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Autism Without Fear: Don't Kid

Yourself -- or Rob Your Kid: Sports
Matter
Posted: 03/25/2014 5:11 pm EDT Updated: 03/25/2014 5:59 pm EDT

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Part one of a three-part series

When you grow up with any kind of developmental disability it means that you do not grow
as everyone else does. Shut out of the rituals of your peers -- the "developmentallyappropriate" experiences others refer to -- you will grow in different, often unseen ways. We
positive types like to mention that there are some areas where you might find yourself
surprisingly ahead of your peers. But, as we all know, not only will the areas where we are
behind get the most notice (as that is what others will more clearly see), being in any kind of
minority makes life harder, not just "different."
For autism spectrum kids who are better able to navigate greater society, sports are one of
those rituals. But unlike fellow proponents of "more athletics for spectrum kids," my
concerns don't rest solely with the exercise benefit. In 10 years of running the world's
largest membership organization for adults (GRASP), I saw inestimable damage because
people had grown up terrified of competition. In some cases, with folks whose ages range
from the 20s to the 80s, I even saw a commitment -- rather than a conditioning -- towards
avoiding rivalry. They were so determined to avoid creating, or engaging in any kind of
battle with their fellow humans that they wouldn't even utter the words, "I can do better,"
which, as we all know, is wherein we compete against ourselves.
Competition is a fact of life. We compete against each other for jobs, girlfriends, boyfriends,
(and in New York City, we compete for apartments and schools). When we lose at
competition, yes, we suffer; but in the repeated face of defeat we also learn from the
experience, and we gradually develop a thicker skin for failure itself. And when, God forbid,
we succeed at competition, the reward is confidence. Well, in many life arenas such as
academics, business, and sexual performance, studies show that size and skill sets matter,
talent matters, and work ethic matters... but that confidence matters much more. And only

on those fields, courts, rinks, or gyms do we, as spectrum children, get that chance to iron
initially ugly emotions into the capacity to both win and lose with grace. "Brainiacs may not
need sports," you say? Well, despite the myths, we're not all academically brilliant.
A comfort with competition has never been high on the priority list for raising
developmentally-challenged kids. Naturally behind due to motor-skills issues, our
caregivers have packaged that with our misinterpreted disinterest, and let this slice of life
go by. But caregivers have also shied away because of the stress it puts on them to teach
many of us how to survive an encounter containing a winner and a loser. In avoiding
"tantrums" they are unknowingly harming our futures in exchange for an easier present. All
those ugly emotions previously mentioned, given no chance for exploration and refinement,
come out years later than they should; in job interviews, on dates -- certainly in online
internet forums -- and the results are brutal. This can even be seen in adults who rightly
point to the positives about themselves: They will proudly claim distance from sports, and
ignore that somewhere inside they got robbed, for it always hurts to not be a part of what
others are clearly enjoying. We may protect our emotions by stating said disinterest, but
protecting our emotions is not the same as loving ourselves. In the end we fool ourselves
into believing these half-truths, and words of self-worth become a script, not a reality. Often
the poker tell herein are the words, "Well, if they don't want me for who I really am, then
the heck with them." We give up, and refuse to participate, and this is so sad. Because every
once in a while, we ALL need the confidence to feel, if not say, "Get the %^$# out of my
way," in addition to "I'm sorry," or "I need help."
Early on in my autism career, I sensed the discomfort coming from both parents and fellow
spectrumites, and so I chose not to advertise my family's sports lives out of "disrespectful
respect." But roughly three years ago, sensing the damage was greater than I'd earlier
surmised, I stopped keeping my family's baseball, or hockey lives a secret in my career. I'm
privileged to have some influence in the autism/AS world, and so I wanted to share with
others the benefits our family had experienced. Furthermore, great stories were starting to
come out about people on the spectrum succeeding at sports. It started with Team Manager
Jason McElwain hitting seven three-pointers when, in an emotional gesture, the coach let
him play in his final game. There were then stories of football players playing in high
school, and recently, an assistant college basketball coach came out to her team about her
diagnosis. The evidence is there.
But unlike other aspects on my autism agenda, the resistance has been silently fierce, even
from my usual supporters.
Why? Well, the majority of our autism community still regards sports as a minefield of
trauma, and social ostracization (if not outright disinterest). Historically, the once-very-real
jerk/bully iconography of athletics scared our more sensitive brothers and sisters away
from that very place that could lead to a life less scared. And the result in many GRASP
adults was to subconsciously think of physical fitness and dietary health almost as the
cultural property of their past perpetrators. Opportunities for improvement herein were
avoided not just by accident, but often on principal. Though I can't prove it, I think there's a
traumatic origin, rather than just wiring behind the words "I don't care how I look."
Since those darker times, athletics have embraced much of the great societal changes
surrounding behavioral pluralism. With the upswing in numbers of diagnosed folks and
diagnosable conditions, more special needs kids play sports, and more coaches adopt

