The Year of Living Hopefully

“I told Mr. L I would be at a basketball game tonight at 7.”

That was the text I received from Maddie around 10 a.m. today. I had seen emails about a basketball team for the special ed (“Bridge”) class, but Maddie hadn’t indicated she was involved so I had ignored them. I get so many emails I have to pick and choose what I read, right?

“Cool,” I replied. “Sounds fun!”

“Will you take me?”

“Of course!”

That conversation led to some of the best ten minutes of my entire life. Ten minutes because that’s how long the game was.

Maddie is not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. Much like her mom, she has lead in her feet, and worse than that, she has bad feet. They’re flat and supernate so badly that she can’t exactly break into a full run. It’s more of a lumbering fast walk. She never really mastered catching or throwing, either. She did, however, learn to love basketball at her previous school, where she usually played during lunch with two very tall teachers and a bunch of high school boys. She’s short and slow, but she is fierce and determined. She also prides herself on being able to “take a hit,” and she most certainly did during those games, more than once resulting in a very broken pair of glasses and a pretty nice lump on her head. I wouldn’t say she enjoyed the experience, exactly, but she felt like a bad-ass for having not only survived it, but actually picking herself up and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

Most of the kids in her class aren’t athletically gifted. Lots of kids probably had motor skills delays like Maddie did, some just can’t manage the whole game concept, and many of them have probably never played basketball at all. But Maddie has quite a bit of experience, even if it was only lunchtime play.

Still, apparently she was hesitant to join until today. Somebody at the district level organized a series of basketball games between the special ed classes at the different high schools. Tonight was the first game. And it was amazing.

About twenty kids from Maddie’s school had signed up, an awfully big team for a ten minute game. The rules indicate that a non-IEP student would be on the court with four teammates to help pass and set up plays and generally keep things moving.

Before the game started, the kids were lined up for shooting drills. Maddie was on the court talking to her teacher and then suddenly disappeared. My niece Rachel looked for her after securing a t-shirt for her (the student council brought free high school shirts for anyone who wanted one), but she had disappeared. Finally the girls found each other, and Rachel learned that Maddie had avoided the drill because she can’t shoot baskets. Moments later, there was Maddie at the front of the line anyway. She had somehow mustered the courage to face her perceived shortcomings. She stepped forward tentatively and threw the ball toward the backboard. It ricocheted right into the basket as if Maddie had done that a thousands times. Instead of jumping for joy or pumping her fist, she did a double thumb-and-forefinger point. “Yep. That just happened.” And I knew we were in for something special.

A young-looking sweet-faced boy named Nathan turned out to be a pretty good shooter. Each time he made a shot during the drill, his face lit up as the crowd cheered and he soaked up that moment with so much joy and pride. He stood there smiling, not quite knowing what to do besides enjoy his achievement.

Already I could feel the tears welling up. I came for a good time, not at all expecting the emotions that would come, too.

When Maddie’s teammate Nick dribbled down the court and made the first basket of the game, I was overwhelmed. I suddenly understood why this was happening. This was an opportunity for the kids to feel the joy of playing in front of a crowd, to be cheered when they made a basket, or just took a shot, or stole the ball. Not only that, each player was announced at the beginning of the night. Stars for an evening.

The opposing team’s “ringer” looked like a varsity player, a very tall young man with some real skills, who had to downplay his level of play and never ever take a shot. Several times he passed the ball to a very short, round girl, who ducked and flinched whenever the ball came her way. Another girl with a multi-colored braid took many shots, and missed every single one, but she just kept plugging away. I was dying for her to make a basket. She never did, but I hoped she’d felt the satisfaction of being so aggressive out there, and that she’d gained some confidence for next time. One kid one that team kept trying to steal the ball from his teammate. I guess they could use a little bit of coaching.

Primarily because of her poor shooting skills, Maddie focuses on defense. So when it was time for her to sub in, I eagerly awaited the other team’s possession of the ball so Maddie could do her thing. She was alert. She played what I would Maddie-to-Man defense, basically attempting to block any opposing team member who had the ball. I think she had the ball in her hands once, and I cheered for her to make a pass. She did, and that was the end of her ball-handling career this evening. I wondered how she would feel about her performance. She didn’t play as aggressively as I had expected. I hoped she’d feel proud of herself and want to play again, but I would have to wait until the car ride home to get her feedback.

The game was over far too soon. I guess it really only was a 10-minute game. I could have used anther 20 at least, but this was the first game for all those kids and apparently they needed to start slowly.

