by Jim Bradford
The skybox exploded in laughter, and every single person applauded his innocent inquiry. Kevin paused and grew intensely serious.
“HK, because of our great victory today, Coach Fisher gave us our game jerseys.” Pausing momentarily and swallowing hard, he added, “And I want you to have mine.”
The air suddenly left the room. No one moved a muscle; there was only hushed silence in the skybox. Tear-filled eyes locked on the massive football player as he placed the extra large, sweat-soaked, grass-stained football jersey on the little blind boy’s lap. Visions of the memorable Coca-Cola commercial that aired during the 1980 Super Bowl, featuring “Mean Joe” Greene tossing his game jersey to a young, awestruck boy, flashed before my eyes.
For a few seconds HK’s cerebral palsy prevented him from making a sound. Regaining a breath of air and surveying the jersey’s details with his probing fingers, he was finally able to utter a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
“HK, you are welcome.”
“Kevin, I love you. You are one of my best friends.”
The hulking professional football player, who had just finished an epic afternoon battle with three-hundred-pound warriors, immediately choked with emotion.
“I love you, too, HK.”
CHAPTER 28
Dreaming Big
HK’s enthusiasm for sports presented him with unique opportunities for participation that were not limited by his disabilities. One beautiful spring Saturday morning in 2007, the pint-sized celebrity opened the Williamson County Little League season by ceremonially tossing out the first pitch. With two adults standing on either side to help maintain his balance, HK summoned every ounce of strength into his good left arm and heaved a high-arching pitch in the direction of the catcher’s voice. The nimble young catcher made a spectacular grab before the ball hit the ground, and a new Little League pitching star was recognized. He returned the next three seasons to throw out the first pitch, including one year when the Williamson County Little League Association presented a check for $2,000 in his honor to our church’s youth group. While presenting the large donation in front of Sunday’s assembly, our minister questioned the pint-sized pitcher’s technique.
“HK, what kind of pitch did you throw?”
“An eighty-mile-an-hour curveball . . . one of my slower pitches.”
Convinced that he had reached the pinnacle of his baseball career, my young companion next tried his hand at basketball. A visiting South Dakota college team was in town for a holiday exhibition game against the Vanderbilt Commodores. HK had been introduced to their head basketball coach when he held the same position at Nashville’s Lipscomb University. This game night his coach-friend invited HK to be their team’s honorary coach.
HK delivered his pregame instructions before the team hit the court. He simply said, “Maintain a positive attitude, play good defense, make your free throws, and do not lie down in the second half.” He was speaking from experience: he had cautioned the Vanderbilt football team against “lying down” just a few years before when they blew a large first-half lead.
Two seasons later HK served in the same honorary capacity for the Freed-Hardeman University Lions in their basketball contest against Lipscomb University in Nashville. In the dressing room before game time, the team’s head coach asked the honorary coach if he had anything to offer the team. This time HK was fully prepared.
The dressing room went silent, his body tensed, and with a voice right at the edge of breaking into his compulsive laughter, he began.
“My name is HK.” Laughter broke the silence because everyone there knew him well.
“Thank you for inviting me to sit on your bench. It’s an honor. Tonight you’re playing a Division I team, and you’re expected to lose. However, the final score really doesn’t matter. The score that really counts tonight is your attitude, your hustle, and your desire to play hard—the kind of toughness that you’ll be expected to maintain all season and one that I expect you to maintain tonight.” He paused occasionally when his excitement, combined with his cerebral palsy, made it difficult to speak.
“If you think big, you’ll be big, you’ll play big, and you’ll accomplish big things. Now let me tell you about me.”
Again he said, “My name is HK.” This time there was no laughter.