different strategies for managing them. They do so for many reasons other than kindness:
developmental leagues need the money, and competitive leagues are not able to easily turn
down talent. When I approached the legendary Xaverian High school coach, Dennis Canale
(now tragically out of baseball) about a possible special needs recruit that I was trying to
help, he stopped me, sensing my ambivalence towards his abilities herein (for I too
wondered if he'd been a successful coach via jerk/bully means). He then smiled, and rattled
off the names of two major leaguers he'd developed, both of whom were diagnosed with
developmental disabilities, and were receiving special education services while under his
care.
And yet, the progress often falls on deaf ears. At an autism picnic hosted by several service
agencies (to cite just one example) I watched with thrill as a kickball game played by some
significantly-challenged youngsters suddenly turned hot and competitive. The counselor,
terrified of the emotions suddenly being summoned, abruptly stopped the game as soon as
it was tied, and ushered his devastated charges to a new activity. I lost it a bit, and yelled
"Don't do this to them! Let them go through this stuff!" But he walked away.
Many spectrumite kids want to play games. But aware somewhere that it isn't working out
with our peers, we may abandon the games others play, and either stay away from the fields
entirely, or try to invent our own games, until the dual frustration exhausts us: of spending
so much time coming up with rules, rather than exercising, only to find out these are games
no one else wants to play. And rather than own up to the real tragedy, we decide instead, in
an understandable act of self-preservation, that sports are stupid.
So I now update colleagues on my kids' activities, or mine, whether I sense it's desired or
not. My older spectrum son, now about to head to college, has benefit wildly from travel
baseball since he started playing (late) at age 8. My younger son, who just turned 8, also
plays travel baseball but has a greater love for travel hockey. I have coached many travel
baseball teams, and have even enjoyed a secret life that I'll reveal in Part II of this series.
My boys love it, and no, we didn't push. Kathryn and I have a rule that they get to choose
something they want to do, and we don't care whether its hair styling or cage-fighting. But
we get to choose how hard they work at it. Our sole motivation is that they understand the
difference between talent, and working hard (because there's a big difference). And the fact
that their interests are the same makes the brothers even tighter.
As I described a bit in my first book, I myself had quite the arm growing up, and it did not
go unnoticed. But that was it: I was no "natural athlete," and was once told that I didn't
even know how to run. I quit at age 15 partly out of the same reasoning as others of my era
-- because the blatant racism and homophobia of the late 1970s sports sphere became too
hard to diplomatically negotiate. Plus, I had a choice to make: Stay at the school I was
miserable at only so I could play baseball, or switch to the hippy school (School One in
Providence, RI) that had no sports, proms, or yearbooks; and that resuscitated, and then
blew open a monstrous sense of self-worth. Choosing the latter was one of the best
decisions of my life, and for at least a decade after, I never even thought of sports . . . until I
became a father.
Your kids' abilities and desires, if you as a parent, are doing what you're supposed to be
doing, takes over. And they cared about only one extracurricular thing--baseball, and then
hockey. So no more do I study opera or philosophy in my free time, nor do I pick up a guitar

