My ultimate blessing was forged amid two major hurdles. One hurdle was physical. The other was mental.
My story begins at two pounds and three ounces. That’s what I weighed as a newborn when ER doctors rushed to intubate my collapsed lungs.
Those lungs entered the world three months too soon. An oxygen-deprived, twisted left foot also dangled beneath my nearly miscarried frame.
As I was placed in a helicopter bound for the nearest children’s hospital, my family shared tears and prayers when told my odds of survival were less than 5 percent. However, their entreaties and the latest medical technology fortified my fight for life.
Before my first round of foot surgeries was performed, my father placed a stuffed Big Bird beside me in my artificially heated nest. With the worst outcome avoided and my survival odds rising, my family affectionately likened my large head and tiny body to those of the beloved Sesame Street resident.
As I crawled while lugging an awkward cast for the first three years of my life, being called “Big Bird” by my supporters was light-hearted ribbing compared to the taunts I’d face when beginning school.
Insecure about the size difference of my calves, I felt like a leper during each elementary school recess. Classmates shouted “Peg-Leg!” when I climbed the slides or hopped on the merry-go-round. With no friends and trapped in an undersized, deformed body, I sat indoors and watched PBS on most weekends for the first 11 years of my life.
A Miracle in the Making
Then, one weekend at the end of fifth grade, while I brainstormed excuses to stay home from school the following week, something strange happened. The athletic neighborhood kids tapped my door and told me to grab my dusty Schwinn and follow them to the local park.
At first, I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
Beneath my swath of bright blonde hair, I said a thousand Hail Marys as I pumped my bird legs to keep stride with the larger, louder boys who orchestrated my earlier playground torments.
As we stepped onto the scorching asphalt, I kept expecting the half-dozen pubescent lions surrounding me to turn rabid and toss me through a basketball net. Instead, much to my relief, they tossed me what would become my identity in high school and later in life: a Spalding basketball.
Hardwood Habits and Faith Pay Off
At age 11, I realized that gaining basketball knowledge and skills was my only hope of escaping the social torment and self-imposed isolation I’d called life until then.
Throughout junior high, as my friend count grew with the number of points and assists I tallied on the local rec league circuit, I became known as Pistol Pete. Though small in stature, I confidently dribbled the ball through my legs and behind my back while sinking baseline three-pointers and reverse layups.
With Michael Jordan in my driveway and dominating the league, my roundball accomplishments grew alongside my wispy frame.
After a summer of strange hormones and enduring stretch marks, I entered my sophomore year. To my utter shock and delight, the head coach of my school’s state-ranked basketball program asked me to play on his JV squad.
Physical hurdles cleared, I was happier than I’d ever been.
My Faith Tested: A Descent Into Mental Hell
The thing about good times, though, is they only last for so long. After my high school playing days ended and my buddies moved on after graduation, I spiraled into a world of anxiety, depression, and agoraphobia.
After moving into my grandparents’ basement at age 18, my anxiety and inability to cope with the adult world left me feeling trapped in a torment I never could’ve imagined. As months passed, my body began to tremble constantly, and my thoughts raced uncontrollably. I slept too much and then not at all. Any attempts I made to work or attend college were rebuked sternly by crippling anxiety attacks.
My family and former classmates empathized with me, but couldn’t comprehend my situation. At my lowest, in my early 20s, I went weeks without leaving my room.
I no longer drove. I barely ate. I lost faith in anything good I’d previously believed. My family forced a timely intervention upon me.
How God Saved Me and Placed Me on a Blessed Path
The intervention saved my life. After years of prideful avoidance, the help I received from a simple trip to a Christian mental health counselor gave me renewed faith. A few years later, I found my soulmate. Amy and I shared a passion for sports, namely basketball. My tall, intelligent, and uberly unique fiancée also played hoops at our high school. A year after we wed, she inspired me to finish college and begin writing. She was, and still is, my angel.
The writing path she placed me on led me to an Atlanta Hawks blog, where I became a paid editor. I poured myself into that role. My obsessive analysis caught the eye of a connection who offered me credentialed media access to the team’s facilities.
A Dream Realized Through Grace
After Philips Arena security scanned my credentials, my wide-eyed gaze turned to catering, where I feasted on manna while surrounded by the commentary voices that shaped my youth. I then entered the media room where my boss told me to write a pre-game piece.
From there, I was instructed to enter the Atlanta Hawks’ locker room to conduct interviews. As I paced past literal giants, a surreal trance led me to speak with inquisitive conviction as I interviewed Thiago Splitter and Kent Bazemore. I couldn’t believe how kind and down-to-earth they were.
Following the interviews, I went to the bathroom and wiped tears from my face. I’d just experienced the second greatest moment of my otherwise mundane life.
While I covered more Hawks games from press row before stepping aside to care for my wife, I’ll never forget that magical night when God shone upon me.
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