The Birth of Super Crip

by Rob J. Quinn

  The older kids were convinced that having spent so little time in a special education setting had given a couple of the freshmen an attitude of entitlement. But the real problem in their minds was Lee. Already becoming known as “the leader of the pack,” the freshman had a power wheelchair that was almost twice as fast as the wheelchairs used by everyone else in class. Despite some of his obvious abilities, Lee’s speedy chair was considered the reason he dominated every game they played. Worse, Lee seemed oblivious to the advantage the chair gave him. He’d been heard more than once telling his mother how many goals he scored as he got off the bus, accepting high fives and hugs as if he had performed a miracle.

  The whistle sounded, and Andre won the face-off against Lee, smacking the ball with his hockey stick toward the opposing team’s goal. It didn’t matter much, as Lee simply accelerated his power wheelchair to gain control of the ball, blew past everyone on the basketball court that they were playing on, and headed for the goal.

  Red felt like he was in the freshman’s crosshairs in his position on defense. He was just another victim to fly past on Lee’s way to a goal. He tried to guide Lee into the wall, but his wheelchair was just too slow. Finally, Lee waited for Pete to commit to one side, accelerated by him with ease, and flipped the ball into the net for the fifth time already that day. Raising his stick hand in the air, he raced back to the other side of the court, offering high fives to his teammates, who reluctantly obliged.

  Pete slammed the crossbar with his crutch as the whistle blew.

  “You guys gotta play some defense,” Shine implored as he took the Wiffle ball out of the net and slowly walked toward center court. Red looked back at him and made a face to his back. He shook his head in disgust as he joined his teammates gathering at the net.

  “It’s impossible to defend him in that wheelchair,” Red said. “We both push a joystick or pull a control, and he goes faster.” He felt a splash from the wave for the first time all day.

  “The wheelchair is specifically made for sports,” Drew added. “See how fast he cuts around us? His father bought it for him because he’s in some adaptive hockey league.”

  “I heard he had a trainer and was trying to get into the Paralympics for wheelchair basketball,” Pete said.

  “Paralympics?” Andre asked no one in particular. “They use manual chairs, don’t they? At least for hoops. So what’s he doing in an electric wheelchair?”

  “He only comes to school in it on Fridays for gym class,” Drew replied. “It’s practice for his hockey league, I guess. Besides, he uses crutches like you and Pete all day. Where’ve you been?”

  Andre used his shirt to wipe sweat from his shaved head. “I don’t pay attention to you freshmen,” he joked, getting laughs from Red and Pete. “I only see him in homeroom and here.”

  Mr. Shine blew his whistle to get them to line up for a face-off. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  “Drew, switch with me for a while,” Red said.

  “Fine with me.”

  On the way to center court, Red whispered to Andre, “How ’bout I take the face-off and you try to beat him to the ball?”

  Andre nodded.

  “If you get it, shoot it. Wherever we are, shoot.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  The whistle blew, and Red slapped the ball as hard as he could toward the opposing net, using the wave to push the ball for a little help. He swung through Lee’s stick. The shot caught air and a line drive headed just to the left of the net.

  Looking up, Red saw that the ball was headed wide of the net. Yet the Wiffle ball curved and found the top corner of the net for a goal.

  A group “Whoa!” erupted from almost everyone in the gym. Red looked down, trying to conceal his smile. He could feel the wave swirling in his head, but he didn’t feel light-headed or see stars in front of his eyes. Andre offered him a high five, and Pete pointed at him as if to say “nice job.” Drew slapped stick blades with Red, something the kids had naturally developed as a replacement to the hand slap with kids who had muscular dystrophy. Even a couple members of the other team had subtle grins on their faces.

  Lining up quickly for the next face-off, Red once again used the wave to overpower Lee, but this time pushed the ball against his own stick as he drove toward the net. Trying to drive with the handles of the scooter-style power chair with one hand and use a hockey stick with the other normally made it impossible to keep control of the ball against Lee, who had full control of his upper body. With no hope that his wheelchair could go faster than Lee’s ringer of a chair, he kept possession of the ball no matter how much Lee swiped at it. Maneuvering within feet of the net, Red did his best to make the motion of flipping the ball at the net with his stick, using the wave to push the ball just past Lee to score a goal in the other corner of the net. It’s getting easier, Red thought as he headed to midcourt to return to midcourt for the face-off.

