Although Ross had been cursed with Mama’s lack of height, he never once neglected his duty of looking out for his little brother.
The street light had just gone on when an oversized neighborhood punk named Owen told him, “We chipped in and bought your brother a helmet, so when he…”
Before the sentence was complete, Ross was running full sprint at the buffoon. The boy’s shocked eyes and drooping jaw didn’t stop Ross from ramming into him, head first. He caught him square in the midsection and knocked the air right out of him. The bully went down. Ross went down on top of him, scurried up to his chest and began punching him in the face. Right, left, right, left – both fists firing. Blood splayed. “Stop! Please stop!” the boy screamed for mercy. Right, left, right, left – Ross kept punching, never uttering a single word. He wasn’t insane with rage, nor did he black out. He was simply defending a boy who couldn’t protect himself; a boy whom he loved with every cell of his being – his little brother. Right, left, right, left – he pounded away.
Mary MacDonald, Mama’s neighbor, pulled Ross off. His T-shirt was tie-dyed in blood. “Are you crazy, Ross?” she screamed. “What do you want to do…kill him?”
Ross never answered. He stood, wiped his bloodied hands on his pants and bent down until he was inches from Owen’s face. “You ever say anything about Brian again and I swear to God, I’ll beat you to a pulp. You got it?”
Owen nodded and went right on crying.
It took all of twenty minutes for word to spread and for the whole neighborhood to learn that little Ross had snapped and that Owen, the bully, had experienced his wrath.
Joan questioned him about it at Mama’s kitchen table. “Tell me what happened?”
He told the truth – explaining what, how and why in every graphic detail.
“I understand why you did it,” his mother said, “but you can’t go around beating up people who are too ignorant to understand your brother. Besides, if you can’t find a more peaceful way to deal with it, you’ll be in trouble your whole life.”
Mama grabbed Ross’ face and winked at him. “That’s my boy,” she whispered.
Not long after, another boy called Brian “a window licker.” He never knew what happened before Ross was on him, punching him in the throat and ears – whatever made the punk bleed and scream for mercy. When the boy’s friend jumped in to help, Ross fought him, too – like a cornered badger.
At the end of the ferocious beatings, Ross told them both, “My brother’s not a window licker. Understand?”
The heckler rolled into the fetal position, moaning in pain. His friend gurgled once and nodded his bloodied head.
This fight earned Ross the reputation of being a tough guy, along with a secret trip to McRay’s and two hours at the penny arcade with Mama.
When it came to his little brother, it was instinctive – no fear, no regret, no mercy. If someone picked on Brian, or the special school that he attended for children with mental disabilities, if they called him a name, or even looked at him with a judgmental smirk, then they would have to face Ross – the judge, jury and executioner.
While Joan refused to condone the violence, Mama was less critical over Ross’ willingness to protect his brother. “Ross can’t keep reacting like this,” Joan insisted. “He’s going to get into some real trouble someday; trouble that he might not be able to get out of.”
“I agree,” Mama said. “That’s why we need to teach Brian to stand up for himself.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Joan asked.
“I would be, if we lived in a world that was free of bullies and jerks.”
“But Ma…”
“I’m not talking about boxing lessons, Joan. I’m talking about teaching him to speak up and defend himself.” She nodded with conviction. “Brian has to learn that he doesn’t need to feel like a victim just because some nasty person thinks it might be worth a laugh.”
Joan nodded, finally understanding.
“I couldn’t give a spit about someone who pokes fun at Brian,” Mama said, “but I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way when it happens. It has to hurt him the same way it would hurt any one of us.”
On the very next weekend, an ugly opportunity to teach presented itself. While playing outside in front of the cottage, one of the bigger neighborhood boys called Brian, “a retard.”
He ran into the house, crying. Mama immediately grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back outside.
The punk was still sitting on his bicycle, laughing in the middle of a small circle of kids.
“Hey you,” Mama yelled at him, “come here!”
He started to pedal away.
“Whoa!” she roared, “you’re not going anywhere! You were a big, brave man just a few minutes ago, so stay right where you are.” She nodded. “We’ll come to you.”
The rest of the gang scattered, leaving the bully to face the angry, old woman alone.
When he finally realized what was going on, Ross made a beeline out of the cottage and charged straight for the boy on the bike.
Mama spun on her heels and yelled, “Get back in the house, Ross! This isn’t your fight. It’s Brian’s.”
Ross stopped short, frozen in confusion.
“Back in the house,” she ordered, “NOW!”
Reluctantly, he did as he was told, glaring back at the punk with each step.
The bully was in shock, terrified about what might happen next.
Mama grabbed Brian’s arm again – feeling the fear and shame coursing hard through his veins. Together, they marched right up to the kid on the bike. “What did you call him?” she asked, gesturing toward her quivering grandson.
The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but he never uttered a word.
“What was it?” she asked again, her voice nearing a scream.
“A…a…retard,” he stuttered, his voice broken into pieces. He awaited the worse.
She turned to Brian. “Now how did that make you feel?” she asked.
“Bad,” Brian mumbled, his eyes locked onto hers.
