The way the Haitian ball bounces

Posted by theglevin on November 16, 2011 · 3 Comments 

Before the trip I checked in with the org to see if there was anything I could bring; some token gesture for the folks in Les Anglais that I’d be working with. I jokingly, hopefully, asked if I should bring a basketball. Allison thought a soccer ball would be more appreciated and I had no doubt she was right. Still, as I paced the aisles of Sports Authority I stopped and stared at the rims and nets for an uncomfortably long time. They blushed. I turned away first. When I got to LA and presented Jean Noel, the store manager, with a slick new Nike futbol and pump he was grateful and I was pleased to have done it. But on the walk from the store to the hotel my blood pressure rose and I lost my cool. We passed two functional hoops, plane as a day, in this town without a stoplight. Allison, she of countless trips here, had never noticed them. The profanities came Plop Plop(quick and easy).

The second hoop. The lonelier hoop.

I asked around town for a ball and found one that should have been put down years ago, with a non-negotiable price tag of $50 USD. I thought the woman was quoting me in Haitian Dollars*, as most things are priced here, and I still hesitated. When we established she was serious I laughed sadly and walked away ruing the sight of the sad lonely hoops, cursed to watch children play futbol on their courts. For the next week I would raise my gaze every time I passed them, hoping to catch lightning in a bottle and glimpse a child shooting around. No such luck.

We headed to Port au Prince for some business but the tortured hoops were never far from my mind. A few days into our stay, we had an impressively irritating meal that featured Allison coming as close to snapping as I’ve seen. Don’t mess with that woman’s espresso or her veggie patties. To decompress from the near disaster at lunch, we walked into the nicest grocery I’ve seen in the country, and into the arms of destiny. Across the store from the $12 imported hearts of palm, around the corner from the Duvalier keychain^, and a few steps from the $9 sticky notes, sat a large display of basketballs: Spaldings. I hemmed and hawed and tried to play it cool. Went back and forth and wondered if we’d have room to take it with us, and was it a silly thing to do. Allison told me to ‘shut up and buy it’, and she was so right. I was walking on sunshine (oooh oooh oooh).

Unfortunately, we were half a country away from my hoops and in no rush to get back.  When we finally headed south it was a holiday weekend, so Dan and Allison were able to talk some important consultants into coming down to check out LA. This meant staying in Port Salut, for the ambiance and commuting down, ie, no time to play. Oh the agony of having to stay in a beautiful beach town. While we were there, a Haitian band called RAM was playing a must see show that segments of the town was abuzz over. RAM is a strange and popular copa band with a standing engagement at the renowned Hotel Oloffson (The basis for the hotel Trianon in Graham Greene’s The Comedians)  in Port Au Prince. Strange in that their namesake, Richard A. Morse, is a tall white man in a top hat and ascot who does next to nothing but dance awkwardly on stage. His wife and the many other members of the band are the talent, and talented they are. They are also performers and performers tend to be late. At the concert venue, on the grounds of the hotel NAS, placed inconspicuously behind and completely out of view from their convenient store which I had visited several times, was a half court. It was like a dream. In a trance I walked directly over and picked up a ball. I tried to shoot around lightly, but that wasn’t good enough. The band had given no indication of coming on.  Allison and Dan came over and suggested HORSE, and then after two games, 2 on 1. I cannot say no and I cannot not, exert myself on the court. I was in jeans, new balance and a beat up South African button up, already undressed for the occasion; Why not also be soaked in sweat? And I was, and I got dirty looks and a pointed comment and headshake from a friend, and it was totally worth it. My thirst had been sated but the fire to play lay un-extinguished. I would stay another week in Port Salut and each night, alone in my room my Spalding would glare at me with the merited accusation of deprivation. I needed to right this wrong.

Betty doesn't mess around

I got back to LA  and was promptly greeted by Julio’s admonishment of my weight; I’m not getting fat enough. His tremendous cook, Betty, quickly saw to it that I got back on track. Fish (which I’m getting better at de-boning), goat (which I’m getting better at not thinking about) rice and beans and a heaping hot plate of fried plantains, a cold coke, and a new, larger, man was I. Shockingly, by 5 a mild sedative seemed to kick in, but my room had just been nuked to rid me of some uninvited company. A toxic nap did not appeal, so with the heat breaking for the day, and an hour left of sunshine, I did the only other reasonable thing; I grabbed the ball and headed for town.

Being Blan (white) here in LA is spectacle enough. Being blan with a ball in your hand is some next level stuff. Kids immediately called out and a few made kicking motions, which won them devilish stares shot in their directions. A guy lounging on a motorbike with some friends motioned for a pass and I obliged. I didn’t stop, but waved for him to hit me in stride, which he did. He and his buddy quickly tracked me down on their bike and made it clear that they wanted to give me a lift to the court. Being blan Is a spectacle, and being blan with a basketball is the next level, but I have no idea how to describe the looks that came our way as I sat sandwiched between two Haitian men on a motorbike, with a basketball at my side, cruising into town. We found a pump, broke the needle, got a hold of the one I brought from the states and rolled up to the still forlorn and empty court with a brand new Spalding and a sixteen toother on my face.

