Shauna Belflower searched for answers, though few came as the years went on. Ryan had autistic symptoms, but no one ever formally diagnosed him with that. She took Ryan to different doctors, and even locked him in a psychiatric hospital for 16 days when he was
5. He went on medication, but it made him violent and he had to be weaned from it.
“It was almost like having a little Helen Keller. He had no way of communicating,” his mother said. “He knew words were a way of communicating, just no way of knowing what they meant.”
In the end, there wasn’t much doctors could do. Ryan would improve as he learned things, but for years he struggled to understand and carrying on a conversation was almost impossible. He would look at the ground when he talked, and it was a long time before he could answer a question like “How are you?”
Increasingly, though, that talk was about sports. Ryan memorized statistics, watched ESPN constantly and found out everything he could about his favorite team, the San Francisco 49ers.
Still, he struggled in his vocational special education classes, struggled to find his place in a big high school, struggled with life’s little oddities every single day.
One day during his freshman year, girls basketball coach Meredith Pulliam asked her class if anyone wanted to help the team.
In the back of the room, Ryan’s hand went up.
Every day he’d be at practice, handing out balls, trying to figure out how to run the clock. At first, the girls were wary of this boy who said almost nothing but was always around. But, as time went on, they grew to love the scrawny kid who worked so hard and did everything he could for them.
Ryan was finally a part of something. And the kid who could barely talk to anyone a few years earlier now wanted to be manager of the boys’ team. Maybe, just maybe, he could even play. After all, he did know how to shoot.
“I had a long day to figure it out, but I wanted to play,” Ryan said. “I really did. And if I didn’t make it, at least I tried.”
Amundsen knew about Ryan’s work habits and his determination. After Ryan tried out as a junior, he told him he could be the boys’ team manager. If he worked real hard, maybe he would earn a uniform.
“A lot of times kids like that end up disappearing after two weeks,” Amundsen said.
Not Ryan.
He got up early, swept the gym, put out basketballs and got players water.
“I paid the price,” Ryan said. “I didn’t want to quit and I wasn’t going to.”
Just before the last game of the year, Amundsen handed him his No. 12 uniform.
“He did it the right way. He earned it,” Amundsen said. “You don’t see that much these days.”
With Ryan finally in the game, the chant grew even louder in the Clovis East gym.
“Give Ryan the ball. Give Ryan the ball.”
Ryan wanted it, too. He ran down the court to the corner by himself to wait in case someone saw him. If no one did, he would run back behind the 3-point line to get a pass.
On defense, the 5-foot-6 player ran after Buchanan High’s biggest man.
“Coach told me to guard anybody I saw,” he would explain later.
Ryan had played a few seconds in a few games already his senior year. It hadn’t gone well.
In his first game, the other team was running a fast break off a miss and Ryan couldn’t get out of the way. He was sent sprawling about 10 feet down the court. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, but it made Amundsen wary.
The other kids were bigger and stronger. They saw plays developing. They reacted quicker.
About 2 minutes remained in the game, and Ryan’s teammates were trying their best to get him the ball.
Suddenly, he had it unguarded out beyond the 3-point line. As he launched the shot, everyone in the gym froze. On the sideline, his teammates rose as one.
The shot missed badly, clunking off the lower backboard.
By now, the Buchanan players seemed to recognize what was going on. When Ryan got the ball again they fouled him, sending him to the free throw line so he would have a chance to score.
But all the games of H-O-R-S-E hadn’t prepared him for this moment. His free throw arced high off the top of the backboard.
In the stands, Justin was crying tears of joy. His brother may have missed, but at least he got a chance. He could always talk about the night he played.
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