She placed her thumb and forefinger on his chin, pushing his face so that he had to look right at his bully. “Tell the punk,” she said, “not me.”
Brian sheepishly looked at the boy. “Bad,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
The kid nodded and looked away.
Brian shook his head, the fear in his eyes turning to anger. “Bad…ponk you,” he said, louder.
“I’m sorry,” the kid muttered.
“Bad ponk!” Brian screamed, “BAD!” It was just loud enough for the rest of the fear and shame to leave him.
The kid put his head down, while Mama grabbed Brian’s face once more. “Good for you,” she told him, proudly. “Now get back in the house. I’ll be along shortly.”
With the weight of the world now off his shoulders, Brian grinned and did as he was told.
While the bully awaited the worse, Mama wrapped both of her arthritic hands around the bicycle’s handlebars and warned him, “If I ever hear of you picking on Brian again, or making fun of him, I’m going to set his brother loose. You understand?”
The kid nodded.
“You’d better.” She let the bike go and the punk pedaled off as fast as his legs would take him.
As Mama turned back to the house, she saw both Ross and Brian standing behind the screen door. Ross was glaring, pure rage shooting from his eyes. Brian was wearing his innocent smile again. She laughed aloud.
She wasn’t one step past the threshold when she turned to Brian. “It doesn’t really matter what other people think about you,” she explained. “The only thing that matters is what you think and feel about yourself. Words are nothing more than words. If they don’t bother you, then that’s a good thing. But if someone’s words do hurt your feelings, Brian, then you need to let them know and stand up for yourself. Understand?”
“Yets.”
“Good.”
Ross nodded. “And if y
ou ever need help, you let me know,” he hissed. “I got your back.”
Mama smiled. “Yeah. That, too.”
A few weeks had passed when the distinct carnival sounds of an ice cream truck permeated the neighborhood. It was a late run for the truck – a final run of the season – and everyone knew it. “I sceam!” Brian yelled, hurrying to find Mama and her bulky pocket book. “I sceam!”
With two quarters in hand, he was the first one at the truck, scanning the same menu he’d seen a thousand times before. A long line quickly formed behind him. He didn’t care. He would never rush such an important decision.
“Hurry up, dummy!” one of the bigger kids finally yelled.
Without hesitation, Brian spun on his heels and approached the older boy. “Bad,” he yelled. “Ponk you!”
The heckler was taken aback, unsure of how to respond. To save face, he looked toward his friends and tried to laugh it off. No one else laughed.
Brian nodded, took his rightful place back in line and selected a rocket pop with a gum ball at the bottom. As he stepped away from the truck with his frozen prize, he scowled at the heckler, clearly feeling pretty good about himself.
At the very back of the line, Ross watched the entire episode in silence. Once Brian was back in the cottage and out of ear shot, he followed the heckler down the street. “Hey, wait a minute,” he called after him. “I just need to talk to you for a minute.”
“Oh no!” the kid shrieked. Dropping his ice cream sandwich, he took off running.
Ross took chase.
Chapter 16
Spring 1986
In 1968, though many experts were opposed to the idea at the time, Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics because of her passionate belief that people with intellectual disabilities – young and old – could benefit from participating in competitive sports. She believed that the lessons learned through sports would translate into success in school, the workplace and the community. Above all, she wanted the families and neighbors of persons with intellectual disabilities to see what these athletes could accomplish, to take pride in their efforts, and to rejoice in their victories. The Special Olympics mission statement reflected all of these goals: To provide year-round sports training and athletic competition in a variety of Olympic-type sports for individuals with intellectual disabilities by giving them continuing opportunities to develop physical fitness, demonstrate courage, experience joy, and participate in a sharing of gifts, skills, and friendship with their families, other Special Olympics athletes, and the community.
For the first time in many of their lives, men and women with disabilities competed for the sheer joy of taking part – not for money, endorsements, national pride or personal glory. The entire program was destined to become a symbol of hope. To the athlete, the Special Olympics promised a lifetime of active participation in sports. To the many needed volunteers, it offered an experience that touched the heart and uplifted the spirit.
On July 20, 1968, the Special Olympics Torch – ”The Flame of Hope” – was lit for the first time and one thousand athletes took part in sports competition in the Olympic tradition. It was a spark that would enlighten the world and bring joy and fulfillment to millions. Its flame would show the world the courage, character, dedication, and worth of persons with disabilities.
Joan called the Rhode Island Chapter of the Special Olympics to see whether the organization might benefit Brian.
The friendly woman explained, “Ma’am, signing up your son may be the best decision you’ll ever make. You’ll be joining millions of people who not only support their athletes, but also find a strong support system for themselves. You’ll be joining a network of people with similar concerns, questions and life experiences. You might even receive help finding medical expertise and community resources.” She paused. “For many, the Special Olympics is a place of acceptance, respect and belonging – where you and your family can make friendships to last a lifetime.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Children with disabilities must be at least eight years old,” the woman quickly replied.
“Oh,” Joan said, “he’s nine.”
“Well, then he’s eligible for training and competition right now…although he probably won’t compete until next year.”