as regularly as I once did. Your kids lead, not you, and the positives they've accrued read in
them loud and clear. But through their sports lives I've been confronted with how much the
experience had once benefit me.
So I push colleagues who don't want to be pushed. I want to get it into their heads how
developmentally important, if not wonderful, such recreation can be. The sportswriter
Roger Angell once commented about those who don't like baseball, pointing to the
bitterness in their voices as they conveyed their opinion. "Somewhere," Angell noted, "they
know what they're missing, and it hurts."
To cite the benefits from just "the big four:" In basketball you get the most exercise, and
even if you can't dribble or shoot, defense in this sport only requires effort; and since most
kids want to light up the scoreboard, kids who focus on their D will stand out. Hockey too,
can be so much about effort -- skills come with time, but the team that usually wins is the
one that skates harder. Baseball is the spectrum mental paradise -- with its slowness, its
focus on stats, the absence of anxiety-producing clocks, and where in the batting order,
everyone has to wait their turn (unlike basketball where the best shooter might take 80
percent of their team's shots). And finally, football -- my least-favorite of the four, but
whose fields are the only accessible place I know of where heavy-set kids will be celebrated
rather than ostracized for their size (why would you deny a kid that?). If peer alienation is
an inescapable probability, then I encourage individual sports, like tennis or golf; where a
bad performance carries no risk of letting down peers. But despite what we may fear, the
lessons of sacrificing personal opinion for a greater collective's benefit is an anxietyreducing, not anxiety-producing, act. Banal corporate sloganizing aside, teams really are
beautiful.
But I still end up looking like "crazy sports dad," or the experiences are just too foreign for
others to understand. I am losing this one.
Next Installment: "Hey pitcher! You suck!"
---------------------------------------------------Michael John Carley is the Founder of GRASP, and the author of "Asperger's From the
Inside-Out" (Penguin/Perigee), "The Last Memoir of Asperger Syndrome" (TBD), and
numerous articles. In 2000, he and one of his two sons were diagnosed with Asperger's
Syndrome. More information can be found atwww.michaeljohncarley.com
Follow Michael John Carley on Twitter: www.twitter.com/mjcarley
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Autism Without Fear: Don't Kid

Yourself -- or Rob Your Kid: Sports
Matter (Part 2)
Posted: 04/08/2014 11:50 am EDT Updated: 04/08/2014 12:59 pm EDT

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Part Two of a Three-Part Series (for Part One of this Series, Please ClickHere).
"Hey pitcher, you suck!"
The little sh*t was right.
I faced only five guys, and they all reached base before I pulled myself from the game. There
were two walks, a hit batter, a single and someone less than half my age taking me very,
very deep over the right field wall. Our Brooklyn Indians were down by too many runs when
I came on in the 5th anyway, so maybe it didn't matter. But when you're 48 years old and
the oldest player (albeit unconfirmed) in Brooklyn's semi-pro league, you're looking for that
incident that sends you home, tells you to knock it off, act your age and stick to coaching.
Maybe tonight was the night.
My excuse for such a poor outing? The young studs who'd used the mound all night had
created a hole in the landing spot that was so deep, it hid your spikes and socks from those
in the dugout. So when I pitched, I literally fell into a ditch, having released the ball far later
then expected, causing it to tail outside to right-handed hitters and inside on lefties.

Internally, I felt composed, not frustrated, doing everything I was supposed to do. I
breathed, focused and played detective so as to both find and make the right adjustments
(such as a mid-air, earlier release, which is when I drilled someone). I talked to myself: This
is what you've told all the pitchers you've coached, right? That pitching is about what you
do when you DON'T have your best stuff. Able to talk the talk but not walk the walk, my
modifications weren't working. Starting from the farthest sides of the rubber, extending my
front leg (until it hurt) so that my foot landed past the hole... didn't work. The dirt being so
loose, filling up the hole didn't work either. Pitches still tailed out, or hung in the air so as to
light up the batter's eyes like those of a butcher's dog. Those prior pitchers had thrown a
few strikes with this hole in the mound: Why couldn't I?
My 17-year-old son, C.C., on a night off from his travel team, was helping out in our dugout
that night, and so was watching his father's worst-ever performance on a mound. And
somewhere during this nightmare, one of the few onlookers in the stands yelled this
article's opening line.
Now, none of my teammates know that I (or C.C.) have Asperger's Syndrome (AS). I never
lie, but as the autism/Asperger world is a small pond, so too is baseball when it's not
covered by ESPN. And this equally-communal village of Brooklyn baseball rarely asks what
I do for a living, or sees the book with my picture splashed on the cover. Brooklyn baseball
has been an escape, a place where everyone knew me as "Mike," or "Coach Mike," and not
my professional nom de plume of "Michael John." It's an atmosphere where I'm allowed to
discuss something other than Asperger's Syndrome, transitioning, sexuality, disclosure; and
where -- unlike the ugly politics of the autism world -- any disagreements are resolved
either under long-established rules of competition or via hot-headedness (which in a
positive surprise, nullifies the potential for lingering bitterness). Granted, as can perhaps be
deduced by my ability to blend in; my functional ability -- or my place on the vast autism
spectrum -- allows me the choice of whether or not to hide my diagnosis, much less play at a
decent level of baseball. I wasn't born with the challenges of a Temple Grandin, or a nonverbal individual, but I also didn't always have this choice of whether or not to tell others
about my diagnosis. Once, my wiring was a very easy read to the enlightened. So, to get this
place of navigation, there's been some hard work too; effort that I won't let others invalidate
just so that they feel better about themselves.
But secret life or not, Brooklyn baseball is not a place for me to pretend that I'm "just like
everybody else" either, for even as a concept I don't believe in that. I have learned the ways
of others (who don't have autism spectrum diagnoses) perhaps, but this does not change
where I come from. One learning fluent French doesn't turn you into a French native, or
rewrite the history of which country you grew up in. To deny such origin, and pretend you
are somebody you're not, has deep, negative, psychological consequences (even if it makes
the people around you -- again -- feel better about themselves). I share if need be, and an
occasional parent of one of my players will spot something on the Internet, and that's fine.
But that need to disclose rarely exists here. Instead, I am looked at in judgment for my
character, game knowledge and motivational ability without the filter of context, or of
relative terms. The bloodline of this game is the binding requirement herein -- not
neurological origin.
For just a moment during this awful outing, I snuck a glance at C.C. in the dugout. I was
relieved that he was leaning over the rail, talking with one of my teammates, and not

