Wonder What He Will Say?

Part One

Let’s do the math. I started playing disc golf on a regular basis when Ryan was only four years old.  He is now 19 years old, so hmm… he has been hanging out with his dad on the disc golf course for almost 15 years.  For the un-initiated --- disc golf (Frisbee golf, if you will) is played like ball golf, but instead counting how many times you hit the ball with the club, you count how many  times you throw the disc on its way to the hole (a basket-looking gizmo). 

Ryan would beg to go with me to play.  And “play” he did.  He would play with the sticks, the rocks, the water, and only occasionally he would actually join us on the tee box and throw his disc.  But, he loved the relationships.  “Dad? Going to play with the guys?” he would ask.  Why our friends put up with him slow-walking and tolerated me hollering, “Ryan, catch up” for all those years ---- I will never know.  But, they did. True friends indeed.

As the years progressed, so did Ryan’s love for disc golf.  Ryan’s challenges with timing, muscle tone, balance, and coordination had resulted in very few successful athletic ventures. But, not disc golf.  Ryan learned to throw; maybe not far, but certainly straight.  His skills grew, too. He paid close attention as I would instruct a group of scouts at a clinic and the following week he becomes the teacher as he shows his friends the proper way to grip a disc.  He started learning the rules; how to mark a lie, how to hold a proper stance, and how to be quiet while others are throwing.  He didn’t miss much.

Ryan began to join me as I played in the area tournaments.  The other players (and the tournament director) would always make us feel welcome as Ryan hung out with me.  They would even let him throw a time or two each hole -- just so he stayed out of the way.  And then last summer, my little disc golf tadpole became a frog.  He played with me at a local tournament, but this time he didn’t just throw once or twice each hole; he actually threw every shot and asked to keep his score.   And the men we were playing with were kind enough to slow down and let him do it.  Wow.

In August we traveled to Louisville, KY for a weekend tournament.  Four rounds of 18 holes spread over two days. Ryan signed up to play as a Novice.  He did great.  As far as we know he is the only young adult with Down Syndrome  to ever play in a sanctioned Professional Disc Golf Association event. (PDGA is the international governing body for the sport) At the end of the tournament Ryan was “holding court” with the tournament staff, wives, & girlfriends before the award ceremony.  The director said that he had laughed more in the last 30 minutes than he had during the last week. Ryan was adding to his fan base rather quickly.

When it came time for the awards the director started with the announcement that he had a special award for a young man who had just played his first PDGA tournament. The crowd goes wild as Ryan goes up to accept his prize.  And just like the tournament champion always does; Ryan raises his hand to quiet the crowd so he can say a few words.  This was new territory for both of us.  And while he was most calm, I was, well …not so much.  I kept the outward smile, but on the inside I had an OshiMoment and wondered “what in the world is he going to say?”

The ruckus dies down, and Ryan says, “Thanks guys. Come see us at Crockett Park” (our home course) and sits down.  I should have never doubted him.

Part 2

The church called again.  According to the secretary on the phone, Ryan has signed up to go on a mission trip to Peru. Again.  Third time. I can’t explain it, but God is calling this young man to go to Peru.  And he hears Him.

Last year, after the second sign-up phone call, Cheryl and I told him that we all would go to Peru after he graduated high school --just wait.  He did.  We are.

A few weeks ago we went to our first training meeting.  We got to meet our leaders and the other team members.  That is when we discovered there are several families connected with the mission effort in Peru that have children with DS.  I guess we could say, “wow, who knew?”, but I am convinced that in some way Ryan already knew that we belonged on this trip and this team.

We began the meeting with the expected introduction circle.  “Please tell us your name and tell about any prior mission trips”, instructs the leader.  As the introductions move around the circle, Cheryl and I realized that Ryan will be speaking before us.  Uhm… Wonder what he will say?  The far side of the circle was an impressive bunch; most had been to Peru before, some had been to Russia, one had a yearly trek to Honduras, and then, and then ---- it was Ryan’s turn.

