The Birth of Super Crip (2 page)

His dad glanced back at the paper and turned the page
again. He was almost convinced. “So, how did he end up on the
floor?”

Red shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he was
surprised I was even going to try to push him and, I dunno, he
slipped or something. That’s why everybody thought I pushed him. I
guess.”

Folding up the paper, his father seemed satisfied.
“This kid pick on you?”

“He kind of tries to, but all he ever does is block
my way.”

“Well, if there’s any more trouble, I want to know
about it,” Tim said, getting up from the table. “Get started on
your homework after that soda.”

Chapter 3

Leaves danced in the yard to the tune of a soft fall
wind. Red looked down from his bedroom window. His brother was
playing football with some kids from the neighborhood in the field
just beyond the neighbor’s yard. Mr. Taylor had lived in the house
next door for as long as anyone could remember. Despite his
reputation among the kids as a gruff old man, he let them traipse
through his yard to play in what everybody called the “back back”
of his yard under the unwritten rules that they didn’t get too loud
and nobody messed with his boat. Rumors occasionally swirled that
the old man kept a shotgun just inside his basement door for anyone
that messed with
Betsy,
the single-engine boat he bought
after his wife died. But most people didn’t believe it. Only a few
people still living in the neighborhood had actually met the real
Betsy. The boat sat close to the house just on the other side of
the fence he shared with the O’Ryans, and had only recently
returned to its post-Labor Day parking spot.

Even though Red could feel the unseasonable chill
through the pane of glass, he noticed his brother had already
stripped off his sweatshirt. Red squeezed the miniature
commemorative 1981 Philadelphia Eagles NFC Championship football in
his hands a little tighter. Playfully making a throwing motion, he
wanted to flip the ball in the air and catch it the way his brother
always did whenever he was just standing around with a football.
But he thought better of it, knowing he might miss and have to
chase after the ball if it rolled off the bed. Instead, he smacked
it against his left hand, waited to see his brother get open, and
pretended to throw a perfect spiral right to him.

A soft knock came at the door. Looking back across
the small room from his bed, Red saw his mom standing in the
doorway. “Don’t let your brother catch you with that,” she said,
motioning toward the ball in his hand.

He offered a knowing smile. “‘Eleven years later and
they still haven’t won the Super Bowl,’” Red said, imitating his
brother. “He’s suddenly a big Cowboys fan again now that they don’t
stink.”

“How come you’re not outside playing with him?” she
asked.

He shrugged. “He’s playing with some of his buddies,”
Red said. “It’s a little cold, anyway.”

“I know how that generally stops you,” his mom said
sarcastically, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing her lower
lip out as if to pout.

“Mom,” he groaned, trying not to smile.

“Don’t
Mom
me,” she said. “You two always play
together.”

Red looked out the window at the game. He watched
Scott catch a pass from his best friend and get tackled just short
of the trees that marked the goal line as well as the part of Mr.
Taylor’s yard that they knew to stay out of. “The other kids don’t
like it when I play,” he said. “They give me ‘the look,’ like they
have to go easy or they got stuck with me on their team.”

Mary watched her son for a moment. She could see his
reflection in the window. His dark hair and blue eyes always
reminded her of his dad just a little more than her other three
sons. The four of them couldn’t deny being brothers even if they
wanted to—they looked so much alike with their thin builds, light
Irish complexions, and not quite long faces, in which Mary still
saw their soft baby features.

“Does this have anything to do with the fight this
afternoon in school?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “I knew you were going to ask me
that,” he said.

“Well?”

Red turned back to his mom. “I already told Dad, it
wasn’t a fight. The guy’s just a jerk. He gets in my way every day
to be a tough guy or whatever he thinks he’s doing, and I got sick
of it. I don’t think I even touched him. He just slipped or
something.”

“Okay,” his mom said. “It’s fine. So why aren’t you
outside playing?”

“They were already playing when I got home,” he said.
“And I just don’t feel like it.”

“You’ve hardly done anything since we started with
that doctor,” she said. “He told you not to expect miracles. There
is still plenty of time for this to work.”

“I know,” he said.

“He even told you to keep doing what you always do,”
she said.

“I know,” he said with a little more emphasis.

“‘I know,’ ‘I know,’ is all you keep saying, but you
don’t act like it,” his mom scolded him. “We discussed this. We
discussed it before we went to him. You can’t expect miracles.
These treatments might not do a darn thing for your cerebral palsy.
It’s no excuse for you to stop doing the things you’ve always
done.”

“I know,” he said emphatically. “I was just hoping it
would work. Alright?”

She could see his eyes were about to fill with tears.
Her own tears were suddenly rushing to the surface. “There is still
plenty of time,” she said.

“Is it so terrible to hope for a miracle?” Red asked,
smacking the ball with his hand. Struggling to say the words
through the emotion, he heard his own speech the way he knew others
did. The only time he heard his speech as anything but clear was
when he was having more trouble speaking than usual, though he knew
his disability made his speech difficult for others to understand.
But he could tell his mom understood him. Besides Scott, she
understood his speech better than anyone.

It had been her fear since the moment her husband
told her that he had heard from a customer about a specialist in
York who was performing experimental treatments on people with
disabilities. Red would start looking for a miraculous cure. The
same miracle she’d warned him against hoping for a thousand times
since that day. The same miracle she and his father hadn’t stopped
praying for since that day.

She shook her head. “It’s never wrong to hope for a
miracle,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “But you cannot
make it everything. It might not happen and you are loved just the
way you are by everyone in this family.”

