Newspaper asks intimate questions, want confessions. They reach into my head to steal the glory of my story.
— Natalie Merchant’s 1995 song “Wonder.”
There are wheelchairs everywhere and the people in them are from every corner of the world. There are hellos, hugs and “how have you beens” in strange accents, but it is not difficult to interpret the warmth of reacquaintance.
Kenny Johnson wheels himself to the lane, next to his opponent. Corey Bell, his assistant and friend from the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, gathers the boccie balls.
It is intermission of the Paralympic Games at Emory University and Natalie Merchant’s song “Wonder” plays over the speaker system.
As the 40 or so athletes take practice shots, Johnson, for once, does not really stand out because everyone there is just like him. Johnson has cerebral palsy.
He throws the leather ball like Dwight Gooden delivering a baseball, and after a heavy bounce, it rolls to a stop. Johnson never improvises on his formula for the perfect throw. Opponents watch him in admiration because most of them throw it underhand, which is easier.
Johnson’s stepfather, Tony, and mother, Flora, watch from the stands. She remembers the day he was born like it was yesterday. She was devastated. She thought of all the struggles ahead of him. She knew of people who hid their disabled child in a back room when company came over. It appalled her.
“He is the light of my life,” she said.
Johnson has uncontrollable muscle movement. His speech is also a bit difficult to understand, but only to a stranger, or to someone who won’t give him a chance.
When he was at Spalding High School, Flora called all over Chicago to find a center, a doctor, anyone who could help her son walk.
“Mom, don’t worry about that,” Johnson said. “A wheelchair is just a means of transportation. It doesn’t mean anything more.”
So the chair stayed and Kenny, who will turn 30 Friday, grew up with his five brothers and five sisters in a big house on the South Side. He is the heart of that house. Everyone rushes to him first at holidays. Everyone tries to rope him into some kind of teasing, because Johnson’s smile is worth it.
I believe fate smiled and destiny laughed as she came to my cradle, know this child will be able, laugh as my body she lifted, know this child will be gifted with love and patience and faith.
The match begins and Johnson takes a 6-0 lead on his Norwegian opponent. His control is unflappable and he knows it. He has been preparing for these Games for the last eight years.
From 1992 to 1995, he was undefeated in this game of accuracy, including tournaments in Portugal, England, Australia and Belgium.
At the 1992 Paralympics in Barcelona, he made the U.S. team but did not win a medal. So he started lifting 10-pound curl weights to improve his strength, which would improve his throw.
Now he has a chance to medal with the U.S. team.
But boccie (pronounced BOTCH-ee) can’t compare to computers. Last year, Johnson received his associate degree in computer science from Harold Washington Community College. He’d like to someday start his own business.
“Boccie is a wonderful sport but you need money,” he said, with a grin. “And there isn’t any money in boccie. I don’t know if I will be back in 2000 (at Sydney) or not. After all, it is just a game. When people see what we can really do, it opens doors.”
After winning the match, people wait to congratulate him. Johnson has yet to leave a newcomer uncharmed or a sports fan unhooked.
Doctors travel from distant cities just to see me. Stand over my bed disbelieving what they’re seeing. They say I must be one of the wonders of God’s own creation . . . and they offer no explanation.
Johnson is used to speaking to people about his disability at Fellowship Baptist Church, where they have a “Handicapable” program. He takes it upon himself to teach others about his life, even if they won’t put the Paralympics on TV.
He’s even talking to future boccie prospects. After a match he approached a group of a dozen children with cerebral palsy from Lakeland, Fla.
They live in a group home and could make the trip only because the community raised money for them. He gave them all Paralympic pins and played the role of boccie ambassador. And it was hard to tell who was more enamored, Johnson or the wide-eyed kids.
“The medical profession is always giving you the negative point of view,” Johnson said. “Too many people told me I wouldn’t be able to do anything. I am a true believer in God. He brought me a mighty, mighty long way. Never put your trust in man; put it in God.
“And in yourself. There’s nothing you can’t do.”
