Summer and Fall, 2002, Napa, California

By Barbara Toboni

I saved one gold medal in a shoebox, but there had been dozens of Special Olympic medals for local and state meets. There were ribbons, too. First place ribbons for track and gymnastics. I started a scrapbook when Chase was 8, but somehow the project got pushed aside then shuffled into a shoebox. Now I take out one shiny emblem and hold it up to the light.

I knew it was time to do something when he moved out. We bundled up everything to take to his new place. I gathered the team pictures and trophies that lined his shelves. These players were an odd bunch, some smiling with eager expressions, some you could see their condition right away, like Down syndrome. Others looked confused or disturbed, posing because someone told them to stand there. One girl, about 14 and in a wheelchair, raised her hands in protest, but the shutter clicked just the same.

Chase took some of the trophies apart and then they never did get back together. I put them in a grocery sack in his closet. I thought one day we’d glue them. You couldn’t be mad at him for it, really. He played with things differently than most kids.

In high school he went out for the track team. We were glad because a boy like him could feel cut off from everyone else. Chase was born with autism and retardation, and sometimes it seemed like he understood that he had disabilities and sometimes it seemed that he didn’t.

He’d say: “I’m not disabled. Disabled people have wheelchairs.”

I tried to explain that something went wrong at birth to make him have a brain disorder and it was called autism, and he was mildly retarded, too, and that it was hard for him to learn things. I told him there were a lot of people with autism and retardation and they were termed disabled, even though they could walk and run and play like he did. I also told him there were more people who did not have autism, like his younger brother and cousins, and they were not disabled.

I tried to tell him it didn’t matter, that he could still lead a normal life, but I’m not sure I believed it. Did he believe it? Take football. Chase repeatedly asked us if he could go out for football, but I thought it didn’t seem like something he could do, and we were afraid he might get hurt.

In his distinctive flat voice that altered his ability to show feelings he said, “I can go out for football.”

“Who told you that?” I’d ask suspiciously.

“The football team.”

“Really? Well Chase, it’s up to the coach, you know. Did you ask the coach? It’s hard to play football. You could get hurt.”

We’d go around and around with that conversation because he repeated things. When Chase wanted something he wouldn’t let go. He’d stand firmly, size 12 feet planted, long slender arms turned out, squeezing his fingers into a fist. Could he hold a football in those hands? NO. Please stop asking me.

But then those eyes of his, they grew wide with hope. Yet I had to give him the same answer: “You might get hurt.”

I could see his mind puzzled over this. Finally I’d had enough and asked David, his father. He was volunteer coach to many of Chase’s special teams, both baseball and gymnastics. “What should we do? Do you think the boys on the team are serious? You know how kids are. I think they’re teasing him.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask the coach.” He barely looked away from the football game on the T.V. Just like that, a simple solution. That was David. I could worry all night while I listened to him sleep, the long sighs of his breath coming at me from the other pillow. Was it just me?

The next morning after breakfast I told him. “OK, Chase. We’ll call the school.”

Later that afternoon when the coach returned my call, I introduced myself and asked, “Do you know Chase, my son?”

He thought for a moment. “I did meet him. He watches us practice, nice kid, always asking me if he can play football. I tell him to talk to his parents. We encourage all the kids to try out.”

I explained that Chase was able to follow directions, simple directions and that he loved football. “Some of the kids told him to try out. I hope they weren’t teasing him.”

“No. These are a good bunch of kids.” And then he paused. “Sure. He’s got a chance just like everyone else.”

It only took a second for my reply. “I think we should let him try.”

“Practice starts end of summer. A lot of these guys start out thinking in August they’d like to play, but change their minds by fall, because it’s tough. Let him try that first. I’ll send home a permission slip.”

I thanked him and hung up, feeling encouraged. There were people out there willing to help. When we told Chase that he could start practicing with the team that summer he didn’t stop grinning.

He told everyone over and over, “I play football for Vintage High.” It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been picked yet for the team. He told friends and neighbors, even strangers he met on the street. Everyone was caught up in his enthusiasm.

Practice began in August, every weekday from 10 a.m. until noon. We let him ride his bike from our house to the playing field behind the school. It wasn’t far and he liked the idea of getting there himself.

When I watched him wheel away on those lazy summer mornings, I had a glimpse of normalcy, a renewed sense of hope. This was not a disabled child. No. This child was able, pedaling down the street, long legs spinning, a regular kid with somewhere to go.

We strived for years to get him to this place, the Special Olympic teams, the track meets and the gym meets. All those gold and silver medals, didn’t they mean anything? His father knew, always cheered him on regardless of the challenges. Why didn’t I?

The coach kept his promise. Anyone who worked hard and showed up for every practice could be on the team. They had to fill 50 spots. Chase was number 83, a wide receiver. We watched him race on to the field in his burgundy and gold uniform. When he took his place on the sidelines I couldn’t distinguish him from the other players.

During the season, he was able to memorize one play, “pro-right 71,” to trick the other team into following him. I held my breath. Would he remember what to do? Chase pretended to carry the ball as he raced ahead of a linebacker. Then the defensive back spotted them and followed. With two players distracted, the Crushers scored. It worked! The crowd cheered! On the sidelines teammates slapped him on the back.

At the end of the season David, our younger son Jimmy, and I attended the awards banquet. This would be the night the Crushers would receive their letters. Chase looked handsome in his khaki slacks and white shirt with the burgundy tie. Long tables were set on either side of the room. Chase sat with his team.

After dinner we watched as each player was called to the podium. When it was Chase’s turn the entire team that had been sitting quietly stood up to applaud. The coach shook his hand and spoke into the microphone, “For your hard work, for getting to practice every day, for doing what we told you to do.”

It was clear to me now. Chase had become the team’s spirit.

I finished the scrapbook for Chase’s 20th birthday. He opened my gift last. Everyone wanted to see the book with the shiny gold symbol attached to the front. He turned the pages slowly, then passed the book around so everyone could see for themselves.

I could see he was proud. He had earned that gold medal.

Barbara Toboni has written essays and poetry for various newspapers and journals. Her most recent work includes a short story for an anthology on autism.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, April 30th, 2007 | Email This Post

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