Trevor, Olie, Alex, and I: Sharing My Passion With My Son
By Russell Levine
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
By Russell Levine
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
Sports have always been my passion. Through my teenage years, I made the most of my limited athleticism and played baseball, football, and especially enjoyed playing hockey. Accepting that I'd never earn a paycheck playing the games I loved, after college I pursued a career in sports media.
When I had kids, first a boy and then a girl, I assumed I would share this passion with them. On the day of his birth, my son spent several hours sleeping on my lap in the hospital as I watched my alma mater, Michigan, lose a football game in excruciating fashion against UCLA. It might have been the only time I have stomached such a result without profanity. I whispered to my newborn son throughout the game that this was a fitting introduction to the world for him, for I believed we'd spend many fall Saturdays together watching the Maize and Blue, so it was good that he was learning early how they always managed to pull the rug out from under their fans.
Two years later, those basic dreams that so many fathers have, especially with sons, were taken from me. Trevor, now seven, was diagnosed with PDD/NOS just after his second birthday. This was a confusing and devastating time for my wife and me. We had just had our daughter, and here we were being confronted with the realities of an uncertain future for our son. For my wife, Trevor's diagnosis set off a period of what I came to recognize as mourning the loss of our idealized child. Seeing things through her eyes, I too began to feel that loss. A parent in that situation has a million thoughts, but some that stand out for me were related to sports, which were central to my bond with my own father.
Would this beautiful child and I ever play catch in the backyard? Would we ever spend an afternoon at the ballpark or on the couch, digesting a game together? Would I get to skip work and watch him play games in high school?
During those first few months after the diagnosis, my wife and I withdrew into our brand-new family and tried to cope the best we could. Therapy was begun, and then special-needs preschool at age three. Trevor progressed well and everyone who worked with him agreed that he was only mildly affected and had great potential. Those words were precious gifts, but as everyone touched by autism knows, they do not add up to a prognosis. Nobody can tap you on the shoulder and tell you exactly what your child will be like or what they will be able to do at age 8, 12, or 17. If they also aren't able to tell you what they won't be able to do, well, that's a bonus.
We saw the tangible signs of progress in Trevor, but our enthusiasm was always tempered by the reality of his struggles, especially when compared to his sister Lindsay, younger by 20 months. Perhaps because she has never known anything but a therapeutic environment, Lindsay is advanced beyond her age. She talks up a storm. We came to see this as a blessing. She challenges Trevor, gets right in his face and refuses to be ignored. We know she is good for him, and yet, it is never easy to watch your younger child do things that your older one is not yet able to.
When we would do activities together as a family, we rarely had to worry about Lindsay's behavior. If we had to leave some event early, it was usually because Trevor could not last, not his sister.
One of the fringe benefits of my job with the National Hockey League is access to the occasional game ticket. A few years ago, I took the whole family for the first time. Lindsay took to it instantly, the crowd, the action on the ice, the noise; she drank it all in. Trevor, as we suspected, was more detached. It was more difficult for him to follow the action. By the third period, it was a struggle to keep him interested at all. He did provide one moment of levity that any parent of a child with ASD will no doubt appreciate. The game was Devils vs. Capitals (the latter being my favorite team growing up) and I tried to get the kids to do a "Let's go Capitals!" chant. Trevor's response was priceless. He stood up and yelled, "Let's go lower-case!"
About that time, I learned that the Capitals' goalie, Olie Kolzig, has a son with autism and had, with other NHL players, started a foundation to raise awareness. I decided to write an article for the league's web site (the area I work in) about the players' efforts. When I interviewed Olie on the phone, we had an instant connection. I realized that though I didn't know this person -- other than having watched him play on TV for years -- I was for the first time talking to somebody who understood exactly what this aspect of my life was like. The levels of fame or fortune separating us were irrelevant.
As many parents of a child with ASD can attest, it can be trying to find common ground with well-meaning friends and loved ones who, try as they might, will never see the world as you do. I didn't know anyone else with a child on the spectrum before I spoke to Olie. Before autism touched my own life, I knew almost nothing about it -- something he confessed to as well.
