Just Ben
I remember the day very well. It was late August and
quite chilly outside. I was coaching a soccer team for
kindergarten and first-graders, and it was the day of our
first practice.
It was cold enough to the point where all of the cute
little boys and girls were bundled up in extra sweatshirts,
jackets, gloves and mittens with those cute little straps
connected to the sleeves of their jacket.
As was normally the case any time I was coaching a new
team, we took the first few minutes to get to know one
another. I do this for the kids as much as for myself; it
often seems that kids don't get along as well with one
another unless they know and remember each other's names.
On this particular day, I sat the kids down on the
dugout bench---soccer in Austin is played on the outfield
grass at the softball complex. We went up and down the row
a few times, each kid saying his or her name and the name of
all the kids to their left.
After a few frustrating minutes of this, I decided to
put the kids to the ultimate test. I asked for a volunteer
who thought he or she knew the name of all eleven kids on
the team and could prove it to all of us right then.
There was one brave little six-year-old who felt up to
the challenge. He was to start at the far-left end of the
bench, go up to each kid, say that kid's name and then shake
his or her right hand.
Alex started off and was doing very well. While I
stood behind him, he went down the row - Dylan, Micah, Sara,
Beau, and Danny - until he reached Ben, by far the smallest
kid on the team. He stammered out Ben's name without much
trouble and extended his right hand, but Ben would not
extend his. I looked at Ben for a second, as did Alex and
the rest of the little ones on the bench, but he just sat
there, his right hand hidden under the cuff of his jacket.
"Ben, why don't you let Alex shake your hand?" I
questioned. But Ben just sat there looking at Alex and then
at me and then at Alex once again.
"Ben, what's the matter?" I asked.
But he still just sat there with a blank, far-away look
in his eyes.
Finally he stood up looked up at me and said, "But
coach, I don't have a hand," after which he unzipped his
jacket, pulling it away from his right shoulder.
Sure enough, Ben's arm ran from his right shoulder just
like every other kid on the team, but unlike the rest of his
teammates, his arm stopped at the elbow. No fingers, no
hand, no forearm.
I'll have to admit, I was taken back a bit and couldn't
think of anything to say or how to react, but thank God for
little kids-- and their unwillingness to be tactful.
"Look at that," said Alex.
"Hey, what happened to your arm?" another asked.
"Does it hurt?"
Before I knew it, a small crowd of ten players and a
bewildered coach encircled a small child who was now taking
off his jacket to show all those around him what they all
wanted to see.
In the next few minutes, a calm, collected 6-year-old
explained to all of those present that he had always been
that way and that there was nothing special about him
because of it. What he meant was that he wanted to be
treated like every other kid on the team.
And he was from that day on.
He was just Ben, one of the players on the team. Not
Ben, the kid with one arm.
by Adrian Wagner |
