With the help of Rotarians, kids with disabilities have a league of their own.
The ball skips through the infield. The batter, Hillary Barber, takes off for first base. She rounds first and second at top speed, laughing all the way, the sun glinting off the spokes of her wheelchair. She crosses the plate with an inside-the-park home run.
Catching her breath, she says this is “the best.” Hitting homers? No. “Running.” Running the bases.
Hillary, 20, doesn’t run the way most players do. She has never walked. Still she’s a star in her Miracle League, a 21st-century version of the old ballgame.
In 2000, civic leaders in Conyers, Ga., built a baseball diamond for children with special needs. The idea was inspired by a seven-year-old named Michael who cheered his brother’s Little League team from his wheelchair. He became the town’s superfan, but he dreamed of fair territory. “I want to play,” he said. With help from local businesses, charities, and the Rotary clubs of Rockdale County and Conyers, Michael and dozens of other kids with disabilities began playing a game they called wheelchair baseball.
On opening day, a boy who’d been in a coma the previous week threw out the first rubber-coated ball. The rules were new. In what soon became known as Miracle League Baseball, each player batted once every inning. Nobody struck out – everyone was safe on every play. The field was safe too: The diamond was cushioned, rubberized, and completely flat to suit wheelchairs and walkers. Each player had a buddy – a volunteer who helped swing the bat, field the ball, push a wheelchair, and give a high-five or fist-bump when they scored a run together. The league’s slogan: “Every Child Deserves a Chance to Play Baseball.” At first, 50 kids were playing in Georgia. Soon the roster reached 250, then 1,000. New leagues sprang up until there were 270 in the United States. Today the sport has spread to Puerto Rico and to countries including Canada, Mexico, and Australia – an international pastime that has included more than 200,000 players.
“Every Miracle League is special, but they’re all a little different,” says Dan Haren, who runs Dan Haren Field in Scottsdale, Ariz. – a park named not for him but for his son, a major league pitcher.
“From his Little League days in Southern California till he graduated from Pepperdine, I missed a total of five of his games,” Haren recalls. Along the way, he noticed some families who had children with disabilities. “We’d hop out of the car and see parents spending 10 minutes unloading their child from a van.”
In 2008, Dan Haren Jr. signed a $45 million contract with the Arizona Diamondbacks. When their grandson was born, Haren and his wife moved to Arizona to help out. Haren remembered the children who couldn’t play the game the way his son did. “The blind kids, and the ones with cerebral palsy and muscular dystrophy. They loved baseball too, and their families had the same dreams we did – maybe not sending a son to the major leagues, but playing the game. Sharing the game. What’s better than cheering your child as he comes around third base? Kids need to hear that.”
With contributions from the Diamondbacks, the Rotary Club of Scottsdale-Sunrise, and several of Dan Jr.’s teammates, the Harens built a $2.3 million showplace next to Scottsdale’s Cholla Park, complete with wheelchair-accessible dugouts and batting cages, cushioned outfield fences, and a two-story scoreboard.
Last spring, when his son joined the Los Angeles Dodgers, Haren stayed in Scottsdale, scheduling games for 200 players, pairing players with buddies, even serving as stadium announcer. “People ask me if we’re a sport or a charity,” he says. “I say we’re more than that. Baseball’s the magnet, but we’re about relationships.” Miracle League players and their on-field buddies – mostly teenagers who may receive community-service credit from schools and churches – often stay in touch between games. “One mother told me that we gave her child the first friend he ever had.”
Each league faces the challenge of accommodating players of varied abilities. Many have added advanced divisions that count runs, outs, wins, and losses. Some use regulation hardballs. “We’ve had autistic kids hit ’em over the fence,” Haren says. “And some of them are very numbers-minded. They get after me if I forget balls and strikes.”
Children with autism “are in a league of their own,” says Steve Madey, who gave them exactly that in Hartsdale, N.Y., home of the Miracle League of Westchester. “They may lack attention span, but some can really hit. They can run.” Working with the Westchester Jewish Community Services, Madey invented Spectrum Ball, a program designed for players on the autism spectrum. “It’s been a hit so far.”
On Father’s Day in Hartsdale, with star-spangled bunting hanging from the outfield fence, Daniel Avolio swings a bat with help from his teen buddy. Daniel, 7, is autistic and has epilepsy. “The game’s structure helps,” his father says of Spectrum Ball drills that focus on one task at a time. “He’s learning to catch and throw. To wait, to self-regulate and even socialize. And it’s fun. Late in the week he’ll say, ‘Baseball’s coming.’”
Ryan Maldonado, 15, sports baseball pants with fashionable stirrup socks. He’s been fully dressed, ready to go, since daybreak, but now he has to wait out a distraction: When a ball bounces off a player’s foot, the game stops until his buddy calms him down – a familiar Spectrum Ball timeout. Then Madey cries, “Play ball!” Ryan swings and misses four times before slapping a humpback liner over second base. He lopes around the diamond, crosses home plate without slowing down, runs to the bleachers, and gives his dad a Father’s Day hug.
The rest of the day’s tripleheader features highlights worthy of SportsCenter. There is Hillary zooming around the bases. There is Avery Schaefer holding court in the dugout. Avery uses a wheelchair and struggles to speak, but he has plenty to say. “The Yankees are going to miss D.J. when he retires,” he says of Derek Jeter. “They already miss Robinson Canó – that’s two Gold Gloves and six All-Star selections they let go by the wayside.” Rolling to the plate, he takes a one-handed swing. “I don’t always connect, but when I do, watch out.”
And there is Chase Sadowski, taking a walk. Seven-year-old Chase has steel braces on his legs. Cerebral palsy kept him in a wheelchair until his family discovered the Upsee, a harness that allows him to stand while strapped to his father’s legs. With his feet in special sandals mounted between his dad’s shoes, the boy’s hands are free to swing a bat. Father and son take the field with stiff-legged steps, moving in tandem as if Chase were piloting a giant robot.
“Daddy, c’mon,” he says. “I’m up!”
When the day is over, there is no final tally of runs, hits, and errors, but the league standings are official. Everybody is tied for first. — Kevin Cook
See photos from a Miracle League ballgame (by Alyce Henson):