“My mother died when I was born; my father abandoned me when I was five. I am blind. I have cerebral palsy and other handicaps that keep me from playing basketball. But those things do not stop me from dreaming, and when I dream, I always dream big. And because I dream big, I’ve been able to do some really special things in my life. I’ve ridden horses and flown an airplane. I’ve appeared on television, served as the mayor of Nashville, and met professional football players, which is a lot of things to do for a blind boy with cerebral palsy.” Occasionally he stuttered while searching for the right words.
“I want you boys to dream big this season, like I do. If you do, you can win the national championship in sports and in life. Now, go get a victory!”
Time stood still in that locker room. For a moment there was only silence. You could almost hear a roomful of heartbeats. Only a few dry eyes remained when he finished. A lone player sitting closest to his honorary coach began to clap slowly, and one by one his teammates joined in until the locker room reverberated with deafening noise.
As the room again became quiet, the honorary coach turned toward the real coach and in a loud voice said, “I did a good job, didn’t I?” All of the players laughed and started clapping louder than ever while shouting, “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
I wish I could report that this story had a happy ending with the smaller Division I team coming through with an epic, upset victory. It didn’t happen, but that night Freed-Hardeman played their hearts out in one of the most exciting games of the season. Barely trailing by just three points with less than two minutes left in the game, they were forced to foul in an attempt to gain possession and score the winning points. Unfortunately for them, the Lipscomb team continued on a hot streak and made eight consecutive free throws, thus securing the victory.
That night I had a front-row locker-room seat to witness the powerfully stirring, inspirational words that gushed from deep within this remarkable young boy. Those basketball players might forget that hardwood contest, but I doubt they will ever forget the inspiring message delivered that night by their honorary coach.
CHAPTER 29
Sixteenth Birthday
On HK’s sixteenth birthday, in 2006, a close friend planned a surprise that nearly clogged mail service to his East Nashville house. Just two weeks before his big day, word of his great love for birthday cards began to spread among his many friends and acquaintances. The result was that by the end of his birthday week, he received more than one hundred greeting cards from people all over the world, including a family in Scotland and the Tennessee governor’s office.
This started an annual quest to exceed the number of birthday cards received from the previous year. Two years later 180 cards, some containing cash gifts, started arriving three days before his July birthday and continued throughout the month. The next year cards started arriving two weeks before his birthday and continued trickling in until mid-August, eventually totaling 590 cards from twenty-eight states, Australia, Canada, and Afghanistan. Although not officially certified by a Guinness World Record, HK proudly declared that 590 cards was an all-time record for any boy’s birthday. That year, at the desperate urging of the bogged-down mailman, Pearl placed a large bucket on her front porch.
Another sixteenth birthday surprise came in the form of a gracious gift from some of our dearest friends. They had gotten wind that HK’s list of lifelong wishes had always included a Florida visit and ocean experience, so they graciously offered us a week at their Florida beach house. We had to tell HK we were taking a trip because it would be impossible to conceal the preparation process, but we dared not reveal our final destination. We knew that his excitement level would be
pushed over the top, so with considerable difficulty we kept the journey’s end a top secret. We asked Stu and Dot Brandt, along with Dot’s sister, to join us.
On a sultry Saturday morning in August, our two fully loaded vehicles headed south from Brentwood on Interstate 65 toward the Florida Gulf Coast.
At regular intervals along the route, another Groundhog Day experience dominated travel conversation, and the nonstop repetition began wearing us down. “Brenda, where are we going? When are we returning? Oh, Brenda, please tell me. I need to know.” Strained to the breaking point, Brenda finally announced, “HK, we’re heading to Destin, Florida.”
It’s impossible to describe his excitement and facial expression upon hearing this news. First he screamed, “I’m going to have so much fun! I can’t wait to get to Florida!” The news triggered the characteristic rocking motion caused by his neuromuscular disorder, and it became so forceful that it actually caused the car to swerve.
“HK, calm down before you make the car run off the road. If we have a wreck, we can’t go to Florida!”
