Preseason, the Bison had been lowballed by the experts, who ranked them near the bottom of the Mid-Eastern Athletic Conference. Central was predicted higher, but Vegas thought otherwise and put the Eagles on the board as a four-point underdog.

Two hours before the 3 p.m. tip-off at Burr Gymnasium, Maria and Paul sat in the stands with Samuel and talked about life in general, life on campus, basketball, and, most important, life in the refugee camps. The embassy received many requests from South Sudanese living in the States to find and try to help displaced relatives back home. Maria had been thrilled when Samuel called with the news that Beatrice and his brothers had been located at Rhino Camp in Uganda. That was no small miracle. Getting them out would take a more significant one.

With diplomatic skill, she repeated the warnings Samuel already knew. Immigration was strictly controlled and few from their country made it. And, there were many, many applicants ahead of them. His family had no U.S. sponsor, except for Samuel, and his citizenship was still in doubt.

When it was time to get dressed, he thanked her and Paul, gave them big hugs, and promised to keep in touch. Leaving, he said, “When we come back next season I’ll be on the court.”

“We can’t wait,” she said.

As Lonnie and the coaches feared, the one-week layoff proved disastrous. That, plus the trip to the big city, and the Eagles were completely out of sync. Howard was not. The Bison hit their first five shots and Central couldn’t buy a basket. With 12 minutes to go in the second half, and up by 24, Howard began subbing freely, and the guys from the bench proved just as hot as the starters. Lonnie cleared his bench too and everyone played but Samuel. To make matters worse, with 3 minutes to go Harry Greenwood, a backup forward, limped off the court with what he thought was a twisted knee. X-rays would later reveal torn ligaments that would require surgery.

Losing the first conference game by 31 was not exactly the blazing start Coach Britt had in mind. He and the other coaches huddled in the front of the bus, and for four hours sulked and whispered and shook their heads. It was another quiet ride home, another retreat after an embarrassing loss.

In the locker room at The Nest, Coach Britt wished them all a Merry Christmas, sent them home for the holidays, and made them promise to return in a week with a renewed commitment. A new season would begin and he claimed to be optimistic.

Chapter 33

On Sunday morning, as the dorms closed, Murray and Samuel stuffed their backpacks and duffels and hauled their dirty laundry to the Walker home ten minutes away. Murray timed their 10:15 arrival perfectly. His parents would be leaving for church and he had no desire to go with them. Sooley said he needed a break too. Secretly, he was baffled by their Protestant worship and often attended Mass alone.

To their pleasant surprise, Miss Ida had decided to cook instead and said she needed the morning off. She welcomed her boys with big hugs and chocolate waffles. As Ernie fried bacon, she showed them around the house and bragged on her Christmas decorations. The colorful tree was the tallest one Samuel had ever seen.

He was delighted at the thought of hanging around the warm house for the next few days, eating huge meals, sleeping at all hours, and, most inviting, spending time with Jordan, who would arrive on Monday night.

“You’re still growing,” Miss Ida said at one point, as she checked him out from head to toe. “How much do you weigh?”

“Two ten.”

She playfully tapped his chest and said, “You look thicker in the shoulders.”

Murray said, “He lives in the weight room, Mom. He’s gained twenty pounds this semester. Thinks he’s playing football.”

Samuel laughed and said, “Well, I’m sure not playing basketball.”

“That makes two of us,” Murray said and managed a laugh, but it was forced. He wasn’t playing much and his frustration was growing. Samuel listened to his complaints and tried to encourage him, but losing pollutes an entire locker room and there was some dissension. Privately, Samuel was of the opinion that 10 minutes a game was about what his roommate deserved.

He had gained exactly twenty-two pounds since August. Between the weight room, the long dinners at Miss Ida’s table, and a wide-open training table, Samuel was adding pounds and most of it appeared to be muscle. On two occasions, in practice, Coach Britt had quizzed him about off-court workouts. Although he preferred his players lean and flexible, he found it hard to quarrel with the sculpted biceps and thicker legs. Plus, he was only a redshirt, barely eighteen years old, and Lonnie decided to let him pump as much iron as he wanted.

Sooley now stood 78½ inches tall and the added height and weight had not slowed him down. He was easily the fastest and quickest on the team, and his vertical leap was up to an astonishing 46 inches. During the long bus ride back from D.C., one of the assistants, Ron McCoy, had broached the subject of jettisoning the redshirt business and giving the kid some minutes. What was the benefit in waiting? The season could not get much worse. Lonnie listened without much of a protest and promised to discuss it later. With two injured, the roster was down to eleven players. One was a redshirt freshman. One was a walk-on who had trouble scoring in practice.

After a languid brunch, Ernie and the boys cleaned the kitchen, then settled into the den for a long afternoon of NFL playoffs. Watching football with Sooley was painful because he wouldn’t shut up. He questioned everything about the game and seemed to absorb none of it.

Miss Ida left them to go shopping.

At seven Wednesday morning, Samuel eased through the kitchen and waited in the garage for the weekly call from Christine Moran. It came fifteen minutes late, and she explained that their phone system was not working properly and minutes were scarce. Could he please limit the call to ten minutes? He said sure and thanked her as always, then heard the soft voice of his mother. “Merry Christmas, Samuel.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Mother. How are you?” He closed his eyes and shook his head and wondered how anyone living in a tent in a refugee camp could possibly think about passing along season’s greetings. He could not imagine how hopeless and depressing the holidays must be, and he could not help but think of their last Christmas together as a family.

She said James and Chol were doing well in school and still talking about Coach Ecko Lam’s surprise visit the week before. They were proudly wearing their Central caps and tee shirts and were the envy of the neighborhood. The fact that their older brother was in America playing basketball gave them an elevated status. Beatrice promised to say a prayer for Samuel during Christmas Mass, and he promised to remember them too. He couldn’t forget them and told his mother he thought of them every minute of the day.

The call was too brief and when it ended, Samuel sat in a lawn chair, in the darkness, and longed for his family.

Their church was packed for the Christmas Eve service, a remarkable celebration that Samuel enjoyed. The preacher throttled back and gave a shorter sermon. The youth group, in full costume, performed a Nativity skit. The children’s choir, in matching burgundy robes, stole the show with their carols. The adult choir rattled the windows with “Go Tell It on the Mountain” and “The Holy Baby.” Jordan explained to Samuel, in a whisper, that the songs had been handed down by generations of African Americans.

Late the next morning, the family gathered around the tree and exchanged gifts. The pile included clothes for the boys, jeans and casual shirts for school, and perfume and a gold necklace for Jordan. Samuel’s big gift was a navy blazer, his first. Jordan gave him a beautiful necktie. He was overwhelmed by their generosity and almost speechless at the number of gifts. He had managed to save a few bucks and had surprises of his own: a bottle of perfume for Miss Ida, a large chef’s apron for Ernie, a leather belt for Murray, and for Jordan, a set of small earrings that she immediately put on. They were touched by his thoughtfulness and felt guilty for receiving the gifts, but they did nothing to dampen his spirits.

By the time the gifts were all finally unwrapped they were famished. Jordan put on a CD of Christmas songs as the family moved to the kitchen where every Walker tried to assume command.

Chapter 34

The holiday break came to a dreadful end the day after Christmas when the players dragged themselves back to campus for what was expected to be a painful three-hour practice. The coaches were waiting like drill sergeants. Coach Britt’s speech began with the unnecessary reminder that they were off to a less than impressive start. Three wins against pushovers, and six losses, two of which should have been avoided. They were better than Campbell, and he took responsibility for that loss. They had a good East Carolina team on the ropes and let them escape. The embarrassing blowout at Howard was inexcusable.

After a fifteen-minute smackdown, he changed his tone and insisted that they put their losses behind them. They had 21 games left, 17 in conference, 9 of those were at home. The games that mattered were ahead of them, and they would waste no more time thinking about their slow start.

The players were with him, but they were also thinking of more pressing matters. On Monday, they would fly to New York City for the rare treat of playing in a holiday tournament against other HBCUs — Historically Black Colleges and Universities. The games would be at Madison Square Garden and most would be televised on one of the ESPN channels. Over a five-day span, Central would play Grambling from Louisiana, Prairie View from Texas, and Fisk from Nashville.

Lonnie talked about the trip, the tournament, and their opponents, all of whom had winning records. In late November, Fisk had manhandled Howard in Washington, on the same court where Central had laid an egg only a week earlier. But enough of the past. His scouting report portrayed the three teams as virtually unbeatable, of near NBA proportions.

It was part pep talk, part fear-mongering, and it left the players unsettled. But they were headed to a big show and were determined to play well. When he blew the whistle they hit the court to stretch and limber up, and then they started running. Their coaches seemed determined to sweat out all the turkey and dressing, pecan pies, fudge brownies, Christmas cakes, and the rest of Grandma’s holiday cooking. Fifteen minutes into the wind sprints, the first player vomited.

Driving to the gym, Murray said that he needed to see Robin and would it be okay if Sooley got lost after practice. They needed the privacy of the dorm room. Sooley said sure. He had never said no. Then Murray went on about how nice it would be if she could sleep over. There was a sofa in the commons on their dorm’s first floor, and, well, what do you say, roommate? Sooley smiled and shrugged and said whatever.

After the grueling practice, the players slowly undressed, showered, changed, and left. They would be back the following day for more of the same. Sooley doubted if any of them had the energy for sex. But Murray did, evidently. He offered a ride but Sooley said he would walk. Have some fun and see you in the morning. As the managers cleaned up the locker room, Sooley hid in a storage closet. When the lights were off and everyone was gone, he eased back to the court, turned on one light, and began shooting.

After 500 shots, he turned off the light and returned to the locker room. He showered again and for dinner found a sports drink and some granola bars in the team kitchen. He settled into one of the nice cushioned chairs in the cramped room where they watched film and turned on an NBA game. By the second quarter, he was sound asleep.

He awoke to SportsCenter, watched some highlights, and realized he was starving. He put on a Central sweatsuit and went in search of food. The student cafeteria was still closed so he left campus. He walked a mile to a soul food café, his favorite, and inhaled two large chicken biscuits. He toyed with the idea of walking another mile to Sacred Heart for Mass but decided against it. The weather was raw and threatening and he would never get accustomed to the cold.

When Coach Britt arrived early in the afternoon, he heard the familiar thumping of a basketball. He looked around a corner of the bleachers and saw what he expected. Samuel Sooleymon firing away, shirt off, covered in sweat. Two things were clear — the kid was growing into quite a physical specimen, and the shots were no longer bouncing off the rim.

Practice began with the game plan for Grambling, their first opponent in New York. The players were excited and energetic, though Murray seemed a step or two slower.

As always, Sooley was relentless in the drills and scrimmage. He was physical to the point of getting hard looks from his teammates. He smiled and yelled and never stopped talking smack.

His excitement, though, waned at times. He would not make the trip to New York.

Chapter 35

At nine sharp Monday morning, Coach Britt walked into the locker room and inspected his troops. All were wearing navy blazers, white shirts, khaki pants, and casual shoes, no sneakers. He liked what he saw and tried to insult each one as he examined them. The excitement was palpable and everyone was ready to go. He lined up the four student managers, went through their equipment checklists, and for good measure barked at Coach McCoy because he was not wearing a tie. One was quickly put on.

Sooley sat in a corner in practice garb, watching the show and trying not to appear too deflated. The players spoke to him and got a smile, but they knew he was crushed because he would not make the trip. An appointment with an immigration officer was more important.

When all was ready, they filed out of the gym and into a waiting charter bus where the four coaches’ wives were waiting in their Sunday best, all chatting eagerly about the trip. Two of them, and one of the coaches, had never seen the Big Apple. Thirty minutes later, the bus deposited the group at the private terminal at Raleigh-Durham airport. Their nonstop flight was scheduled to land at Teterboro in New Jersey just after 2 p.m.

With the gym deserted, Sooley turned on a couple of lights and began shooting.

That night, Murray called with the news that they had arrived safely, and the two talked half an hour about the trip, the hotel, and the vastness of Manhattan. After the call, Sooley sat in his bed with the lights off and scanned dozens of photos his teammates were posting.

He had never felt so alone.

At nine the next morning, Miss Ida was waiting on schedule in front of the dorm when Samuel walked out. He was wearing his new clothes — navy blazer, khakis, white shirt, and the lovely tie Jordan had given him for Christmas. He had never worn a tie before and Murray had spent an hour teaching him the proper knot. He had practiced a hundred times.

Miss Ida inspected him and was quite impressed. They got in her car and she drove thirty minutes to the Raleigh field office of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Their ten o’clock appointment with a case manager was so important that the date and time could not be moved. Both Miss Ida and Sooley had tried to reschedule so he could make the trip to New York with the team, but they had not been successful. There was an enormous backlog of cases. The USCIS offices were understaffed, and so on. Sooley was desperate to push along his quest for citizenship, and, besides, he wasn’t going to play basketball anyway.

They spent an hour sitting on folding chairs in a crowded hallway and watched foreigners come and go. At 11:15, Samuel’s name was called and he and Miss Ida were directed to a small corner office where they were greeted by a pleasant young man who apologized for making them wait. They sat with their knees touching his metal desk and chatted about college life at Central. The office had no windows and the thermostat seemed to be stuck on 80.

Reading from a printout, the case manager went through a series of useless questions, most of which Samuel answered with either a “Yes” or a “No.” Both answers pleased the man and he made some important entries in the case file. Twenty minutes after entering the office, they quickly left and hustled outside for fresh air. The entire meeting could have easily been handled over the phone or by email in less than ten minutes.

Miss Ida said, “They just wanted to lay eyes on you, that’s all.”

Samuel preferred not to return to campus — the dorm was deserted and he had little to do — so Miss Ida bought him lunch at a diner and took him to work. She introduced him to some of her staff, then parked him at an old desk and handed him a stack of papers to sort out and file. Samuel happily removed his tie and got busy.

Late in the afternoon, with Miss Ida tied up in meetings, Samuel left the office and enjoyed a long walk back to campus. The weather was clear and warmer and the stroll lifted his spirits. He was excited because of the immigration meeting and knew that he was on his way to citizenship. When that was attained, he could take the next step toward rescuing his family.

The gym was dark and empty, as was the rest of the campus. He had not seen another person moving around, not even a security guard. There was no traffic; all parking lots were empty. He changed in the locker room and hit the court.

Central tipped off against Grambling at 8 p.m. and the game was on ESPNU. Though he had become bored with watching the games and not playing, Samuel was nonetheless excited to see his friends on television and playing on such a grand stage. A nice crowd was on hand and the mood was festive.

In his dorm room, Sooley ate a pizza and yelled encouragement. Mitch Rocker, the senior point guard, got off to a strong start and hit his first three shots. Melvin Montgomery and Roy Tice clogged the lane on defense and smothered Grambling’s big men. Murray entered the game at the eight-minute mark and immediately got a steal. The score was tied at half-time and Central had played its best 20 minutes of the season. Vegas had the Eagles as 14-point dogs, but someone forgot to inform the players.

As he flipped channels, there was a soft knock on his door. At first he didn’t believe it. He thought he was the only person on campus. After the second knock, he opened it and found Robin smiling at him. “Hello, Sooley. Can I come in?”

“Sure,” he said, thoroughly confused. She lived in Raleigh, had a car, and seemed to roam at will. She bounced on Murray’s bed, her second home, and asked, “Are you watching the game?”

“Of course I am. What are you doing out and about?”

“Just bored. Thought you might need some company.”

Like every other coed, she lived on her cell phone. So why hadn’t she called first? Could it be that she did not want to be told no? She was wearing tight jeans and a loose sweatshirt. She kicked off her shoes and wanted to chat. She was cute, sexy, vibrant, and seemed to enjoy making him uncomfortable.

The girl got around. She was part of a group of fast women who hung out with the athletes, and Sooley had heard some whispers in the locker room, something to the effect that perhaps she was well known to a few of the other players. And Miss Ida didn’t like her at all, a clear omen that she was trouble.

The second half began and they focused on the game, urging on their team, yelling at the bad calls, celebrating the good shots. Grambling went to a 2–3 zone and shut down the middle. Central was not a great outside shooting team, and when Mitch Rocker and Duffy Sunday went cold the game got away from them.

During a time-out, Robin asked Sooley who he was dating. She knew damned well he was not dating because Murray told her everything.

“Nobody,” he admitted.

“That’s hard to believe. All the girls I know want to see you naked.”

He laughed, nervously. They were distracted for a moment when Murray entered the game at seven minutes to go and Central down by 10. It seemed so wrong to be watching his best friend on television while his girlfriend put the moves on.

