them shooting. Our old coach used to make them pass it to other team members, even though they were the only ones who ever scored.
I feel so bad for Sandy. Her arms are outstretched. Her face is filled with hope that they’ll throw her the ball. She gets wide open under the basket, and still the boys act like they only see each other.
Then something happens. The ball skids out of Chris’s hands and rolls toward Sandy. She dives for the ball, but the knobby-kneed number 11 green player gets there first. He grabs the ball, dribbles, then stops. His teammates keep running down the court, followed by Dragon defenders, leaving him and Sandy alone on that end.
He grins at Sandy.
She grins back.
Both coaches are screaming.
His teammates are calling for the ball.
Then Green Number 11 kind of hands the ball to Sandy and smiles, as if he’s giving her flowers.
Sandy gives him a smile of thanks as she takes the basketball from him. Then she turns and looks up into the bleachers until her gaze settles on me. Her eyes are big, questioning, as if asking permission. I nod. She shrugs. Then she dribbles once, shoots, and scores.
The fans go wild. We’re all on our feet, cheering and laughing. Everybody loves it, even the green team parents and fans. And nobody looks happier than the skinny kid with a crush on my sister.
Michelle leaves Sandy in for another five minutes, but Sandy’s focus is gone. She tries to follow the ball, moving down the court and up the court as soon as she realizes everybody else is on the move. But she keeps smiling up into the stands at us. And we smile back because you can’t help yourself. Everybody’s smiling at a Special Olympics game. They should make it a law that every human has to attend one once a month. There would be no more road rage, no NBA basketball brawls.
Sandy goes back to the bench, where she stays until the end of the fourth period. The score has risen to 14 to 2, our lead, but Michelle still hasn’t played all the kids. Dad won’t let me go down there and have a little talk with her about this. But I think somebody does because all at once she puts in the last four kids, plus Sandy.
Both purple and green teams cheer for the new players. One of the Dragons, Isaac, has only one arm, but he’s a good shot. I’ve seen him sink layups before. Two of the new Dragon players are girls who are still in middle school. They hold hands and look pretty scared. The fourth, Larry, won’t come out onto the court. He’s autistic. Most of the time we can’t get him to leave the bench. He’s usually okay in practice. In fact, if he can be on the court all by himself, he’s a deadeye shot. I watched him sink eleven three-pointers in a row one day.
Michelle tries to coax him inbounds, but he groans at her and starts rocking back and forth, getting louder, so she leaves him alone.
There’s a jump ball. Everybody misses, and the ball rolls right to Sandy’s feet.
Dad jumps up and yells, “Honey! Pick it up!”
Sandy smiles up into the stands. Then she bends down and picks up the ball.
“Dribble!” Michelle screams.
Sandy smiles. Then she dribbles once and hugs the ball, still grinning. She says something we can’t hear. Then she bounces the ball to Larry, who’s still out of bounds.
Larry catches the ball and stops swaying. He smiles at Sandy, who’s clapping like crazy. Several of her teammates are clapping, too. So is one from the green team.
The whistle blows. The ball, of course, is out of bounds. Larry allows the referee to take the basketball. Then he starts swaying again.
“You’re good, Larry!” Sandy shouts.
“One of these days before too long,” Mom says, “we’re going to get that boy all the way inbounds. You just wait and see.”
We win 14 to 4. But when the game’s over both teams hug each other as if they’ve all won and were all on the same team. And I guess, in a way, we are.
The rents are taking Sandy out for hamburgers, but I pass on the
I feel so bad for Sandy. Her arms are outstretched. Her face is filled with hope that they’ll throw her the ball. She gets wide open under the basket, and still the boys act like they only see each other.
Then something happens. The ball skids out of Chris’s hands and rolls toward Sandy. She dives for the ball, but the knobby-kneed number 11 green player gets there first. He grabs the ball, dribbles, then stops. His teammates keep running down the court, followed by Dragon defenders, leaving him and Sandy alone on that end.
He grins at Sandy.
She grins back.
Both coaches are screaming.
His teammates are calling for the ball.
Then Green Number 11 kind of hands the ball to Sandy and smiles, as if he’s giving her flowers.
Sandy gives him a smile of thanks as she takes the basketball from him. Then she turns and looks up into the bleachers until her gaze settles on me. Her eyes are big, questioning, as if asking permission. I nod. She shrugs. Then she dribbles once, shoots, and scores.
The fans go wild. We’re all on our feet, cheering and laughing. Everybody loves it, even the green team parents and fans. And nobody looks happier than the skinny kid with a crush on my sister.
Michelle leaves Sandy in for another five minutes, but Sandy’s focus is gone. She tries to follow the ball, moving down the court and up the court as soon as she realizes everybody else is on the move. But she keeps smiling up into the stands at us. And we smile back because you can’t help yourself. Everybody’s smiling at a Special Olympics game. They should make it a law that every human has to attend one once a month. There would be no more road rage, no NBA basketball brawls.
Sandy goes back to the bench, where she stays until the end of the fourth period. The score has risen to 14 to 2, our lead, but Michelle still hasn’t played all the kids. Dad won’t let me go down there and have a little talk with her about this. But I think somebody does because all at once she puts in the last four kids, plus Sandy.
Both purple and green teams cheer for the new players. One of the Dragons, Isaac, has only one arm, but he’s a good shot. I’ve seen him sink layups before. Two of the new Dragon players are girls who are still in middle school. They hold hands and look pretty scared. The fourth, Larry, won’t come out onto the court. He’s autistic. Most of the time we can’t get him to leave the bench. He’s usually okay in practice. In fact, if he can be on the court all by himself, he’s a deadeye shot. I watched him sink eleven three-pointers in a row one day.
Michelle tries to coax him inbounds, but he groans at her and starts rocking back and forth, getting louder, so she leaves him alone.
There’s a jump ball. Everybody misses, and the ball rolls right to Sandy’s feet.
Dad jumps up and yells, “Honey! Pick it up!”
Sandy smiles up into the stands. Then she bends down and picks up the ball.
“Dribble!” Michelle screams.
Sandy smiles. Then she dribbles once and hugs the ball, still grinning. She says something we can’t hear. Then she bounces the ball to Larry, who’s still out of bounds.
Larry catches the ball and stops swaying. He smiles at Sandy, who’s clapping like crazy. Several of her teammates are clapping, too. So is one from the green team.
The whistle blows. The ball, of course, is out of bounds. Larry allows the referee to take the basketball. Then he starts swaying again.
“You’re good, Larry!” Sandy shouts.
“One of these days before too long,” Mom says, “we’re going to get that boy all the way inbounds. You just wait and see.”
We win 14 to 4. But when the game’s over both teams hug each other as if they’ve all won and were all on the same team. And I guess, in a way, we are.
The rents are taking Sandy out for hamburgers, but I pass on the
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