White Man Can't Jump

The Toyota van which was rumored to be our transportation back to the capital still was not functioning well. It was for that reason we had had to hire a truck to bring us here to Bere from Kelo when we had first arrived. Now, weeks later, after recharging the battery and having some work done on the distributor, it had yet to shed it's "unreliable" designation. The problem likely originated during a drive through a flooded road during this past rainy season. We suspected that water had gotten into one of the hoses of the engine, given the muddy residue in the space where the battery was bolted down. With just a few days before it was needed to return Suzanne and I to civilization, I was strangely calm and nonchalant about the whole prospect of being stranded in the Chadian desert. I'd been around long enough in these places and situations not to worry to much about it.

Next to the "garage" where the van was parked was a small concreted area and basketball goal post, complete with backboard and net (surprisingly). One day, while milling around next to this failing experiement in rural transportation and wondering if I should've booked an open return date, I let myself get sucked into a game of 2 on 2 basketball. I really didn't want to play. I mean, I hadn't actually dribbled a basketball this mellinium. I was short. My shoes had been stolen. My rubber sandals I had gotten at market were 2 sizes too big. I hadn't had surgery yet to remove the cyst on top of my left foot. But I got to be on James' team (who was about 6' 3"), and I figured that, after all, we'd get beat soon enough that my feet wouldn't have time to develop blisters as I ran around trying to pump and fake jump shots on the rough concrete. So, we began our quest to score 10 goals.

Being on the hospital grounds, the court was on the inside of a chain link fence. However, the main road was only about 20 feet away, and as 4 white guys began playing basketball, a small crowd pressed their faces into the fence to watch. It was like they'd never seen a game of basketball or something. Some of them even climbed part way up to see over the people standing in front of them. I wasn't sure if they wanted to see a game of basketball, or if they just really thought it was just a chance to see white people without shirts get hurt. I was told that the common belief amongst Africans is that white skin is really flimsy... doesn't hold up well, cuts easy for surgery, doesn't heal well. I mean, with the hair that's all stringy, straight and flops all around, white skin couldn't be all that durable. You know how it goes.

So without going into deep detail on the play by play, let me just tell you that this white man may not jump, but he's got a KILLER sky hook. See, when I was in grade school, I never could manage to shoot over the reach of anybody in my class. I had seen Wilt Chamberlain do his sky hook shot over anybody and everybody and thought I'd try the same. I got to the point where I could make the shot IF it was made from right at the 3 point line. Any closer and I'd usually shoot to high or hard, and any farther away I wouldn't come close enough.

Well, we came right down to the wire. James and I led by only 1 point, and we needed one more to win. Somehow, the shorter half of the team got possession of the ball, and I dribbled to the right side of the court, around to where I imagined the 3 point range was. Then, I took one step back away from the goal and pushed upwards into the air using the beginnings of a large blister under the large toe of my left foot. As my body rocketed a good 3-4 inches heavenward, my right leg instinctively bent at the knee, while my right arm and hand (entirely incapable of palming or even gripping the ball very well) described a scooping, yet graceful, arch in space as I lobbed the ball towards what would be the game winning goal. Time slowed. I could hear the ball pass through the air, propelled by the anticipation of at least a dozen small African children, each letting out little gasps from behind the fence as they squirmed to see whether or not this inconceivable shot was going... was... going, going... YESSSSS!!!! IT went IN!!!! Nothing but net! Sweet victory.

At least, that's how I remember it. Perhaps it looked more like the Karate Kid trying out Mr. Miagi's "Crane" technique for the first time. I don't know. Ask James, he saw it all. I don't know if he could believe what he had seen, but he did see it.

Oh, and speaking of keeping your eye on the ball...

There was a man who came in for surgery shortly thereafter. He had a collection of fluid around his testicle that was giving him a lot of trouble. So, I did a spinal, and James cut out the fluid collection, along with the large, swollen, slick and rather oblong testicle. As we moved the patient over onto the gurney to be rolled out to the hospital wards, I heard a thud followed by a kind of splat, bounce, bounce sound. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Abel, the OR scrub tech, briefly scamper around grouping at something on the floor. It quickly became clear that Abel had, uh... well, how shall I say this? Well, quite literally... he had dropped the ball. I suppose it was understandable. The size, shape and slick surface combined to make it very difficult to regain control of the ball after initialy losing possession. He finally got a grip, and holding it with both hands, slowly stood upright under the curious gaze of all us in the OR (including the patient, who'd been awake the whole time under spinal anesthesia). "Able, my man," I said, "you need to keep your eye on the ball."

Things you don't want to hear in the mission field: "If you lift up the passenger's seat, unbolt the engine cover, and hold down the flap mechanism of the carbeurator, the engine starts much more easily. Three cranks instead of twenty. You'll probably want to leave the cover off as you travel to N'Djamena so you can manipulate it as you drive, otherwise it may stall and who knows if you'll get it started again. It does make the inside of the van quite hot though."