The Perfect Shirt for the Almost Perfect Season.

Na kwa nini Mwindaji aniitumie.

The first quarter of the first journal I kept in Africa is full of zeal and optimism, or naïveté, depending on your perspective. There were tons of things I felt like I wanted to get out of my African experience in those days. I was bursting at the seams with anticipation of all the adventures to come, all the sights to behold. But one dream stood out above all others. I don't have the journal with me at the moment, and so I can't remember the exact wording, but I know that I recorded my paramount desire in all caps, in bold:


To see a Tanzanian walking around in a hand me down, American sports t-shirt commemorating a championship for some team that had actually lost, thereby making the thousands of pre-printed shirts unsellable.


Since before my tenth birthday, I'd associated these types of shirts with two things: Mr. O'Donnell and Africa.

Mr. O'Donnell was the father of "Meghan O.," a girl in my class at St. Vincent's, and not to be confused with "Meaghan E." or "Meagan N." (which is more amazing: that three of the 28 girls in the Class of '98 were named Meghan, or that they all three spelled it a different way?). He worked for either Logo Athletic or Logo 7, I can't remember which, but he had access to these treasure troves of unsellable sports memorabilia, and knowing me, a sports-crazy pack rat, he would always hook it up. I've still got a bunch of the stuff, mainly hats: Atlanta Falcons Super Bowl Champions, Houston Astros 1998 World Series Champions, Green Bay Packers Back-to-Back Super Bowl Champs, even a Kansas Jayhawks Final Four title hat, from the year they got upset by Mike Bibby and Arizona.

And Africa? I've got a super ancient memory of sitting in my living room and watching one of those Save the Children infomercials filmed in a nondescript African country -- the ones with the white-bearded guy speaking in an extremely compassionate voice while holding some sick, sad African child, where he flashes the 800 number on the screen every three or four seconds -- when I saw some sick, sad African child in the background wearing a Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Champion shirt. Everyone, even in Africa, (or so I thought), knew that the Bills had been to the Super Bowl four times in a row, and amazingly, had lost all four times. And there I was, a well-fed, vaccinated, white American child, sitting in my home which had A/C and central heating, someone who put Band Aids on boo boo's and made regular visits to the dentist, with my heart boiling with envy of that sick, sad African kid: How come he got a Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Champions t-shirt, and I didn't?

I wish someone had conducted some sort of psychological study on me in the early 90's.

If asked what they most wanted to see during a year in East Africa, most people would probably go with the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, or part of the wildebeest migration across the plains of the Serengeti, or even the snow white beaches of Zanzibar.








I saw all of those. And I also saw a bunch of cool throwback stuff during my 14 months in Africa, all of it donated to poor, shirtless Africans by wealthy, vaccinated Americans, and subsequently sold in markets across Tanzania for profit by the same people the wealthy, vaccinated Americans thought to be destitute and in need of clothing.

For example, the gold Ricky Williams Saints jersey I bought in Tengeru for $4.

(And we met a girl with a UVa Cheerleading shirt.)

Or the dude we saw rocking a Tim Biakabutuka Panthers jersey in Dar es Salaam.

(Greatest name in sports history.)

Or all the other great stuff I saw when I didn't feel comfortable whipping out my camera, like a throwback Rockets Starter jacket, and a Gallery Furniture hat, and thousands and thousands of Astros hats. But in 14 months, I never saw what I wanted to see the most: a championship t-shirt from a professional sports team in America who didn't actually win the championship.

It was a huge disappointment for me. I'd signed up to save the world for an entire year, and I didn't see a single Utah Jazz title shirt.

Hunter and I both came home in August. But he went back to Tanzania three weeks ago to work for a school out in Monduli. And you'll never guess what he wrote to me in a text message this morning:

"Just got patriots superbowl champs 19-0 perfect season tshirts donated to the school."

I can't think of a better way to start my morning. (That's not true, actually. But waking up to news like that is still pretty nice.)

I asked him to save one or two of those for me (I want to wear one, and I want to give one to my friend Joe, from good ole Lowell, Massachusetts). And guess what he said? That he would "try" but that the shirts were "4 the kids."

Are you freaking KIDDING me man? They're for the kids?! They don't understand the significance of those shirts!

And neither do these little Nicaraguans.

I will personally ship half of my t-shirt wardrobe over to Tanzania in exchange for ah Patriots perfect season shirt. To Hunter's Maasai students, Patriots 19-0 is some meaningless logo on yet another free shirt from Wazungu. It's no different from a "Just Married" bride t-shirt, or a YMCA rec league jersey. It's cotton, and it has sleeves. To me, Patriots 19-0 gear is the fulfillment of my destiny. Watching that Giants-Pats Super Bowl in Arusha last year was one of the great sports memories of my life. We woke up in the middle of the night, we watched the sun rise, we reveled in the glory of David Tyree for a full 24 hours afterwards, since it was the only NFL game either of us got to watch in its entirety all season. And it just seems too perfect that of all the runners up in major American sports championships to choose from, it's the 2007 Patriots shirt that Hunter finds upon his return to TZ.

And he's going to "try" to get me one.

Mwindaji, unsemaje? Ukisoma hii hadithi, nakuomba, NAKUOMBA, lete shati moja basi! Moja TU. Ukinisaidia, kama mchizi afanye, nakupa ahadi kwamba nitakapofika huko Tanzania nitakufanya puli vizuri sana, na husafishe kwa sababu mimi mwenyewe nitasafisha zote baada ya kumaliza. Tafadhali msela. Ndo shati moja tu. Wanafunzi wenu hawatajua.

My personal appeal to my best friend, in code language.

I know he'll come through for me. After all, he'll always remember who bought him his "Lo Mejor De Lo Mejor" shirt from his beloved Panthers Super Bowl trip.



This guy.

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P.S. Just as I was about to post this story my phone beeped again. It was Mwindaji, again. And he said they'd reserved a shirt for me.

Asante mwanangu.