Last week, I posted a short video of a high school basketball team high-fiving my son’s wheelchair basketball game. The response was immediate and overwhelmingly kind. People called it heartwarming and hopeful.
And it was.
But I don’t think the real impact of that moment is obvious in that short clip and needs further explanation because what happened in that gym went far beyond a team showing up to cheer.
It was about visibility.
It was about belonging.
It was about my son being seen.
A World That Isn’t Built With Him in Mind
My son has cerebral palsy and because his body moves differently than most, people
notice his differences where ever we go.
I’ve enrolled him in so many activities over the years. Each time, I just want him to feel included, but 100% of the time, I end up having to change him to make it work.
I don’t do anything for him without feeling am intangible resistance. There is always mental calculations:
Will he be included?
Will he be safe?
Will he feel like he belongs?
How much do I do to help him integrate?
Of all the worries I carry as his mom, the biggest one has always been this…that he will end up feeling invisible.
The First Place He Didn’t Have to Change
Wheelchair basketball was different from the start. The first time he rolled onto that court, he was simply asked to show up and was not asked to change anything about himself.
He didn’t need accommodations.
He didn’t have to advocate for support.
He didn’t need me to step in.
He just showed up exactly as he is.
And that was enough.
When our team first started, we were so small that able-bodied siblings had to fill in just so we could play a game. That’s how limited adaptive sports opportunities can be for children let me son. There are not enough teams, not enough players, not enough visibility.
But over the years, the program grew. Slowly. Steadily.
This is the first year we are large enough for a varsity team and a prep team.
Still, we don’t get many opportunities to play other teams because there are so few. There simply aren’t that many wheelchair basketball programs out there. Every game matters. Every game feels big.
The Invitation I Didn’t Expect Anyone to Accept
Last weekend was my son’s first game of the season. At the very last minute, he invited a high school basketball player he knows. It was a casual invite with no big expectations.
And if I’m honest, I didn’t think he’d come, especially not on a Sunday of a 3-day weekend and for an early morning game.
But at 8:45, the gym doors opened. And in walked not just that one player… but his basketball team.
Tall. Bold. Full of energy. They instantly did not look like our usual spectator. People in the bleachers actually turned to stare, trying to figure out who they were. They stood out in every way.
But what they did next is what mattered. They didn’t come in like spectators out of obligation. They came in like fans.
They cheered. They watched. They showed up with the kind of presence that says, this matters. You matter.
It Was Never Just About Cheering
On the surface, it looked like a sweet show of support for a kid who uses a wheelchair.
But it was more than that.
Their presence said:
We see this sport.
We see these athletes.
We see you.
In a world where adaptive sports are often overlooked, underfunded, or treated like an afterthought, that kind of visibility is beyond powerful for children like my son (in fact, I brush away tears as a write this.)
Our team wasn’t just playing a game for their parents.
They were playing for fans and the greater community.
They were visible, supported and, as almost every other typical child is, they were accepted in their sport exactly as they are.
And so was my son.
1 comment
Beautifully written Savannah!