Jane

Freezing day in early February. Northwest side of Chicago. Public high school full of black and brown kids. First round of girls’ basketball city playoffs. Gym filled with screaming coaches, players, and fans. Total chaos.

Panini’s team is down by one with ten seconds left. Other team is inbounding the ball while Panini’s team is in tight man-to-man trying to get a steal. Panini chases her girl out to half court and the inbounder throws a tentative, telegraphed pass. Panini steals the ball, dribbles down left side of the court with her left hand, and rises up for a left-handed lay-up with six seconds left...

___

Hold on. Let me back up a second. Panini’s team is 2-23. They’re not good. Panini is the best player on the team but I think I’ve made it abundantly clear over the past however many years that she is a good player but not a great one. She’s had a decent season personally and the team has had a terrible season collectively. The girls, however, are generally cool and Panini has enjoyed being captain. In sum, a relatively enjoyable season but certainly no shining moments.

This game feels different though. In her team’s first three possessions, Panini shoots three times and scores six points. She’s in a zone. Her fourth shot, which she misses by a mile, is a full-on “heat check,” so it’s all good. She plays okay the rest of the game and finds herself on the freethrow line with 90 seconds left and her team down by four. Panini is the best free throw shooter on the team but as she steps to the line, I can feel her nerves from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of judgement, condemnation, and a hope that kills. She misses both. To the layman, she is not clearly upset. To her father, she is visibly distraught.

Panini’s team somehow scores a couple buckets and the game is now tied with 30 seconds left. A girl on the other team makes a wild 20-foot jumper but gets a technical foul for taunting. Panini is chosen to shoot the freethrows and, as she steps to the line, I can hear her trying to calm herself down from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of pity, disdain, and a hope that kills. Panini swishes the first. The crowd goes wild. They’re down by one. She bricks the second and, for those of you keeping track, has now missed three of her last four freethrows. Her team has the ball though so there’s still a chance. They throw it in, dribble up the court, and somehow fumble it out of bounds. Awful, unforced turnover, and the other team now has possession with 20 seconds left and a one-point lead.

Panini’s team plays tough defense and forces their opponents to call a time-out with ten seconds left. And now we’re back to where I left off: Panini steals the inbounds pass, dribbles up the left side of the court with her left hand, rises up for a left-handed lay-up, and…

___

Hold up. Let me back up a second. You may remember a post from a couple years ago which is ultimately about my dad but also tells the story of the only shining moment in my mediocre basketball career. As I’m sure you remember, I stole a pass, dribbled up the left side of the court, and sank a game-winning lay-up as my dad rose from his seat, swelling with pride, arms lifted in the air, fists clenched in triumph. Suffice it to say that 40 years later as I watched my progeny steal a pass, dribble up the left side of the court, and rise up for a potential game-winning lay-up, it was kinda cool.

___

So there she is, dribbling toward the rim with a defender draped on her right shoulder. Panini rises up for the left-handed lay-up and softly, sweetly, smoothly kisses that shit off the backboard. The ball gently falls through the net as Panini’s team goes up by one and the seconds start to tick away, 6…5…4…

___

Neurodivergence is an interesting word. And when I say “interesting,” what I really mean is: vague, unclear, broad, loose, euphemistic, inane. Its denotation is “divergence in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal.” Shiiiiit, by that definition, I would be considered neurodivergent. Alas, my doctors tell me I am not entitled to medical treatment and that I should just stop all the whining.

A young lady on Panini’s team named “Jane” is neurodivergent. Jane is not autistic but she has significant learning disabilities, some of which manifest on the basketball court. Jane laughs after she commits violent fouls. Jane drives to the rim and takes five steps instead of the legally allotted two. Jane throws 60-foot baseball passes that end up in the wrestling room. When a ball careens off the rim toward Jane, she spikes it 30 feet out-of-bounds like a volleyball. Jane plays really hard but she is super weird. Apologies, I rescind that statement. Jane is not weird; Jane is neurodivergent.

This is all just background and, until now, I’ve avoided the question I want to ask: To what extent should neurodivergent players be forgiven for their mistakes?

___

When your team is up by one point and there are four seconds left, there is one, and only one, thing you must not do: foul. Play tough defense, protect the rim, get a hand up, hope they miss, and don’t foul. Despite this universally agreed upon imperative and despite the fact that the other team is inbounding the ball on the far end of the court, Jane fouls. Way too aggressive. Way too physical. Easiest call the ref has ever made. Was it a bad foul? Absolutely. Was it the dumbest foul I’ve ever seen? Pretty much. Was it completely and utterly inexcusable, reprehensible, and unforgivable? Well, Jane is neurodivergent so I refer you to my question above.

A girl on the other team now has two freethrows with four seconds left and it looks like Panini’s one shining moment is dimming. The girl swishes the first so now the game is tied. But she bricks the second, Panini’s team gets the rebound, and it looks like it’s going into overtime. Panini and her team will have one more shot at redemption, and Panini’s sad, lonely father may still fall asleep tonight with a smile on his face.

But the ref has blown his whistle and called a lane violation on Jane. A lane violation??? Panini told me later that she heard the ref say something about Jane trying to distract the shooter. To this day, it’s unclear exactly what Jane said or did but we do know that the girl got another freethrow, made it, and put her team up by one with a few seconds left. Panini’s team was unable to get up a final shot as the clock ticked down, the gym erupted into total chaos, and Panini’s previous heroics were all for naught. Jane is Forrest Gump, Panini is Lieutenant Dan, and Jane stole Panini’s destiny.

Jane stole my family’s destiny.

___

I wasn’t even mad; I was confused. How, for the love of neurological inclusivity, could Jane have committed not one, but two, terrible mistakes? Should I be angry? Should I try to understand? Jane ruined what was about to be Panini’s one, singular, solitary shining moment, but should I absolve her of her crimes? Michael Phelps is neurodivergent and got two DUIs. Bill Gates is neurodivergent and cheated on his wife. Hitler was neurodivergent and killed the Jews. I’m not saying Jane was as bad as Hitler; I’m just saying it’s hard to forgive.

As the Boss and I stood in the halls waiting for Panini to finish up with her team, we found ourselves under a sign which, if you’re ignorant enough to believe there are no coincidences, was “there for a reason.” I don’t hate Jane but if she and I ran into each other at a Starbucks or something, I might become violent. But I also might be kind because empathy, compassion, and understanding are, I’ve been told, virtues.