Джон Гришэм - Sooley

As he spoke his tone became sharper, and by the time he finished he sounded like a drill sergeant. “Got it?” he barked.

The responses were the usual, casual acknowledgments that the coach had said something.

Ecko looked at Quinton Majok and asked, “Quinton, who, in your opinion, is the dumbest player on this team?”

Majok, already established as one of the team clowns, pointed without hesitation to his roommate, Awino Leyano. “Him,” he said.

Ecko said, “Stand up, Awino.”

He slowly unwound all eighty inches and smiled at his coach. Ecko said, “Okay, Awino, give me back tomorrow’s schedule, in perfect order.”

Awino stopped smiling and said, “Well, first of all, Coach, I’m much smarter than Quinton.”

“We’ll see. The schedule, please.”

“Okay, here at seven to call home, then breakfast at seven-thirty, then take the van to practice, from nine to noon, three whole hours which is a lot more than I need, then back here for lunch. Leave here at one-thirty for UCF, stay there until three, then go to Rollins, stay there until five, then back here to change and go to a shootaround, then come back here and eat.”

Ecko stared at him as if he had just stabbed someone. Finally, he asked, “What time do we leave here for the shootaround?”

“Uh, six.”

“No! Wrong! Sit down.”

Awino folded himself back into his chair. Ecko glared at the others and growled, “Samuel, what time do we leave here for the shootaround?”

“Six-thirty.”

“And what time is dinner tomorrow night?”

“Eight.”

“Thank you.” As Ecko paced a bit his team seemed stunned by his harshness. Then he continued, “If you’re late for, or miss, a meal, a meeting, a van ride, or anything scheduled, it’s an automatic one-game suspension. No questions asked. Listen to me and to Coach Moka and hear what we say. Each night I will give you the schedule for the next day and I will ask one of you to recite it back to me perfectly. Understood? Pay attention.”

There was no cellular service in Lotta and very little in Rumbek, but Ayak Sooleymon had arranged a favor from a local military leader, a lieutenant in the regular army. At exactly 2 p.m. on July 14, he was sitting under a shade tree near the Sooleymon home holding a satellite phone and chatting with Ayak, Beatrice, Angelina, James, Chol, and about a dozen curious neighbors. The call came from an American number at ten minutes after two.

Samuel was on the line, using Ecko’s cell phone.

The lieutenant said, “Greetings, Samuel, how are you?”

“Very fine, sir. I’m in Orlando and we are preparing for the games.”

“Excellent, Samuel.”

“How are things in Lotta?” Always a dangerous question.

“We are good, Samuel, and we are very proud of you. I will now hand the sat phone to your father. Good luck over there, son.”

Ayak took the bulky sat phone, said “Hello, Samuel,” then listened as his son asked about each family member. All were doing well. How was the flight? Samuel said it was long and tiring but also exciting. Beatrice took the phone and asked what he was eating. A lot of pizza and tacos, delicious stuff. Angelina was next and Samuel described their day at Disney World. Epcot was next, after a lot of basketball. James and Chol got only a few seconds of air time, but they were thrilled nonetheless to hear Samuel’s voice. Ringing off, he promised his father he would call back in five days as scheduled, and he would have much more to talk about. He thanked the lieutenant, who promised to make his sat phone available for all calls.

Samuel handed the cell phone to Ecko, thanked him, then raced to breakfast. Quinton Majok was on Frankie’s phone. Other players were waiting. The five living in America had cell phones. None of the South Sudanese owned one.

Game One: South Sudan versus Croatia

In the handsome locker room of the Alfond Sports Center at Rollins College, the boys from South Sudan dressed quietly in their humble uniforms and new Reeboks and listened to their coach. Ecko was saying, “For the tournament here in Orlando, the games are a bit different. There will be three periods of ten minutes each with five minutes in between, no half-time. The games will last about an hour instead of two. You’ve seen the schedule and you know the games are stacked up. You’ll play seven in eight days, so someone here is worried about your legs. Not me. Not Coach Moka. If we make it to St. Louis, the format will revert to two twenty-minute halves with a fifteen-minute break. Right now I’m not thinking about St. Louis. They’ve placed us in the bracket with the toughest competition. Any questions?”

Nothing from the team. “Now, C Squad will play the first period, B the second, A the third. There is no first string or second. Frankie and I will rejuggle the squads before the next game. Each of you will play ten minutes and we expect ten minutes of all-out, balls-to-the-wall hustle.”

Quinton Majok shot up a hand and said, “Coach. Balls-to-the-wall? I’m sorry.”

Ecko laughed and said, “Yeah, right, my bad. It’s American slang for throw everything you’ve got at your target, your opponent, whatever you happen to be doing or facing.”

Quinton said, “I like it.”

“Good. Anyway, nonstop hustle. Aggressive man-to-man D. Crash the glass. Block out everybody. Take only good shots. Let’s start out rough, lots of hacking and holding and see how the refs will call it. These are Division I refs and they’re used to a physical game. Any questions?”

“Yeah, Coach, where did balls-to-the-wall come from?” asked Quinton.

“I think it was Michael Jordan. That good enough?”

They took the floor in their simple uniforms, no fancy warm-up outfits, no customized jackets or tear-away pants. As they jogged through the standard layup line, they shot glances at the other end. In a stark contrast, the Croatians were all white, and very well turned out in red-and-white warm-ups with the pants boldly striped, obviously copied from Indiana.

Samuel bounced on his toes, fidgeted nervously, fist-pumped his teammates, waited for the ball, and couldn’t help but take in the surroundings: the beautiful and modern gym of a wealthy small college, the scouts lounging in the seats at midcourt, the three cocky refs, the atmosphere of big-time basketball in America. But where were all those cute cheerleaders they always showed on television?

He was the point guard for C Squad, up first and raring to go. Ecko huddled the entire team for a few fiery words. He said he wanted mayhem on the court and nonstop racket from the bench.

Koosh Koosh was six feet ten, two inches taller than Awino Leyano, but he came nowhere near the tip-off. Awino slammed it back to Samuel who sprinted past everyone, drove hard to the rim, and missed an easy layup. On offense, the Croatians took their time and screened hard. With four seconds on the shot clock, Koosh Koosh got the ball behind the arc and nailed a beautiful 30-footer.

A 2–3 zone awaited Samuel when he crossed mid-court. Ecko had predicted this. His players were known for their soaring dunks, alley-oops, and easy put-backs, but not for their long-range bombing. They could expect tight zones that dared them to shoot long. Samuel missed his first, and badly. Koosh Koosh hit his second three. Evidently, he was immune from the jitters.

Three minutes in, the first foul was called, a shooting violation on a Croatian forward, and Riak Kuol went to the line. The pause was needed, and Samuel stopped near the bench and looked at Ecko who said, “You gotta relax, man. Run the offense, take your time. These guys are a bunch of douchebags.”

Samuel, breathing heavily, repeated, “Douchebags, Coach?”