hiding. His body angled towards "Big John," and not away from him, shows he is listening
to John, and not retreating in shame from his father's performance.
***
When school was miserable for me, I developed a habit of throwing a ball off a wall by
myself for hours on end, which I did for years, hypnotically ironing out the frustrations of a
rough day, until not only was my head more clear, but many motor skills issues had also
miraculously disappeared; and wow, did I now have an arm. In my playing years, whatever
social differences existed between I and my teammates were mitigated by our collective
desire to win, and it was a good ride... until it wasn't (see Part I).
But knowing now what made me tick, baseball, in comparison to other sports, was a natural
attraction. (1) People on the autism spectrum grow up with high levels of anxiety, yet in
baseball there's no clock -- no rush. And (2) when the world is more confusing to you, you
desire control. And in pitching, you hold the ball -- the action doesn't start until you say it
does, until you're ready. And (3) the person that finds peace on a mountaintop with a yoga
mat has my respect: Bless them. Go. Be free. But the man or woman that can find peace on
that little hill of dirt, while everyone is yelling at you, and you have to throw a
strike? That's the person we should all be interested in. Kind of like C.C.
Four years after he and I were jointly diagnosed with AS in 2000, C.C.'s desire for the game
went into overdrive. Though an overhand pitcher (I'm an antiquated side-armer), he had
the arm strength and natural accuracy that I too was blessed with. And when he started
playing, I started coaching (after I let it slip I'd been a pitching coach for a non-descript
college team in the early '90s). But unnoticed by most was the added and frightening
pressure coming from a well-behaved, smart, 8 year-old boy -- who was suddenly
communicating that if I did not teach him everything I could about pitching, that he would
never forgive me. Stunner moment for a father, but what could I do? I had to acquiesce, and
say "OK. Let's go."
One of the best, if not the best pitcher in whatever league he was in for the ensuing years,
C.C. lost an entire season to a wrist fracture when he turned 13. After that, with the growth
factor of his body, a smidgeon of teenage crap, and other interests healthfully entering his
life, he has not yet reached the dominant level he once enjoyed, and that has been hard on
him. A huge part of it is mental. Physically tougher than he is given credit for, the mental
toughness required at the level he plays is only now arriving. He still thinks too much, and
takes off-performances personally, forgetting that it's a team game. But to my joy he has
never needed the fighting mindset that at his age I desperately (and yes, somewhat sadly)
required. And furthermore, he continued through the rough spots, despite the reassurance
that to back away from the game was ok. He loves every aspect of this life -- including his
own, also well-established place in this community that is just as real as his coach-father's.
As a head coach, my teams did well. New coaches never have tremendous talent and so they
must make their mark by getting much more than expected from what they are given, as
well as elicit love and gratitude from their players (word of mouth is your only PR). But my
real career soon dictated that I could only be an assistant coach. And so over the years I've
assisted on more teams -- developmental, school, travel -- than I can immediately recall.
One took a championship, others maybe should have, I help run winter clinics, conduct
private sessions, endure the occasional long phone call with parents, and I am loud on the
field -- but happy loud. My "Attaboy!"s are well known, even if on occasion the subject of

