About twenty years ago, I lived next door to a family with a young man named Jim who had Down Syndrome. He was a remarkable guy, very loving, extremely outgoing, who would brighten the day of many a stranger whom he happened to meet. But he had one special gift that I haven’t seen in too many people. He could channel the Six Million Dollar Man whenever there was something physical to do.
You could see it coming! He would suddenly go into slow motion mode as his face grew determined.
Then the sound . . .
Che, che, che, che, he would mouth the sound effects when Steve Austin was about to leap a tall building, or lift a car off a hapless motorist, or fling a bad guy across a room.
When he’d finish the task at hand, he’d look up at any onlookers and start to giggle. We’d all giggle back at him and congratulate him for a job well done. He was very proud of his ability.
Then one day he was invited to participate in the Special Olympics, and his parents jumped on the opportunity. From the moment he was told, he became an athlete and began all sort of preparations. We set up a broad jump area in the back yard, and he would practice for hours (unless he was distracted by a potential conversation, or a snack invite).
Just his enthusiasm was inspiring. “Two weeks, fourteen more days!!” he would say with a giggle.
“Are you nervous, Jim?” I’d ask.
“Nah,” he’d reply. “Bionics!” he’d squeeze a muscle on his arm to show me.
The day finally arrived for Jim to go to the Special Olympics. I think we were all more nervous about it than he was, but then again, we didn’t have his ability.
The scene was festive with hundreds of young people participating. Jim patiently waited his turn at the broad jump while applauding and giggling for every other athlete who went before him. I watched the absolute glee on his face. He was participating in the biggest event of his life, and he knew it.
Suddenly his name was called over the PA system. “Oh, oh, Jim that’s you,” said his mom leading him to the broad jump pit. His dad just smiled the smile of a proud father.
Now we had all practiced with Jim. We told him the “slow motion mode” wouldn’t be a good idea, and we’d gotten him to abandon it during the practice runs. But mom reminded him about it just as he reached the line.
“Don’t worry mom!” he said in an assertive way. It was his moment, and Jim was going do it Jim’s way.
I’m not sure if the crowd hushed down at that moment, or if we were all just so focused on Jim’s performance that we drowned out all other sound. But all of a sudden we heard the channeling begin . . .
“Che, che, che, che.”
I couldn’t tell you how long the run was, but I can say it took what seemed an eternity for Jim to get to the end of it and finally launch out over the sand pit. After all our preparations with him, in the end, Jim and his bionics landed approximately two and half feet into the pit.
His mom raised her hands to her mouth dreading the feeling of defeat that would probably come next. But I looked at Jim and saw nothing of the kind. He stood there, up to his ankles in sand, with a look of the kind of pride you’d see in someone who had just conquered a world record.
I cheered, the crowd cheered, the person running the event cheered. It didn’t matter how far Jim had jumped. He had done it!
Jim got a ribbon that day for his participation in the Special Olympics, but more importantly he got a memory of a day when he was a special hero to us all. He never forgot it, nor will we.
I think back to that day remembering the pride on all the parents’ faces, the exuberance of all the participants, and can’t help feeling grateful that there’s such a thing as the Special Olympics. The world owes a debt of gratitude to Eunice Kennedy Shriver for all the work she did to make this a reality.
It takes a remarkable person to make someone else feel special. Mrs. Shriver did that for countless thousands of people, their parents, and put a smile on just about everyone else’s face.
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