Grambling won by 12. As soon as the game was over, Robin turned to him and asked, “Wanna fool around?”

Sooley walked to the door, opened it, and nodded to the hallway. “Not with my best friend’s girl. Sorry.”

“Come on, Sooley. No one will ever know.”

“Please. Get out of here.”

Chapter 36

Robin texted him throughout the day and hinted that she might return to the dorm. Sooley spent the day in The Nest, alone, taking a thousand shots, watching college and NBA games in the film room. He slept there too, with the door locked.

Prairie View beat Central by eight.

On New Year’s Eve, he walked half an hour to the Walker home and had dinner with the family. Afterward, they watched Central lose a well-played game to Fisk, a superior team. Murray played only three minutes in the first half and his parents weren’t happy about it. During the second half, Sooley eased away from the tension and went downstairs to the basement to watch the game alone. Jordan followed him, and as they lost interest in the game some serious flirting ensued. At first Sooley was delighted to get so much of her attention, but became rattled when she seemed more aggressive. However, Miss Ida smelled trouble and soon joined them. Sooley was relieved, on the one hand. On the other, he had trouble sleeping on the sofa, his thoughts of nothing but Jordan’s fine legs.

The team arrived home on New Year’s Day. The three losses were difficult to stomach, and Coach Britt was not happy. They practiced hard for three straight days, and on January the fifth beat a hapless Division 3 team by 20 points, in front of fewer than two hundred fans. Had their faithful already given up? It seemed so.

And then there were ten. After the game, DeRell Compton, a reserve guard, sent an email to his teammates that read:

The news was surprising but not shocking. DeRell had been saying too much in the locker room and his dissatisfaction was well known. He would not be missed by the team. His departure left them with eight players, plus Sooley and the walk-on who was seeing almost no action. Harry Greenwood was recovering from knee surgery and Evan Tucker’s elbow had not mended well.

Murray was out with Robin and was not back at midnight. Sooley went to sleep and was awakened shortly thereafter when his roommate made a noisy entrance and turned on the lights. He was distraught and said he needed to talk to someone. When Sooley could focus he realized Murray’s eyes were red.

“She broke up with me,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained.

“What?”

“She ditched me, just like that.”

“Did she say why?”

“Of course she said why. We’ve been at it for the past two hours. Said she’d found somebody else and wanted out. Said all sorts of crazy shit.”

Sooley suddenly had a knot in his stomach and was horrified that he might be the “somebody else.” “I’m so sorry, Murray. I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say so just listen, okay? How can she do this to me? I love this girl and I thought we were on to something great. And, man, was she hot in bed. I mean, one minute we’re doing great and the next thing I know she’s found another man. I don’t believe this.” He wiped his eyes and for a long time stared painfully at the floor, completely heartbroken.

Timidly, Sooley asked, “Any idea who the other guy is?”

“No. She was too chicken to tell me.”

What a relief. Sooley suspected that the truth was that Robin had slept with several athletes, and he was secretly thrilled that she was out of the picture. His best friend deserved better.

Sooley’s phone buzzed quietly. He looked at the screen and was horrified to see a text from Robin: I still wanna c u naked.

He put the phone under his pillow and stretched out on his bed.

Women!

Chapter 37

Conference play began in earnest with a short bus ride to Greensboro for a game against North Carolina A&T, Central’s biggest rival. With the students still on break, the small gym was only half full and both teams were sluggish. Midway through the first half, Coach Britt yanked Duffy Sunday, a guard who’d thrown up four bricks, and replaced him with Murray. Still feeling jilted and with something to prove, he promptly stole a pass at the top of the key, sprinted to the rim, and finished with a rousing slam dunk. Sooley had never seen him move so fast and the play inspired the Eagles. The next trip down, he hit a long three and screamed at the bench. The team came to life and went on a 10–0 run that put them up by six at the half. A&T fell apart in the second half, primarily because Murray was all over the court. He played 27 minutes, led the team with 15 points, then led the singing all the way home. Late that night, in the dorm room, he called Ernie and they debriefed for half an hour.

Their home opener was against Coppin State, Monday, January 11. Miss Ida, Jordan, and Ernie arrived early and Sooley visited with them in the stands before the game. They were excited because Murray would be starting. It was amazing how a little playing time could lift the spirits of parents.

Miss Ida said, “He’s playing better because he got rid of that girl.”

Ernie said, “She was nothing but trouble, but he’s playing because he deserves to play.”

Sooley offered no opinion on the girl. Robin had stopped texting and had probably moved on to her next victim. When it was time to get dressed, he hugged Jordan and said goodbye for a few months. She would leave the following day for law school.

Murray gave them plenty to cheer about. He and Mitch Rocker controlled the backcourt and kept the pace a little slower, something Coach Britt had planned. Coppin State was small but fast and preferred to run, but struggled from the outside. Murray had three steals and six assists in the first half, and though he didn’t score he played 15 minutes. He hit two bombs to start the second half and the Eagles never looked back.

Four days later, the team left on a chartered flight to Tallahassee to play the Rattlers of Florida A&M. FAMU was a top preseason pick and had beaten Howard at home four days earlier. The Central coaches were hopeful that with two straight wins the team had turned the corner and found some traction. The new lineup, with Murray at guard and Jabari Nix at forward, had looked unbeatable against Coppin State. FAMU was known for its aggressive man-to-man defense, and surprised the Eagles by pressing full-court from the opening tip-off. Murray and Mitch Rocker struggled to break the press and the offense was out of sync. When they managed to cross mid-court, 10 seconds were gone and they couldn’t run their plays. FAMU jumped to an early lead and never slowed down.

Flying home, Coach Britt checked the other scores from around the conference and saw what he expected but didn’t like. Central was the first MEAC team to lose 10 games. And two of those teams, Howard and FAMU, were even better than the experts had anticipated. At 6–10, with fourteen conference games to go, he had the queasy feeling that his team was in free fall, and he wasn’t sure how to save it.

Once home, he shared a late-night pizza with his wife and three kids. He went to bed at eleven, couldn’t sleep, finally dozed off, and was awakened at 3:30 Sunday morning by a phone call from a student manager. Four of his players were running high fevers and showing flulike symptoms. Lonnie called the team doctor and arranged for the sick players to go immediately to the student infirmary. He called the other coaches and told them to quarantine for forty-eight hours. It was too late for Jason Grinnell, who had a fever. “That damned airplane was packed,” Jason said.

Samuel’s forehead was on fire and he shook with the chills as Murray rushed him to the campus clinic. The flu test was positive. Murray called his mother and she demanded that he bring Samuel home immediately. Murray wasn’t sick yet but the bug was racing through campus and she wanted him away from his teammates. She took Samuel to the basement, gave him his meds, turned out the lights, and told him to close his eyes. In her opinion, the best way to fight the flu was with plenty of liquids and hours of sleep. The chills and fevers continued throughout the night, and sleep was impossible.

Down four players and one coach, Central hosted Morgan State the following Monday, and played like the entire team had been stricken with some awful virus. Morgan State was average and their coach was clever. He heard the flu rumors, noticed only six Central players warming up, and quickly changed his game plan to an all-out run-and-gun, up-tempo horse race. It worked, and by half-time the Eagles were dragging.

Sooley followed the game online, but felt so lousy he really didn’t care who won. Morgan State by 18. It was his fourth night in the dark basement and he still felt like he’d been run over by a bus. He was tired of the fever, the headaches, the tomato soup. Frankly, he was tired of his nurse, who checked on him every half hour, it seemed. During the day, she called. Ernie called. Murray called. How was anybody supposed to sleep?

Evidently, the strain that hit the campus was particularly virulent. Two of the four players, Roy Tice and Duffy Sunday, recovered enough to make the bus trip to Delaware State. Dmitri Robbins and Sooley did not. Coach Grinnell stayed home too, and it was just as well. Delaware State ran the Eagles out of the gym.

Two days later, the same bus hauled them back home after another bad game, another frustrating effort at South Carolina State. It was their 13th loss, fifth in the conference, and the mood could not have been darker. Coach Britt had stopped yelling.

He had also stopped dreaming of a fine new job at a bigger school. At the moment he was just hoping to keep the one he had.

Chapter 38

After a week of quiet mornings, Lonnie unlocked his office door early Saturday and stopped when he heard a bouncing ball. Sooley was back. And it was time for a chat. He watched him for a moment, then pulled him off the court. They sat in the empty stands as the first rays of sunlight peeked through the windows and scattered on the floor.

“The doctor says you’re good to go,” Lonnie said.

“I’m okay, Coach. It was a long week but I’m over it.”

“How much weight did you lose?”

“Ten pounds. Already putting it back on.”

“Are you weak?”

“I’m about ninety percent, Coach, and getting stronger every day.”

“Do you think you’re ready to play?”

“Sure. I mean, you’re talking about a real game?”

“Maybe, yes. I hate to burn your redshirt year, Sooley, and I won’t do it if you object. But the truth has become rather obvious, hasn’t it? We need some help. We need a new lineup. Maybe we need new coaches. I don’t know. I’m afraid the players are on the verge of giving up.”

“I’m ready, Coach. It sucks being a redshirt. All the practice and none of the games. When do you want me?”

“I’m not sure. We play here tomorrow afternoon. Should be an easy game but nothing is coming easy these days. Rontae’s out sick. You get mentally prepared and stay ready, okay?”

“Got it, Coach. Just put me in.”

The very thought of getting into a real game, for the first time since August, and his first college game at that, sent Samuel into orbit. He shot baskets with a new determination, and he did so for the rest of the morning. When he left the gym in search of food, a light snow was falling. He took it as a good omen. His first snow the day before his first game.

There was little accumulation, and the streets, though unplowed, remained passable. Still, venturing out on a raw, cold Sunday afternoon to watch two teams with losing records was not appealing to many fans.

Months later, thousands would claim to have been there for his first game, but the number was closer to five hundred.

The opponent was Maryland Eastern Shore. The teams were evenly matched and swapped baskets for the first 10 minutes. Just before the half, Roy Tice picked up his third foul, and a minute later Dmitri Robbins did the same. During the break, Coach McCoy whispered to Sooley to get ready.

At 6:20, Tice was whistled on a terrible call, one so bad that Lonnie lost his cool and drew his second technical of the season. Enter Samuel Sooleymon, with a knot in his stomach so large he at first had trouble breathing. To settle his nerves he sprinted down the court on defense and deliberately ran into his man. The contact felt good. Then he lost him and watched as he hit a wide-open jumper. Coach Britt yelled, “Relax, Sooley.”

He tried to relax, tried to keep up with his man on defense, tried to remember the plays on offense, and really didn’t want the ball. He was in the lane when their point guard drove hard to the rim and tossed up a floater. Sooley sprang from nowhere and slapped the ball out of bounds. Seconds later, his man shot a jumper from the free throw line, and Sooley slapped it over the press table.

The slapping and blocking was great fun and the Central bench came to life. Sooley’s first bucket was a perfect alley-oop from Murray, a play they had toyed with in practice. Eye contact, a quick hand signal from Murray, a sprint to the rim, a highlight reel slam.

Once he was sweating, Sooley realized his nerves had settled, he could play this game. The man guarding him was only 6'4", much too short to bother him. He took a pass from Murray, dribbled to the top of the key, and launched himself high into the air. The jump shot was perfect form, but the ball bounced off the rim.

He finished the first half without scoring again. The Eagles led by eight and the locker room was jazzed. After losing four straight conference games, the team was determined to win.

The legend of Sooley began with 15 minutes to go in the second half. He entered the game for Dmitri, at strong forward, and set up low. Murray lost the ball, clawed it back, bounced it to Mitch Rocker who had it slapped away. A scramble ensued as players on both teams dived for the ball. It squirted free from the scrum and Sooley scooped it up at mid-court with two seconds on the shot clock. Without hesitation, he sprang high and aimed at the rim. It was not a hopeless effort to beat the buzzer. It was not a Hail Mary. Instead, it was a smooth, confident, perfect jump shot from 42 feet that found nothing but net. The Central bench went nuts. The small crowd screamed. As Sooley backed away, skipping in celebration and smiling, always smiling, he glanced at Coach Britt, who stood frozen, his mouth wide open. He managed to nod, as if to say, “Do it again.”

The game was not being televised, but every game was filmed and “The Shot” was duly recorded. A manager would post it later and it made the rounds.

Melvin Montgomery, the junior center, grabbed a rebound and bounced the ball to Mitch Rocker, who took his time and set up the offense. Sooley shoved his man, peeled off a screen, and popped open deep in a corner. Mitch got the ball to him and he went up, far above his struggling defender, and launched one from 30 feet. Nothing but net.

A minute later, he hit his third straight bomb and Eastern Shore called time to regroup. The short break didn’t help. Sooley missed his next one, then faked his man out of his shoes and drove hard for a dunk.

“Get the ball to Sooley!” Lonnie hissed at Mitch as he dribbled by. The play was designed for Sooley to spin off a screen and take a bounce pass and then shoot off the catch. He did and jumped high over their center for an easy shot. With his height and amazing leap, his release was level with the basket and he seemed unstoppable.

Sooley finished the game with 17 points in 14 minutes, plus six rebounds, two blocks, and two steals. The locker room was crazy as his teammates and managers, even the coaches, celebrated their new star, and a new season.

Early Wednesday morning, Sooley was in the gym, sitting high in the stands and waiting for the call from Christine Moran. He couldn’t wait to tell his mother and brothers about the game, but the call never came. He tried calling Christine’s cell, but there was no answer, no service. That had happened before and he wasn’t worried. His family was safe, and fed, and the boys were in school, so little else mattered. On his phone he scrolled through the collection of photos Ecko had taken at Rhino Camp, and he watched the video of Beatrice and his brothers speaking into the camera and excitedly asking him questions about his new life. He had watched it a hundred times and it always made him laugh and cry.

He turned on the lights and began shooting.

Bethune-Cookman was 12–8 with only two losses in conference. The Vegas oddsmakers had them at 13-point favorites, even on the road, and they took the floor with some swagger. The Nest had 3,500 seats and was almost full. The student section was packed and loud. Sooley didn’t start but came off the bench at six minutes and couldn’t wait to get the ball. Too eager, he put up a long brick, but followed it with the rebound, which he fired down low to Roy Tice for an easy dunk that tied the score. On the next trip down, he landed a hard elbow in the kidney of his defender, bounced off, took a pass from Murray, and leaped toward the ceiling with a gorgeous shot that caught nothing but net. It was the first three of the game for Central, the first of many.

In practice, and firing away with the confidence of a real gunner, he was now unstoppable from long range. The coaches had decided to turn him loose with a standing green light. The old offense had sputtered badly. Why not build a new one around Sooley?

When he hit his third bomb, Bethune called time. Their best defender was a 6'5" small forward with lightning-quick hands. He dogged Sooley from mid-court on as the rest of the defense waited to collapse on him. Sooley loved a great pass more than a long basket, and he began dishing off to his open teammates. With all five scoring, Central ripped off a 14–0 run and led by 15 at the half.

Sooley reentered the game with 16 minutes to go and quickly hit a 30-footer. He was 5-for-8 from long range. The next time down there were two defenders waiting on him and that made him smile. Everything made him smile. With so much attention, he decided to stay far away from the basket, and smiled as Murray and Mitch Rocker slashed through the lane, often dishing off to Roy Tice for easy baskets. When the defense retreated to protect the lane, Sooley was more than ready to bomb away. Everything worked, and Central routed Bethune by 20, scoring a season high 92 points. Sooley had 24, as did Roy Tice. Sooley also grabbed 11 rebounds, for his first double-double.

Five days later, Central easily beat Norfolk State on the road for its third straight win. Sooley scored 20 and blocked seven shots.

Chapter 39

Coach Jason Grinnell’s brother, Hubert, had played at Duke and was now an assistant coach. As he did several times each season, Hubert arranged some passes for his brother, who brought a few of his players for a game at Cameron Indoor. On a Sunday afternoon, Jason drove Murray, Sooley, and Harry Greenwood to Duke for a nationally televised game against Louisville. Duke was undefeated at 22–0 and had been number one since long before the season started. Louisville was ranked fourth and had lost only twice.

They arrived early and walked through the tent city, where students who were paying $50,000 a year in tuition camped out for days to get tickets. It was an impressive sight, and Sooley could not help but think of his mother and brothers living in a tent for months now, a tent they were lucky to have but with no idea how long they would have it.