ridicule. But unable to put in the hours of others, I cannot put forth to anyone that I am "a
great coach."
For his part, C.C. has sacrificed years to celebrations and tears most of his peers will never
know. He played for coaches of great heart, coaches of great mind and even played for one
of those screaming lunatics who thinks he invented the game (I secretly tell both my boys
that part of what's so fun- - NOT scary -- about travel sports, is that they sometimes get to
see grownups behaving VERY badly). He's played for drama queens and Freudian scholars,
the educated and not-so educated -- guys who know the game, and guys who didn't. But
always, he played for people who have made enormous sacrifices in their lives. Coaching
travel ball means anywhere from 35-125 games a year, and these are hours not spent on
summer vacations, elevating a career, or making love.
Furthermore, C.C. has shared dugouts containing higher percentages of diversity then
exists in any school he's gone to. He's played with teams of relative privilege, and teams
dominated by kids from economically-challenged communities. He's seen fights break out,
and he's seen hugs that are so real and meaningful that you could cry on a dime just by
remembering them. And finally, my wife and I one night realized that neither of our boys
had ever (no lie) uttered the words "There's nothing to do."
But in 2011, C.C. went to one team that didn't need me on their staff, and I suddenly had
roughly 50 nights open up. Almost as a lark, I wondered if I could still play. The Brooklyn
Indians had finished second to last in 2011, and, like anyone, they needed pitching. And in
what I would soon find out was a true fastball-hitting league, a junkball pitcher like myself
had value.
Semi-pro is interesting. There are 20-somethings who fantasize they might have another
shot at minor-league tryouts, and guys like my teammates who smoke cigarettes in the
dugout. Competitively, semi-pro ball is over-rated, yet still better than any (often underrated) "beer league." But we don't play that many games, and the big downer is that we have
no audience. Unless you count the occasional heckler, or a handful of one of my teammates'
nine kids, nobody really sits in the stands to watch us. In contrast, beer leagues like the Red
Hook Mexican league draw huge crowds -- of families, and vendors, and I once thought of
following our 3rd baseman, as he transitioned there in 2012, just for the positive change in
atmosphere.
***
Normally, removing yourself from the mound is a cardinal sin, but it was justified herein as
our team was playing somewhat coachless (with a few of us taking turns at decisionmaking). Our player/manager, Juan, had gotten a new job in Florida, and his wife and kids
were already down there settling in. Add this to the losing, and morale was very down.
Walking back to the dugout after such humiliation, I didn't know what to think. Over my
two years on this team I'd gone from being an occasional reliever and now was the first
reliever in. My increased innings were due to my team needing me more, but I also thought
that I'd actually been getting better, not worse, the more game time (not to mention the
older) I got. But my stats will also tell you that- - deserved roster spot or not -- I really
haven't logged that many innings, nor am I about to make the league all-star team anytime
soon.

But as midlife crises go, I allow this; figuring it to be a respectable embarrassment. This
escapist fantasy, unlike others, is about doing something rather than pretending something;
such as thinking you look younger sitting in an expensive car, or that the blue pill is really
you. But that hole in the mound... maybe this was it. We only had three games left anyway.
The only silver lining of this experience would be to be able to show C.C. by example, rather
than tell him (as I've often failed) how to process a night when things do not go your way.
I sat down in the dugout, and C.C. patted my back supportively, but without force, unsure of
how I would respond. I reassured him by squeezing his shoulder but did not look at him. I
instead stood, rejecting the seating position, and walked the few steps up the dugout to
hang over the rail and cheer my mates, especially my replacement, who managed the hole
in the mound far better than I. C.C. followed and cheered him as well.
The third out finally came, and my catcher, Eduardo, a 23 year-old Marine Corps reservist,
came over to me and screamed, "That wasn't you! That's just freak sh*t so do NOT worry
about this night!" I hoped that teammates felt the same, and wondered with warmth and
sadness if Eduardo had yelled that for their ears more so than mine.
In the car ride home, C.C. came up with many of the standard platitudes he always feels
compelled to say when he has a downer performance. He has been so proud to have a dad
that can still do this, and we've even joked about how cognitively wrong such pride could be,
given all those who think this is so stupid of us... until now. The fact that he's throwing
more than one excuse/rationale in my defense, almost asking me to pick one, speaks
volumes. He has been shaken. So I stun him with laughter.
"C.C., that outing was so pathetic that you have to laugh."
His face in the passenger seat, strobe-lit by passing street lamps, stares at me in shock.
"There's a lot of games in a baseball season, kiddo. Each night is different. Sometimes you
just don't have it."
But he challenges this, and questions my abandonment of extensive analysis. He asks where
my reputation for competitiveness has gone. So I return the standard platitude that in the
game moment, my competitiveness is there. But when it's over it has to be over. When you
leave the field, you leave the field -- and this is what makes "the field" so special, if not
necessary for the young. I add:
"Dude, do you really think that major league ballplayers go home and trash their rooms
after crappy nights like this? They have kids that they have to smile for and play with.
They have spouses and significant others that they have to be affectionate with... When I
have a lousy day at work, I can't lay that on you or your brother..."
Got him. So I conclude with "It really is just a game."
Funny, I've never uttered those words before. And as soon as they're out of my mouth I am
contradictorily ecstatic because I have finally reached C.C. with this lesson; but also
mortified, because it immediately occurs to me what utter garbage that statement really
is . . . if we care, that is.
Next installment: "Stars"
Michael John Carley is the Founder of GRASP, and the author of "Asperger's From the
Inside-Out" (Penguin/Perigee), "The Last Memoir of Asperger Syndrome" (TBD), and
numerous articles. In 2000, he and one of his two sons were diagnosed with Asperger's
Syndrome. More information can be found atwww.michaeljohncarley.com