  This time the reaction was even more enthusiastic from his teammates, who shouted, “Yeah!” and “Let’s go!” Andre and Red slapped hands as they lined up at center court.

  “You’ve been holding out,” Andre joked.

  “Take this one,” Red said.

  “No! You’re hot,” Andre protested.

  Offering a reassuring nod, Red said, “Trust me.”

  With some help from Red pushing the wave at the ball, Andre won the face-off, swatting the ball toward the opposing net. Just as Lee seemed poised to gain control of the ball, Red gave it a push against the wall. The ball bounced past Lee right to Red, who slapped at it with his stick and pushed it with the wave. The apparent one-timer found the back of the net as the goaltender barely had time to flinch.

  Cheers echoed through the gym once again. Feeling the wave splash around with no side effects, Red felt like he could do anything he wanted. But suddenly he feared raising questions about his newfound abilities as a hockey player. Sheepishly accepting high fives and stick slaps, Red decided to be a little more subtle using the wave. Soon, Lee lost control of the ball making a move that seemed likely to lead to yet another easy goal for him, and a breakaway with some shockingly crisp passing led to a goal for Red’s team. Another goal came on a pass Lee seemed to be about to steal, only to see it bounce off his stick into his own net. Finally, Drew took a rare breakaway opportunity as a defensive player. Driving the length of the court without losing the ball—with some subtle help from Red using the wave to help him control it—Drew rolled in the game winner just before the school bell rang.

  His teammates surrounded Drew, offering celebratory stick slaps or pats on the back—their excitement bolstered by the knowledge that the bell also signaled the beginning of the weekend. But there was an unmistakable joy on all of their faces at having finally defeated Lee. Even some of the kids on the other team seemed pleased.

  Finally offering his last high five to Pete, Red turned to put his stick away and grab his things. He saw a dejected Lee putting on his jacket.

  The joy in the victory was suddenly gone for Red.

  “Great game,” Drew said, passing Red as he headed for the door.

  “Thanks,” Red said, less than sure he’d done anything great as he joined Drew on the way out.

  Chapter 11

  The lights were the only thing casting shadows while the teams finished their warm-up drills. Showers forecast for the overnight hours seemed destined to arrive early. Clouds blocked what had been a warm late September sun, and a light afternoon breeze had turned into a brisk wind.

  Scott hustled up the bleachers to where Red was leaning against the railing of the accessible seating area looking out over the field. His power chair was parked off to the side of the top of the ramp that granted access to the section.

  “I never understood why they put you guys over here,” Scott said as he reached his brother.

  “You expected forethought for us?”

  “You’ll survive,” Scott said, standing on the other side of the railing as a steady but sparse line
of people passed behind him on the walkway that separated the upper and lower bleachers.

  “Just like we do without an elevator in A-wing.”

  “I got ya, I got ya,” Scott said. “I hear your favorite player is fuming.”

  “My favorite player?”

  “Chuck Groslin,” Scott explained. “The whole team’s been busting his stones about getting knocked on his ass by you. Started calling you ‘Super Crip’ or something. Even the coach started riding him in practice. He was yelling, ‘We should get Super Crip out here to play for you’ every time he screwed up.”

  Red couldn’t help but laugh a little even though he hated the name.

  “He got in like three fights in practice yesterday,” Scott added. “The coach almost suspended him for the game.”

  “Damn, I could’ve suited up for the dickhead,” Red joked.

  “Well, uh,” Scott said, peeking to either side of him to make sure no one was paying attention, “you could still help the team out, you know? So, uh, we gonna win tonight?”

  Red raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting . . .” He left the question unfinished.

  “C’mon, dude,” Scott urged. “We suck. Plus, I got Danny ready to bet me.”

  “Oh, nice. Trying to use me.”

  “You can test your skills,” Scott said, trying to entice him.

  It wasn’t a bad thought, Red knew. He also knew he didn’t exactly have a good feeling after what he did in gym class. “I don’t even know how much I can do,” he said. “Besides, I’m a little tired from gym class.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, I used it a lot,” Red said, not wanting to explain further.

  “So?” Scott said. “See, you can do it.”

  Red nodded. “No promises, but . . .”

  He was interrupted as Pete approached from behind. “All the freshmen bail out?” he said as much as asked. Then, noticing Scott, he said, “Oh, I gotta sit with both O’Ryan boys tonight?”

  “You wish,” Scott said, “I’m not sitting over here with you fools.”

