My Quirky Kid: Basketball

1/13/2013

I, personally, define hell as having toddlers cooped up at home during freezing winter temperatures. Add Will’s overactive little body, and his uncontrollable impulses, and you’ve got yourself in a mess. We decided to sign Will up for a community basketball class on Saturday mornings to give all of us something to do, a reason to leave the house, and most importantly, an energetic outlet for our little ball of fire.

We got to the elementary school gym where the class was taught and Will was excited and anxious for things to start. He giggled and was giddy, fiddling nervously with his hands and his feet constantly in motion. He wore his neon green mesh shorts, which I hate, but he loves them, so, whatever. More kids lined up, waiting for things to get going.

Enter: Coach Trey

Coach Trey was a young college student and he worked so well with the kids. He had so many great ways to explain to the kids how to position their bodies to learn basic fundamentals of the game. Like telling the kids to make “dinosaur elbows” to hold the ball so that no one could steal it. They moved on through more drills and I was so excited for Will. He was so excited. Ecstatic, really. I was so happy along with him, I almost didn’t notice it—Will was the last kid to follow each drill. Maybe he just wasn’t paying attention. I continued to watch, and the pattern continued. Coach Trey would give a directive and Will watched the other kids do the drill before he started it himself. Midway through, the directions might change, but Will would usually go on with whatever drill he was already doing, while all the other kids quickly changed to the new drill.

He can’t hear the coach.

Well, he can hear him, but his brain can’t.

My natural born athlete of a son, the one who brings comments from random strangers all the time about his smooth coordination, couldn’t keep up in his simple community basketball class because he couldn’t understand the coach. But it obviously didn’t seem to bother Will. He was still as giddy as can be, having the time of his life.

I jumped up to tell the coach. To give him the 411. You know, just the short blurb “Will has a hard time hearing…just give directions while you’re looking at him…make sure you have his attention first…ask him to look at your mouth when you’re talking…give him simple one step directions.”

But as I lurched forward, a voice said “Don’t. The world will not slow down for Will because he doesn’t understand. He has to learn to adapt.” What a cruel voice, I thought. Why would I want my child to be the worst one in the class, when he’s capable of so much more? He could be the best one in the class with just a few simple changes!

I thought a few more moments about this directive as I continued to watch Will dribble the ball up and down the court, half a court behind from the rest of the class, with a smile from ear to ear. Will didn’t know he didn’t understand. He didn’t know he was any different than any of the other kids. And neither did they. For all they knew, he was just a happy kid who didn’t run as fast.

The more I thought about it, the more I was able to admit the stakes were pretty low at this basketball class. Will wouldn’t be hurt by being the worst in the class, because he didn’t know/care that he’s the worst in his class. Why not give him more reps at figuring this out on his own while the opportunity cost was so cheap? As much as I wanted to be, I wouldn’t be there to continually give others the 411 as Will got older, neither would he want me to do that. I mean, a manager wouldn’t pause an interview to make sure he understood the question correctly. He can’t wear a sign for the rest of his life that says “I have CAPD”, like the general public has any idea what that is anyway. He just has to learn to adapt.

You know, just.

Just through blood, sweat, and tears.

Just through hours of frustration, and painful determination.

Just through years of therapy, and working at the kitchen table when everyone else is playing so you can understand the most basic of concepts.

Just. Adapt.

Will looked up as me and his eyes positively screamed joy. He was completely beside himself in anticipation for his turn to dribble down the court again.

I leaned against the gym wall, and slowly lowered myself to sitting on the floor, and bit my quivering lip.