Some Hoopfest stars watch from sidelines

In June, the Spokane area will endure another convention of Type A personalities.

These aggressive personalities generally are restricted to corporation chairpersons, the Marine Corps and police departments where that kind of person can be useful – indeed, necessary – in keeping our land productive, free and civilized.

That is the good part of Type A doings. However, a lot of Type A’s in the same proximity can result in, well, that bad Type A stuff.

Under the banner of Hoopfest, these Type A’s are allowed to congregate en masse without any mediators except a small band of brave souls called court monitors.

Like many others, I have found no love on the Hoopfest courts. As I grew older, I began to dread every June.

Injuries awaited me. I started making up lies to explain why I could not play in Hoopfest with my buddies.

I still had the Type A personality, but now I had a Type F body. The “F” is for “fat” – specifically, “old fat,” the worse kind.

Then, a couple of years ago, Don VanCurler, a friend and teacher at Lidgerwood Elementary School, called me.

“Wanna play Hoopfest this year?”

“Can’t. I’m scheduled for a colonic lavage next week.”

Usually, that kind of talk stops people in their tracks. I had learned that technical medical lingo from my wife, a registered nurse.

“But Hoopfest isn’t for a month,” VanCurler said. “Does a lavage take a month?” He mispronounced “lavage.”

“No. But then, I’ve got that other problem, too,” I responded.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my prostate impinges on my urinary system.” That had to be a conversation ender.

VanCurler paused for a moment, then burst out with “You’re lying.”

“OK.”

“This is different?” he persisted.

“A different Hoopfest?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he answered, going on to explain about a “facilitator” player being needed to join a team of disabled kids. These kids (actually grown boys and men) all are physically capable but have been dealt some bad cards in the cognitive department.

My job would be to throw the ball to my two teammates so they could shoot at the basket. The opposing team would have one facilitator on the court at all times, too.

“Just do what it takes for the kids to have a fun game. You can even cheat a little if the score gets too lopsided,” VanCurler said.

So I did it.

Not one “hand grenade without a pin” was playing in this division. Everybody was just glad to be on the court.

Sometimes they were consumed with excitement beyond containment.

It was my best Hoopfest ever, and I didn’t score a point.

No one called me a name or made a vile reference regarding my mother.

There were no 250-pound guerrillas to elbow against for rebounds.

The biggest people were sitting courtside – the parents and guardians of these boys and men.

For self-centered persons like I am, these parents are hard to understand – pretty much unheralded heroes. They keep positive outlooks as they give their lives to providing care for their special-needs kids.

Some of these “kids” are in their 40s.

I felt put upon when I had to buy braces for my daughter’s teeth.

These parents are a subculture. After you have been around them for a while, you realize that they all are familiar with one another and have empathy for one another that the rest of us could not understand.

They meet at Special Olympics events and probably in lots of other venues that I know nothing about. They choose to care for their kids as long as they have the strength.

If you want to sit with some remarkable people at Hoopfest and see a different attitude, drift down to the special-needs courts and take a bleacher seat among the heroes.