Inside, they toured the Duke Basketball Museum and Athletics Hall of Fame, a plush addition to Cameron. It was filled with trophies of Duke’s five national titles and bronze busts of their great All-Americans — Johnny Dawkins, Mike Gminski, Christian Laettner, Grant Hill, Jay Williams, Shane Battier. There were plenty of them. There were highlights on large screens and interactive videos. Hubert welcomed them and showed them around. He led them to the court, named for Coach K, and pointed to dozens of championship banners and retired jerseys hanging from the ceiling. The student section was already packed and the Crazies were roaring, an hour before the game.

Sooley, who had played in the Amway Center in Orlando, was surprised by the coziness of Cameron Indoor. Hubert laughed and told the familiar story of the time when Duke wanted to build a 20,000-seat palace to honor its coach. But K said no. Cameron was good for at least a 10-point advantage against any opponent. Its 9,300 crazed fans could make more noise than any crowd twice its size. Every opposing player would admit privately to some level of intimidation.

Their seats were two rows behind the Duke bench, close enough to almost touch the Blue Devil players. They watched the pregame warm-ups in awe as Cameron rocked with excitement. The four NBA-bound freshmen — Kevin Washington, Tyrell Miller, Akeem Akaman, and Darnell Coe — were all scoring and rebounding in double figures, and the pundits were discussing whether there was room for all of them on the first team All-American. Another favorite argument was which one would go highest in the draft, but there was little doubt they were all first-rounders. Sooley watched them with admiration and no small amount of envy. They were his age, had already attained the status of greatness, and would soon be wealthy stars. Though The Nest was only 2.9 miles away, it was in another world.

The game lived up to its hype. Both teams were loaded with talent and superbly coached, and they played to a draw in the first half. In the second, Duke’s deep bench became a factor as its relentless defense wore down the Cardinals. With six minutes to go, the inevitable happened. Duke’s long-range bombers got hot. For this game it was Tyrell Miller and Darnell Coe, and they buried Louisville with a barrage of threes. The crowd got even louder and at times Sooley couldn’t hear himself think.

He would never forget the experience. He loved the spectacle, the action, the back-and-forth of two great teams, but he was also convinced that he belonged on that court. It was time to step up his game.

And he wasn’t alone. Though Hubert had yet to tell his brother, he and another Duke assistant had begun quiet discussions about approaching Sooley with the idea of a transfer. They had heard the rumors, watched some film, and planned to sneak into The Nest for a game. If they became convinced, they would broach the subject with Coach K.

Driving home, with their ears still ringing, Coach Grinnell entertained them with the story of his first and only game at Cameron. He had played for four years at Wofford, and in what was scheduled to be one of those early December cakewalks his team had fought Duke to a tie in regulation, then lost by three in overtime. He had missed a 30-footer at the buzzer, a shot that he should have made and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was snowing again when they returned to their campus, the other school in Durham.

Howard rolled into town leading the MEAC with only one loss and playing well. Vegas thought they should win by nine.

Coach Britt mentioned this to his team in the locker room and, of course, reminded them of the egg they had laid in Washington on December 19. An embarrassing loss by 31, and it was time for revenge.

Three straight conference wins, along with the emergence of a freshman star, and the crowds were growing. The Nest was near capacity when the teams took the floor, and the Central students were in a raucous mood. The frigid temperature outside seemed to affect both teams, and neither scored in the first two minutes. At 15:20, and with only four points on the board, Coach Britt called time and put in Sooley and Jabari Nix. When Jabari missed a 10-foot jumper, the rebound went long and Howard broke fast. As its point guard sailed in for an easy layup, Sooley sprang from what seemed like mid-court, slapped the ball hard against the backboard, then grabbed the rebound and rifled a pass to Melvin Montgomery, who was trailing badly. He walked the ball to the rim and slammed it home. A replay would show that Sooley’s block was goaltending, but the refs had been too stunned to call it. The Howard coach was livid, wouldn’t back down, and finally the refs had no choice but to tee him up. As Mitch Rocker took the penalty shot, the Central students began, loudly, “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!”

On the inbound, Sooley made eye contact with Murray, who had the ball, and broke for the corner. Murray’s pass was perfect, and before any Howard player could react, Sooley was soaring toward the roof from 30 feet with a perfect jumper. He followed it with two more from long range, and the windows in the old gym were rattling.

As a rookie, Sooley was aware of the protocol, and the last thing he wanted was loose talk in the locker room, the kind of tension created by a freshman hotshot who hogged the ball. He passed up a good look and fired a beautiful pass to Roy Tice, who lost it out of bounds. As the clock ticked it became apparent that none of his teammates could buy a basket. Howard was tall and tough inside and gave up nothing. No problem. Sooley backed away, peeled off a screen, and hit his fourth straight from beyond the arc. He missed his next two and began passing. At 3:35, he came out for a breather and watched Howard go up by six. With a minute to go in the half, Roy Tice, a real banger inside, picked up his third foul and Lonnie yanked him. Down by three, and with the ball, Murray killed some clock and set up the last play. His pass was slapped away and rolled to Sooley, who was almost at mid-court. His defender backed away, daring him to shoot, and with eight seconds to go, he did. Wide open, he skied anyway, and lofted a beautiful shot that tied the score.

The crowd roared even louder, and the team hustled to the locker room with the chant of “Sooley! Sooley Sooley!” in the background.

He had 14 points, four threes, and a dunk. He was the offense, and at that moment his teammates were willing to put the game on his back. So were the coaches. They huddled away from the players and agreed on the strategy: Just get the damned ball to Sooley.

All eyes were on him as he sat on the bench for the first three very long minutes of the second half. When Coach Britt called his name and he walked to the scorer’s table, the crowd reacted. So did Howard, but it was impossible to defend a long jump shot cocked high above the head of a 6'7" player who could spring over the backboard. He hit two of them, missed the third, and when he hit his third — and seventh out of nine — Howard called time. Their coach decided that the only way to stop him was to foul, and hard.

Sooley spent most of the second half at the free throw line, calmly making 10-of-12. He finished the game with 39, half the team’s total, and the third most in school history. Howard, humbled, limped home with a 12-point loss.

Late that night in their dorm room, Sooley and Murray had a delightful time on social media. The Central faithful were lighting it up. Girls were calling and leaving all manner of messages. Sooley’s phone number was out there and the texts poured in by the dozens.

On Friday, February 12, the Eagles missed classes and rode the bus five hours to Baltimore. At one o’clock the following day, they defeated Coppin State by 18 points. Sooley, still coming off the bench but playing 29 minutes, scored 31 and blocked four shots. They spent two more nights in Baltimore, and on Monday beat Morgan State by 15 in a wild shootout. The Eagles put up 98 points, 36 by Sooley. Back home the following Saturday, they beat South Carolina State by 14 in front of a standing-room-only crowd. The win, their seventh straight, evened their record at 13–13. Though there was now talk of playing in March, they were well aware that their slow start would be hard to overcome.

Coach Britt gave them Sunday off but wanted them to report to the gym anyway. The team doctor had ordered routine physicals. Sooley weighed in at 227 and measured six feet seven and a half, still growing. The team’s press guide, printed the previous November, listed him at 6'6", 210 pounds.

The next day Murray showed him how to change his phone number.

Chapter 40

The tents were not designed to serve as permanent and began to deteriorate after six months in the elements. The rainy season was over but the water and mud had stained them so badly that the rows of crisp white tents were now a hodgepodge of brown dwellings patched with strips of old clothes and scraps of plastic and sheet metal. Some sagged, others completely collapsed, still others had been moved to other sections of the sprawling camp, many replaced by shanties erected with cardboard and whatever materials could be found. The baking sun further eroded the tents’ stitching, seams, and zippers. Patching the holes became a daily chore.

Beatrice purchased three bright blue tarps at the market, one for her, two for her friends on either side, and they draped them over their roofs and tried to secure them with baling wire. The tarps were a luxury and soon attracted unwanted attention.

Each morning they arose early and left to find a line at a food distribution point. After breakfast, she and her friends walked their eight children to school an hour away. Another friend, an elderly gentleman across the alley, kept an eye on their tents. Beatrice paid him with tins of canned meat.

Tensions were mounting in the camp as ethnic rivalries spilled over the border, and as the war back home raged on. The Dinka were blamed by the Huer, Bari, and Azande for causing the current war, the atrocities, the diaspora that forced them into the refugee camps. Insults were common and then the fighting began. Teenagers and old men in gangs attacked each other with sticks and rocks. Ugandan soldiers were sent in to quell the violence, and their presence became part of life at Rhino. With hatreds that went back for decades, the atmosphere was tense, a powder keg waiting for a match.

One morning Beatrice and her friends returned from the walk to school and at first noticed nothing unusual. The coveted blue tarps were in place, but inside the tents everything was gone. Thieves had slashed gaps in the rear of the tents and stolen their food, clothing, blankets, pillows, empty water jugs, the Central tee shirts and souvenirs, everything. Their guard, the old man across the alley, and a Dinka, was missing.

The three women did not panic and said nothing. To do so would be to attract even more unwanted attention, and where would they report the crimes? There were no police, and the Ugandan soldiers were there to stop the fighting, not waste time with petty crime.

They went about the task of figuring out how to patch their tents again. When she was alone, Beatrice sat in hers and had a good cry.

How could someone steal from the poorest souls on earth?

Central finished the month of February with three more wins — at home against Norfolk State and Delaware State, and on the road at Eastern Shore. They were 12–5 in conference, 16–13 overall, and gearing up for the MEAC tournament, one they had to win to advance to the Big Dance. Sooley was averaging 31 points and eight rebounds a game. He had worked his way into the starting lineup and getting 32 minutes, more than anyone except Mitch Rocker, who rarely came out. The team had settled nicely into an eight-man rotation with Murray and Rocker in the front court, Sooley and Roy Tice at forward, and Melvin Montgomery at center. Dmitri Robbins, Duffy Sunday, and Jabari Nix came off the bench and were getting plenty of time.

The season’s final game was at home against Florida A&M, the regular season champs at 15–2. The game was on a Saturday afternoon, March 5, and three days before, during a practice, the AD interrupted things with the thrilling news that ESPN was coming to The Nest.

The news electrified the campus as 8,000 students scrambled for tickets. The gym’s capacity was only 3,500 and a fourth of the seats belonged to season ticket holders. Coach Britt set aside five passes for each player. Sooley gave three to some girls he was hanging out with.

He was featured in a pregame story that tracked the last nine months of his life. There was footage of him hamming it up in Orlando with the boys from South Sudan, and a canned shot of the refugee camp at Rhino Camp South. The reporter talked about the violence back home, the death of his father, the plight of his mother and brothers. There was a request to interview him for the segment, but Coach Britt said no. He didn’t want the distraction, and he didn’t want any player to get too much attention. Sooley was fine with the decision. Miss Ida had warned him to stay away from reporters, and Coach Britt concurred.

On game day, the fans arrived early and choked the aisles. Maintenance had managed to squeeze in temporary bleachers for three hundred more, a move that required approval from City Hall. The mayor of Durham was a Central alum and the AD fixed her up with great seats.

An hour before tip-off, the band roared to life and the students danced under the backboard. The cheerleaders kept the frenzy going. The Eagle Dance Team shimmied and pulsated. The Nest had never been so packed or so loud. When FAMU jogged onto the court to warm up, they were met with a thunderous wave of boos. Seconds later, Mitch Rocker led Central onto the court and the place exploded. After the initial roar, the students immediately began their now customary chant of “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!”

He smiled, laughed with his teammates, did his layups and dunks, and tried to ignore the racket. He knew he was being watched closely, and he had become accustomed to the attention, but it was difficult to ignore and often an irritating distraction. Life off the court was getting complicated and he didn’t much like it. Murray was becoming his advisor, screener, protector, pit bull. Murray was also assuring him that there was no jealousy on the team. Hell, they were thrilled to be in the midst of a 10-game winning streak and to have a sudden star scoring 30 points a game. Fire away, Sooley!

The crowd quieted somewhat for the national anthem, then exploded again when the Eagles’ starters were introduced. Television cameras seemed to be everywhere. ESPN banners hung high in the corners.

Coach Britt’s dream opening was a long three by Sooley to light up the gym. The play had been practiced at length. Because Sooley could out-jump Melvin Montgomery by at least six inches, as well as every other center in the conference, he was now handling the tip-off. For the fourth game in a row, he tapped it easily back to Murray, who brought the ball up the court. He pointed this way and that, called a play that didn’t exist, seemed to be frustrated with something, shook his head, but kept an eye on the clock. At 20 seconds, every Eagle sprinted to a different spot. Sooley spun from the free throw line, darted to the basket, lost his defender to a hard screen by Roy Tice, popped out under the basket with one foot out of bounds, kept moving, peeled off another screen and caught a bounce pass in the corner 30 feet from the basket, with a defender scrambling to catch up. He pulled up high and lofted a perfect jump shot. When it hit the bottom of the net, The Nest exploded.

It would take a few minutes for the FAMU players to adjust to the mayhem, to realize they couldn’t hear each other or their coach, to find their groove, to just settle down and play basketball. In the meantime, it was bombs away. The second time down the court Mitch Rocker whipped a pass behind his back and Sooley caught it as he skied from 24 feet. On the other end, FAMU burned almost the entire shot clock before kicking the ball out of bounds. On Central’s third possession, Murray missed a short jumper but followed it in, got his rebound, bounced it out to Mitch Rocker, who faked a shot, got his man in the air, then fired a pass to Sooley, who was well-covered. Didn’t matter. With his defender hanging on, he sprang high and hit his third straight. A whistle nailed the obvious foul, and Sooley converted for a gorgeous four-pointer. He had the first 10 points of the game, and in less than two minutes.

FAMU missed again and Mitch Rocker walked the ball up. Sooley popped out of the scrum and took a pass standing 35 feet from the basket. He faked a shot, sending two defenders high in the air. He then streaked for the basket and dished off to Roy Tice for an easy dunk.

Down 12–0, FAMU took a time-out.

The Rattlers were not 15–2 by accident, and within five minutes closed the gap to 16–10. After making his first dramatic threes from long range, Sooley cooled off and missed his next two. On a short jumper, he drew a foul from his man, a good defensive player. Sooley decided to work on the third foul, which was called at 8:04. During a TV time-out at 3:56, Central led 39–34, and an old-fashioned shootout was under way. At that pace, both teams would score at least 90.

At the half, Central led 48–41. Sooley had 19 points and was 5-for-9 from behind the arc.

FAMU tied the game at 60. Seconds later, Sooley’s man got his fourth foul. His replacement was two inches shorter and a step slower. It was time to make a move. Murray fed him at the top of the key and Sooley drilled an 18-footer. The teams swapped baskets and the lead changed as both defenses began to lag from fatigue. Sooley realized his man was no match and began waving for the ball. He hit two straight threes and suddenly Central was up by 10. The lead vanished when Sooley took a breather at 5:10. Mitch and Murray took turns missing bad shots and Lonnie screamed himself hoarse. They couldn’t hear him anyway. He called time with four minutes to go, trailing by two. Sooley reentered the game and his coach gave him the look: “Start shooting and don’t miss.”

He hit two straight and the students spilled out of the bleachers. He missed one, then hit another, all from far beyond the arc. The Rattlers picked an unfortunate time to go cold and Central was poised to run them out of the gym. When Sooley hit his 11th three-point shot, out of 20, FAMU used its last time-out to stanch the bleeding, but it was too late.

At the buzzer, the students stampeded onto the court in a rowdy celebration. The players were swarmed and hugged and high-fived and thoroughly adored. ESPN was thrilled not only with such an exciting game, but also with the discovery of a true star, one it had introduced to the rest of the country. Sooley scored 47 points, had 11 rebounds, and 10 assists. A triple-double.

An announcer on the sideline tried to interview him, but he was too busy working his way off the court.

He and Murray fled to the Walkers’ for a Sunday night pizza. Life in the dorm had become too complicated. Interruptions at all hours. Girls knocking on the door. Indeed, Sooley was finding it difficult to do anything on campus other than hide in the gym. Six weeks earlier he’d hardly been noticed in class. Now he was signing autographs and posing for photos. A ten-minute walk from one class to another took forever as he was pestered. Everyone wanted a photo, something to post, something to brag about. Even reporters were calling. He was ignoring social media altogether.

In the basement game room, they watched North Carolina hand Duke its first and only loss of the season, a double-overtime thriller at Cameron. They watched SportsCenter for the recap, and waited and waited for some highlights from the other campus in Durham. It finally came, and it was worth the wait. They had spliced together a video of all 11 three-point shots, and there was Sooley gunning from all over the court as the host narrated the assault. A brief clip showed the cheerleaders and the crowd as “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” shook the building.

“A star is born,” declared the host. Samuel loved it. Murray was proud of his friend, but he was also beginning to worry.