After the article was published, I continued to follow Olie's efforts with Athletes Against Autism (an initiative of Autism Speaks) and attended some of their events. My wife and I began to take part in fundraisers and I talked more openly about Trevor's condition with people outside the family. In some ways, it was a turning point for me. The last time I saw Olie, I told him I planned to bring the family down to Washington (we live in New Jersey) to see them play. He suggested I come for their Autism Awareness Day game.
We decided to make a weekend of it, with trips to the Smithsonian and some sightseeing thrown in. To prepare, I talked up the Capitals to Trevor and got him a jersey with the name of their best player, Alex Ovechkin (also a member of Athletes Against Autism). Lindsay was resolute that she would only support for her home-state Devils, who were again to be Washington's opponent.
When the big weekend arrived we had a nice drive down to Washington and immediately headed out to the American Museum of Natural History. After all, what child doesn't like dinosaurs? But we just couldn't get Trevor interested in the exhibits. We fared no better the following morning at the Air and Space Museum. When we headed to the arena for the game, I was upset, wondering why this had to be so difficult and fearing that the rest of the day might be a disaster.
But just as he always has at our low moments, Trevor lifted our spirits. During warm-ups, he asked that I take him down by the ice so that "Alex can see me wearing his jersey." We did just that, took a few pictures, and got a wave from Olie. When the game started, Trevor screamed when the crowd screamed ("Let's go Caps!" this time), he followed the puck, he asked me questions, he cheered his heart out. Yes, he also asked how many minutes till we were leaving a few dozen times, but that's just a comfort mechanism. In fact, Trevor got so into the proceedings that I had to sit between him and Lindsay because she was rooting for the Devils.
When we got back home, I asked Trevor if he wanted an Ovechkin poster for his room and he said yes. We started talking every day about how many goals Alex had scored and how the Capitals were doing in the standings. The team went on a tear that saw them make the playoffs on the final day of the season, and during that stretch, Trevor watched a couple of games with me on TV and asked every morning if they had won or lost. As a sports-obsessed dad, it meant the world to me to be able to share this experience with my son. As an added bonus, I found I had a hockey-loving daughter as well. When the playoffs started, we had a "hockey-palooza" weekend. I took Lindsay to see the Devils on a Friday night, and took Trevor back to Washington for a Sunday afternoon game.
Though our teams lost, I won. I used to get a pit in my stomach just taking Trevor to a birthday party, not knowing how he would fit in. Those two days in Washington, I had an ear-to-ear grin for three-hours, just a father and his boy watching a game. What more could a dad ask for?
Two years later, those basic dreams that so many fathers have, especially with sons, were taken from me. Trevor, now seven, was diagnosed with PDD/NOS just after his second birthday. This was a confusing and devastating time for my wife and me. We had just had our daughter, and here we were being confronted with the realities of an uncertain future for our son. For my wife, Trevor's diagnosis set off a period of what I came to recognize as mourning the loss of our idealized child. Seeing things through her eyes, I too began to feel that loss. A parent in that situation has a million thoughts, but some that stand out for me were related to sports, which were central to my bond with my own father.
Would this beautiful child and I ever play catch in the backyard? Would we ever spend an afternoon at the ballpark or on the couch, digesting a game together? Would I get to skip work and watch him play games in high school?
During those first few months after the diagnosis, my wife and I withdrew into our brand-new family and tried to cope the best we could. Therapy was begun, and then special-needs preschool at age three. Trevor progressed well and everyone who worked with him agreed that he was only mildly affected and had great potential. Those words were precious gifts, but as everyone touched by autism knows, they do not add up to a prognosis. Nobody can tap you on the shoulder and tell you exactly what your child will be like or what they will be able to do at age 8, 12, or 17. If they also aren't able to tell you what they won't be able to do, well, that's a bonus.
We saw the tangible signs of progress in Trevor, but our enthusiasm was always tempered by the reality of his struggles, especially when compared to his sister Lindsay, younger by 20 months. Perhaps because she has never known anything but a therapeutic environment, Lindsay is advanced beyond her age. She talks up a storm. We came to see this as a blessing. She challenges Trevor, gets right in his face and refuses to be ignored. We know she is good for him, and yet, it is never easy to watch your younger child do things that your older one is not yet able to.
