Stevens Point, WI… February 2000

A mesh bag of over-worn rubber basketballs spills out at center court.  An anxious prospect coaxes his mom to hurry up with his shoe change.  Jeremy and Ben fire jumpers from the wings.  Lydia chases a boy from baseline to baseline, but the only defense involved is Simon trying to avoid getting kissed.

It is my first coaching experience; it is my first time around cognitively disabled athletes.  I have not yet decided if I am going to be a helper or a hard-ass, more loving or more Lombardi.  But I just blew my whistle so it’s time to find out.

I choose the voice I use when I’m talking to little kids, as I gently call everyone to stand at half court.  Heads drop.  I announce that there will be no tryouts today, because everyone is going to make the team.  Eyes turn from mine.  Each player will handle and shoot the ball equally, I say.  Shoulders slump.  And before I even finish my speech promising them my respect, I have lost theirs. 

To the people in that gym, there is a dignity in being treated like everyone else.  Maybe it is even the greatest thrill special athletes get.  I would go on to learn that those nine kids bagged groceries, swept hallways, and washed dishes for forty hours a week.  They sat around a group home for most of the rest.  But for two hours during “recreation time” at the YMCA there was a window for them to get every bit the surge out of sports that I did.  Maybe more. 

This team had just spent the last ten months hoping for a Gruden, and I gave them Gandhi.  Five seasons of guys who coached like the pope had left this mismatched squad desperate for one Popavich.  I recognized my transgression.  But what kind of man yells at an autistic kid?  Could I even be a Cower?  Or was I too much of a coward? 

I glance down at my practice schedule.  00:00 – 00:10 was supposed to be for stretching, not stuttering.  “D-D-Don’t slouch when I am talking to you lazy slobs.” . . .  Nine heads perk up.  No turning back now.  “The only thing ‘special’ about this practice is how many times you are all going to run if someone bounces a basketball one more time when I am talking.”   Suddenly I have their full attention; a drill sergeant in front of nine smiling soldiers.  I figure these kids deserve a “regular” basketball experience.  And I’m either going to give it to them or get fired trying.     

Oshkosh, WI…  March 2000, State Finals: Championship Game

“You guys are playing scared,” I yell.  Merle’s jaw tightens. 

“You’re playing like you’ve never seen a black guy before,” I carry on.  “That’s rude to those guys, and it’s sure as hell embarrassing for you”

Mad Dog throws a water bottle towards the bleachers, which house more than a few parents and caregivers who disapprove of my approach.  A mother reminds us that “Good sports make sports good” or something like that.  An aid proclaims that we can’t finish lower than second place.          

The scoreboard shows that we’re down twelve points to Milwaukee.  I tell my team that only winners get to ride in the van for the 45 mile ride home.

Geoff bites his lip.  Jeremy pounds his fist onto the hardwood.  Ben throws his towel behind the bench.  The horn sounds and for the first time all game my starters walk back onto the court without fear, and with a self-respect that only comes out of performing under high expectations.  And for two or three fierce minutes, our crowd discovers a pride in their team that can’t emerge under lesser pressure.     

Our van ride home was filled with winners, silver medal winners who lost the championship game by over twenty points.  The team had called my bluff over getting left behind, just like they had called my bluff on the whole Bobby Knight persona long ago.

As I revisited my college stomping grounds years later, I would run into the old team from time to time.  Whether they were emptying trashcans or grilling burgers, they always stood tall in my presence, and they never stopped calling me Coach.                  

There is much that I love about sports, and much that is good.  One of sport’s greatest virtues is the universality of experience it allows to anyone who aims for the top.  Outside of the lines, life often demands that we act in certain ways.  Political correctness has evolved to the point that we are often too scared to treat others as we would want to be.  The Special Olympic oath reads something like “May I win, and if I cannot win let me be brave in the attempt”.  One thing it taught me is that we should all be brave enough to treat each other like winners.

Born in Chicago and raised on a steady diet of Harry Caray game-calls and Michael Jordan Nike commercials, Scott Larson recalls this as a magical period, one which peaked during the Bears ’85 Super Bowl season.