My sister wants to go to an American university. If she can go, I will play.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled while watching football.
SCOUT BY BRIAN KAYSER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 18
The warm, dry air hit Frank in the face as he walked down the creaky silver staircase. His tattered, brown satchel thrown over his shoulder, he squinted as the bright Ghanaian sunlight penetrated his eyes.
Frank knew he wasn’t getting a driver this time. The last time he had a driver was three years ago in Italy. He recalled stepping off the plane and seeing a tuxedoed limo driver waiting to take him to one of Rome’s top restaurants, in order to woo Francisco Bargnani, their star striker, to play for DC United. Upper management didn’t believe in Bargnani, but Frank did. He told them how he hadn’t seen a kick as pure as Bargnani’s since his countryman Paolo Rossi. After two days in Italy, Frank was flying home with a new striker.
Bargnani was a bust. He scored a goal in his first game, dribbling through two defenders and angling a laser of a shot just below the right side of the crossbar, good enough for ESPN. After that he was decidedly unspectacular, his productivity dropping with each pound gained. Frank had seen it happen plenty of times, to other players and conversely, scouts, who always took it harder than the player, but never with one of his guys.
Before Bargnani, Frank was the one who insisted DC United trade for young Ghanaian prodigy Kwame Appiah. But his bosses had a short-term memory when it came to his successes and they never forgot Bargnani. Whenever Frank would make suggestions in meetings, his younger bosses would make cracks about Bargnani. Frank never mentioned Appiah’s five straight All-Star Game appearances.
They hadn’t fired him yet. Frank knew he wasn’t old enough to command their respect but he wasn’t young enough to be one of them. He didn’t mind being their punching bag now and then.
But after Bargnani, Frank was relegated to scouting for the minors, attending half-empty high school and junior college games played on patchy fields, talking to kids convinced they were destined for the Olympic team.
“I’m looking for Joseph Benjamin, the assistant coach,” Frank said to a guard sitting in a rusted folding chair by the entrance to the Ghanaian national team’s practice field.
The guard stared back at Frank. “Isaiah?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Frank said, nodding.
“Wait here,” the guard said, rising.
Frank continued nodding, noting the anger in the guard’s tone. After 15 minutes of waiting, Frank sat in the guard’s chair, leaned back and closed his eyes, partly because he was exhausted and partly to avoid getting any more dust in his eyes. He felt the warm breeze caress his face. The sound of the palm trees swaying in the wind could have put Frank to sleep if it hadn’t been for the appearance of Joseph.
“Frank! How are you, my brother!” Joseph said, his huge arms spread wide for a hug.
Frank quickly stood and returned the hug, feeling like he could suffocate in Joseph’s overpowering grasp.
“You are good?” Joseph asked again.
“Eye,” Frank replied, struggling to remember the little bit of Twi Joseph taught him five years ago. “Ete sen?”
“Bokoo,” Joseph replied between fits of thunderous laughter. “Bokoo.”
Meanwhile, the guard never took his angry eyes off Frank, though Frank pretended not to notice.
“You must be hungry,” Joseph said, placing his large hand on Frank’s white polo, now speckled brown from driving on the dusty roads without AC. “We’ll go get dinnah. Let me get Isaiah.” Joseph turned away and jogged through the entrance.
“You here to take ahnothah playah? The only time we see obroni is when they want somebody.” The guard never averted his eyes from Frank’s.
“We’ll see,” Frank said, returning the stare.
“Isaiah, he won’t go. You waste your time. Isaiah love his cone-tree.”