The Harlem Globetrotters

The Harlem Globetrotters

Thanks to the generosity of a good family friend, Philip was able to go and see the Harlem Globetrotters this New Years Eve at the early show. I had seen them when I was 14, and remembered enjoying the show immensely, so I figured Phil would really appreciate it, also. Initially, Phil asked his brother, Giovanni, to go with him, as he is in basketball through school, and he gets along with him well. However, Gio was visiting his older brother, and with the holiday plans, work, and weather, turned out Gio could not make it. So, we called and asked brother Joel if he wanted to go. Twenty years old and has only been to the Bradley Center once??? It was time! And so Friday morning the four of us, (Mark, myself, Phil and Joel) headed out on what started out as an act of generosity turned into a most interesting study in life and its complications, resolutions, human indifference and human compassion.

The first step to any outing with Phil is to research the handicap accessibility, not only for seating, but for parking. When you are talking about The Bradley Center in Milwaukee, one assumes that these are all well taken care of – and they are, for the most part. But a crucial element is missing.

This is the second event that I would be taking Phil to the Bradley Center for. The first was a concert two years ago and was a debacle. To get a handicap access ticket, you have to call in person. No online Ticketmaster for you. Upon calling, I asked about the parking, as I have a certain phobia about driving in Milwaukee in heavy traffic. We were told there was plenty of parking, and that’s about all. When we arrived, I had no idea where to park, and drove around the Milwaukee Maze until show time trying to find a place,  finally dropped Phil off at the door and parked nine blocks away, having to run all the back through the snow in a light jacket, late to the show.

Now this time, I figured I would call ahead and get all my questions answered. I purchased the tickets and asked the clerk about the handicap parking. I was told there were spots in the parking garage. I then asked what the clearance was on the parking garage, because we already nearly ripped the roof off the van at Children’s Hospital, finding out the hard way that we need seven foot clearance. She did not know. I asked where we might park an oversized van and once again was told, “There is plenty of parking in the area.”

So, after my conversation, I went to the internet and looked up the Bradley Center. Turns out they are well equipped for many different accessibility needs. They have a whole page dedicated to it. They have a specific lot for oversize wheelchair vans, among many other things for a variety of disabilities. Once there, we stopped and asked for directions at the Will-Call window and were treated very courteously and kindly to the information we sought. The realization came to me that the problem was one of simple awareness. I need to write a letter!

“Dear Bradley Center Brass,

You have an amazing facility, and some great entertainment. Despite handicapped individuals being in an extreme minority at your events, you have accommodated them well in amenities. However, I would like to ask if perhaps you could post a memo in the ticket office explaining the services you have available so that the gals who answer the phone might be of some assistance to us who must call in for our accessible tickets. I know, we aren’t many – but we are there. And we really need to know these things. And when we ask where we can park, or where we can unload or reload, or use the restroom – it would be nice if they could give us the same information that you took the time to make a page for on your web site. Thank you that you do have accessible facilities above and beyond those mandated by the state for those who need them. Sincerely, Me.”

Once inside, we were escorted to our seats, and enjoyed the entire game, with lots of laughs. It was announced at half-time that you should “buy your merchandise now!”, because after the game there would be an autograph/meet & greet on the arena floor. Wow…now THAT would be a very cool reminder of this trip, wouldn’t it? I had my camera and everything! Some cool shots for Philip with the Globetrotters? And an autographed item? Okay…I’m in. But what do we have to autograph? The ticket? His backpack? I didn’t price out the stuff they had available, but I knew nothing was going to be a bargain, and all we had left was our pizza money for after the game. But this was not to be missed – so I asked the nearest usher how we could get down on the floor after the game.

We found the elevator and made it to the main floor. There was quite the crush of people in the area, and even with an escort to the actual arena, people still did not look, did not listen, did not move when politely asked to. The usher apologized, but told us to move quicker when there was an opening. Of course, if you know Phil, this is not exactly his element – 10,000 people pushing and shoving to get in a poorly defined line? When we finally made it to the court, only one woman offered us a place in line and made room for Phil and his chair. It was like that freeway traffic jam when you have to get to the  exit, and that one, wonderfully kind persons slows down and lets you in! By the time we weaseled our way over to the first player, every kid and adult around us would reach over Phil and hand their item to be autographed to the player. The players were just swamped, grabbing whatever was shoved in their face next to sign.