Chapter 41

Samuel moved into the Walkers’ basement and Murray settled into his old bedroom upstairs. Early Monday morning, Ida called Coach Britt and unloaded about how the kid was being treated. He couldn’t go to class, couldn’t stay in his dorm room, couldn’t enjoy a meal in the cafeteria, couldn’t even walk across campus without drawing a crowd. Lonnie was concerned and promised that Sooley’s well-being was his greatest priority.

Before practice, Lonnie met with the seniors, Mitch Rocker, Roy Tice, and Dmitri Robbins, and discussed the problem and ways to handle it. If they took a heavy-handed approach and demanded that the students and fans back off, then their young star might appear arrogant and ungrateful. If they did nothing, Sooley might succumb to all those girls and other distractions.

They decided to ignore it for now and get out of town.

Early Tuesday morning, the bus left campus for the three-hour ride to Norfolk and the MEAC tournament. The players would miss almost a full week of classes, and the coaches pushed them to study on the bus. They opened their laptops and textbooks, put on their headphones, and promptly fell asleep. When they were awake, they listened to music and played video games.

The top eight teams in the conference would square off in the Norfolk Scope, a 10,000-seat arena that had hosted the tournament many times. The winner received an automatic bid to March Madness. Everybody else went home.

The games began at noon Wednesday, and from the first whistle nothing went as predicted. FAMU, the number one seed, was apparently still hungover from its visit to Durham the previous Saturday and came out flat. NC A&T, the eighth seed, shot 70 percent for the game and won by 18. A week earlier, FAMU had been 24–5 and seemed a cinch for the NCAA tournament. Suddenly, they were scrambling to catch an earlier flight back to Tallahassee and wondering what happened to their season.

In the second game, Norfolk State, the seventh seed, easily manhandled Howard, the number two seed, and sent the Bison home in a hurry as well.

Before the third game, Coach Britt yelled at his players and told them that all the underdogs were winning. They might be 11-point favorites against South Carolina State, but season records and Vegas odds meant nothing. His message was well-received. Sooley scored 15 points in the first half, 19 in the second, but he was proudest of his eight assists, five of which went to Murray, who scored 18 points, his career high. Six Eagles hit for double figures and the team shot 64 percent. It was their 12th straight win.

Number 13 followed the next day with a rout of Delaware State.

After the game, the team showered quickly and returned to the stands to watch Norfolk against A&T. They would play the winner on Saturday with the title on the line, with an automatic bid to the Madness.

Because their campus was close by, Norfolk State drew a large, boisterous crowd and The Scope was more than half full at tip-off. The Eagles found an empty section up near the ceiling and snacked on pizza and hot dogs hauled in by the managers. Murray ventured away to find a restroom, and as he was headed back to his seat he was confronted by one of the friendliest faces he had ever seen. Huge smile, perfect teeth, hand thrust out with the greeting, “Hey Murray, I’m Reynard Owen, with Team Savage. Got a minute?”

It was more of an assault and Murray had no choice but to take his hand and shake it. “Team who?”

“Team Savage. We’re a sports management company based out of Miami.”

Murray managed to free his hand and take a step back. Disengaged, but still very much captive. “What kind of company, you say?”

“Sports management. We represent professional athletes, mainly basketball players.”

“Oh, I see. You’re an agent.”

Reynard shook it off with an even broader smile. “No, I’m not, but my boss is.”

Murray took another step back as reality finally hit. “Okay, okay, I got you now. You want to talk about my roommate but you don’t want to approach him because that would violate NCAA regs and you don’t want to get on the blacklist. Who’s your boss, you say?”

“Arnie Savage. Reps a lot of big names.”

“Such as?”

Like a magician, Reynard pulled a business card out of the air and said, “Too numerous to mention. Take a look at his website, lots of stars. You think Sooley might want to talk?”

“No, he does not want to talk, not now anyway. Such a conversation is off-limits during the season, you know that. I’m not even sure this conversation is a good idea.” Murray started to shove the card back, but decided to keep it for future reference and stuck it in his pocket.

Reynard, who lived this routine daily, had heard it all before and had a dozen routine responses. “Nothing wrong with the two of us having a chat, Murray, now or later. But that kid better get ready for it. He’s headed for the draft.”

“Don’t tell me anything about Sooley,” Murray said, suddenly irritated. “I’ve been with him every day since August and I bang heads with him in practice. I’ve watched him grow and know him better than anyone.”

“He’s probably a lottery pick.”

“No he’s not! What do you know?”

“It’s my business.”

“Oh really? Did you play in college?”

“Community school near Chicago,” Reynard shot back, unfazed.

“Okay, look, I’m not strutting here, but I do play at this level and I know the game. I know Sooley better than anyone, and he ain’t ready for the NBA.”

Actually, there had been whispers in the locker room. An obscure and less-than-reliable online scouting blog had listed Samuel Sooleymon as a potential new one-and-done after last Sunday’s performance against FAMU. But then, what wasn’t on the internet? Murray wasn’t sure his roommate had even seen it. But there was talk, and that kind of gossip rarely died down, especially when the kid was hitting from almost mid-court.

Reynard was a slick professional and he never stopped smiling. “Okay, okay, let’s not argue here. His stock is going up with every game and scouts are taking notice. Arnie Savage is the best in the business. Keep us in mind.”

Murray smiled and said, “Sure.”

Returning to his seat, Murray debated telling Coach Britt about the encounter, and decided to let it go. If Reynard was right, and a voice told Murray that he was indeed, then the vultures would soon descend.

A month earlier, on January 9, Central had picked up its first conference win on the road in Greensboro against its biggest rival, North Carolina A&T. It was a 15-point blowout over a seriously outmatched opponent. What no one at Central knew at the time was that six of A&T’s players, including three starters, were in the clutches of a nasty bout of food poisoning and almost too weak to get dressed. The coach did not complain, but during a routine phone conversation the following day he mentioned this to Lonnie, an old friend. Once over the bad food, A&T put together a respectable season, finishing 18–12 and 9–9 in conference.

On Thursday night, they defeated Norfolk State in overtime to advance to the finals. On Saturday afternoon, they lined up against Central for the right to advance to the NCAA tournament.

For the sixth straight game, Sooley easily controlled the tip-off, slapping it back to Mitch Rocker. The designed play worked perfectly until the shot bounced off the rim. Sooley missed his first four long attempts and stopped shooting. His defender, Carson, was a 6'6" strong forward who pinched, grabbed, shoved, and never stopped talking trash. He and Sooley tied up on a loose ball and hit the floor, squirming. Two refs dived between them to prevent a brawl, and both players got up ready to fight. The teams were separated and both coaches settled down their players. Sooley, though, had been talked out of his game. He sat the remaining 10 minutes of the first half, sulking, the smile gone. A&T led by eight. He had only two points, a cheap put-back.

Out of sync on both ends, Coach Britt had his work cut out for him at half-time. He barked at Sooley, told him to stop pouting like a ten-year-old, get in the damned game physically and mentally, and so on. Sooley would start the second half down low and try to draw fouls on Carson.

Central’s two guards, Murray and Mitch Rocker, slowed down the game and kept the score close. At 14:20, A&T was up by 10 when Carson got his third whistle. Sooley watched with a smile as Carson went to the bench, then hit two free throws.

It was time for the long game. Sooley moved outside, worked through a screen, took the pass, pulled up from 25 feet and hit his first bomb. His defender, a 6'5" redshirt freshman, appeared glued to the floor. Murray stole the inbound pass and fired a bullet across the court to his roommate, who was in the vicinity of his last launching point. Sooley hit another.

Carson’s pit stop was brief. At 12:40, he hustled back into the game and immediately bumped into Sooley, hard. A ref was watching and warned him. Sooley just smiled and relaxed. Roy Tice hit a short bank shot to tie the score. On defense, Sooley backed off Carson, daring him to take a shot. He was not a scorer, but wide open he had no choice. Sooley sprang high, slapped it away, and then laughed in his face. A long rebound kicked out to Mitch who bounced it to Murray in the middle for a three-on-one. Sooley, blitzing from the left, took a short bounce pass and was soaring for a dunk when Carson assaulted him from behind with a fierce body block. Sooley sprawled into the backboard padding and landed hard. Whistles shrilled from all directions as the refs ran in quick to avoid a war. Lonnie was yelling for a technical and both benches were inching onto the floor.

Sooley bounced up with a smile and said he was okay.

The assistant coaches got their players back where they belonged and the situation settled down. A ref got in Carson’s face and pointed toward the locker room. It was flagrant, no question about it, and he was out of the game.

Sooley made both free throws. On the inbound, Lonnie called for a play they had perfected. Sooley bounced off two screens, took the ball deep in a corner, alone, and hit his fourth three of the game. Central was up by 5.

The flagrant foul and the near fight ignited the Eagles, and they could feel a run. After winning 13 in a row, and all by double figures, they knew the game and the title belonged to them. They also knew their star had finally found his range. With seven minutes to go, a tight game became a blowout as A&T’s defense withered under a barrage of Sooley’s long jumpers mixed brilliantly with slashing drives to the basket. He ended up with 28 points, the tournament MVP award, and the Eagles left the court holding a MEAC championship trophy for the second time in their history.

The bus ride home was a riot.

Chapter 42

Sunday, usually known as the Sabbath but on March 13 even better known as Selection Sunday, the doors to The Nest opened at 2 p.m. and the students streamed in. For only the second time in Central’s history, the team had made it to March Madness and it was a moment to be savored. A celebration was in order. A trophy was coming home, one that would be enshrined in the lobby and admired for decades to come. The crowd was there to celebrate, to say thanks, to admire their heroes, and to find out who their next opponent would be. There were no worries about making it to The Big Dance. Yesterday’s win gave the Eagles an automatic bid. Others might be sweating the cut, but not Central.

For smaller schools and less dominant programs, an invitation meant a ticket to join the biggest party in all of American sports. The perennials took the trip for granted, another three or four games added to the end of each season’s schedule. For the others, though, it was a rare and cherished moment.

Coach Britt held a team lunch in the locker room. As the players gathered they watched the ESPN and CBS experts ramble on with their bracketologies and predictions. Trying to guess where the committee would place sixty-eight teams was impossible but had never stopped the analysts from trying. In the midst of the avalanche of data, it was mentioned several times that North Carolina Central, with an automatic bid, had the worst record in the field at 20–13. It was also noted that the team had won 14 straight, all going away, and had a star freshman who was averaging 30 a game. These little bits were offered quickly because no one took Central seriously. It was, after all, an HBCU, and those schools had always struggled in the tournament. The MEAC title did little to impress the commentators.

The NCAA postseason playoffs began in 1939 as a single-elimination tournament with eight teams. It expanded to sixteen teams in 1952 and thirty-two in 1978. As the college game gained popularity, and became more exciting with dunks, three-pointers, and a shot clock, the tournament, nicknamed and then branded as “March Madness,” kept growing. In 2000, it doubled in size again with sixty-four teams, half of which received automatic bids by winning their conference titles. The expansion was deemed wide enough, but every year there was controversy as a few teams were left out. In 2011, an attempt to remedy this was put in place with the addition of four play-in games for low-seeded teams. Dubbed the “First Four,” these early games were played in Dayton, Ohio.

Coach Britt, like all coaches, desperately wanted to avoid the First Four. The extra game meant a long road trip and less time for practice. And the play-in teams were routinely routed in the first round.

As he and his assistants ate sandwiches and chips with the players, they listened to the experts. Though no two agreed on much of anything, there seemed to be a general consensus that Central, its automatic bid notwithstanding, was headed for a play-in game. The Eagles’ 13 losses bothered everyone but them.

The team enjoyed the atmosphere and soaked in the glory of a fine winning season, especially after such an awful start. One more game, and a slice of March Madness, was icing on the cake.

Lonnie now averaged 21 wins a year for the past five seasons, and though he was focused on his boys, his thoughts of moving on had been revived. He was still reeling from a back-channel call last night from an old acquaintance. An offer from an ACC school to be associate head coach would be arranged, but he had to bring Sooley with him. Lonnie had been so shocked by the call that he had yet to whisper it to his wife. The sport could be treacherous.

The racket from outside was growing as the bleachers and stands shook the floor. The band was at full volume. At 3 p.m., it was time for the team to make their appearance. Mitch Rocker held the MEAC tournament trophy and led the team down the tunnel to the floor and onto a stage under a retracted backboard. The gym exploded with a roar that surprised the players. The court was packed with students pushing toward the stage, like crazed fans at a rock concert. It took a long time to calm them, but when things calmed down the speeches began. The President, a dean, the Director of Athletics.

The scoreboard hung from the ceiling and was positioned high above mid-court. A JumboTron was on the wish list but years away. Four large screens had been mounted, one in each corner of the court, and before Coach Britt took the mike there was a ten-minute highlight reel of the season, with heavy emphasis on the past ten games. The students screamed every time Sooley hit another bomb.

Coach Britt thanked them for their support. He and Mitch handed over the trophy to the AD. Lonnie asked Sooley to step forward and presented him with the plaque as tournament MVP. For at least the fourth time in the past hour, the chant of “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” rattled the windows.

When it subsided, Coach Britt motioned toward the mike, but Sooley quickly begged off. The idea of making a speech terrified him.

There was a break in the action as they waited for the Selection. At four, the crowd grew quiet and the players took their seats on the stage. CBS and its A team began by announcing the first four national seeds: Duke, Gonzaga, Villanova, and Kansas. Then the First Four: Cornell would play-in against UMass; DePaul would play-in against Iowa State; BYU would play-in against Creighton.

And Florida would play-in against the Eagles of North Carolina Central, a 16th seed. The crowd roared with delight. The players jumped up with high fives and celebrated for the cameras. The coaches bear-hugged each other as if a quick trip to Dayton, followed by a game with Duke, was just exactly what they had in mind. With a big smile, Lonnie looked at Jason Grinnell and said, “What the hell?”

Jason, smiling, said, “No respect, man, no respect.”

Coach Ron McCoy quipped, with a smile, “We’re so screwed!”

The celebration eventually died down as the team and its fans watched the rest of the Selection. The coaches managed to keep smiling and feigning excitement, but they felt as though they had been shafted. There was little time for a practice. They knew nothing about Florida, except that they had beaten Kansas in the SEC/Big 12 Challenge, and had beaten Kentucky in Rupp Arena in early January. In an up-and-down season, they had won 22, lost 12, split their conference games, then almost beaten Auburn in the tournament final.

Lonnie left the stage and huddled with the AD. Travel plans had to be expedited. A private air charter would be needed, though it was certainly not in their budget. Other details were vague.

They agreed that they got a raw deal, but they had made it to the Big Dance, barely, and it was important to seize the moment. The assistant coaches were on their phones calling other coaches, scouts, former players, friends, anyone who might know anything about the Florida Gators. When the Selection was over and the crowd filed out, the players returned to the locker room and dressed for practice.

At 9 p.m. the first odds were posted online. Florida was a 26-point favorite.

During the night, an ice storm swept through and paralyzed most of the state. At daybreak, the campus, as well as most of Durham and Raleigh, was without electricity. The airport was closed. The team’s charter jet was stranded in Philadelphia. One option was to hop on a rented bus and head to Ohio, but the roads were treacherous for at least the first hundred miles, and no one was really that excited about spending the day on a bus. The gym was cold and dark; practice was out of the question. Coach Britt paced around his house, draped in a blanket, waiting on cell service, waiting on electricity and heat, waiting for the damned ice to melt so he could get his team out of town. He almost cried when he glanced outside and saw snow falling on his patio.

Around 1 p.m., the Raleigh-Durham airport opened with limited service. There was still no electricity in the area and computers weren’t online. Some cell service returned around three.

Just after four, the entire metro area blacked out again as power was lost.

At 8 a.m. Tuesday, game day, a charter bus left The Nest with ten players, four coaches, four team managers, the AD, two women on his staff, the sports information director, the director of basketball operations, a trainer, the team doctor, a strength coach, and a volunteer chaplain. For two hours, the driver inched along with the traffic on Interstate 40 until Raleigh was behind them. In Winston-Salem he turned north on I-77 and confronted more ice and slow traffic. Coach Britt, as well as the other three coaches and half the players, tracked their progress with a cell phone app using GPS. Barring any more bad luck, they should reach Dayton at 6 p.m. Tip-off was at eight.

Lonnie was certain that, in the colorful history of March Madness, no team had ever been so ill-prepared. He stayed on his phone, calling friends in the business who might be able to pass along even the slightest insight into the Florida players and coaches. His assistants did the same. The AD, after reporting the team’s travel progress to a contact person with the NCAA, and lodging another complaint about getting such a raw deal, called the AD at Florida and discussed the possibility of delaying the game for an hour. The players needed to stretch, unwind, shoot a few, grab something to eat. The Florida AD agreed, but the NCAA said no. There was a contract with CBS.

