I Have a Child With a Disability
Several weeks ago there was a woman who died in Chattanooga and, when she did, it was so quiet it never made the obituaries. What mattered to me was that back when she was born, her daddy was told by the doctors that "fortunately, she won't live very long," and -- instead -- Sharon Nelson "fortunately" lived for 62 years and 214 days.
I never knew her well and wasn't around her much but when word came that she'd died of medical complications from Alzheimer's disease, it warmed me that I had a little something to do with her happiness, all because her daddy was one of my most blessed and beloved mentors once long ago.
Sharon Nelson, who according to the verbiage of the day was "irrevocable retarded" when she was born, was the daughter of the greatest sports announcer of all time. Lindsey Nelson, for whom the baseball stadium at the University of Tennessee is named, was "The Voice" of the "Miracle Mets," of which many books have been written and stories told.
Not only did Lindsey call the deciding games in the never-to-be forgotten 1969 World Series for NBC, he broadcast the University of Notre Dame games for 13 years. He was called "Mr. New Year's Day" after announcing 25 straight Cotton Bowl games with the syrupy Southern greeting: "Happy New Year everybody -- This is Lindsey Nelson in the Cotton Bowl in Dallas!"
Back then, the Cotton Bowl was always the first game played on New Year's Day and Lindsey's voice was the exciting signal the day's games were finally on. Of course, he also announced loads of NFL games, and did the play-by-play for the San Francisco Giants after being lured away after those glorious 17 years with the N.Y. Mets but none of that mattered to me because he had something I desperately wanted years ago.
For lack of a better word it was "class." I've written I went to five high schools and my folks never moved. Now let me let loose with another secret: I went to three colleges and, technically, I'm still a freshman. So when I got into sports writing, education was not my long suite and I wanted ... no, I needed to be taught how to "move around" in lofty circles.
The three men who taught me how to do that, as best they could, were Nashville's Freddie Russell (the grandest sports writer of the day), Coach Bryant at Alabama, and a sports caster once born in Campbellsville, Tenn. --Lindsey Nelson.
The three were each instrumental in teaching me stuff like never representing myself without a neck tie, never going to a cocktail party and getting sloppy, talking soft and low while listening twice as hard ... all of that.
For some strange reason, Lindsey would frequently come back to Tennessee where he had attended just before World War II. When he did, we'd pal around, sitting at a UT football practice or up in the stands at Thompson-Boling, while I'd try to soak up all he said. For example, he was widely known for his garish and outlandish sports coats, only to once explain to me, "Kid, if you ain't good at what you're doing, dress funny and people won't notice."
Of course, he was the best of all time, which I longed to be, so -- in the way things work -- finally there came a day when I was in Knoxville to grouse around and dig up a story, that I was hastily summoned to Haywood Harris' office. When I huffed in, Haywood had been crying and Lindsey was wearing a long face in the corner.
Haywood, UT's peerless sports information director. locked the door (which he never did) and I then learned Lindsey had a daughter. I'd never known about Sharon or that she'd lived with aging Lindsey's sister, which was why he kept flying back to Tennessee all the time.
Well, Lindsey further explained that he had just gotten a terrible diagnosis (he finally died of Parkinson's in '95) and that he'd long known about a legendary place in Chattanooga called the Orange Grove Center.
Lindsey had heard they had just started a residential program and was begging me to find out where Orange Grove had gotten the method -- you know, where Orange Grove had gone to get the pattern for their new deal because it was pretty obvious Sharon needed a long-range plan. Lindsey needed to scour the country for the most important solution of his life.
Haywood, who made more All-Americans than any coach, was ripped up over the whole situation -- Lindsey's illness, his daughter -- and I started laughing. Well, duh! I knew some people at Orange Grove, just a two-hour drive from Knoxville, and Lindsey could easily visit anytime he wanted. It was a no-brainer.
No, "The Voice" said, explaining Sharon wasn't qualified, that Orange Grove not only had strictly mandated rules but that there was a two-year waiting list. "I can't get her in Orange Grove. I can't work a miracle," my mentor said and I smugly replied, "Oh, you never know!" or something like, which caused Haywood to flop around like a fresh-caught fish.
The same night, I made a couple of house-calls when I got back to Chattanooga and Sharon Nelson very quickly entered into the most blessed realm of people who God ever assembled on Derby Street. Remember this equation forever: Orange Grove Center equals 62 years, 214 days.
Sure, she was challenged but -- just like all of us -- Sharon had her moments. Once, when she was flying back to Tennessee beside her daddy, a guy in the row ahead suddenly reclined his seat while Sharon was eating lunch. In her comical way, she said, "Dad, he's rude. I think I'll belt him!"
"Oh, I don't think I would," the delighted Lindsey replied, hugging his daughter. "Precious, that man's name is Muhammad Ali and he's the heavyweight champion of the world. Let's find somebody else to belt!"
Not only did Sharon live a happy life, a memorial service will be held at the center on March 16. She was loved. She made a difference, albeit in her own way. Don't you see, it is even better than that! She was loved every day of her life. She had a home and a family, long after the famed Lindsey Nelson slipped away.
