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A state of mind compared to a matter of heart
By Jeremy Johnson
jjohn308@mscd.edu

Walking into the Auraria Event Center gymnasium, the sounds compounded the intensity on the players’ faces. Metal on metal. Explosions of aluminum and steel. Grunts and chatter worthy of a Monday night in the NFL. Welcome to wheelchair rugby.

After a couple minutes of observation, the Denver Harlequins’ team captain, Jason Regier, wheeled over to me. “You want to try?” he asked.

I was taken aback by the question. Was this some kind of trick? Was it fair for an able-bodied person to take the court against a group of disabled athletes? Would I have an advantage? Would I have a disadvantage? Would they accept me or team up against me with something to prove?

Regier lifted himself out of his game chair and into his street chair. I sat down and strapped myself into the narrow seat, put on some gloves and slowly rolled myself out onto the court.

I soon realized I had no idea what I was doing. The dynamics of steering a wheelchair were hard enough, but even harder under the pressure of another player barreling down on me. My teammates were supportive, but demanding.

“Cover number eight,” one player shouted at me. I turned to find number eight, but, alas, he was gone. I turned just in time to see him roll between the orange cones for the goal.

Moments later, as I played deep defense, my chance came again. Chance Sumner, practicing for the U.S. Paralympic Team, broke free from a wheelchair scrum and was headed my way. I rolled right at him with all my might and was closing in on him when he juked to the right, turned left up the sideline and was gone. I had missed my chance, again.

Suddenly, I was the one that felt disabled.

As the game went on I got better. I began to learn the angles necessary to make the big blocks. I got to feel the satisfaction of ramming my metal machine into another to open a hole for my tailing teammate. As he rolled through the cones, I began to feel a little more able and more a part of their well-oiled machine.

Sweating heavily, we called it quits 45 minutes later. “I’ve never seen an able-bodied person last so long out there with us,” one of the players said to me.

I got out of the chair with wobbly legs and aching arms, but I didn’t dare complain. At least I could get up.

I learned a lot that day about disability. Mostly I learned disability is just a matter of semantics.

What is able-bodied, anyway? I know lots of able-bodied people who are not nearly as fit as these fine athletes.

Playing ball with the Denver Harlequins, I learned that even though their legs don’t work, their heart, determination and competitive nature work just fine.