“I know that was only a 10-minute game,” remarked Maddie as we stood in the middle of the court, “but it was quite enough.” It turns out two or three trips up and down the court had been plenty for this evening. Clearly she needs to build some stamina. We’ll work on that.

But for tonight, it was indeed enough. Maddie’s teachers, lots of parents, the district coordinator, an assistant principal, student council representatives, varsity players and more all showed up for these kids. The gym was loud as the whole crowd cheered for both teams.

And I was elated.

For the last couple of weeks I have had trouble writing. I started and stopped several times. Parenting has mostly been a huge struggle. Maddie refused to go to school the first three days after the break ended, and then she was sick for a week, and then the struggle returned in full force. She made it to school for a half day, then most of a day, then a little more of a day, and then finally a full day.

That first successful half day only happened because I did something pretty dramatic. She had refused to go in the morning, but finally after Mr. L’s suggestion, she agreed to go to the two classes after lunch. I clinched the deal by offering to get her some fast food (a rare treat) on the way there. We had a pleasant ride. Our dogs sat in the backseat for the long round trip as well. When I parked near the office, she opened her door, and then she reconsidered.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

I went from calm and optimistic to steamed and panicked in a millisecond.

And then the shit really hit the fan. Our dog Ginger jumped out and began running around the parking lot, sniffing frantically in this new, formerly un-smelled location. My frustration doubled. Maddie rounded up Ginger and got her back into the car, and she and I resumed our conversation. Then somehow Ginger escaped again. I was simultaneously trying to manage my kid and my dog, and I thought my head would explode.

And then I realized I had an opportunity. Maddie was outside the car. So was her backpack. I coaxed Ginger into the car on the driver’s side, hopped in and shut the door. And then I hit “lock.” There I was with the dogs in the car, and Maddie was locked out. She put her hand on the window.

Boy, was she surprised. I waved at her and shook my head. “Go to class!” I yelled through the window. I wasn’t angry. I was just being loud so she could hear me.

She backed away from the car as I slowly began to pull away. I waved. She stood there.

And then I watched her in my rearview mirror. She pulled out her phone. I thought for sure she was trying to call me. But she didn’t.

I circled back through the parking lot and saw she was headed for the office, where she was to drop off a doctor’s note excusing her from the previous week. And then I went home.

I felt terrible. I had just locked my kid out of the car and driven away. Who does that? I wondered. Seriously. Who does that?

The answer, apparently, is a desperate parent who is trying to do the right thing without ever really knowing what the right thing is.

All day I felt exhausted and sad and guilty. Not for a moment did I feel especially victorious or even right about my decision.

And then Maddie got home from school. I heard the door open and close, the scramble of dogs on the wood floors and the high-pitched greetings from Maddie to Ginger and Banjo. A moment later she came to my room. I was nervous. I knew she’s be upset or mad or traumatized or questioning or something.

“How was school?” I asked.

“Good!” she answered. Not a word about the morning. Not even a “why?” I couldn’t believe it. I had felt nauseous for hours, and Maddie had turned from the car and accepted her fate. And then she had a pretty good day.

Each day has been a little more successful since then, culminating today in a on-time arrival. Mr. L assured me tonight that he doesn’t care about tardies at all. He just wants her to get there. Indeed. I don’t even really care about homework at this point. Some reasonable attempt at attendance sounds like a lofty enough goal.

Last week I was ready to give up. I began to question whether all this mental and physical effort was worth the stress if it wasn’t even helping. Why kill myself trying to get Maddie to school every day? My mornings feel almost heart-attack inducing. I’m on blood pressure medication for a reason, I guess.

After the game tonight, my niece Rachel and Maddie and I stopped for ice cream. It seemed like a good night for a special treat. “How do you feel about your performance?” I asked over ice cream.

“Good!”

“It seemed like you weren’t being as aggressive as you usually are,” I observed. I wanted to encourage her to really go for it.

“Well, I looked at the other players and thought I should go easy on them. I didn’t want to block them too hard.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the way to go,” I agreed. God, I love that kid.

At home tonight, Maddie donned a brand new costume that had arrived in the mail, to surprise her dad. She stood there holding her swords in a threatening manner, enjoying yet another special moment, and then we told him about the game.

“I feel happy,” she finally said. She loved playing basketball and was excited about her costume. It was a good day.

And there you have it. Maddie had a great day.

I had a great day, too.

And it was all because of basketball.