He says, “Hi, I am Ryan”.  He tells them he is a senior in high school and names the school. And then, “I go to mission trip to help my Granny and PaPa after the flood got their house. The whole Pittman family mission trip”.  I didn’t think his answer needed any explaining then -- or now.

Bread in a Baggie

Arrgh.  Another snow day.  The streets are a dangerous mess and joy o’ joy -- no school.  I suspect many would cherish a day of quality time with their snowbound child,  but at our house it never seems to work that way.   So, I creep into Ryan’s room at 5:15am and turn off his alarm.  I look over at this young man-boy and it rolls through my mind that he has no idea it has snowed and no idea that school has been canceled.  If sleeping ever became an Olympic event, then Ryan would be a national star. 

I wonder how long to let him sleep.  He is going to be pissed that there is no school.  I could use the word “upset”, but you might not grasp the correct level of upset-ness.  Way beyond grumpy, moving past disappointed,  and just this side of RoyallyRiled.  Yep, I’m sticking with pissed.  This kid loves school.  He misses his friends and teachers when he doesn’t get to go.  And he banks on his routine.  An off –schedule Ryan takes a few minutes to re-calibrate.

So, I flip on the lights at 9am and tell him to come get some breakfast.  His words don’t disappoint my prediction; I seek retreat in the kitchen and leave him be.  He enters soon thereafter, deposits his sleepy butt in a chair, gives me that look that only a teenager can generate, and flips on the TV.  I expect more Disney.  Actually I was hoping for a little Phineas & Ferb, but lately he has been on this Food Network kick.  We get Bobby Flay the BBQ boy.

He doesn’t move; not to take his morning whiz (go figure), not to eat any breakfast, not Nothing.  I say again, “Ryan if you want something to eat, go fix it”.  All I get in return is,  “I hate snow!”.  The next three hours are rather quiet as I type bids at the computer and  Ryan  watches the rotating display of chefs work their kitchen magic.   As I look back, I confess that I mis-read what was happening.  I was convinced that he was being a big grumpy lump; determined to do nothing, eat nothing, hear nothing.  He showed every sign of being successful.

Then he moves.  He pops out of his chair, spins the tv towards the stove, and starts unloading the refrigerator.  His vision of the sandwich of the century begins to take shape.  He chops onions like Bobby, he nukes a little bacon like Paula, he splashes the EVOO like Rachel (what an evil thing to do a defenseless sandwich, and it only gets worse), slices the turkey breast like the Contessa, and he stuffs his bread in a baggie and beats it with a tenderizer hammer like… uh….well…. like.  Dang it, I don’t know where he got such a notion, but the bread got flattened just the same.  He invites everybody to the condiment party; mustard, ketchup, sour cream, and of course salsa (hot sauce to you Tejas folk), smothers it in salt and pepper and sits down for his feast. 

Just for KicksAndGrins I sit down across from him to watch him eat the Creation.  He seems to be contemplating  the myth that “if a little is good; a whole lot more must be better”.   I excuse myself while he continues to pretend to enjoy his gooey mess of a sandwich and as soon as I leave the room I hear the squeak of the trashcan lid and the flump of the Creation hitting bottom.  The poor little sandwich had breathed its last breath and is now in BFI heaven. Oh, and I go upstairs out of earshot and laugh until it hurts.  Best snow day ever.

Flash forward to this morning. Ryan’s alarm goes off at 5:30am.  He gets up on his own, gets dressed, and heads for the kitchen.  And after 3 weeks of helping me make his WW Friendly Breakfast, he does it by himself.  Nukes his pre—cooked slice of bacon. Toasts his low-cal English Muffin and smudges on the fake butter spread. Sprinkles on some 2% cheese, scrambles an egg for the middle, and pours a glass of skim milk.   I don’t know what the TV chefs would say, but I say that Chef Ryan made a perfect sandwich.  And without a baggie.