The Gators had zipped into Dayton by charter jet Monday afternoon and enjoyed a nice practice. They had returned to the court midday Tuesday for a leisurely shootaround.

The Eagles arrived at the University of Dayton Arena at ten minutes after six. A local television station had been alerted to the story, and the players were filmed getting off the bus, finally. Coach Britt had no comment.

They changed quickly into their maroon road uniforms and took the court. Florida had agreed to keep the gym locked until seven to allow a short, private practice.

In spite of the ice and delays and interminable bus ride, the players were in great spirits and even laughed at their misfortune. Caged for ten long hours, they were eager to stretch, sprint, jump, and burn off some energy. Lonnie would later say that it was the best half hour of practice of the season. Back in the locker room, they feasted on power bars and sports drinks and quietly listened to music with headphones. There were some nervous whispers, a laugh or two.

When it was time for the show, Lonnie huddled them close and said, “Two things, men. There are two things I want you to know. First, the experts believe we are twenty-six-point underdogs. Twenty-six. That means that they believe we don’t belong here. We’re not good enough. We’ve lost too many games. It means that no one respects us. Not those people out there. Not the other team. Not the selection committee. Nobody at the NCAA. Nobody in the press. None of the talking heads on television. We have not one ounce of respect anywhere. So, men, we have to earn it. The second thing is this.”

Lonnie held up a sheet of paper. “This is from the Tampa Bay Times, the largest newspaper in Florida. Its sportswriters cover the University of Florida. Yesterday, a reporter had a chat with Jerry Biles, Florida’s head coach. I know Jerry. He’s okay.”

With drama, Lonnie studied the sheet of paper. “They were discussing the big game this Friday up in Memphis when Florida will play Duke, the number one national seed, in the first round. Here is what Coach Biles had to say, and I quote: ‘We got an easy draw in the first round, not so easy in the second. But we’re not afraid of Duke. We beat Kansas and Kentucky and we can play with anyone. Bring ’em on.’ ”

He lowered it, glared at his players, and repeated, “An easy draw.” He wadded it up and tossed it away. “An easy draw, and they’re already talking about Duke Thursday night in Memphis. As if this game is already over. As if we don’t exist.”

No one moved, no one seemed to breathe. Not a sound.

He lowered his voice and said, “I doubt if these jackasses have even bothered to scout us, so we’ll shake things up a bit. Sooley, you’re not starting. You’ll go in around three minutes so stay ready. We’ll run Kobe Four so lock in now on the shot.”

He tapped his palms together and said, “Men, we don’t deserve respect. Yet. Respect is out there on the floor, just waiting for us to go get it.”

Chapter 43

"Florida controlled the tip and Central went into a half-court press, with every player itching to scratch and claw and ready to fight off screens. A bad jumper bounced off the rim and Melvin cleared it to Rocker, who took his time bringing the ball up court. With eight seconds on the shot clock, Murray missed a 20-footer. Florida missed again, as did Central. Both teams were sky-high and still nervous. The ice was broken when Murray mishandled a pass that led to an easy fast break. Florida had two 5'10" senior guards who were quicker and faster than anything Central had seen in the MEAC. The first foul was whistled at 16:38 and Coach Britt yelled for Sooley. Down the court, he posted high and at 15 seconds sprinted toward the goal, fought off a screen, and popped out clear in the far corner. The pass from Mitch was perfect, as was the 30-footer.

Two days of complete rest proved beneficial, and the Eagles were more intense than Lonnie had ever seen them. The ice storm had delivered a gift. They smothered Florida’s bigs and the two small guards weren’t hitting. When Sooley hit his third straight three from downtown, a whistle blew for the under-16-minute time-out. Central was up 11–6 and Florida seemed off balance. In the huddle, Coach Britt continued to hammer away at their role as heavy underdogs who got no respect from Florida or anyone else. He challenged them to play harder.

Florida made no adjustments and seemed willing to see if Sooley might cool off. He did not. He missed his fourth attempt, hit his fifth from 28 feet, and the next time down pumped a fake, sent his man flying, drove hard to the rim, and dished off to Roy Tice for an easy dunk. The score was 16–8 and Florida took a time-out.

In the 14 games he had played, Sooley was hitting 47 percent of his threes, second in the nation. He had no preferred spot. He hit from deep in the corners, fading away, and from near mid-court. Many games ago, his coaches had realized that, for an offense otherwise lacking in gunners, Central’s best game plan was to let the kid fire away at will. Aside from his accuracy, what made his game so lethal was that he often followed his shot and picked off long rebounds that he converted to easy assists down low.

Florida went to their box-and-one and put a 6'5" pickpocket on Sooley. Every time he touched the ball Sooley either took a shot or faked one. The fakes were deadly, as the defender either took the bait or fouled him as he tried to drive. At half-time he had 24 points on six bombs and six free throws. Central led 41–30 but the game did not seem as close as the score. In the locker room, Coach Britt continued his relentless attack on the experts who thought so little of his players. He challenged them to scrap with even more intensity in the second half.

Florida stayed with the box-and-one but put a different defender on Sooley. He was just as ineffective as the previous two. When Sooley hit two short jumpers and stunned the crowd with a behind-the-back alley-oop to Melvin, Florida called another time-out. Their coach stared at the scoreboard in disbelief. 50–34. The Gators were fading and sniping at each other. The sky was falling and there was no way to stop it.

When the lead was 20, with nine minutes to go, Sooley finally saw the chance to make a flashy move, one he had never pulled off in a game. He had tried it in practice several times, with mixed success. The game was not out of reach and Florida had plenty of time for a run, and the last thing he wanted to do was to inspire his opponents with some playground antics. He had an entire repertoire, tricks and odd shots that he learned on the dirt courts of Lotta.

But what the hell? The South Sudanese were known for their daring and risk-taking, and if it worked it would top the SportsCenter highlight reel for the First Four games.

He took a pass at the free throw line with his back to the goal. With both hands, he fired the ball over his head, a bullet that had no chance of going through the rim. It wasn’t supposed to. He quickly spun around, hooked his man, and caught the ball in the lane as it rebounded hard off the backboard. Melvin recognized the play and got in position. Sooley, still airborne and seemingly weightless, held the ball for a split second then floated a soft pass toward the rim as Melvin sprung behind the confused Florida bigs and slammed it down.

The official scorer, also confused, had no choice but to call it a missed shot, followed by an assist. Sooley didn’t care. Lonnie didn’t either. It was two more points, and a backbreaker. Florida called another time-out as the Eagles mobbed Sooley and the crowd went wild.

With six minutes to go, Sooley shot from the arc, followed it, missed, and watched a long rebound turn into an easy Gator basket. They pressed full-court and forced Murray to kick one out of bounds. A 10–0 run followed and the Florida bench came to life. At 3:35 and up 66–56, Lonnie called time and settled down his players. He asked Sooley if he needed a break and he said no. He would not take a break in the second half.

The Eagles had not won 14 in a row with a controlled offense, and Lonnie was not about to try something new. With every defender keeping an eye on Sooley, Mitch Rocker hit a wide-open three, and 30 seconds later Murray did the same. Florida pushed the ball hard, pressed hard, and was soon running out of gas. Sooley had plenty left. He hit his ninth three with 1:40 left to put the game out of reach 80–63. Florida took a bad shot and the rebound kicked out to Murray, who gave no thought to burning the clock. He bounced a pass across the court to Sooley, who was wide open at 30 feet and could have either killed time or driven to the basket. He chose neither and pulled up for his 10th three.

His performance fueled the CBS game recap as the country got its first look at the freshman sensation. The blind pass off the backboard dominated the highlights as the commentators shook their heads. He scored 46, seventh on the all-time tournament list, but still far behind the seemingly untouchable record put up by Notre Dame’s Austin Carr. In a 1970 game against Ohio, Carr scored 61 points, and that was before the three-point shot. With it, Carr would have scored 75.

Sooley was 10-for-22 from the arc, 8-for-9 from the stripe, with 11 rebounds, 6 assists, 4 steals, and 4 blocks in 35 minutes.

The win was Central’s first ever in the tournament, and it did much to melt the remaining ice in Durham. Parties broke out all over campus and in the student apartment complexes nearby. The bars were packed and rowdy, and up and down the streets the chant of “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” echoed through the night.

Chapter 44

The coaches met promptly at 7:30 for breakfast in the hotel restaurant. They huddled in a booth in a remote corner and sipped coffee as they waited for menus. None of the four could stop smiling. Lonnie put his cell phone in the middle of the table and said, “All phones here, and turned off. Mine hasn’t stopped buzzing.” The other three phones hit the table.

Jason Grinnell said, “Sooley called me at six this morning, and it was during one of those brief periods when I was actually asleep.”

“What did he want?” asked Lonnie.

“Well, today is Wednesday, and he talks to his mother every Wednesday morning at seven.”

“He didn’t wake you up to tell you that,” said Ron McCoy.

“Hang on. He said he had a dream, a bad one that involved a problem with an airplane, said it’s a bad omen and he thinks we should take the bus to Memphis. They say the kid is really superstitious.”

Lonnie said, “That’ll save sixty thousand bucks for the air charter. Our AD will love that.”

McCoy said, “The equipment managers can’t find his socks after the games. He takes them with him.”

Grinnell said, “Yeah. Murray says he washes them himself and hangs them in a window. Said he’s been doing it since the first game he played.”

“Well, at least they’re getting washed.”

A waitress stopped by and handed over menus. When she left, Lonnie said, “I like it. Let’s take the bus and forget going home. I want to keep Sooley away from the campus, away from everybody. I got fifty emails last night from reporters, other coaches, old friends I haven’t talked to in months. Everybody wants a piece of the kid right now.”

Jackie Garver said, “According to Murray, the girls are driving him crazy.”

“Those were the days,” McCoy said with a laugh.

Lonnie said, “Tell the managers to let them sleep. We’ll leave around eleven and take our time getting to Memphis.”

“By bus?”

“Yes. If Sooley wants to ride the bus, then so be it.”

Duke versus Central. The number one seed versus a number sixteen, a play-in. Never in the tournament’s storied history had a number sixteen beaten a number one. Same for fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.

Duke versus Central, the other school in Durham. Duke, with its 5 national championships, its roll call of 32 All-Americans, its 41 tournament appearances, 16 conference championships, its current streak of 22 consecutive weeks at number one, and on and on. Across town, Central’s numbers were far less impressive.

Duke, with its tuition now at $50,000 a year, its endowment of $8 billion, its dozens of endowed professorships, its 95 percent graduation rate, its lofty rankings in medicine, law, engineering, the arts and sciences, its billions in research grants, and on and on.

Rich versus poor, private versus public, elites versus upstarts.

The commentators feasted on the story.

And everybody was looking for Sooley.

FedEx Forum. Home of the Memphis Grizzlies and site of the South Regional. Arkansas is just next door, and its fans poured into the city to watch their beloved Razorbacks easily handle Indiana State in the first game. Feeling even more boisterous for the second round, the fans hung around and eagerly awaited the chance to show their anti-ACC sentiment against Duke. All 18,000 seats were packed, with only a sprinkling of Blue Devil faithful. A thunderous round of booing greeted the number one seed as they took the floor. Seconds later, the crowd flipped immediately and began “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” when Central appeared on the court.

For Samuel, the moment was disconcerting. Who wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of such adulation, but he felt as though all eyes were on him. For the past two days he had ignored the cameras and spoken to no one but his coaches and teammates. All of them were watching SportsCenter and following the storm on social media. They were determined to shield him from as many distractions as possible.

He smiled and stretched and tried to ignore the crowd. He glanced at the Duke players on the other end and wondered if they were as nervous as he was. They appeared to be immune from the jitters, all calm, relaxed, confident. They were accustomed to being booed and jeered and thrived on creating such noisy resentment on the road. They were far from the madness of Cameron, but they played all their away games in hostile, crowded arenas. It was part of the Duke mystique. The Blue Devils against the world.

Sooley’s man was Darnell Coe, a 6'8" small forward scoring 12 a game and considered the best Duke defensive player since Shane Battier. Sooley glanced at Coe a couple of times, then tried to ignore him. Coe, like all the Duke players, seemed to have no interest in the opposing team.

As the lower seed, Central was introduced first and got a rousing welcome, with the “Sooley!” chants drowning out the announcer. Duke’s starters were heavily booed but took it in stride. At mid-court they made no effort to acknowledge the Eagles.

Their center, Akeem Akaman, was 6'10". When he stepped forward for the tip-off, he scowled at Sooley, who immediately sprang high and quick and swatted the ball back to Mitch Rocker.

Central’s first play was simple. They were where they were for one reason — Sooley and his long game. That’s where they would start. That’s where they would live or die. He posted high, then sprinted deep into the front court, took a bounce pass from Mitch and dribbled the ball. He was 35 feet from the basket and Coe gave him some room, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

Sooley sprung up and took the shot. He didn’t follow, but instead backed away and was past mid-court when it landed in the bottom of the net. He skipped back and waved his arms as the crowd erupted.

Duke had no weaknesses. Akaman and Kevin Washington could dominate inside, and Coe, Tyrell Miller, and Toby Frost could burn the nets from anywhere on the court. Central didn’t have the bench to survive a physical game with lots of fouls, but no team could afford to give Duke room to run its offense. Coach Britt had decided to play hard and aggressive and hope the refs didn’t call a close game.

Frost missed the first shot and Roy Tice cleared the board. Mitch jogged up court with the ball, traded passes with Murray, and at 15 seconds Sooley swept back into the front court, took the ball and launched another shot, this one a bit closer, from 32 feet. Nothing but net. The fans were beyond delirious.

The plan was to start with Sooley bombing away until he missed one. After a bucket by Akaman, Mitch pushed the ball up court in a hurry, and with only 10 seconds gone found Sooley deep in a corner with Coe sticking close. He faked a pass, then sprang from 30 feet. When his third shot found the net, the Forum seemed to shake.

Unrattled, Duke calmly went about its business on offense. Tyrell Miller bounced off a perfect screen and fired a 20-footer that didn’t go. Akaman got the rebound, though, and slammed it home.

Coe closed in tight and began grabbing and hacking. Sooley peeled off screen after screen but couldn’t shake him. When he got the ball for the fourth time, he faked a shot and sent Coe flying. He streaked for the basket, almost drew a charge, then whipped a perfect behind-the-back pass to Murray in the corner. He missed and Kevin Washington got the rebound.

Toby Frost dribbled the ball up and motioned for his teammates to settle down. At 17:4 °Central led 9–4, and the jitters were gone. Frost nailed a three, and Sooley finally missed one. The teams swapped baskets, then swapped turnovers, and at the under-16-minute time-out they were tied at 13. The game was off to a frantic start with both teams seemingly poised to score 100.

Duke’s defense, though, found its rhythm and pressured the perimeter. Mitch and Murray tried to work the ball inside but Roy Tice and Melvin Montgomery could not score. Coe stuck to Sooley like glue and denied him the ball. When he finally took a pass he launched another 30-footer, a bad shot that rebounded long and led to a beautiful three-on-one fast break.

Coe was fierce and physical and didn’t mind grabbing and hacking. When he hand-checked Sooley hard, a clear foul, and drew no whistle, Lonnie erupted on the sideline and got a hard stare from a ref. He wouldn’t shut up or back down. If the refs were allowing his star to get mugged, he was not about to stay quiet. He wanted a technical and finally got one, his third of the season.

As Tyrell Miller took the uncontested free throw, the crowd seemed ready to storm the court.

Duke quickly pulled away, scoring inside and out, and with Sooley bottled up, Central had no answer. Lonnie continued to work the refs and they finally tightened up the game. Coe was whistled for two straight fouls and took a seat. Sooley promptly nailed a 25-footer to cut the lead to 28–20 at 8:03.

It was obvious that the rest of the team would struggle to score. During a Central time-out, Lonnie asked Sooley if he needed a break. No sir, he wasn’t coming out. “The game is yours,” Lonnie said. “Take it to the basket.”

With Coe on the bench, and with Duke protecting the perimeter, he began slashing to the lane. He finished some, dished others, and when Coe reentered at 5:22, the score was 34–30.

The obvious disadvantage of playing a well-coached team with four All-Americans was that someone always had a hot hand. Toby Frost hit two short jumpers and Mitch was called for traveling. Frost then hit a three and Duke was up by 11. Central clawed back, had three impressive stops, then Sooley hit his fifth three-pointer.