He just laughed and continued clapping his hands and loudly singing, “Yay, yay, I’m going to Florida!” Within minutes he relaxed enough to speak calmly. “Brenda, I’ve never been to Florida. Why didn’t you tell me where we are going? I am soooo excited!”
“Mr. Bradford and I didn’t want to ruin your surprise.”
“This is going to be so much fun! Brenda, can I walk in the sand when we get to Florida?”
“Yes, you can walk in the sand, play in the ocean, and do lots of fun things because this is your very own special trip.”
Brenda thought telling him of the Florida destination would quiet his incessant questions, but it only instigated another series of endless repetitious inquiries. During the eight-hour drive, I lost count of how many times I heard him say, “How much longer before we arrive? Where will we eat? What will we do when we get there? Can I call Grammy and tell her where I’m going?”
Three hours later we passed uneventfully through Birmingham and made our first rest stop at Peach Park in Clanton, Alabama. A water tower painted to look like a giant peach beckons interstate drivers to make Peach Park a required stop for every carload of southbound vacationers. Chilton County peaches are world famous, and Clanton, its county seat, is the peach capital of the South. Located at exit 205 just outside town, Peach Park is a peach-lover’s paradise, serving everything peachy—including fried pies, cobbler, and delicious homemade ice cream. No one complained about this brief delay to our journey.
As we headed back to our cars, someone had the bright idea to buy a sack of fried pies and save them for later. Apparently HK and Stu didn’t get the memo. They started raiding that bag the moment we headed south. By the time we arrived in Destin, every delicious peach pie was gone—and I didn’t get a single one.
It was nearly five thirty on Saturday afternoon when we finally arrived at our beachfront destination. HK was more excited than ever. He stepped out into the warm summer air and took in a deep breath of heavy, humid, saltwater breeze. He would enjoy his first walk on the beach after the cars got unloaded.
Our female vacation planners had scheduled the first-night dinner reservations at a nice seafood restaurant that was a local favorite. HK found his first Florida meal to be an utterly new, unfamiliar, and somewhat baffling dining experience. After our party of six was seated, he explored the large round table with his left hand.
“Brenda, why do I have so many knives, forks, plates, and glasses?”
She patiently explained the purpose of each setting on the table, reassuring him that he would only need to use a single plate, fork, and glass for his entire meal. But just when she thought she had him settled, Stu chimed in and undid everything she had said.
“HK, one glass is for your wine.”
Confusion returned to HK’s face. “Mr. Bradford, is Stu joking with me? He knows I don’t drink wine. He’s just joking with me, isn’t he?”
“Yes, HK, Stu is just joking with you.”
We usually ordered for HK from a restaurant’s children’s menu, but for whatever reason, Destin area restaurants didn’t offer children’s menus. So throughout our entire time there, he proudly selected from the regular adult menu, choosing unfamiliar entrees, including several that we found impossible to pronounce. For a growing boy who had never eaten fresh seafood, he was in heaven.
The sugar-white sand and emerald-green ocean of Florida’s panhandle attracts generations of family vacationers every year. Based on my years of astute observation, I have determined that their daily beach routines fall into two distinct categories. The first are those Energizer beach-bunny types who walk at sunrise, maintain constant “activities” throughout the day, and retire early just as the sun dips into the ocean. Then there are those who sleep late, eat more, do less than normal, and stay up past eleven every night. Our merry band of beach bums definitely fell into the latter category.
Each morning after a late breakfast, everyone changed into swimsuits and applied lots of sunscreen. The guys headed to the freshwater swimming pool while the ladies hit the white-sand beach for maximum sun time. Observing HK swim for the first time, anyone would be hardpressed to detect blindness or any other physical difficulties. His water wings provided the freedom to swim and cross the pool from side to side. He paddled vigorously with his left arm and kicked with both legs, exercise therapy that was greatly beneficial to him. Once every hour we made him leave the pool for a brief rest on his comfortable lounge chair. But within fifteen minutes he would be back in the water, kicking and paddling to his heart’s delight.
