Джон Гришэм - Sooley

And so the day went. Greetings from an old friend or a new acquaintance, followed by a private chat as they stepped outside the suite and walked around the arena. All conversations were private, all scouts careful not to say something that might be heard by another. Ecko played it straight and was honest about each of his players and their potential. It was counterproductive to exaggerate someone’s talent, or brag about his work ethic, or pass along inside information about the kid and his family. The proof was on the court for everyone to see. Three of his players were drawing no interest, and he understood why. They would never play in the U.S.

After four games, the players had been watched by hundreds of college and high school scouts, and as the tournament progressed the interest in the best ones intensified.

After lunch, in the suite, the head coach at North Carolina Central appeared and got a bear hug from Ecko. His name was Lonnie Britt and he had played four years at Toledo. He had also played against Ecko, and they had been friends ever since. For three years, they had been assistants together at Northern Iowa and had spent many pleasant hours together with their wives and young children. Ecko thought Lonnie had the potential to head coach at the highest level, but so far his four years at NC Central had not attracted much attention.

He took a seat between Ecko and Frankie and asked loudly, “Okay, who do you have for me?”

“Who do you want?”

“Give me Alek Garang, Quinton Majok, and Jimmie Abaloy, for starters.”

“Is that all?” Those three were likely headed to bigger programs. NC Central was a historically black school in Durham and played in the Mid-Eastern Athletic Conference against similar colleges. It was often referred to as “that other school in Durham.”

“How about Abraham Bol?”

They were watching a loaded American team, Houston Gold, pick apart the team from Croatia. Frankie was called aside by an assistant from Southern Mississippi, and they soon drifted away.

Ecko said, “Bol says he’s too good for college, gonna declare for the draft.”

They laughed and joked some more. When the suite was practically empty, Ecko said, “Let’s take a hike.”

They walked to the upper deck and found seats. Ecko said, “I got a kid that I really like. Samuel Sooleymon, still only seventeen and growing.”

Lonnie said, “I saw him Thursday against Ukraine. Didn’t show too well.”

“He’s a little rough around the edges, needs another year of high school here, but so far no luck.”

It was often harder to match up players with private high schools than colleges because so few of their coaches were at the tournaments. And virtually no public high school coaches bothered with the events. Getting a foreign kid assimilated into a new town meant moving the family, and finding a host, and then there was the always troublesome issue of being accused of recruiting. The public high school coaches had plenty of homegrown talent and the foreign kids were usually headaches. The prep schools and basketball academies were more aggressive in their recruiting, but they too had plenty of players.

“I didn’t see much,” Britt said.

“Give him another look. We play this Gold team tomorrow at Rollins and he’ll see more action with Garang on the sideline.”

“He’s not a point guard.”

“No, he’s not. At the rate he’s growing he’ll be playing the three by the fall.”

“I didn’t like his shot.”

“He’s a work in progress, Lonnie. Trust me.”

“That’s just what I need in my program right now. Kids who can’t play but just may have some potential.”

“I know, I know, but right now your program needs some help.”

Lonnie managed to laugh. “Who else is looking at him?”

The great question. College coaches were cocky in their belief that they could spot talent, but they were always insecure enough to want validation. Thus, the standard question: “Who else is looking at him?”

“Everybody,” Ecko said with a laugh.

“Gee, I’ve never heard that before.”

Other than the three open-air schools, the only building with any official status in Lotta was Our Lady’s Chapel, a small handsome stone-and-brick sanctuary built by the Rumbek diocese ten years earlier. A priest from there arrived each Saturday afternoon for Mass and the entire village turned out. The front pews were reserved for the village elders and their wives, some with multiple spouses, and the younger families who arrived early found seats inside. The crowd always spilled out and covered the small courtyard.

Long before the service began, the priest sought out Ayak and Beatrice. He had a small gift for them, a copy of Thursday’s edition of the Juba Monitor. On the front page of Section B was the photo of Niollo sitting in the seats at the Amway Center, surrounded by the smiling faces of the team from South Sudan. Above his left shoulder and leaning into the picture was Samuel. His parents were thrilled and gawked at the photo before sharing it with everyone else. Beatrice was so excited she could hardly breathe.

Later, from the altar, the priest waved the newspaper and informed the congregation that after four games their team had won three and lost one. According to the newspaper, the boys were playing well and getting lots of attention.

And he had even better news. Tomorrow, Sunday, a wide-screen television would be hung above the front steps of the church, and at 8 p.m. sharp the game would be televised for the entire village to watch. The Sooleymon family would be given front row seats.

Nothing else he said during Mass would be remembered.

Game Five: South Sudan versus Houston Gold

Gold was a nationally known AAU program financed by a wealthy Texas businessman who loved the game, had played in college, and wanted his three sons to excel and become stars. It was his pet project and he spared no expense. The teams, and there were at least a dozen of them for ages twelve through eighteen, held tryout camps throughout Texas and recruited the best players. Making the team meant a year-round commitment to playing in the top showcase tournaments, being taught by coaches who were well paid, traveling by luxury bus or even by air, and being inundated with gear and equipment most colleges would envy. The boss cut a sponsorship deal with Nike and the players were rumored to have at least five different uniforms. Not surprisingly, the program had produced dozens of college players and two alumni were in the NBA.

Playing for Houston Gold meant scouts were always watching. The players were gifted and special and they were constantly reminded of this. Their swagger was legendary, to the point that some college coaches shied away from the program, but not many.

For the early game at Rollins, they took the floor in their snazzy NBA-style warm-ups and refused to look at the other end of the court. There, the boys from South Sudan were hamming it up in their simple, phys-ed-style uniforms, unimpressed with Gold’s greatness, unbowed by their four easy wins.

Gold had played the day before. Ecko’s team had not, and he decided to go with tempo and try to run them into the ground. He pressed full-court and wanted shots early in the clock. It worked beautifully in the first period as Samuel and Abraham Bol forced three turnovers and Riak Kuol blocked two shots down low.

All five Gold starters were rising high school seniors. Four had committed to big schools. Though they were well coached, they were, of course, individual stars, and this often led to some low-percentage circus shots. Feeling the pressure, their guards missed four straight from downtown, and their fiery coach used his only time-out for a tongue-lashing.