We had decided that the pizza money would be worth sacrificing for a $25 basket ball to sign, and now here we were trying to get even one signature on it. Joel was getting downright angry, trying to make a way for Phil. Before we were able to get to the second player, the buzzer rang, and the “meet & greet” was over. They had a second performance that evening, and they had to clear out this crowd. Joel defiantly chased them down and managed to get one more signature before the security told him to stay back.

Phil and I sat and waited for the crowd to disperse a little. As it did, we found ourselves next to another boy in a wheelchair. His mom was consoling him, too, that they had at least gotten one. Then behind them, still a third wheelchair appeared as the crowd thinned. There we were…tired of fighting the crowds. Feeling a bit defeated and overwhelmed. Suddenly acutely and painfully aware of what “dis-abled” really means. We can’t compete here – in a crowd of walkies, whose only thought is to get a souvenir for their kid – we are out. We can’t bob and weave our way to the front of the line. We can’t sidestep someone’s elbow, or hop over someone’s foot to get where we want. We sit here and wait for the people who aren’t paying attention to our, “Excuse me…excuse me…excuse me…”, which is either getting louder because we are getting pissed, or softer because we have realized how pointless this has just become. And the look on Phil’s face just crushed my heart. The whole scene was like a big bully shouting in his face, “Ha, ha! You can’t do this!!”, as he obligingly rushed his chair forward when the opportunity presented itself. While he looked hopefully up at the player, waiting to be noticed. And now while we dejectedly sat in the debris of a now near empty arena, while the cleaning crew comes in and starts setting up for this evening’s show.

All I want to do is cry, now. I can feel the old bladder-behind-the-eyes beginning to let go…but I stop it. Slap on good ol’ happy face! Change your mind! Think about the good stuff…and do it NOW!!

“Well, hey, Phil…that still was a really cool game, wasn’t it?” I try.

And he agrees, and I remind him of some silly things that happened, and he laughs again. We’ll just forget about this whole ball signing incident – it was a dark spot on what was otherwise a wonderful day. He was admiring the ball all the way to the van, and asked us to put it where he could see in on the ride home. Not much talk on the way home. We are a little tired, and hungry, because the pizza money went into the ball.

Suddenly, a little more than half way home, Phil pipes up from the back. “What did you say, buddy?” I ask him.

“Gio really missed it, didn’t he? He missed a good game.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” I tell him. “That was awesome! You’ll have to tell him all about it when he gets home.”

“I think I will give him my ball.”

“What?” I ask incredulously? The hard-won, two-autograph Harlem Globetrotter Basketball we just spent our dinner on? You want to do what with it?

“I want to give Gio the ball. He missed the game, but he would at least have something from it. He can play with it, too.”

I look at this kid. I look at his face. I hear the tone of his voice. And I want the whole ’hallelujah chorus to bust it out wide open. I want the Universe to take a picture of THIS. I want the world to see this dichotomy, this irony, this motivation, this moment of human goodness.

In a spiritual Kodak moment, I am seeing human generosity, coming from the neediest of humans. This kid, who just went through the miserable experience of having his lacks shoved in his face, being overlooked and ignored is now concerned with trying to give his brother some of the fun that he missed. The child who has nothing to give is looking for something he CAN give. This is not a kid with sour grapes saying, “Just give him the basketball. I can’t use it anyway!”.  No, this was Phil telling me he was sorry that Gio missed the game, and since he got to see the game, perhaps the ball would bring Gio as much joy. And it’s true…(even if Phil doesn’t realize you don’t usually use an autographed ball), he can’t use the ball. He cannot throw, or catch, or dribble. He can barely hold it on his lap. Surely Gio would put it to far greater use since he plays the game regularly. And that would make him happy.

Now Phil is not a saint, here. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He can be as surly and nasty as any 12-year-old out there. He can be selfish, and rude and ugly. He so often struggles with frustration and anger, and I know that it is generated by all the limitations he has. But that made this all the more heartwarming to me, to see his best shine through in the face of the worst. The fact that he could have been pouting about what he didn’t get, but rather lifted his thoughts to what his brother didn’t get…that is not what makes him a saint – it is what makes him my hero.