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.