Juniors Gift

We had moved to a new house on Wood Street, in the small Ohio town. The move was memorable as I had just turned 10, meaning that for Christmas this year, I would receive my first bicycle. It was a real beauty with a leopard covered banana seat and stingray handlebars. I was the envy of the street. I rode the bike on Christmas day, cold as it was, in my pajamas and coat. The first month I nearly wore the sidewalk out on my side of the street. I often would race from our house down to the Miller’s store and back again.

Miller’s store was a small grocery, about the size of an average two- car garage. Mrs. Miller carried the usual dry goods and canned goods, but had very little else. The store was made even smaller by the huge pool table in the middle of the small store. I remember the first time I was sent down there to get cereal (which is another story all together). Stepping through the door I was just about level with the table and my chin just barely level with the leather pockets and green felt cushions.

Always around the table was Mrs. Miller’s son, Junior. He was disabled, both physically and mentally, and for a ten- year old boy, he was kind of scary. We always fear what we do not understand, and I did not understand Junior at all.

Sometimes when I was out riding my bike, I would peer through the big display window at Junior. In his silver and black chair he would hover around the table poking the balls with his stick. I became very fascinated with him and the pool table.

On one such day, I was looking through the window, which kept fogging up. As I wiped the fog away for the fifth or sixth time, I was surprised, when through the window Juniors’ face was looking back at me. I was so scared I wanted to run, but my feet were stuck and would not, no matter how hard I tried to move from the spot I had suddenly grown roots to. Junior must have recognized the look for he quickly turned back to the table and I peddled as fast as I could.

One summer day I rode down to the store for something for mother. As I entered the musty store I asked Mrs. Miller for the items and stood trying not to look at Junior while she retrieved them for me. As I turned to leave, Junior was blocking my way. He mumbled something to me, which I could not make out and Mrs. Miller translated that he liked me. I faked a smile and attempted to pass him when he pushed the chair in front of me. This frightened me a little and Mrs. Miller said to Junior that I probably did not want to play pool. Play Pool? He wanted me to play pool? Boy, how I wanted to try it, but I did not know what or how to do it…

As if reading my mind, Junior took his gnarled hand and reached for mine. He then showed me how to hold the cue stick properly, to square up on the ball, and eye the shot. He never spoke in words, but he communicated none-the-less. The Miller’s Store became my favorite place, and though unknown to my parents who thought I was out riding my bike, I spent hours there. 

Sometimes, I went to the store and just sat on the little counter and watched as Junior shot. He made fantastic shots; bank shots, parlay shots, making the ball spin clear around another ball. He made jump shots and sometimes making several balls at one time. I watched as with one hand he moved his chair and with the other he would prepare to shoot, many times making shots that people without disabilities could only dream of. To a ten year old this was truly amazing. In hindsight I realize, that after shooting pool over the last thirty years, I cannot recall ever seeing another man shoot as well as Junior.

Later that year we moved again, the family was growing and we needed more room. I came back to visit Junior a couple of times, but not nearly as often as I had wished. After I had grown and enlisted in the Navy I came home on leave. Driving down Wood Street one sunny afternoon I decided to stop by the Miller’s Store and check on Junior. I stopped in front of the store, got out and went to the window I had peered through as a boy. The store was empty and everything I remembered was gone. As I turned to my car an elderly fellow was walking what looked to be a cross between a blue tick hound and a hamster. I asked if he knew the Miller’s and he explained that Mrs. Miller had passed away a couple of years before. With a lump in my throat, I asked about Junior. The old fellow just kind of hunched his shoulders, explaining that he did not know what happened to the boy. I was deeply saddened by the news and drove off toward a life made different with that knowledge.

Several years later my sister gave birth to a severely disabled little boy named Derek. He smiled all the time, and his huge blue eyes lit up the room. We fell madly in love with him, and showered on him the love every firstborn receives. He was doted over, spoiled and cared for.

One day I took my sister and Derek to the local Mall. While I waited for my sister to return from trying on some clothes, I entertained Derek. As I was playing with him a couple of small boys walked by and I overheard one of them make a bad comment about Derek. Of course, it infuriated me and I was thankful that my sister was not there to hear it. Then I thought back to my own first encounter with someone who was different, Junior, and how silly I had acted, and felt ashamed.

For many years I had thought that Junior’s gift was his incredible mastery of the pool table. I now realize he had an even bigger gift. Without words, he taught a little boy about prejudice, about how to look past the differences to see the intrinsic value in every human being. He taught me to look past what I did not understand, to learn things I did not know. He taught me to love without pity and to accept others on their terms, not mine. Most of all, he taught me that you can say more with how you live than what you speak. Junior was indeed a great pool player, but his greatest gift was being able to be a vessel that God could use to teach a young boy how to become a man. 

I never learned what became of Junior, but wherever he is, I pray there is a table with green felt and a cue stick made of gold.

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R.A. Ryan