Follow Michael John Carley on Twitter: www.twitter.com/mjcarley

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Autism Without Fear: Don't Kid

Yourself -- or Rob Your Kid: Sports
Matter (Part 3)
Posted: 04/23/2014 6:06 pm EDT Updated: 04/23/2014 6:59 pm EDT

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For Part One of this series, please click here.

For Part Two, please click here.
I recently took C.C.'s younger brother, Duke, to the high school Robotics Tournament at the
Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan, wherein transpired a spectacle similar to pro wrestling -albeit with brains.
Forget the hand-held controls for a moment: Non-athletic youngsters competed in full; and
additionally, a large crowd of fellow-geek, school supporters cheered their peers. Teams of
youngsters danced in the stands utilizing symmetrical, ritualistic moves; and in between
matches, a bulkier version of the traditionally-objectified "scorecard girl" paraded around
the arena with noticeable self-confidence. The aura was fantastic, as a differentiating
audience obtained some semblance of the respect that traditional sports outlets receive.
FedEx had provided transportation to some of the competing schools (representing
countries like Brazil and Mexico), scoring graphics blared on giant screens, and exhibitors
outside the arena -- representing Google, Lego, and engineering clubs -- catered to a
historically-ignored (if not once-belittled) crowd.
Duke, 8-years-old and almost 10 years younger than C.C., enjoyed the "games" immensely;
and this gave me great satisfaction because unlike C.C. and I, Duke is in danger of

succumbing to some of the unhealthier aspects of traditional sports. Whereas C.C. and I
have had to work hard at our baseball acumen, Duke can do anything, and in any sport, just
by picking it up -- he is that gifted. The lucky recipient of his mom's genes, he is the first in
our family to be a natural hitter in addition to owning a gun for an arm, and he looks to
have a huge season for his travel baseball team. Yet baseball is not his #1 sport: A travel
hockey player since he was six, he is a natural defenseman who embraces the physical part
of hockey like no one I've yet seen in his (AA level) league. Duke also plays anything and
everything (especially hockey) with an abandon and confidence that gets him noticed. And
so he is praised heavily by communities that don't often know too much about the diagnosis
that his father and older brother have (Duke shows shades, as in playing with no toys other
than Legos; but he is not "one of us").
The danger for him is that we never truly love ourselves because we're talented. We might
become smug through talent, and assume that this is self-love, but it isn't. Talent is
something that drops in your lap, not something you earned; whether it's math ability or
athletic ability. To cite but one example: Duke is commended for his skating speed. But in
truth, he barely moves his feet. He is so strong that when he pushes off the ice with one
skate, that for someone his age he gets tremendous power and therein is thought to be a fast
skater. Yet those in the know see that with more effort, he'd be unreal. And so he receives
compliments for something he works very little at. So we try to teach him that we only love
our inner us when we both believe in ourselves, and try to exert more effort than the next
person. For all our world's behavioral progress, nothing beats a good, old-fashioned work
ethic for true inner pride.
But to be fair, we don't worry that much about him, as he is no jerk-in-waiting. Duke is an
extremely sweet, well-behaved young man who does well in a rigorous academic (public
school G&T) program, who just loves to bang bodies and block shots. But try telling this to
the parents of the other hockey team, when a game has to be stopped because their child
can't get off the ice after a collision with Duke. To hear them scream for their kids to "Get
number 3!" or "Don't take that from #3!", believe me -- it's a shocker experience for a
father. But events such as this Robotics extravaganza, seeing chess tournaments, spelling
bees, or watching the Math Olympics -- in my hope -- will create the pluralist we desire
Duke to be; without touching such beautiful, physical passion.
C.C. helps herein. Still in awe of how easily things come to his brother, he sees a role for
himself, not an injustice played upon him for not having Duke's ability. C.C. knows that
Duke will need him to help teach the lessons of effort. And Duke will listen because Duke
worships his older brother. His playing style contains an aggression that cannot exist off the
ice. But not only does he reassure us with his off-ice demeanor, we also love that he plays
that way. Being scared sucks in any form -- period. Duke, therein, is an inspiration to watch.
Duke asks while sitting; "Aren't video games competing too?" And "yes, they are," I say.
"But the danger there is that someone can play video games 24/7." This notion of
competition that I write about here, and discuss with him "needs to be a supplement, not a
blueprint, for who we are, or hope to become."
Duke then squares his eyeballs, and laughs like I'm nuts: "What's a 'blueprint'?"
***
My next semi-pro game after my "5 up, 5 on" debacle (see Part 2) was rained out, and I was
crushed, as I am with any rainout. Every experienced coach knows that even in the blandest
of games, there's a chance some kid will do something they'll remember for the rest of their

