A re-enactment photo of the impalement with the help of my son Paul.
Some images you just can’t get out of your head. I am rushing to my son’s soccer game. He is playing for the two remaining spots on his high school varsity team and I am running late from leading a teacher training. I finally pull into a parking spot and my ramp jams coming out of my van. Three troubleshooting steps later, my wheels finally hit pavement. I feel really late.
I quickly roll the two-blocks to the stadium only to find the wire fence is locked. For people that can walk, there is a very narrow opening – much narrower than my wheelchair – into the stadium. In addition to that, there is another piece of square fencing, about two feet in front of the opening that creates an even narrower aisle. (See photo below) This forces pedestrians to step down the aisle and turn ninety degrees abruptly in order to pass through the doorway. Apparently the designers of this fencing really didn’t want bicycles to enter….or wheelchairs for that matter.
Of course, I am frustrated and disheartened. Someone has forgotten to unlock the wider, more utilitarian gate. I can see the game being played off in the distance from about two hundred yards. I try calling the Orono Athletic office but to no avail as it is after 5:00 p.m. I sit there quietly, contemplating whether it is worth staying regardless of my bad view. I really want to share this game with my son.
A mom of one of the players walks up. She processes the implications of the intentional barricade and the locked wider gate. She looks me in the eyes and whispers, “This sucks.” I nod. We share a silent moment of outrage. “I’ll try to find a key,” she says and hurries away.
A soccer dad walks up. He too processes the information in front of us. He lingers, not knowing what to say or do. Suddenly two men emerge from inside the stadium. It is the captain of different Orono soccer team and his father. The father says, “We can carry you through this gate.” My eyebrows rise. “My wheelchair can’t fit through the doorway,” I say. “But your body can,” the dad retorts “and we can lift your wheelchair up over the wire fence and then sit you back in it on the other side. See, problem solved.” I look up at the wire fence – about 7 feet tall – and think, “Oh my goodness.” I start to smile.
I am encountering the very best of humanity. The mom is trying to right the injustice her way. The men are ramming their wills right through the absurd barrier. They know how much I want to see my son play and they feel the unfairness of the barricade. How can I say no? The moment is beautiful.
The scene becomes comedic. The first dad and the soccer captain each grab an arm and a leg and turn me sideways. The aisle is so narrow that the distance between my back and my knee is almost too wide. But I am a yogi. I make myself really small so we can fit and make it through both the aisle and the doorway. I enter the stadium in the arms of two good-hearted men. But now the next problem….the wheelchair. The other dad snaps into action. He hoists my wheelchair up and starts it over the fence. Now there are multiple problems. The fence is high and he is barely tall enough get the wheelchair onto the top of it. Suddenly, all four of us realize the biggest problem. We need a fourth guy. As the second dad is holding my chair tenuously on the top of the fence, we need another guy on the other side to grab it and lift it down. A flurry of brainstorming ensues. We rule out dropping the chair and letting it crash to the ground. Seven feet is a long way and my wheelchair costs over six thousand dollars. The two men that are continuing to hold me up in the air are beginning to falter…I am not a light load. In a feat of deft ingenuity, the second dad wedges my wheelchair on the top of the fence so it stays on its own.
This is a quintessential moment of absurdity, comedy, and beauty. This is the image that I cannot get out of my head – my wheelchair impaled on the top of a wire fence. It is the perfect image for our troubleshooting humanity in the face of an ridiculous barrier.
The second dad scoots through the opening and grabs the wheelchair before it falls. All together, we get me back into my wheelchair. We all pause to regain our composure as well as our breaths. We might even feel a little proud…male stubbornness and brawn has solved the problem…I am in the stadium. At that precise moment, the mom comes running with the key. All of us share a round of laughter. Quite frankly, we are relieved we do not have to reverse the process. Thanks to the mom, there is an easier way out.
As my champions walk away, I call out after them, “You’ve done a kind thing today…thank you.” I turn and watch my son play. I feel grateful for people.