“That’s great!” she said. “How do we sign up?”
“I can take your information now and get a packet about upcoming events into the mail to you. Within two weeks, you’ll receive a call from one of the coaches.” After taking all the information, the woman asked, “Mrs. Mauretti, by any chance do you know what the Special Olympics Athlete Oath is?”
“I don’t,” Joan admitted.
“It’s ‘Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.’”
“That’s perfect – exactly what we’re looking for,” Joan said.
“And I’ve seen it inspire greatness,” the woman concluded.
One week to the day, a Special Olympics coach called Joan. “Mrs. Mauretti, I’m Lisa Cowen, Brian’s Special Olympics coach. How are you?”
“I’m very well. Thank you for calling.”
“No worries. I’m told that you’re interested in signing up your son, Brian?”
“Yes. I was hoping for some information…some direction.”
“Of course. Besides teaching your son to compete in whatever sporting events you choose, it’s my priority to give each of my athletes an awareness of their own worth, ability, and capacity to grow. Essentially, my real job is to encourage confidence and self-esteem.”
Right away, Joan could sense a deep level of sincere care and concern in the woman’s voice. “That’s wonderful,” Joan replied, totally impressed with Lisa’s enthusiasm.
“I’m required to attend a course offered by the Special Olympics every four years in order to remain certified as a coach. I also try to stay current on all the latest information and methodologies so I can help prepare my athletes – both physically and mentally.”
“Wonderful,” Joan repeated. “But I’m not sure which sports Brian might like.”
“We could try them all, if you’d like,” Lisa said. “Rhode Island Special Olympics provides year-round sports training and athletic competition for a few thousand children and adults with intellectual disabilities. We match age and ability on a sport-by-sport basis. Brian could try a variety of sports ranging from basketball to golf to figure skating. Whatever you choose, he’ll improve his physical fitness, sharpen his skills, challenge the competition and have fun, too. We combine athletes with intellectual disabilities to promote equality and inclusion. It enables athletes to learn new sports, develop higher skills, and have new competition experiences. And on my teams, each athlete is guaranteed to play a valued role. As far as having fun, Brian will have an amazing opportunity to socialize with peers and form friendships – for life, we hope.”
“That’s exactly what we’re looking for. What are the sports options?” Joan asked.
“Rhode Island hosts more than forty tournaments and competitions in twenty-four different sports. In the fall, we offer soccer, cross country running, basketball, and duck-pin bowling. In the winter, there’s basketball again, as well as alpine skiing, Nordic skiing and snowshoeing, volleyball and bowling. Spring sports include aquatic time trials, cycling and power lifting. Summer sports include sailing, golf and softball.”
“Wow, that’s a lot to choose from…a lot to think about.”
“Sure is, but there’s no rush. Talk it over with Brian and your family, and feel free to call me back when you’ve decided. From there, we’ll schedule a meet and greet for Brian and me to get to know each other. And regardless of what you decide, Mrs. Mauretti, trust that the type of sport matters much less than celebrating Brian’s special gifts – whatever his ability may be. Whether it’s basketball or swimming, my goal for him will remain the same – to contribute to his lifelong physical, social, and personal development.”
“Thank
you,” Joan said, overjoyed with this stranger’s willingness to make her son’s life better.
“You’re welcome,” Lisa replied, sincerely.
It was a rainy Tuesday evening when Lisa arrived at the house to meet Brian. The family had decided he would start off with softball and running for the warm weather months, and basketball for the rest of the year.
Blonde and blue-eyed, Lisa was middle-aged but looked younger. She explained, “I’ve never had a disabled child, but was inspired early on to help. I’ve been at it for years.” Her dedication was obvious and, after spending ten minutes with Brian, her love for special children was even more transparent. Under Mama’s vigilant watch, within the hour Lisa was officially inducted into the family.
The whole family stood witness as Brian raised his right hand and smiled at Lisa, while she recited the Special Olympics Athletic Code of Conduct.
“Sportsmanship: I will practice good sportsmanship. I will act in ways that bring respect to me, my coaches, my team and the Special Olympics. I will not use bad language. I will not swear or insult other persons. I will not fight with other athletes, coaches, volunteers or staff. Training and Competition: I will train regularly. I will learn and follow the rules of my sport. I will listen to my coaches and the officials and ask questions when I do not understand. I will always try my best during training, divisioning and competitions. I will not hold back in preliminary competition just to get into an easier finals competition division.
“Responsibility for My Actions: I will not make inappropriate or unwanted physical, verbal or sexual advances on others. I will not smoke in non-smoking areas. I will not drink alcohol or use illegal drugs at Special Olympics events. I will not take drugs for the purpose of improving my performance. I will obey all laws and Special Olympics rules, as well as the International Federation and National Federation Governing Body rules for my sports.” She winked at him and continued, “I understand that if I do not obey this Code of Conduct, I will be subject to a range of consequences by my Program or a Games Organizing Committee for a World Games, up to and including not being allowed to participate.” She paused. “Do you agree with this code, Brian?”
Goodnight, Brian Page 12