“I know, Mom,” he said, looking away because seeing
his mom’s tear made him have to fight off his own. “I really do.
And I never really thought about finding a cure or anything. But
now, going for these

treatments . . .”

“I understand,” Mary said.

“It would be so nice to be able to just run around
without worrying about falling,” Red said. “Not have to use the
power wheelchair in school or going out wherever. Not have to
borrow notes in school because I can’t write fast enough, or not
have to worry about teachers understanding my speech, or whatever.”
He didn’t dare add anything about how nice it would be not having
to worry about getting picked on in school. He never said much
about that to his parents because he was afraid they’d want to call
the school and ‘do something’ about it. He hated it but all the
kids in the mainstream program dealt with being picked on by a few
able-bodied kids in school. It just seemed easier to keep quiet
about it, at least to Red. “Sometimes, it would just be nice to not
be the disabled kid at a game, or on the playground, or just
walking around . . . wherever.”

“I really do understand,” his mom said, her words
barely audible as her tears took over. Red didn’t dare try to
speak. Seeing his mom cry, he needed all of his strength not to do
the same. He merely moved to the edge of the bed, let the ball slip
from his hand, and put his arms around her neck.

Mary buried her head in his shoulder for a brief
second, knowing hugs from her teenage boys were becoming less and
less frequent. She kissed him on the cheek. “Come help me set the
table for dinner,” she said.

He nodded, and said, “Okay.” His mom went ahead of
him, knowing he would have an easier time getting down the stairs
sliding one step at a time on his rear end rather than having her
try to help him walk down. Standing to follow her, he noticed the
little football on the floor. He bent down, gently holding on to
the bed, to pick it up.

Taking a couple steps toward the bedroom door, he
reached up to put the ball back in its position on the shelf over
his desk. He tried to place it so that the logo for the Eagles
would be perfectly centered. Getting it just the way he wanted
after several attempts, he carefully took his hand off the ball.
Just as he started to look away, he saw the ball roll forward.
Frustrated, he glared at the ball and began to reach for it again.
Instead, he put his hand on the desk, feeling a wave of
light-headedness. Resting against the desk, he blinked his eyes,
letting the spots that flashed in front of him clear. Finally, he
went to fix the ball, but before he could reach up to adjust it,
Red noticed the ball was arranged just as he wanted it.

He stared at the ball for a moment. Suddenly, his mom
called from downstairs for him to help set the table, and he headed
for the stairs.

Chapter 4

The algebra equations in front of him weren’t holding
his attention very well. Red heard Scott in the hall, and before he
could say anything his brother was pushing the bedroom door
open.

“Hey, tough guy,” Scott said, entering the room
spinning the basketball that he kept on a shelf in his room. “Awful
quiet at dinner tonight.”

“Said the guy who inhales dinner to avoid Dad’s
questions about school,” Red joked.

“Well, I was safe tonight,” Scott said. “I wasn’t the
one smacking people around at school today.”

Red tried not to laugh as he looked past Scott from
his desk to see if either of their parents were in the hallway.
“Would ya shut up and close the door,” he said. Surprised his
brother actually did what he said, he playfully slapped Scott on
the arm. “Dude, what’re you telling Dad I got into a fight
for?”

“Relax,” Scott said. “Like the school wasn’t gonna
call?”

“Did they?”

“I dunno. But, Christ, they call if you sneeze.”

Red rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“I heard you ran Chuck Groslin over with your
scooter,” Scott said in a childlike voice, knowing his brother
couldn’t stand it when people patronized him with such ridiculous
statements.

Playing along for a moment, Red tried his own version
of a little kid’s voice, saying, “Yes, ’cause that’s just how
wheelchairs work.” In his regular voice, he added, “And don’t call
it a scooter. It makes it sound like I’m some old man using it to
get around the senior center because I don’t feel like
walking.”

“Dude, get over it,” Scott said. “It looks like a
scooter.”

“Yeah, I know,” Red said. “’cause it has handlebars,
and a bumper, and whatever. I have to hear how cool it would be to
have one from idiots at school all the time. I’m just saying, I use
it as a wheelchair.”

“Anyway,” Scott moaned, tired of the familiar debate.
He took a seat on his brother’s bed. “So, what really
happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Everybody’s saying you decked Chuck.”

“He started his usual crap blocking my way, and said
something about my speech.”

“That always pisses you off,” his brother said.

Red shrugged. “I just got sick of him. So, I actually
did go to push him, but I think he slipped or something.”

Making an exaggerated face showing confusion, Scott
said, “‘Or something?’ How do you not know?”

Red had been asking himself the same question most of
the afternoon. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I felt a
little light-headed after I tried to push him. Almost like I
blacked out for a split second when I went at him. I guess it was
like when people say they stood up too fast.”

This time the thoughtful look on his brother’s face
was genuine. “I doubt it,” Scott said. “You probably didn’t really
stand up. I mean, maybe you came off the seat a little. But when we
mess around or whatever when you’re in your wheelchair, you don’t
really stand up unless you get a hold of me and sort of pull
yourself up.”

Red nodded, having thought the same thing.

“Maybe it was something from those injections you
got,” Scott said.

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Red. “I’ve just
had the one,” he said. A fact he’d been trying to ignore all
afternoon finally punctured his consciousness. He got more than
light-headed when he went for Chuck. He just didn’t know what else
to call the feeling. It was like a force of air had been pushed out
of him. Only it wasn’t air. And it wasn’t pushed out of him. At
least not by something else. He pushed it out.