At the half, Duke led 46–35 and looked unbeatable. Sooley had 22 points and was 5-for-10 from behind the arc.

The locker room was quiet as the Eagles caught their breath and tried to absorb the enormity of facing more of the same in the second half. Lonnie and the coaches huddled and decided to try and slow down the game. Their man-to-man defense had just given up 46 points and looked helpless. They decided to start with a 2–3 zone, clog up the middle, and hope Duke cooled off from the outside. If that didn’t work, and they had serious doubts, it would at least buy some time and save some legs for the finish.

The zone worked well for a few minutes as both teams missed shots and threw the ball away. When Sooley could get his hands on the ball he fired away, but Coe was suffocating him and every shot was fiercely contested. At 17:25 Coe was called for his third foul but didn’t leave the game. Sooley was determined to draw the fourth and began driving. He lowered his shoulder and was whistled for his second foul. At the first TV time-out Duke led by 12, 52–40, and Sooley had missed all five shots, long and short.

He broke the drought with a 20-footer. Duke quickly answered. As Mitch walked the ball up the court, Coe grabbed Sooley’s jersey, again, and their feet got tangled. Both went down hard, right in front of a ref who angrily pointed at Coe on the floor and whistled him for number four. The Duke bench, always volatile, went nuts and a few tense seconds followed. Coe left the game shaking his head. The announcers ran the replay and there was no doubt he had grabbed Sooley, spun him around, and tripped him up.

Sooley took the inbound pass and in a split second fired from the arc. Nothing but net. Tyrell Miller answered with a three, far away from the zone. Back and forth, the teams traded misses and baskets. Duke went up by 14 and Central cut it to eight, but could get no closer. Lonnie called time at 7:08 for a breather, and Sooley took a seat on the bench for a much deserved break. Duke was up 64–54.

When Sooley reentered at 5:50, Coe did the same, but with four fouls he had to take a step back. Sooley figured as much and launched two bombs. Both missed. With time running down, Lonnie ditched the zone and went to a half-court press and Duke, uncharacteristically, had consecutive turnovers. The Eagles were out of gas but desperate to make a run. This was not the moment to think about fatigue. They fought to within eight, 72–64, and the crowd got back in the game. Duke settled down, worked the clock, and Kevin Washington hit a three. With three minutes left, Duke forced a turnover that led to an easy basket, then blocked a shot that led to another.

In a matter of seconds, it seemed, Duke was up by 15 and Coach Britt called time. The disappointed fans sat down and stared at the scoreboard. The Forum had not been that quiet for hours.

1:58 remained. Duke 79, Central 64.

The next 58 seconds would later be called the most exciting minute in tournament history. Murray inbounded the ball to Mitch who rifled a pass to mid-court where Sooley scooped it up, dribbled twice, and launched a 30-footer that found the net. 1:50. Tyrell Miller grabbed the ball, stepped out of bounds and quickly bounced it inbounds to Toby Frost. However, Miller stepped on the baseline with his pass and a ref saw it and whistled the infraction. Dmitri Robbins inbounded long to Sooley, who was camping near mid-court. He pump-faked Coe, dribbled behind his back, and shot from 27 feet. Net. 1:44. 79–70. Central pressed full-court and Duke worked the ball up. Toby Frost broke free off a screen and was open, until he wasn’t. Sooley came flying out of nowhere, blocked the shot, then sprinted two-on-one with Murray dribbling. He bounced it to his roommate, who pulled up from 29 feet and nailed his third in a row. 1:30. 79–73.

Lonnie backed them away and they pressed from half-court. Murray deflected a bounce pass, the ball squirted loose, and four players piled on top of it. In the scrum at least three of them fought over the ball and the ref whistled a jump ball. Possession Central. Sooley fought his way through the lane and managed to crash Coe into a hard screen set by Melvin Montgomery. No foul was called as Coe almost fell to the floor. His man was alone in the corner and Mitch fired a perfect pass. Sooley hit his fourth in a row from 26 feet. 1:10. 79–76. Central went full-court and Murray and Mitch trapped Frost in a corner. His wild pass was picked off at mid-court by Dmitri who, without a thought, led Sooley with a perfect bounce pass. He launched from 28 feet, and when the ball swished the net absolute bedlam rocked the Forum. 79–79 with one minute to go.

Duke, reeling, called time-out and Central’s bench smothered their star. Lonnie managed to seat his five and tried to settle them down. But the noise was deafening and he had been hoarse for the entire second half. He switched to a tight man-to-man and told them to expect a long shot. He put Sooley on Toby Frost and told him to foul if necessary.

Frost calmly jogged the ball up the court and Duke set its offense. Ten seconds, fifteen. Tyrell Miller set a hard ball screen for Frost, then rolled and took a perfect pass. At 41 seconds, Tyrell hit a 24-footer. Duke fell back and picked up Mitch, who passed to Murray. As Sooley fought off Coe and tried to get open, a ref blew a whistle. Coe was called for his fifth foul and Sooley went to the line to shoot two with 18 seconds left. He hit the first. 82–80. Central needed two points, not one, and nobody in the building expected Sooley to put it in the net. As soon as the ref bounced him the ball he fired at the rim and soared after the ball. When it bounced off the front of the rim, he slapped it to Murray, all alone in the corner. His 28-foot dagger was the shot of a lifetime, and Central was up by one. Duke had plenty of clock and used its last time-out.

Unable to sit and barely able to hear anything, the Central players huddled around Coach Britt and yelled at each other to dig in.

Frost hurried the ball up court, swapped quick passes with Tyrell Miller, and neither could find an open man. With five seconds to go, Kevin Washington tried a turn-around jumper from the free throw line but Roy Tice got a hand on it. The ball bounced to Murray, who saw his roommate streaking down the court. He lofted a long pass that Sooley took on one bounce at their own free throw line and hurled himself into the air.

Defying gravity, Sooley soared through the Forum, the ball in his right hand, high above his head, just like Niollo. He finished with a jarring, rim-rattling, windmill dunk that sent quakes all the way to South Sudan.

A mob swarmed the court as the Eagles piled on top of each other at mid-court.

Chapter 45

The locker room was remarkably subdued. The players were elated but too stunned and exhausted to celebrate. And they were overwhelmed with emotion. Coach Britt kept the cameras and press out, the door locked and guarded by managers. He quietly went from player to player, hugging each, offering soft words of praise, and he wiped a few tears himself. After fifteen minutes, he addressed his players and told them how much he loved them. His raspy, scratchy voice barely worked and he couldn’t think of much to say anyway.

A manager stepped in to say that the tournament officials were waiting. Lonnie asked the three seniors, Mitch Rocker, Roy Tice, and Dmitri Robbins, to follow him. And Sooley too.

The press room was packed. Lonnie took a seat in the middle of the table, with two players on each side, and as soon as he adjusted his mike the questions came in an avalanche. He smiled, held up both hands, and said, “Please, just one at a time.” He pointed at a reporter in the front row.

“Coach, did you really believe you could win the game?”

Lonnie laughed and his players smiled. “I don’t think I’ll answer that question. Let’s be honest, no one in this room thought we would win. I think we’re all still in shock.”

“Coach, was it your game plan to start with Sooley bombing from mid-court?”

Another laugh. “Yes, it was. Our game plan was simple. Just get the ball to Sooley.”

Every reporter held a game summary and knew the numbers. Sooley scored 58, tying him with Bill Bradley for second most in a tournament game. He hit 14 threes, had 12 rebounds, 10 assists, 4 steals, 4 blocks. A triple-double.

“Coach, was the crowd a factor?”

“Well, I’ve never been in a place where I couldn’t hear myself think. My ears are still ringing. As you can tell, I can barely talk and at times I had trouble getting through to my players. But, yes, having the crowd on our side was a factor.”

“Coach, a question for Sooley.” Lonnie shrugged as if to say, “Fire away.”

With a big smile, Sooley pulled his mike closer.

“Sooley, you hit fourteen threes, a tournament record. What were you thinking out there?”

Sooley had yet to say a word to any reporter, and the world was waiting. He smiled and shrugged and looked uncomfortable. Finally, “I don’t know. I really wasn’t thinking.” Everyone laughed. “You know, the adrenaline was pumping so hard that you just play, you don’t have time to think too much.”

“Mitch, what’s it like to watch a teammate do what Sooley just did?”

Mitch leaned forward with a grin and said, “No big deal, really. He does it every day in practice. When he gets hot, we just feed him the ball.”

“Sooley, you just scored fifty-eight against a great defensive player. What do you think about Darnell Coe?”

“He’s tough, one of the best. Very physical, you know. All the Duke players are physical. That’s their game. They’re a great team.”

Mitch leaned in again and added, “The truth is, when he gets the ball nobody can guard him. His shot is too quick and he springs too high. Sometimes in practice we’ll put three men on him just for fun. Once he gets up, though, you can’t touch his shot.”

“Coach, how do you get your team ready for the next game, after a win like this?”

Lonnie replied, “We’ll be ready. I can promise you that.”

Every reporter, and every fan, knew the story. The death of his father. The missing sister. His mother and brothers living in a refugee settlement. And every reporter wanted to ask something about the past year, but it wasn’t the moment for that. Why do anything to dampen the kid’s spirits?

When they were finally dressed, the managers led the team through a side door. They walked eight blocks through downtown Memphis to the Rendezvous, a famous ribs place in an alley. In a private room they began to relax and were soon laughing. Tomorrow they could sleep until noon.

The upset owned the news. The other seven games on Thursday ended as predicted and there was no room for any other coverage. It was a nonstop barrage of Sooley’s greatest hits. His 14 threes, five in the span of 58 seconds to tie the game. His blocked shots. He had his own highlight reel.

On Friday, he and Murray met Miss Ida and Ernie for a late lunch in the hotel restaurant. And Jordan, who had driven from Nashville for the game. She had planned to stay only for the Duke game, but was as happy as the rest to hang around for the next one. Murray had scored 12, including the golden three that put Central ahead 83–82 with 16 seconds to go. They replayed the game and delighted in the moment. Jordan sat close to Sooley, knees touching knees, under the table of course because Miss Ida missed nothing.

Later in the afternoon, the team had a light, closed practice in an empty Forum. Jason Grinnell went through a scouting report and tried to convince the team that Arkansas was unbeatable. They knew better, and they were still thinking about Duke. Lonnie suspected this and had another sleepless night.

At 2 p.m. Saturday, the gates opened for the three o’clock game and the Arkansas throng was back. They filled the Forum early and made almost as much noise as they did on Thursday. Their love for Sooley had soured quickly and they were hungry for a win. The school had one national title, back in 1994, and, with Duke out of the way, the Razorbacks had a clear path to the next round.

Sooley picked up where he’d left off, and when he drained his second three, the crowd settled down. The Arkansas defense was jittery and panicked every time he touched the ball. It collapsed on him quickly and left plenty of gaps elsewhere. He began driving and dishing off for easy buckets. At half-time, he had nine assists and 16 points. The second half turned into a horse race as both teams tried to outrun each other. But no one could outrun Sooley. He scored 46 with 13 assists, and Central advanced with a 10-point win.

Off to the Sweet Sixteen.

Chapter 46

By Monday morning Lonnie Britt was sick of the word “Cinderella.” Every sportscaster and sportswriter used it at least once per sentence. There were no other contenders. Out west, Utah State, a 10th seed, had knocked off UCLA, a number four, in a mild upset, but nothing even remotely close to what happened in Memphis.

Central’s President was waiting, his door wide open, his secretary smiling as she offered pastries and coffee. Lonnie had never been so warmly received. As they settled into wide leather chairs, the AD arrived and the door was closed. Congratulations all around. What a weekend!

They covered the logistics of going to Atlanta for the next round. How many tickets would be allotted? How many big donors would be included? Politicians were calling and wanting in. Alumni Relations had never attracted so much attention. And the press! Hundreds of reporters and journalists were angling for stories and access, and while it was important to take advantage of a unique opportunity to market the school, Lonnie was much more concerned with protecting his players. Especially Sooley.

“Where is he?” asked the President.

“He’s living in Murray Walker’s basement. I think Ida’s guarding the door. He’s been there for a couple of weeks. The dorm got crazy.”

“Is he going to class?”

“Yes, for the most part. But I doubt if many of the players are in class this morning. I’d like to leave for Atlanta tomorrow, after practice, just to get them out of town.”

The AD frowned and said, “And miss a whole week of classes?”

Lonnie laughed and said, “Oh, so you think they’ll study this week? We play Providence at six on Thursday afternoon, and that’s all they’re thinking about. This is too big. The kids are overwhelmed. I’d like to practice tomorrow at noon, then hit the road.”

The AD looked at the President. Both knew the truth. With three wins already in the tournament the money was pouring in. Start with the NCAA-CBS contract, now worth over $500 million annually, and watch the money trickle down to the conferences and game winners. Central had already earned $600,000 that wasn’t expected. And in March Madness, the more you win the more you earn.

Whatever Coach Britt wanted.

Because he felt he had to, the President said, “Okay, fine with me, but please instruct your players to get their assignments and study in their free time.”

“Of course,” Lonnie replied, because he had to. He would not monitor a single laptop. It was only March. The players had plenty of time to catch up in class and he had no plans to nag his guys during the greatest week of their lives.

The AD said, “We have rooms at a new Marriott downtown. Two players per room.”

Lonnie smiled and said, “No thanks. We’ve already scoped out the hotels and I don’t like any of them. I’m hiding my team, okay? There’s a hotel in Athens where no one can find us. Two players per room.”

The AD frowned and said, “But our team headquarters is the Marriott. That’s where all of us, including the fans, will be staying.”

“Have fun there. All the more reason to hide the kids. I don’t want them getting pestered. Murray told me last night that he’s been approached by three runners working for agents. They know he rooms with Sooley and he’s reminded them that contact is illegal at this point. But these guys know how to work the system. You see where this is going. The talking heads have projected the kid going high in the draft. The vultures are circling, which will be fine when the season is over. Right now I don’t want him distracted.”

All three had watched SportsCenter and knew the buzz.

The President asked, “You see him in the draft?”

“No. He’s too young, too raw, too immature.”

But he scored 58 against Duke!

In college basketball, everyone has an agenda. Lonnie was looking for a bigger job and Sooley might help. Sooley would soon be tempted to declare for the draft and explore its options. An agent would whisper wonderful things to him and dangle the cash. Once money was involved, loyalties would begin to shift.

The AD said, “Okay, you want us to reserve the rooms?”

“No, it’s already done.”

“Will you tell us where the team is staying?”

“Only if you promise not to ask Sooley for a selfie.”

The AD laughed and said, “We have a bunch of requests for seats on the plane.”

“Save ’em. We’re taking the bus.”

“The bus? It’s a six-hour drive to Atlanta.”

“Yep. And Sooley prefers the bus. I’m sure he’ll study all the way down there.”

“Come on, Coach,” the President said. “We can’t arrive for the Sweet Sixteen in a bus.”

“What do we know about Sweet Sixteen arrivals?”

“Good point.”

The AD said, “If Sooley wants a bus, then take the bus.”

Miss Ida had them up and eating breakfast by eight. Ernie lingered for a final word.

They were concerned that their two players had shown no interest in their academic pursuits for at least the past week and would probably want to skip Monday’s classes. After Ernie left, Miss Ida made Sooley promise to go to class.

Actually, he wanted to. There were two extremely cute girls in American History. When he walked in five minutes late, the entire class stood and cheered. The professor was a good sport and enjoyed the celebration. Sooley sat behind the girls, in his usual spot, and opened his laptop.

After fifteen minutes, the professor realized that her lecture was not being heard by anyone, especially Sooley, who was online with the girls. The professor walked from behind the lectern and said, “Can I have your attention, please? Thank you. How many of you have younger brothers and sisters at home?”

Almost all of the students raised their hands.

“And how many of you have been asked by your younger siblings to get a photo with Mr. Sooleymon?”

All hands went up.

She smiled and continued: “Thought so. I have a twelve-year-old son, and if I go home without a photo he won’t speak to me. Sooley, please forgive me for disrupting your classwork, but, if you will indulge us, I will excuse all absences from last week and this week. Deal?”

The class cheered again and Sooley ambled down to the front.

The school wanted some sort of glorious send-off, an old-fashioned pep rally, with speeches, cheerleaders, a band, and students packed in the stands. But Lonnie nixed it. More adulation wouldn’t do a damned thing to help win the game against Providence.

He ran them hard Tuesday afternoon, then told them to shower, change, hustle up, and get on the bus.

