If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.
He is not an extraordinary man, with extraordinary talents, or an extraordinary history.
He is a man, and just that.
His mother died giving birth to him; his father died six months earlier, storming the beaches of Normandy.
He was raised by his aunt and her live-in boyfriend, who sexually abused him until adolescence.
He suffered from a special but minor case of Autism. He never saw a doctor. It was never treated.
Having great difficulty making friends, he constructed a basketball hoop out of a plastic milk crate, tied it around a tree in the nearby forest, and shot baskets every day with a used soccer ball on the walk home from school.
Winter came hard in 1955 and he caught pneumonia. He recovered but would never breathe without discomfort again.
He taught himself how to write and throw a baseball. In fall tryouts, he struck out every batter he faced, but did not make the team.
He was black.
After high school he was drafted by the U.S. Army and deployed to Vietnam.
He served two tours, and came home to no parade, no applause. But he did bring with him a Purple Heart.
He has lived alone, ever since, in an understaffed, undersupplied, and poorly financed Veterans Home.
If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.
But Steven has no arms.
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