It was a sweltering Saturday afternoon deep in the midst of the Cold War, and the air at the University of Madagascar was thick with the gritty, red laterite dust and sweat. The outdoor basketball court near the student center had always been a spot where the university’s diverse community—students, lecturers, and visitors alike—came together for some friendly competition. The sound of sneakers kicking on the pounded surface, basketballs bouncing, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air as a game was about to kick off.
Among those preparing to play was Mr. K, an American English lecturer from Indiana. He had been teaching at the university for just over a year, and while his Malagasy wasn’t perfect, his basketball skills—honed in pickup games back home—were undeniable. He had played on this court several times before, usually with a group of local students who, despite being less experienced with the game, had a fierce love for it.
Today, however, things were different. His usual team of Malagasy students was up against a new group—a team of three Russian aid workers who had arrived in Madagascar a few months earlier. They were tall, fit, and carried themselves with a quiet, almost regal arrogance. They had seen basketball as a part of their aid work in various countries, and there were hints that their skills on the court matched their confidence. Rounding out the opposition were two Malagasy students, both of whom had likely never played with such as group of foreigners before.
He glanced over at his team: Mamy, a quick point guard with a sharp eye for passing; Rakoto, a lanky côtièr forward who could jump for the clouds; Faneva, a sturdy mass who could stand at center like a mighty baobab. and Anjara, a sharpshooter whose outside shot could break hearts. They were ready.
The game began with the usual fanfare of banter and good-natured taunting. English, which except for his of course, was the broken lingua franca. He quickly noticed the Russians’ imposing stature, particularly Ivan and Sergei, both of whom were easily over six feet tall. Their presence on the court gave their team an intimidating air, and it was clear they expected to dominate.
“Ready to be schooled, Americans?” one of the Russians—probably Ivan—muttered, barely cracking a smile.
He just grinned and nodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he replied, dribbling the ball between his legs.
The first few minutes were a back-and-forth affair, with the Russians using their height to score in the paint while the Malagasy team relied on speed and precision. Mamy zipped up and down the court, weaving between defenders and creating space for his teammates. Rakoto, despite his lankiness, demonstrated a surprising ability to handle the ball and protect it from the Russian giants. But it was Anjara’s shooting that kept the game close. Every time the Russians pulled ahead, Anjara would drain a deep shot, much to their growing frustration.
At one point, Sergei—looking unbothered—backed down Faneva in the post, sending him spinning in a wide arc before he slammed the ball through the hoop with a vicious dunk. The Russians erupted in triumph, and even he couldn’t help but feel the tension rise.
But hiss team wasn’t out yet. He saw his moment. With the game tied at 40-40, he called for a timeout. As the players gathered around him, he clapped his hands and spoke in a low voice.
“We have one chance to win this. Mamy, you take the ball up top. Faneva and Rakoto, set screens on each side of the foal shot. Anjara, you keep shooting. I’ll be the decoy. We’ve got speed, they’ve got size. Let’s use it.”
The Malagasy players nodded in agreement, and they returned to the court with renewed focus. The next few minutes were a blur of sharp passes, quick cuts, and devastating shots. Mamy played his role as the floor general, driving the lane and dishing out the ball at just the right moment. Rakoto set bone-crushing screens that freed Anjara for one clean look after another. And He? He was everywhere—distracting the Russians, getting into passing lanes, and even draining an occasional jumper from beyond the key, his famous 18-footers.
With only seconds left on the timing watch, the game was tied again—44-44. It was his ball at the top of the key. The Russians, realizing they were on the brink of defeat, looked to double-team him. But he had one final trick up his sleeve. He passed to Mamy, who faked a drive before tossing a no-look pass to Anjara in the corner. Anjara squared up and, in one smooth motion, let the ball fly.
The timer sounded as the ball sailed through the air and swished through the net.
“Game over,” Mamy shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
The vicorious team erupted in joy accompanied by a gathered crowd of cheering spectators, as the Russians stood in stunned silence, processing the loss. Despite their pride being bruised, they couldn’t help but give the their opponents a nod of respect.
He walked over to Ivan and Sergei, offering a hand. “Good game,” he said, his grin widening. “You guys are tough.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Ivan took his hand and shook it firmly. “You… you play well, American,” he said with a hint of grudging admiration. Sergei followed suit, and soon, all five players were shaking hands and exchanging congratulations.
Later that evening, as he sat in his room preparing the next lesson, he received a call from his friend, Charles, a university professor.
“You won’t believe this. The university radio station covered the game,” his friend said, laughing. “They played it live on the air—people were listening in!”
He chuckled, half-amused. “What, our game? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, really!” Charles explained. “Russians vs. American. It’s a big deal.”
He leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. In that moment, he realized how much he had come to love this place—the warmth of the Malagasy people, the camaraderie, and the simple joy of basketball, game loved by people from all around the world. And though he was far from home, playing on that court with his students had made him feel more connected than ever to a world outside of his notes and lectures.
As he imagined the static-full sound of the game as covered on the radio, he couldn’t help but think: sometimes, it was the smallest victories—the ones on the court, in the moment—that ended up meaning the most.
© 1983, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