As they left campus, Roy Tice yelled back: “Say, Sooley, next week when we go to the Final Four can we take a plane? My app says it’s thirty-two hours to Phoenix by car. Straight shot on Interstate Forty.”

Sooley had his earbuds in and pretended not to hear. His eyes were closed as if in deep meditation. Others began griping about the bus ride, but they were too excited to really care.

Coach Britt got their attention when he ran an edited game film of Providence thrashing a good Butler team in the second round. And he reminded them that, once again, they were on the low end of a six-point spread.

Still, no respect.

Chapter 47

The special delivery was loaded into the back of a Ugandan army troop carrier. It was guarded by a couple of soldiers and watched by two army technicians. Coach Kymm rode shotgun with the driver as they left the Entebbe airport in the early morning. He had hoped to fly the shipment on a small cargo plane, like the one he and Ecko Lam had hitchhiked on back in early December, but there wasn’t enough room. Food and medicine took priority over everything else, and on this trip he was delivering nothing but entertainment, courtesy of a wealthy Ugandan beer magnate who loved basketball and sponsored Kymm’s national teams.

The seven-hour drive on gravel roads actually took nine, and when they rolled into Rhino Camp South it was too late to set up. They had dinner and slept in an army barracks nearby. Early Thursday morning, the technicians scouted locations and found the best spot on a rise not far from the new school. A flat trailer was moved into position, and the technicians and soldiers began unpacking the screens. There were two of them, positioned on opposite ends of the trailer with the generator, transmitter, antenna, and miles of wires and cables between them. Brand-new 150-inch Samsung 8K flat screens, the largest to be found anywhere in that corner of Africa. Coach Kymm spent the day under a shade tree, watching the project unfold, and occasionally reading a paperback. He tried to call Ecko in Atlanta but there was no cell service.

Late Wednesday night, after the managers reported that all players were accounted for, Lonnie eased out of his room and went to the hotel bar where Ecko was waiting in a corner. So far, the team’s hiding place in an Athens Holiday Inn had not been discovered by the media. Ecko had watched the team practice at the University of Georgia and was staying at the hotel.

They ordered beers and talked about the practice, Providence, a game plan. Lonnie laughed and said, “Actually, when you’re a one-man team the game plan is pretty simple.”

“What happens when he goes cold?”

“We don’t score and they run us out of the gym. I just wish that for one game someone else would get hot and score twenty. Mitch or Murray, maybe even Dmitri from the corner. Take the pressure off Sooley and soften up the defense.”

“They’re not great shooters.”

“Tell me about it. And the more he scores the more the others rely on him. They’re turning down good looks to get him the ball.”

“I talked to him for a long time this afternoon in his room and he seems to be handling it well. You’re smart to keep him away from the media. It’s a circus.”

“Have you seen the cover of Sports Illustrated? Just came out online.”

“No. What is it?”

“A photo of the kid soaring through the air, windmill dunking against Duke, elbow about three feet above the rim, with the caption — ‘Sooleymania.’ ”

“Clever. I know you’re worried about him, but this is really pretty cool. He’s in a good spot and he knows it. Nothing has gone to his head. Yet.”

“His teammates are smothering him, watching everything closely. A great bunch of kids, Ecko. I love these guys.”

“You’ll love them even more if they win the next two and take you to the Final Four.” They laughed and sipped and looked around. The bar was practically empty.

Lonnie asked, “What’s gonna happen to Sooley, Ecko? You talk to more scouts than I do. I’m too focused on the next game and don’t have time to think past it.”

“Remember Frankie Moka, my summer assistant?”

Lonnie nodded and said, “Sure.”

“He’s a scout for the Nuggets, says the kid will likely go late in the first round. The upside is obvious, with the added potential of more growth and maturity. The downside is the unknown. Is he a flash in the pan? Red hot for fifteen games, then he’s gone? It’s happened before. What the scouts want to see is a bad game. No one hits fifty percent from behind the arc, so what happens when he doesn’t hit and stinks it up?”

“Please, not now.”

“I know. I’m just saying he doesn’t have the track record of the other one-and-dones. Those four at Duke were on the radar when they were fifteen years old. The other top prospects have at least two full years in college. Not Sooley. So, that’s a concern, but not much. The scouts are as enamored as everyone else.”

Lonnie smiled and took a sip. “Have I said thanks for making me offer him a scholarship?”

“You have, and you are welcome. Sometimes we get lucky. You know, it’s hard to believe that when I met him a year ago he was six-two, weighed a buck seventy, and had the ugliest jump shot in South Sudan.”

“He’s a freak, Ecko, plain and simple. We measured him last week. Six-eight now, two-thirty. All he wants to do is shoot baskets and lift weights.”

“Girls?”

“I don’t get involved but I’m sure he’s doing okay.”

“Have you talked to him about the draft, and agents and all that?”

“No, not yet. I know the runners are out. It’s part of the business. At least three have approached Murray. I’ve lectured the team in front of Sooley and talked to the seniors when he’s not around. They try to protect him, but you know how it works. As soon as the tournament is over, he’s fair game and can talk to an agent. Once that starts, he’s gone. Nobody can turn down the money.”

Ecko agreed. “And he worships Niollo, who turned pro at nineteen after only one year at Syracuse. Of course, Niollo played competitive high school ball here in the States and was even an All-American. Trivia: Who was the only high school prospect ranked ahead of Niollo?”

“LeBron.”

“LeBron. And he didn’t go to college.”

“What does Sooley want?”

“We talked about his family this afternoon. That’s all he cares about right now. He’s eternally grateful to you and Central and his teammates, but when he’s off the court he’s thinking about his mother and brothers. I told him that a coaching buddy of mine in Uganda has pulled some strings with the government and they’re setting up some big flat screens to watch the game in the refugee camp. Can you imagine? Sooley’s mother and brothers watching him play. The kid had tears in his eyes when I told him.”

“That’s amazing. And you got it done?”

“Sure. It’s nothing. You ask what he wants. If money will help get his family over here, then he’ll take the money. If earning a degree in four years and becoming a U.S. citizen will make it happen faster, then that’s what he wants.”

“He’ll take the money.”

“Probably.”

“He trusts you, Ecko. Do you know a good agent?”

“I’d rather not get involved. At that point, Sooley will enter a different world and any advice from me would not be valuable. He’s a smart kid and he’ll figure it out. Hopefully.”

When Samuel stepped into the mid-court circle for the tip, he took a second to soak in the enormity of Atlanta’s State Farm Arena, home of the Hawks. Under one backboard a noisy contingent from Central chanted his name while the rest of the 18,000-plus settled into their seats. As always, he reminded himself of where he came from, and how far he had traveled. A year ago he was playing on dirt courts.

He nodded to the center for Providence, a gangly boy with heavy feet, and slapped the ball back to Mitch Rocker, who took his time and quickly noticed that there were two Friars sticking to their star. The other three were spread across the lane in what appeared to be a zone of some sorts. Mitch drove to the free throw line and kicked out to Dmitri, who missed an easy 20-footer. More misses soon followed, and the double-team on Sooley worked beautifully, as long as no one else could score. Central was off to a dismal start, one that turned ugly when the Friars’ leading scorer hit his second three to make the score 12–2. At the first TV time-out, the lead was 20, 26–6, and Sooley had yet to score. The crowd was quiet, but there was a buzzing as if the fans were wondering about all the hype.

With one defender stuck to his back and the other staying between him and the ball, Sooley was having trouble. Out of frustration, he elbowed the taller one and got a whistle, his first foul. They picked him up at mid-court and dogged him every step. Mitch Rocker hit a three, and, after a block by Sooley, Murray hit another one. At 13:05 Sooley managed to take a bounce pass at the free throw line and spring high above his defenders. He was checked hard, got a whistle as the ball went in, and finished off the three-point play. He was on the board and the lead was 15. Roy Tice took a long rebound and fired the outlet pass to Murray who flipped it behind his back to Sooley, who launched a 30-footer that hit and fired up the crowd. Providence slowed down the game and both defenses settled in. Coach Britt chewed relentlessly on the refs, complaining that Sooley was being held and hacked and otherwise mugged. He got a call, then another, and coverage slacked off just enough to spring him. He hit two more threes and Providence called time at 7:40, its lead cut to eight points. Lonnie told Mitch and Murray to start hammering the ball inside and try to take pressure off Sooley. Roy Tice hit two short jumpers and the Friars missed four straight. Sooley missed badly from long range but followed it, got the rebound and fired a perfect pass to Melvin Montgomery for the dunk. At the half, the score was tied at 40. Sooley had 12 points and was 3-for-7 from behind the arc. More important, he was keeping the Friars preoccupied on defense and his teammates were scoring.

On the other side of the world, Beatrice, James, and Chol stood at the front of a massive throng of refugees and watched the flat screen in disbelief. Before the game started, a Ugandan commander had welcomed the crowd and explained that the game was being brought to them in living color as a courtesy of his government. He talked about the game, a little about the tournament, and introduced, as the guests of honor, the family of young Samuel Sooleymon, the hottest player in America.

Beatrice never stopped crying.

In the locker room, the Eagles were sky-high. They had clawed back from a disastrous start and had momentum. Lonnie implored them to dig deep and contest every shot. It was only a matter of time before Sooley took control.

He wasted no time. The Friars’ first shot bounced off the rim and Dmitri scooped up a long rebound and sprinted with the ball. He found Sooley across court with a bounce pass and before anyone could get near him he shot from 29 feet. Nothing but net. It was the shot the crowd had been waiting for and the fans came to life. After a short bucket on the other end, he fought off his defenders, went up again, and was fouled hard. He made two of three and Central immediately pressed full-court. Murray drew a charge. On the inbound, Sooley sprinted from beneath the basket, took a pass at the top of the key, spun in midair, and hit from 20 feet. Providence scored and Mitch jogged the ball up court. As Sooley peeled off a low screen, one of his defenders grabbed his jersey and a ref saw it. Third foul, time to rest. Inbound, Murray found Sooley deep in a corner for his fifth three-pointer. Providence needed to regroup but the coach decided to wait for the under-16-minute time-out. He should not have. The Friars were being pressed hard and taking bad shots. Mitch Rocker hit a three and Central had its first double-digit lead, 53–42. Its bench was wild and most of the 18,000 fans were cheering for the Eagles.

After the time-out, the Friars settled down and hit two buckets. Sooley missed from 25 feet, followed it, missed the rebound, and Central gave up an easy fast break. Its lead had been cut in half. At 9:20, and up by seven, Sooley squared up from 28 feet and nailed it. He hit another long one, then missed one but drew a foul. With eight minutes to go, he missed a bad one and Lonnie yanked him for a breather. For two minutes he watched Providence score six straight, and when he reentered at 5:50 the score was 63–56 and the game was still in doubt. But his two defenders were dragging and tired of chasing him around the court. He hit his sixth three, then his seventh. When he hit his eighth at 4:45, Providence called time, down 72–58 and out of gas. Central kept pressing and running, and Sooley, already with 34 points, kept bombing away. When he hit from 30 feet, the crowd began chanting his name and the arena was rocking.

He finished with 40 in a 15-point win. The Eagles were one game away from the Final Four.

Chapter 48

The game ended at two in the morning, East African time, and Coach Kymm found a Ugandan sergeant with a sat phone. He called the number of an American cell phone. Sooley was sitting high in the cheap seats of State Farm Arena, with his teammates and coaches, watching Iowa State play Maryland in the second game, when his phone buzzed with a strange number. Seconds later, he was talking to his mother.

There was little time to enjoy being a member of the Elite Eight. On Friday, the team slept late, went through a light workout in an empty Stegeman Coliseum on Georgia’s campus, covered the scouting report on Maryland, and watched, off and on, the four games from the other side of the bracket.

On Saturday they slept late again, had brunch at the hotel, and took the bus to the arena in downtown Atlanta. In perfectly matched practice gear, they enjoyed a light shootaround two hours before tip-off. The media was everywhere and they hammed it up for the cameras. With Coach Britt close by, Sooley met with some reporters at courtside and fielded all the usual questions. As he smiled and went through an “aw-shucks” routine, his teammates chanted in the background, “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!”

One challenge of being the Cinderella team was the nonstop attention, and their coaches relaxed and let them enjoy the moment. Several reporters noted that they were far more laid-back than the Maryland team, who were eight-point favorites.

Sooley easily won the tip. The Maryland center gave a halfhearted effort because a well-disguised steal worked perfectly and Mitch was stripped of the ball. A quick pass down low led to an easy dunk.

Maryland had seven losses, with five of them in the Big Ten, a powerful conference that had landed six teams in the tournament. Three of them had advanced to the Elite Eight, the most of any league. The Terps were ruthless on defense and had allowed only 61 points a game, second nationally to Virginia. They immediately went into a box-and-one, with four guarding the lane. The fifth, Omar Brazeale, was the Big Ten Defensive Player of the Year, and he picked up Sooley at mid-court and began talking trash. He would soon stop. Sooley circled wide, took a bounce pass from Murray and launched from 30 feet. Brazeale was 6'6", about a foot shorter than necessary, and when the ball left Sooley’s hands his defender was far below him. Nothing but net and a taste of what was coming.

Maryland was patient on offense and showed no desire to start running with the Eagles. With four seconds left on the play clock, a shot bounced off the rim. Dmitri Robbins grabbed the rebound and in midair whirled and fired a pass to Mitch, who led Sooley perfectly. He pulled up from 25 feet and drained his second three. Maryland missed again and Murray sprinted the ball up court. Brazeale got caught by a hard screen, his man was wide open, and when Sooley hit his third three in the first 90 seconds the crowd began to chant.

Central hit seven of its first eight shots, and at 14:55, the first TV time-out, led 18–7. Maryland was too experienced to panic and stayed with its controlled offense. The game slowed considerably as the Terps chipped away. Sooley missed two bombs but drew the first foul on Brazeale. The second came quickly as he banged into Melvin Montgomery on a screen. It was a close call and the Maryland bench was not happy. Brazeale stopped yapping and realized he would spend the rest of the game hopelessly chasing Sooley around the court and fighting off screens. When Sooley hit his fifth three at 7:20, Maryland called time. Central was up 34–24. Sooley had 22 points and was 5-for-8 from behind the arc. The team was shooting 70 percent, a torrid pace that Coach Britt knew would not be sustained. He told the other four to clear the lane so Sooley could take it to the rim.

Maryland patiently worked its offense and hit a three. When Sooley got the ball at mid-court he dribbled twice, head faked, got Brazeale in the air, and rushed into the paint. As the defense collapsed, he rifled a behind-the-back pass to Mitch Rocker who was wide open from 20 feet. He missed and Maryland slowly brought the ball up. Both teams cooled off, trading misses and short baskets. With two minutes to go, Maryland began pressing and forced two turnovers. The Terps finished in a rush and at half-time trailed by only four, 41–37. Sooley had 24 points and was 5-for-10 from long range. More important, Brazeale had three fouls. During the break, Coach Britt drew up two plays designed to draw the fourth foul. At that point, Sooley could go wild.

Maryland missed its first shot of the second half. Mitch set the offense and bounced a pass to Sooley, who was standing in the mid-court circle. He waved his teammates to the right side, as if no one else was on the court but him and Mr. Brazeale. He faked a shot, and when Brazeale didn’t take it, he launched from 32 feet and drained it. Maryland killed the clock and hit a short jumper. Sooley set up at the free throw line with Brazeale stuck to him like glue. At 15 seconds, he spun around and took his man through three hard screens as he sprinted to a corner. Brazeale fought through the screens but lost a second. When Sooley went up from 22 feet, Brazeale was airborne and fell into him for his fourth foul. For once, the play worked exactly as Coach Britt had drawn it up on the board. Sooley hit two of three free throws.

With Brazeale on the bench, Maryland put two men on Sooley, and this delighted him. Somebody else had to be open, and Murray, perhaps the weakest shooter on the team, found the hot hand. When he hit two straight threes Central was up by 52–39 and Maryland called time.

Each trip down the floor became another adventure in Sooleymania. The entire defense watched him. When he couldn’t get the ball, Mitch worked it low for easy buckets by Melvin Montgomery and Roy Tice. When Sooley got the ball, usually around mid-court, he dazzled his defenders with lightning-fast dribbles and either launched long fade-away jumpers or slashed to the basket where he drew fouls or finished with highlight-reel dunks or dished off to his teammates.

At 6:02, Brazeale reentered the game during a TV time-out. His team was down 16, 68–52, and the crowd was yelling for more.

As loud as it was, the noise inside the State Farm Arena paled in comparison to the constant roar of the masses on the outskirts of Rhino Camp South. Every long shot made by young Samuel sent his people into unrestrained delirium. Beatrice, James, and Chol were treated like royalty and nearly mobbed with each magnificent play.