  “So funny,” Pete said.

  Clapping his hands together as he took a couple steps backwards, Scott pointed at his brother and said, “We got this.”

  Only Red knew it was actually a question. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and smiled, not sure he was comfortable with the idea of using the wave to help their team win—or if he was capable of it. He could tell by the grin on Scott’s face as he turned to take the bleachers back down that he was confident his bet would be a sure thing.

  Red turned around and saw Pete had already sat down. “I was starting to think nobody else was showing up,” Red said, leaning against the railing. “Andre coming?”

  “No,” Pete said, obviously annoyed. “We waited ten minutes outside his house. My dad was fuming.”

  “He’ll have some BS excuse on Monday.”

  “Won’t he?”

  Pete saw some kids with green jackets with Folsom High in white lettering on the back walking past the accessible section. As usual, a few of the kids stared at them, while others leaned closer to their friends and whispered. One of the last kids in the group spotted his crutches and stopped.

  “Hey, check it out, it’s the Penn Valley receiving corps,” the kid said, pointing toward Pete and Red. But only a couple kids in the green jackets even looked back as they climbed the bleachers, and no one laughed.

  Feeling just a splash from the wave as he looked over his shoulder, Red saw a plump kid with bushy black hair that couldn’t be contained by his hat carrying the largest box of caramel corn that could be bought at the concessions stand. The box already had a substantial amount missing from it, Red noticed, and the kid was laughing at his own comment. Before Red could say a word, Pete said, “Dude, they even wanted you to be funny and they didn’t laugh.”

  The kid saw Red laugh. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Not you,” Red replied.

  “Shove more candy in your mouth, fat boy,” Pete said. “At least it’ll keep you quiet.”

  “Yeah, screw you,” the kid said as he walked away, giving them the middle finger.

  The kid went to climb the last few bleachers to catch up with the rest of his group when Red easily pushed the wave at his foot just as he was about to put weight on it. Missing the bleacher, the kid’s foot found nothing to support him. He tumbled backwards trying to keep himself from falling into the space between the bleachers. Half of the caramel corn spilled all over him and the walkway, and the kid looked up to see everyone around him laughing.

  Red simply walked away and sat one seat over from Pete. The kid got to his feet and scrambled up the bleachers to sit with the Folsom contingent. Without even looking at each other, Pete and Red just smiled.

  “You’re so angry, Pete,” Red teased.

  “Oh, Red, they just don’t know how to connect. Sometimes it comes off the wrong way, but they’re trying.”

  Their laughter was interrupted by the squealing of the public address system being turned on. They both turned and looked up at the broadcast booth along with the rest of the crowd.

  “Sorry, folks,” the student announcer said. “And welcome to the game as we host our rivals, the Folsom Raiders . . .”

  “Who are going to kick the crap out of us,” Pete said, finishing the sentence. When he didn’t get a reaction, he noticed Red was still looking up at the booth. “Chill out, it only squeals a few times a game.”

  Red shook his head. “I swear, I always feel like that thing’s gonna topple,” he said. “I mean, look at it.”

  Constructed as an afterthought to the stadium, the booth was nothing more than a wooden structure with some siding, built high enough for its occupants to see over the bleachers. It had been a project for the shop club about a decade ago, and they overshot the height of the bleachers by a good twenty feet. It looked like it hadn’t been touched since the original construction, and the panels on the front of the booth had been ripped away before current seniors ever set foot in the halls of Penn Valley.

  “Why you think they put the handicapped section under it,” Pete said.

  “The section is handicapped too? Holy crap.”

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “I forgot,” Red said, “you’re the funny one.”

  “Yeah, stop doing that, will ya?”

  Laughing, Red said, “Shut up.”

  “You know what they say, the team has a better foundation than that thing,” Pete said, repeating a popular joke that floated through school every game day. “And we only won four games in the last three seasons.”

  Glancing over at the Folsom students, Red saw the kid with the bushy hair blending in with the rest of them. Talking. Laughing. Like nothing had happened.

  “Upset tonight,” Red declared.

  “You’re nuts. Folsom’s 3 and 0 and favored to win the league.”

  “They are going down tonight.”

  “Five bucks?” Pete offered his hand to indicate the sealing of a bet.

  Red hesitated for a moment, feeling guilty to take his friend’s money.

  “C’mon, man, put your money where your mouth is,” Pete said.