Forest Haven
In 1973 I was an employee of the D.C. government, working at an institution called Forest Haven. It was, in essence, a warehouse for the developmentally disabled children and adults of that city unwanted by their families. They all ended up somewhere in cottages among the sprawling grounds and large buildings of Forest Haven.
We had a respectable institutional basketball team there of which I, age 26 and alone in my whiteness—the team being entirely composed of African American players,—was a part. Of the hundreds of staff at Forest Haven, only a handful were white. This exempted me the shirts and skins format at our daily pickup games, as everybody knew which team Terry (the white guy) was on. I was playing well at that time, thanks to my experience at a prior institutional job placement.
There were many charges of basketball playing age at Forest Haven. There were several teams, one of smaller, younger, children aged about 10-14, and another team of those aged 14-17, some of whom were quite skilled and represented the less cognitively and physically challenged in the population. I started off coaching the older team, and they responded to me; they had not lost a game under my leadership till I was relieved of that position by the Department head, a sour old former minor league baseball player named Reed, then a D.C. Government lifer, autocratic, imperious, angry, and bigoted. I learned of my demotion—following voicing my opinion of him—from the kids, and suddenly found myself coaching the younger team. But these children loved to play. They were joyous in their expression of it. I could sometimes see flashes of something in them, a glimmer of what might have been beneath their differences and disabilities in some other life. I can still see their faces. An 11 year old, medium-height, brown-skinned boy, with a naturally joyful and open face, would come up to me and without saying a word, make me smile. I don’t remember his name. In spite of his upbeat affect, I could see the weight of his affliction in his face. He wasn’t conscious of it, and it was never betrayed in his speech, but it was there nonetheless, and it was heartbreaking to see, and to know.
My kids had seen me play, and a couple of nights I had been on fire. They hung on my words. Our young team practiced and played against each other for weeks before my boy came up to me and began lobbying for a game with somebody, some team. In our vast tract of land in D.C. there were three other institutions housing young people, two for transgressors 10-14 and one for teenagers 15-19. They were tough kids, like mine: hardened by abandonment and incarceration.
I called the rec guy at Cedar Lodge, the 10-14 institution, and he was agreeable. We arranged for two games, home and home, with the first at their place. My charges were ecstatic. Now what, I thought. They have no chance. What have I done. I feared for their fragile psyches, their challenges simply too great.
In a couple weeks, the Center’s van took us over. We were beaten, but not too badly. I was surprised by my kids’ sharp passes and the shots that went in, skills not seen much in practice. I was astonished at how well they played and watched them closely to see how they’d process the loss over the next week. They moped some, but within a couple days they were clamoring, When the next, when the next!? In two weeks. We practiced every day but it was different: they had more confidence, a little swagger that swelled my heart. For the first time I saw their elan and spirited self-assurance. If anyone ever deserved these feelings these children did. Still, I thought, it’s not possible they could win. And how could I prepare them for what seemed an inevitable loss? The opponents were coming to our house though, and that was good.
My kids believed in me: they’d seen me play for the staff team, and they trusted my words. I loved them and all game week was anguished for the loss I felt coming. However, as we practiced I could feel the energy, the excitement, and the pride they had as a team. I told them we could win. I meant it. I still don’t know why. They believed in me and in themselves.
We won. It was a low scoring game, 23 to 20, shot after shot, swish, glass, the rim hangers went in. They had done the unimaginable: they had beaten a group of physically and mentally normal kids because I told them they could. Gap-jawed, I watched with pride as they celebrated with abandon and glee.
We didn’t play them a third despite intense lobbying from my boy and the others to break the tie. But I was beyond proud.
The power of belief.
It's not a Magical World, but Magical things happen in it.