Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Read Free Page A

“Maybe she won’t make the team,” I offered.
    “Everybody makes the team, Johnny,” she whispered, patting her face with a towel. ”It’s Verden. There are only eleven sophomore girls, and not all of them want to play.”
    The next afternoon, I parked in front of the school gymnasium. What would I say to the coach? I jingled change in my pocket as I walked through the double doors.
    Ponytails flopped as teenaged girls clad in T-shirts and shorts ran across the hardwood floor. Coach Forsythe stood on the other side of the gym.
    “Hey, Johnny,” Coach called. Before I could speak, he continued, “We’re glad Lauren came out for the team.”
    Whew. “Well, you know we don’t expect you to play her in a game, just include her when you can.”
    I was thankful for the coach’s sportsmanlike attitude, but worry rebounded in my stomach. I moved up into the bleachers. Lauren stood alone at the other end of the court, shooting free throws. Short legs and a stout torso hampered her running and jumping ability. And where was her competitive drive? No other girl on the court grinned like Lauren did during a layup. After every shot, Lauren approvingly hollered, “Woo hoo!” She didn’t seem to care if she made the basket or not.
    Mid-November, the season’s first basketball game arrived. I settled into a seat on the second row with the rest of my family.
    “Nervous?” Laura whispered as she quieted my fingers from drumming beside her on the bench.
    Just then, a low roar erupted. Cheerleaders sprinted on the court, rooting, jumping, and flipping. Their excitement wafted up into the stands. I stood along with the crowd and clapped. Moments later, a train of girls wearing white uniforms with burgundy and gold accents chugged out of the locker room. Last in line was Lauren. Following her teammates, she grabbed a practice ball. Serious game-faces seemed determined to conquer this new season as the Lady Tigers passed balls from player to player. But before Lauren took her warm-up shot, she searched the stands. Spotting us, she tucked the ball under her arm and waved broadly.
    The game got off to a good start, but soon Verden was behind. Even after a rally in the second half, I knew the Lady Tigers were destined to lose. I gazed at Lauren’s profile from her seat on the bench. She intently followed the movement on the court and reacted to every play. By far the most animated on the team, she slapped her knee when the opponents scored. Her arms flailed in the air each time Verden shot. I even recognized her voice shout “No way!” when a referee made a call against a teammate. Even though she wasn’t playing, she looked as if she were having the time of her life.
    As the father of a child with special needs, I’d experienced many emotions. But now, I felt admiration for my daughter. Some players might sulk or react negatively to sitting on the sidelines, but not Lauren. Plus, her team was getting beat, yet she still enjoyed the action.
    Just less than two minutes were left, and Verden was down by seventeen points. Coach called a time-out. I bent over to ask if the kids wanted anything from the concessions. The announcer’s voice boomed over the public-address system. “Number thirty-three, Lauren Wray, in for the Lady Tigers.”
    I quickly looked to the last seat on the bench. Lauren wasn’t there. She stood next to Coach Forsythe at the scorer’s table. With a slap on her back, he sent Lauren running onto the court. My heart quadrupled its beat, and I watched wide-eyed. Lauren was in the game.
    My wife tugged at my sleeve. “Get up, Johnny.”
    As I stood, I noticed what was happening. All across the stands, fans were on their feet clapping for Lauren. Our Lauren!
    Play resumed. Lauren kept pace with the others fairly well. The visitors scored again. With less than a minute left, the Lady Tigers were near their goal. I saw the point guard shout and flash a signal to her teammates. Then something I consider sacred