The hoop that we went to is in the town square, so it took zero time to garner attention. I shot around with three guys, who combined to speak no English, and quickly enforced the concept of change. Bless them for getting that one so easily, for as the gospels note, ‘there is a special place in hell for thou that not returneth thy fellow shooter’s makes’. If only this would have been it, it would have been enough (Dayenu). But within minutes I heard the angels singing out from above as the guy’s let me know that they wanted to play two on two. By this time children had begun to watch us, but I hadn’t let my attention drift too far from the court to take inventory.

Impressed with my demeanor, and scowl, they stuck it out to the end

By the end of the game, when I did look over, there were around 30 boys from maybe four to twenty, and two brave little girls, fairly quietly and very politely watching me and my new bike buddy do irreparable harm to two local’s egos. I was Arvydas Sabonis with a first step. The score was not pretty and I was soaked when it was made clear that we had to call it due to darkness. We said our good games and I turned to the crowd that had not moved. They’d stayed til the end so passively that when I asked if the little guys wanted to shoot the offer, even when translated by an older kid who understood my gesturing, was not immediately accepted. Finally one thigh higher made a move and I handed him the ball before he could change his mind. With this there came light from above. Literally. The solar street lamps of the square kicked in. It was a beautiful sight. The lights weren’t trained to the court, but they covered enough that the youngest boys ran around for a few minutes before some relatively older ones bullied the rock and started their own 4 on 4 run. I stood behind the baseline and watched like a proud parent, only intervening once to administer a jump ball. The youngest guys gathered near my feet and one by one, over the course of fifteen minutes, became comfortable enough to come up to me for a patented ‘Jeff Lanes fist bump’. I wouldn’t have been happier even had I been able to shoot a lick from three tonight.

I eventually took the ball and went home, but promised that I’d be back the next night. They seemed to know what I meant and I have a sneaking suspicion that I don’t have to worry about showing up to an empty court.

NOTE on night two: I told the guys at Magazen Eneji Pwop that I’d be at the courts at 5 tonight. At 5 exactly a guy who I hadn’t met showed up at the hotel. He was dressed to ball so I jumped on his bike and we sped uncomfortably to town where LA’s serious hoop crowd was waiting for me. We played a long and fiercely contested game that I have no idea who won. I was introduced to the term ‘fut’ (foul) over and over again and the hemisphere’s worst take back rule. It’s a half court, so the defense, in order to be eligible to shoot, must take the ball outside the paint, or make one pass inside it. This pass can be a tip pass between two guys under the basket. Thankfully the small children in the crowd couldn’t recognize any of the expressions that rule elicited from me. The court is very narrow and it’s elevated a solid nine inches off the ground. Go to the rim and you WILL fall off the baseline. Go too hard and risk really hurting yourself.  Between the constant fouls, ridiculous take back and quick tosses in without checking, the game had a really strange flow to it. I did a lot of eye rolling, pushing off and muttering to myself. The game’s greatest ambassador I was not. Regardless, they requested I be at the court at 6 AM tomorrow, so redemption is in sight. Despite everything Steve Nash has taught me, I’m a carbo loading tonight to be ready….and the NEXT MORNING I showed up at 6, got a quick game together and rolled. I’m forcing myself to stay inside because of the asinine rules and only stepping out at opportune cut throat moments to hit back breaking threes. Mercy is not being shown, but at least today I was blocking shots with a smile…oh, and they want night games again too. It’s officially two a day time and thanks to the crazy humidity here, I’m sweating more than I have since PHX MAC went to Philly. I’m getting fat no longer.

* (A currency that no longer exists and hasn’t in some time. I call them unicorns. They’re make believe and a nuisance. The rough exchange is 40 gourde to 1 US dollar, and 5 Gourde to 1 Unicorn, making a Unicorn about 8 to 1 USD. These conversions, or some part of them, take place on every transaction. It’s amazing, and it’s led to me acting like the Japanese tourists I’ve helped so often at events; I hand over a wad of cash and hope I’m given back proper change.)

^ Haiti has been plagued by misrule for decades, and there have been no larger offenders than the murderous father and son dictator duo of the Duvaliers. Poppa Doc and Baby Doc (mis) ruled Haiti for three decades before a populist movement finally saw Baby Doc flee the country in 1986 paving the way for Haiti’s first ever democratic elections… and then a US backed coup, and then ANOTHER US backed coup, and then finally another free election, and eventually a famous Copa singer / flasher being elected this past year. But that’s another story. The important note here is that hanging at the checkout of this store, between a row of carabeeners and a row of flip flop keychains with the Mexican flag on it, were keychains with Papa Doc on one side and Baby Doc on the other. I was confused, aghast, befuddled. I am now the perplexed owner of one and decades from now I’ll remember that this is where my murderous dictator paraphernalia collection started.

Filed under Haiti