Up 20, 76–56, Sooley came out for a breather and Maryland put on its inevitable last run. The Terps scored eight straight and Coach Britt called time at 3:35 to settle down his team. Sooley reentered and promptly missed a long one. Maryland did the same. Mitch was called for traveling and Maryland kicked one out of bounds. Both teams took a deep breath and braced for the last two minutes. Mitch called the same triple screen to free Sooley, and when he hit from 28 feet, Maryland was on the ropes again. Roy Tice blocked a shot and the ball landed in Murray’s hands. He flung a high, long pass downcourt where Sooley streaked all alone, nonchalantly took in the ball, and stuffed it. Maryland inbounded with a long pass that caught the Eagles off-guard and led to an easy layup. The Terps swarmed the inbound pass but Mitch cleared the press with a long pass of his own to the other end where Sooley was open. He could have killed some clock, or waited to be fouled, or passed across court to avoid a foul, but instead he instinctively went up from 29 feet and drained it.

Coach Britt chose not to back off and the Eagles pressed relentlessly. Maryland barely cleared mid-court in 10 seconds and quickly threw up a brick. Roy Tice grabbed the rebound and was fouled. He made both free throws and the game was over.

When the bus rolled onto the Central campus late Sunday afternoon, the students were waiting. They lined the streets, cheering wildly, waving signs, throwing confetti. When the bus stopped in front of The Nest, barricades protected the players and coaches as they stepped off and soaked in the moment. Half a dozen news vans were parked haphazardly to one side and there were cameras everywhere. Inside, the place was packed and rocking as 4,000 students and fans filled the stands and covered the floor, all waiting for a glimpse of the school’s first Final Four heroes. When Mitch led them through the tunnel and into the mob, the familiar chant of “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” shook the old gym.

Chapter 49

For the second straight Monday morning Lonnie found himself in the President’s office, along with the AD. The President, always a busy man, had canceled all his important meetings. Everything else could wait.

They reveled in their success and replayed the prior weekend’s games. They talked about the trip to Phoenix, travel plans, tickets, and so on, delightful details they never dreamed they would have the chance to discuss.

Lonnie surprised them when he said, “Look, I really want to get the team out of town and as soon as possible. The distractions are already overwhelming. I’ve stopped answering my phone and can’t even look at my emails. Everybody wants a piece and Sooley is the main attraction. We’ve got to protect the kid.”

“You want to leave now?” the President asked, feigning disapproval but knowing damned well where this was headed.

“Today. Forget classes this week. Don’t think for a minute that these kids will be able to study. Hell, they can’t even go to class. We need to go hide somewhere to practice and get away from this craziness.”

“You have someplace in mind?” asked the AD.

“Yes. I have a buddy who coaches at Northern Arizona in Flagstaff, about two hours north of Phoenix. I talked to him last night and he’s on board. He’ll arrange hotel rooms under his name and give us his gym for the week. We cannot practice here. It’s impossible.”

The President offered the standard frown and asked, “And miss an entire week of classes?”

“Absolutely. It’s imperative. Get the deans on board, talk to their professors, and I’ll make sure they keep up online. They’ll have plenty of time when we’re not in practice. I’ll make it work.”

All three knew the score. Lonnie’s team had just collected another $2 million for the school’s athletic programs and he would get whatever he wanted.

The President shrugged as he caved.

The AD said, “I assume you’ll want an airplane this time.”

Lonnie laughed and said, “Well, Sooley asked about taking a bus and I thought the guys might choke him.”

“I’ll bet they don’t,” the President said.

Lonnie said, “No. That won’t happen. They are being extremely protective.”

“Where is he?”

“In Ida Walker’s basement. She’s standing guard but she’s a bit rattled. Word’s out and there were people knocking on her door last night.”

The AD said, “Let’s get ’em out of here.”

The President said, “Agreed. You have the university’s full support, in every way.”

“Thank you.”

The AD said, “And you do prefer to fly?”

“Yes.”

When the team boarded the bus Monday afternoon, not a single player knew where they were going. They had been told what to wear and what to pack, and they watched with amusement as the driver followed the signs to the Raleigh-Durham airport. At the general aviation terminal, they got out and were directed to a private charter waiting on the tarmac. They grew more excited as they took their seats. Mitch Rocker finally asked, loudly, “Say, Coach, where we going?”

“To Disney World,” Lonnie replied. “Until we get there, I want every one of you to hit the books.”

Studying was the last thing on their minds.

After takeoff, the cabin’s in-flight navigational system was turned off and all screens went blank. It was obvious, though, that they were headed west. Four hours and two thousand miles later, they began a descent and saw mountains and deserts, rarities in their world, which confirmed the suspicion that they were headed to Arizona. After the plane landed and was taxiing to the terminal, Lonnie addressed the team and laid out the plan for the week. He instructed them to keep their location and practice schedule secret. Nothing on social media.

On Tuesday they practiced early and hard at the Walkup Skydome on the NAU campus, then relaxed and watched an hour’s worth of film of Villanova, their Saturday opponent. The Wildcats were the number one seed in the East. The other two teams were Oregon from the West and Kansas from the Midwest. After lunch, they suffered through a one-hour study hall, then boarded a bus and rode an hour to a national park where a giant meteor had landed 50,000 years earlier and changed the landscape. Far from home, the players and most of their coaches had never seen such a rugged and beautiful landscape. They took hundreds of photos, but were strictly forbidden from posting anything on social media. At night, after dinner, they hung out in their rooms and watched and listened as the commentators and talking heads went on and on about the Final Four. The Eagles, and their improbable run to Phoenix, were the main topic.

Their stories and angles varied little. The other school from Durham taking on established programs. The first Historically Black College to make it so far. The showstopping play of Samuel Sooleymon, a freshman freak averaging 41 points a game, a modern tournament record. A one-man team against far superior talent.

Early Wednesday morning, Sooley talked to his mother and listened with great pride as she described watching him play with tens of thousands of other refugees. He was the pride of South Sudan, or at least of his scattered people.

Wednesday and Thursday followed the same routine. Hard work in the mornings, bus rides in the afternoon. The highlight was a trip to the Grand Canyon.

On Friday, the team rode the bus two hours into Glendale, to the University of Phoenix Stadium, home of the NFL Cardinals. Their coaches had shown them photos of the space-age stadium, indoors and out, and had tried to brace them for the shock of seeing a tiny basketball court in the middle of such a vast venue. But the shock wore off as they went through a light shootaround. Cameras were everywhere and the players thoroughly enjoyed the attention. Afterward, a crew from CBS interviewed the players, with most of the attention directed at Sooley.

Lonnie had been criticized for hiding his team but he didn’t care. Once in the glare, they opened up and said all the right things. With his ever-present smile and good nature, Sooley became the darling of the press.

Back at the hotel they watched a movie until eleven, then all lights were out. At ten Saturday morning, they enjoyed a catered brunch in a large conference room while Coach Britt reviewed the game plan and matchups. At noon, they boarded the bus for the return to Glendale. At 2:30 they ambled onto the court and began stretching and warming up. The Villanova players were at the other end, doing the same, and some of the players eventually met in the center and said hello. Coach Jay Wright walked over and introduced himself. The mood was light, even festive, and the Wildcats were an amiable group.

Sooley chatted with Coach Wright, who introduced him to Darrell Whitley, their All-American forward. With a smile Whitley said, “I got you man.”

Sooley replied, “And I got you.” It was a dream matchup the pundits had been discussing for a week. Whitley was a junior averaging 20 points and 10 rebounds and was expected to go high in the draft. The Central coaches had watched hours of film and were of the opinion that he occasionally relaxed a bit on defense. Not surprisingly, they planned to go to Sooley.

Back in the locker room, the team changed into its maroon road uniforms and tried to relax. Most of the players wore headphones or earbuds and listened to music.

Sooley checked his phone and was delighted to see a text that read: “Best of luck, Samuel. I am very proud of you. Leave it all out there on the court.” It was his third text in two weeks from Niollo. He replied with a quick thanks.

When it was time to play, Lonnie huddled his team around him and told them how much he loved them. Win or lose, they had come together and made history. They were the pride of their school, their families, their state, and all those black colleges and universities that had always struggled to get this far. For the rest of their lives they would not forget what happened out there in the next two hours. The world was watching. Go have some fun.

Chapter 50

The Walkers — Ida, Ernie, Jordan, and Brady — sat ten rows behind the bench, in the heart of the Central faithful. Like most of the fans present, they had never watched a basketball game with 75,000 others in such an enormous venue. Ernie didn’t like it at all. The court was too far away. Everything was too far away. He could barely hear the band. Ida finally told him to shut up and enjoy the moment.

On the other side of the world, Beatrice and her boys were once again led by smiling soldiers to the front of the pack and given seats of honor. Masses of humanity squeezed closer to the trailer and its two large screens. Even those who could barely see were happy to stand shoulder to shoulder and listen to the American announcers set the stage.

It was late on a Saturday night, with a full moon above. Tomorrow was Sunday, just another day to survive until Monday.

Being introduced in such a spectacle was intimidating enough. Being introduced as thousands chanted “Sooley! Sooley! Sooley!” was overwhelming, but he managed to appear loose and kept smiling at everything. Central was clearly the crowd’s favorite.

The starters met at mid-court and shook hands, in a variety of ways. Villanova’s center, Wade Lister, was seven feet tall and could jump. He had controlled every tip of the season and Sooley was no match. When he got pinched in a ball screen, Darrell Whitley calmly drained a 20-footer, and the Wildcats struck first and fast.

Everyone watching the game knew what was coming. Sooley posted low, then busted through the lane with Whitley fighting off screens. Murray bounced a perfect pass that Sooley took on the way up from 30 feet. When the ball swished the net, the crowd, half a second behind because of the distance, exploded. Nova missed from the arc, the rebound went long, and Mitch Rocker took it on a fast break. As the lane closed he whipped a gorgeous pass behind his back and Sooley was in the air again with his second 30-footer.

He looked unstoppable, but, of course, he was not. In the college game, it’s rare for a gunner to hit 40 percent from long range. No one has ever hit 50 percent for a season.

After 19 games, Sooley was at 46 percent. For the tournament, he was at 51 percent, a remarkable number that was not sustainable. It was time for a drought, and its timing could not have been worse. He missed his next two attempts and the crowd settled down. Whitley was quick and fearless on defense and slapped one ball out of bounds. When Sooley tried to drive, he lowered his shoulder a bit too much and drew the charge. He missed again from downtown and the offense sputtered. At the first time-out, Nova was up 14–6.

Feeling the pressure, Sooley missed a bad shot from 20 feet and Darrell Whitley hit a quick three on the other end. Murray missed, then Mitch followed with another miss. The Eagles couldn’t buy a bucket and their star was ice cold. Behind 22–6, Lonnie called time-out. The crowd was silent. Had the clock finally struck twelve for Cinderella?

For the last eight minutes of the half, Central played some of its worst basketball of the season. Or, perhaps the difference in talent became obvious. Villanova played a tight, team defense and was patient on the other end, rarely taking a low-percentage shot. With its scorer neutralized, Central began to panic on offense and committed turnover after turnover. With five seconds to go, Sooley finally hit another three to cut the lead to 41–24. He had 11 points for the half but hit only 3 of 10 from behind the arc.

The Eagles’ locker room was frustrated, tense, and frightened. Frustration at the sloppy play. Fear that the magical run was finally coming to an end. Was this their destiny? To capture the headlines with a miracle run behind a former redshirt who seemed invincible, only to flame out at the end when the competition became too much? There were appeals from Mitch Rocker and Roy Tice, both seniors. Coach Grinnell gave an inspiring speech. Coach Britt thought a 2–3 zone might work. However, everyone knew the truth. If Sooley wasn’t hitting from downtown, they had no chance.

He drew his third foul at 18:40 on a close call that upset Lonnie, who wasn’t about to pull him out. He told him to back off and by all means avoid another foul. Sooley immediately hit a three, then another, and the stadium came to life. But Nova was too well-coached and experienced to panic. It ran its offense, double-teamed Sooley when necessary on defense, and extended its lead. At 9:25, the score was 58–39 and a last-minute push by Central looked unlikely. Nova, with a much deeper bench, subbed freely and was wearing down the Eagles on defense. A minute later, Mitch Rocker limped off the court with a high ankle sprain. Nova immediately pressed full-court and Murray struggled to handle it. Sooley helped break the press and was open from 35 feet. It was a bad miss on a shot he should not have attempted and showed how desperate the Eagles were. Through nothing but determination, they stayed within 20 points but could get no closer. At 2:44, and needing a miracle, Sooley got open from 25 feet. If the ball went through the rim, another wild streak might be in the works. Think the Duke game — five threes in 58 seconds. When it rattled out, Nova cleared and walked the ball up court ahead 71–50. Central pressed at mid-court but Nova handled it easily. A dunk put the game out of reach.

Sooley wasn’t much for tears. He had shed buckets of them in the past year, but for real losses, real tragedies. Crying after a basketball game cheapened the tears he had shed for his family.

He and the Eagles hung around the court and congratulated the Wildcats, who were great sportsmen and said all the right things. Sooley did a quick interview courtside with CBS and managed his trademark smile. He blamed himself for the loss and said he had not played well, but it had been a wonderful run for him and his underdog buddies, and they were proud of what they had accomplished. They held their heads high. They had been beaten by a better team.

When they were finally together in the locker room and the doors were shut, Lonnie smiled at his players and said, “Ain’t nobody crying in this locker room, you hear me? Just think back to last September when we started practice. Not a single one of us, in our wildest dreams, could imagine we’d be here right now. We accomplished something that’s never been done before. You made history, men, and that can never be taken away from you. I love you. Your coaches love you. Let’s savor the moment and keep our heads up.”

They managed to sit through the first half of Oregon versus Kansas, but they’d had enough basketball for one day. Their season was over and they really didn’t care who played who for the title on Monday night. Mitch, taped up and limping, asked Coach Britt if they could leave. The bus took them to a fancy Phoenix steakhouse where a private room had been reserved. Central’s President and his wife were there, along with the AD and some other important people. The coaches’ wives joined the party. As Sooley was finding a seat, Ecko Lam walked through the door and hugged him. They sat together at a table with Murray and Dmitri and talked about the game.

Sooley scored 22, almost 20 below his tournament average. There was no doubt that had he been hitting the game would have changed dramatically. He made only 5 of 16 attempts from three-point range. He turned the ball over four times. He had no blocks and only six rebounds. It was a subpar performance on every level and he had no explanation for it. The setting was intimidating at first, but then every other player had the same jitters. They were playing a good team, but they had already beaten several others.

There was no excuse, no explanation. Just a bad night.

Ecko tried to lighten the mood with “You know, it was almost a year ago when I first met you in Juba, at the tryouts. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Sooley smiled and nodded along.

Ecko looked at Murray and said, “He was only six-two, wasn’t too skinny, could jump to the moon but couldn’t hit a layup.”

Murray said, “Oh, don’t worry, Coach. He’s told us how great he was back in Africa.”

“But he wasn’t. He was the last person chosen on our summer team. Did you ever know that, Samuel?”

“No. You never told me.”

“I had two assistant coaches at the tryouts and neither of them wanted to pick you. Our last slot almost went to Riak Kuol, that six-ten kid from Upper Nile, remember him?”

“Sure. I was convinced he would make the team.”

“Why’d you pick Sooley?” Dmitri asked.

“I don’t know. He was pretty rough around the edges, like many of the African kids. Early one morning during the tryouts I found him in the gym shooting all alone. It was hot and he was soaked, but I could tell he loved what he was doing. Just firing away, jogging after the ball, shooting again. He could do it for hours. Plus, I knew his mother is a tall woman and that he would probably grow. I had no idea he’d spike six inches in a year, no one saw that coming. I rolled the dice, glad I did. Then I convinced Lonnie to roll ’em again, and here we are.”

“Coach Britt didn’t want to sign him?” Dmitri asked.

“Well, you know Coach Britt. He and I go way, way back and we’ve been close friends for a long time. The story he likes to tell now is that he saw Samuel in Orlando at the tournament and knew immediately that the kid had a lot of potential. Trouble with that story is that there were a hundred other coaches watching and no one saw the talent. No one else made an offer. When Central suddenly had an extra scholarship, I asked Coach Britt to take a chance. To his credit, he did.”

By late Sunday morning, the players were tired of the hotel. They held a team meeting and discussed their plans with their coaches. They could certainly hang around and watch the final game Monday night, then fly back Tuesday morning.

But they wanted to go home.