When we would do activities together as a family, we rarely had to worry about Lindsay's behavior. If we had to leave some event early, it was usually because Trevor could not last, not his sister.
One of the fringe benefits of my job with the National Hockey League is access to the occasional game ticket. A few years ago, I took the whole family for the first time. Lindsay took to it instantly, the crowd, the action on the ice, the noise; she drank it all in. Trevor, as we suspected, was more detached. It was more difficult for him to follow the action. By the third period, it was a struggle to keep him interested at all. He did provide one moment of levity that any parent of a child with ASD will no doubt appreciate. The game was Devils vs. Capitals (the latter being my favorite team growing up) and I tried to get the kids to do a "Let's go Capitals!" chant. Trevor's response was priceless. He stood up and yelled, "Let's go lower-case!"
About that time, I learned that the Capitals' goalie, Olie Kolzig, has a son with autism and had, with other NHL players, started a foundation to raise awareness. I decided to write an article for the league's web site (the area I work in) about the players' efforts. When I interviewed Olie on the phone, we had an instant connection. I realized that though I didn't know this person -- other than having watched him play on TV for years -- I was for the first time talking to somebody who understood exactly what this aspect of my life was like. The levels of fame or fortune separating us were irrelevant.
As many parents of a child with ASD can attest, it can be trying to find common ground with well-meaning friends and loved ones who, try as they might, will never see the world as you do. I didn't know anyone else with a child on the spectrum before I spoke to Olie. Before autism touched my own life, I knew almost nothing about it -- something he confessed to as well.
After the article was published, I continued to follow Olie's efforts with Athletes Against Autism (an initiative of Autism Speaks) and attended some of their events. My wife and I began to take part in fundraisers and I talked more openly about Trevor's condition with people outside the family. In some ways, it was a turning point for me. The last time I saw Olie, I told him I planned to bring the family down to Washington (we live in New Jersey) to see them play. He suggested I come for their Autism Awareness Day game.
We decided to make a weekend of it, with trips to the Smithsonian and some sightseeing thrown in. To prepare, I talked up the Capitals to Trevor and got him a jersey with the name of their best player, Alex Ovechkin (also a member of Athletes Against Autism). Lindsay was resolute that she would only support for her home-state Devils, who were again to be Washington's opponent.
When the big weekend arrived we had a nice drive down to Washington and immediately headed out to the American Museum of Natural History. After all, what child doesn't like dinosaurs? But we just couldn't get Trevor interested in the exhibits. We fared no better the following morning at the Air and Space Museum. When we headed to the arena for the game, I was upset, wondering why this had to be so difficult and fearing that the rest of the day might be a disaster.
But just as he always has at our low moments, Trevor lifted our spirits. During warm-ups, he asked that I take him down by the ice so that "Alex can see me wearing his jersey." We did just that, took a few pictures, and got a wave from Olie. When the game started, Trevor screamed when the crowd screamed ("Let's go Caps!" this time), he followed the puck, he asked me questions, he cheered his heart out. Yes, he also asked how many minutes till we were leaving a few dozen times, but that's just a comfort mechanism. In fact, Trevor got so into the proceedings that I had to sit between him and Lindsay because she was rooting for the Devils.
When we got back home, I asked Trevor if he wanted an Ovechkin poster for his room and he said yes. We started talking every day about how many goals Alex had scored and how the Capitals were doing in the standings. The team went on a tear that saw them make the playoffs on the final day of the season, and during that stretch, Trevor watched a couple of games with me on TV and asked every morning if they had won or lost. As a sports-obsessed dad, it meant the world to me to be able to share this experience with my son. As an added bonus, I found I had a hockey-loving daughter as well. When the playoffs started, we had a "hockey-palooza" weekend. I took Lindsay to see the Devils on a Friday night, and took Trevor back to Washington for a Sunday afternoon game.
Though our teams lost, I won. I used to get a pit in my stomach just taking Trevor to a birthday party, not knowing how he would fit in. Those two days in Washington, I had an ear-to-ear grin for three-hours, just a father and his boy watching a game. What more could a dad ask for?
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