lives. And every rainout washes away such possibility. Yet compounding this particular
cancellation was the monkey on my back that I tried to hide from C.C.; that the nightmare
of my last performance had not been forgotten, or dropped; as I had tried to teach him was
the proper way to process such an event. The memory of my worst performance ever -witnessed by my child -- would not leave. It existed at home, I brought it to work, and I
knew that I needed to get back on "the horse that threw me" as quickly as possible. There
was true pain herein, and I realized that maybe that bogus phrase, "It's just a game," has
served our collective weaknesses as a white lie, on a white flag, when the pain becomes too
much.
I had needed this whole season badly, not so much for winning or feeling young, but instead
because I had a lot of work-related turmoil to resolve. Already an environment that (rightly)
argues about vaccines, the value of autism research, or the word "cure," my
autism/Asperger work year of 2012 had also consisted of fundraising struggles, testifying at
the U.S. Congress' first-ever hearings on autism, fighting the new DSM, and doing weeks of
media damage control after the tragic Newtown/Adam Lanza tragedy. The season had
started great with second-place finishes for both C.C.'s high school team, and Duke's squad.
But C.C.'s travel team and my semi-pro team were finishing the year on a very low note.
C.C. had the night free for my next game, and when we arrived I was told "We're stretched
thin. You're starting." We were playing the Royals, and the Royals could hit. In two years
with the Indians, I hadn't started a game.
Leaving C.C. without a word, in the state of trepidation for his father, I sought out Eduardo.
"You catching?"
"No, man! Let someone else catch. I've caught the last four games."
"I need you to catch."
However bad this year had been on us, Eduardo is that rare catcher who studies the body
language of the hitter. Still a beloved hothead like the others, he constantly thinks, and can
sometimes pick brilliant location spots. But in exchange for catching he had a demand . . .
he wanted to call the game. Because of my seniority, I had been allowed to call all my own
games thus far, using signs that I sent through body signals to the catcher. But Eduardo had
me over a barrel and so I agreed. We came up with cues for the four-seam, the two-seam,
the sinker, or the slider down and away. So soon thereafter, I took the mound and he
crouched down.
Bad omen: I gave the first hitter a four-pitch walk. But the dirt was even, and I knew I'd find
the zone. However, Eduardo was strangely calling for only four-seams. Establishing the
fastball is important in the first inning for anyone, but I worried as, again, my fastball won't
fool anybody.
The next batter grounded into what for us, was a rare double-play. Another groundout and
we were back to the bench. My relief was massive, but unless Eduardo wanted to talk, I was
committed to not looking at anybody as I went to sit down. C.C., doing the book, was clearly
relieved too. But the game had just started.
In the bottom of the first, our guys got on base, and the noise started to increase. But
because I was preparing to go 7 innings, not 1 or 3, I uncharacteristically sat quietly,
watching the action between teammates legs as they all stood up on the rail. Johnny asked
if I was ok, not used to my quiet. But long had I barked at C.C. to sit down, and conserve