Unfortunately for us, the Gulf of Mexico remained under the influence of an early weekend storm system throughout most of our vacation week. The churning water contained a slimy green slurry of seaweed and other unknown storm debris. Conditions got even worse, with whitecaps strong enough to knock over an adult. But nothing could have kept HK out of the saltwater and his first experience in the ocean. Stu and I were there to catch him every time a wave crashed over his small frame. But even that could not deter him. Each time he came up shouting, “This is fun!”—all while spewing water and seaweed from his mouth. He was knocked down and covered in mucky seaweed so many times I thought he might start growing barnacles. These repeated wave assaults kept him tugging at his sagging swimsuit, so much that Stu and I began calling him “The Plumber.” He laughed, but I’m not sure he understood why.
The Wednesday weather forecast predicted an overcast sky, high humidity, and a chance of rain—typical summer Florida weather. Right away everyone decided against another day at the beach. Instead, the girls went shopping, and the boys played miniature golf.
When I was young, miniature golf was much tamer than the challenging two-par complexes of today. This facility, located about a mile from our beach house, had a jungle theme with realistic-looking lions, tigers, elephants, and palm trees strategically placed along the eighteen-hole course. HK could barely control the excitement of his first golfing experience. Decked out in a bright yellow polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a white golf hat, he looked the part of a sharp, professional golfer. Stu and I had no idea what to expect from him during our inaugural outing.
I helped align his putts and awkwardly supported him while his left hand held the putter and struck the ball. Through eighteen holes, I had one hole in one while Stu struggled with multistroke finishes on several holes. We were both amazed—and perhaps a bit chagrined—as we watched HK sink two holes in one. We agreed it had to be a simple case of beginner’s luck.
Finishing his final stroke on the eighteenth hole, HK reached inside the cup to retrieve his ball, just as he had done on the previous seventeen holes. Despite wiggling his fingers all around the inside of the cup, this time he came up empty. The surprised expression on his face was priceless. His sightless world was turned upside down by something that just didn’t make any sense. How could his ball have vanished? I grinned as I realized what was baffling him. I e
xplained that the final hole was connected to an underground pipe that returned the ball to a large bucket inside the golf course office. He breathed a sigh of relief to know that the disconcerting mystery had been solved. The world was still running on stable laws of physics.
I was the designated scorekeeper that day, and after tallying everyone’s strokes, I thought surely I had made an error. So I carefully totaled them a second time. Finally, I announced, “Stu, you may not like what I’m about to say.” Then slowly and distinctly, I announced the final scores. Stu had accumulated 54 strokes, HK ended up with 51, and I had a highly respectable 42! (There is, after all, some advantage in being the scorekeeper.) Immediately HK starting chanting, “Yay, I beat Stu. I beat Stu!”
I couldn’t help but rib Stu about his miserable finish. “Stu, how will you explain to the girls that a blind boy beat you at golf?”
“I won’t tell anyone if you guys won’t,” was his weak reply.
“Now Stu, you know I can’t keep a secret!” HK responded.
He had earned his bragging rights, and he didn’t hesitate to exercise them freely. It didn’t seem to bother Stu at first, but I think hearing the constant reminders throughout the remainder of our vacation severely damaged his ego.
CHAPTER 30
Speaking to Thousands
Almost eight years into my journey with HK, it was fair to say that almost everyone Brenda and I knew had heard about my remarkable young sidekick. Shortly before his birthday in 2007, I happened to cross paths with a good friend who attended a local Presbyterian church. He extended an open invitation for HK and me to address his Sunday morning adult Bible class. He asked us to share the story of our friendship, how we met, and details surrounding HK’s remarkable life.
On Sunday morning, July 22, 2007, we made our first public appearance before an audience of thirty-two adults at Christ Presbyterian Church in Brentwood. We had never done anything like this before, so we kept our unrehearsed, twenty-minute talk fairly simple.