And that's all that matters to me.
(written by Elegant Kisser)
March 6, 2011
I never knew her well and wasn't around her much but when word came that she'd died of medical complications from Alzheimer's disease, it warmed me that I had a little something to do with her happiness, all because her daddy was one of my most blessed and beloved mentors once long ago.
Sharon Nelson, who according to the verbiage of the day was "irrevocable retarded" when she was born, was the daughter of the greatest sports announcer of all time. Lindsey Nelson, for whom the ba
Not only did Lindsey call the deciding games in the never-to-be forgotten 1969 World Series for NBC, he broadcast the University of Notre Dame games for 13 years. He was called "Mr. New Year's Day" after announcing 25 straight Cotton Bowl games with the syrupy Southern greeting: "Happy New Year everybody -- This is Lindsey Nelson in the Cotton Bowl in Dallas!"
Back then, the Cotton Bowl was always the first game played on New Year's Day and Lindsey's voice was the exciting signal the day's games were finally on. Of course, he also announced loads of NFL games, and did the play-by-play for the San Francisco Giants after being lured away after those glorious 17 years with the N.Y. Mets but none of that mattered to me because he had something I desperately wanted years ago.
For lack of a better word it was "class." I've written I went to five high schools and my folks never moved. Now let me let loose with another secret: I went to three colleges and, technically, I'm still a freshman. So when I got into sports writing, education was not my long suite and I wanted ... no, I needed to be taught how to "move around" in lofty circles.
The three men who taught me how to do that, as best they could, were Nashville's Freddie Russell (the grandest sports writer of the day), Coach Bryant at Alabama, and a sports caster once born in Campbellsville, Tenn. --Lindsey Nelson.
The three were each instrumental in teaching me stuff like never representing myself without a neck tie, never going to a cocktail party and getting sloppy, talking soft and low while listening twice as hard ... all of that.
For some strange reason, Lindsey would frequently come back to Tennessee where he had attended just before World War II. When he did, we'd pal around, sitting at a UT football practice or up in the stands at Thompson-Boling, while I'd try to soak up all he said. For example, he was widely known for his garish and outlandish sports coats, only to once explain to me, "Kid, if you ain't good at what you're doing, dress funny and people won't notice."
Of course, he was the best of all time, which I longed to be, so -- in the way things work -- finally there came a day when I was in Knoxville to grouse around and dig up a story, that I was hastily summoned to Haywood Harris' office. When I huffed in, Haywood had been crying and Lindsey was wearing a long face in the corner.
Haywood, UT's peerless sports information director. locked the door (which he never did) and I then learned Lindsey had a daughter. I'd never known about Sharon or that she'd lived with aging Lindsey's sister, which was why he kept flying back to Tennessee all the time.
Well, Lindsey further explained that he had just gotten a terrible diagnosis (he finally died of Parkinson's in '95) and that he'd long known about a legendary place in Chattanooga called the Orange Grove Center.
Lindsey had heard they had just started a residential program and was begging me to find out where Orange Grove had gotten the method -- you know, where Orange Grove had gone to get the pattern for their new deal because it was pretty obvious Sharon needed a long-range plan. Lindsey needed to scour the country for the most important solution of his life.
Haywood, who made more All-Americans than any coach, was ripped up over the whole situation -- Lindsey's illness, his daughter -- and I started laughing. Well, duh! I knew some people at Orange Grove, just a two-hour drive from Knoxville, and Lindsey could easily visit anytime he wanted. It was a no-brainer.
No, "The Voice" said, explaining Sharon wasn't qualified, that Orange Grove not only had strictly mandated rules but that there was a two-year waiting list. "I can't get her in Orange Grove. I can't work a miracle," my mentor said and I smugly replied, "Oh, you never know!" or something like, which caused Haywood to flop around like a fresh-caught fish.
The same night, I made a couple of house-calls when I got back to Chattanooga and Sharon Nelson very quickly entered into the most blessed realm of people who God ever assembled on Derby Street. Remember this equation forever: Orange Grove Center equals 62 years, 214 days.
Sure, she was challenged but -- just like all of us -- Sharon had her moments. Once, when she was flying back to Tennessee beside her daddy, a guy in the row ahead suddenly reclined his seat while Sharon was eating lunch. In her comical way, she said, "Dad, he's rude. I think I'll belt him!"
"Oh, I don't think I would," the delighted Lindsey replied, hugging his daughter. "Precious, that man's name is Muhammad Ali and he's the heavyweight champion of the world. Let's find somebody else to belt!"
Not only did Sharon live a happy life, a memorial service will be held at the center on March 16. She was loved. She made a difference, albeit in her own way. Don't you see, it is even better than that! She was loved every day of her life. She had a home and a family, long after the famed Lindsey Nelson slipped away.
And that's all that matters to me.
(written by Elegant Kisser)
March 6, 2011
By:
elegantkisser
Age:
51-55
,
Male