energy during his team's at-bats when he started, and in my first start in 33 years, I got to
show my son again, not tell. A run scored. We actually had a lead!
In the second, the Royals scored two runs as our infield committed three errors. Hector,
who jinxed himself at third by proclaiming before the game's start that he hadn't made an
error all year, apologized to me on the bench about the ball that hopped over his glove.
Ferociously, I yelled at him that he'd had my back all year.
The game went on, and Eduardo never called for a slider or two-seam fastball. I kept
waiting for the strategy of 90 percent four-seamers to fall on its face, but it never did. The
pitches still contained enough movement to induce groundouts and pop-ups. And as my
teammates began feeling better, they cared more, dared to want more. I watched infielders
twice make sacrifices to their bodies so that hard-hit balls wouldn't get through; a nobility
we didn't often display that year. So I fed off these actions, and off their words during the
solitary steps in between my pitches.
After striking out two in the 5th I walked back to the dugout, having allowed two earned
runs so far, and we were down 4-3. The coach du jour said "Great game. You're done. Take
right field." I said thanks, though I thought he was crazy to take me out. My stats for this
game were average, but compared to what any of us had been able to muster lately? They
were pretty special.
Other teammates concurred the congrats, and I thought C.C. would dissolve with relief.
Asperger's Schmasperger's -- the kids of coaches go through their own strange process of
separating the part that is their father or mother, from the coach. They need to believe in
the parent a little more than most, and the risk of disappointment becomes greater. Given
the opportunity to judge that last, disastrous outing in the negative, I was overtaken by how
supportive he had been. Too often I have said to him, "I am your father, not your friend."
Yet what a friend he was.
Because of my crappy eyesight (I can't see signs, so Eduardo's been calling pitches through
body signals), they're always crazy to put me in right field; and luckily, no fly ball has ever
come near me. But when I'm out there, on every pitch, knowing no one can hear me, I
mouth the words "Hit it to me," like a madman, even though it is best for us if no pop-up
comes near me.
The Royals would blow the game open and we lost by ten runs. And five days later, our last
game was rained out.
***
The parade grounds' field #3 is one of only three ballparks in Brooklyn that have lights, and
we are fortunate to be able to play there, at night. As I said in Part II, we get few fans (and
obviously, some hecklers) but we are so lucky to have that summer night sky. And every
time that I am on that mound, I have since taken a moment to look at the stars; amazed and
thankful that I am there, having gleefully stolen a place, or a roster slot from someone
young.
Yet when I look, the moment is not all joy. Because of the difficulties in convincing the
autism/AS world of this arena's benefits, or the value of both real and pretend strength; the

sight of sparse twinkles has a modicum of tragedy for me--because I cannot share it.
Blessed in my worklife to be able to give many things to thousands of people, I cannot
convince them to trust me about this terrifying place . . . as I trusted Eduardo's pitch
selection tonight, and gave myself to him; a man less than half my age who never saw half
of the educational opportunities I got. If my experiences on this field are unique, what creep
would want to keep it for himself? The smartest person at the dinner party, or the lone
person standing after a bar brawl, is lonelier than most know.
But that night, in right field, the gratitude moment was tripled. The "5 up, 5 on" monkey
was gone, I found out I wasn't done, even at my age, and C.C. had been shown (not just
told) that every day really can be a new day--so let the bad ones piss off. This team might
struggle, but I felt willing to suffer even more heartache, or more embarrassment so that I
could continue to enjoy the feelings of belonging, and those private, mixed-emotion glances
at the stars.
This three-part series was deceptive. For while the emphasis on a comfort with competition
is as integral as I've described, the series isn't wholly about that, nor is it about aging,
sports, or even Asperger's: This is about love. And in sacrificing our feelings, our opinions
or standards, and our pride--the actions of love--for the greater good (or in this case, a
baseball team); we actually do become one with others; be it teammates, fellow coaches, or
more importantly, our families.
Someday, even if it happens after my time, the autism/Asperger world will know what
they're missing.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------Next Blog: "I Am Re-Evaluated Under DSM-5"

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Michael John Carley is the Founder of GRASP, and the author of "Asperger's From the
Inside-Out" (Penguin/Perigee), "The Last Memoir of Asperger Syndrome" (TBD), and
numerous articles. In 2000, he and one of his two sons were diagnosed with Asperger's
Syndrome. More information can be found atwww.michaeljohncarley.com
Follow Michael John Carley on Twitter: www.twitter.com/mjcarley
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