David Sheppard / Scroll
A group of wheelchair basketball players advance down the court during a game Saturday.

Before the game, the referees got us all together and outlined the rules specific to basketball on wheels: don’t let your feet leave the footrests, dribble once for every time you crank the wheels on you chair, don’t ram the other chairs, don’t pop wheelies, don’t stand up and run.

20:00—The game started innocently enough. After an anticlimactic jump ball—it’s hard to jump in a wheelchair—the action was under way. We were off to a roaring start. Score: 0-0.

19:37—I make a determined rush towards the ball only to knock it out of bounds with my footrests. The first mistake of many. Score: 0-0.

18:07—The first shot of the game goes up. It almost hits the rim. Kudos to the shooter. Score: 0-0.

16:14—I take my first shot. I miss. I slap my wheel in frustration and get my fingers tangled in the spokes. I remind myself never to do it again. Score: 0-0.

15:47—The game stops for equipment maintenance. The sideline support works on the footrests of a slightly crippled chair. Score: 0-0.

14:36—The other team put up a gorgeous shot from the top of the key that hit the net. You can feel the tension continue to build for the first shot to drop. Score: 0-0.

13:34—Some freshman punk on the other team blocks our girl’s shot from behind. He proudly grunts, “This is our house.” Score: 0-0.

11:01—Celebration. After almost nine minutes of hard work and dedication, we put the first two points on the board. Score: 2-0.

6:45—Our opponents tie up the game with a cheap shot from low in the key. I won’t let it happen it again. Score 2-2.

4:45—In retaliation, I personally drain a couple of big short-range jumpers—without the “jump” part. Score: 6-2.

0:00—Somehow they rattled off six quick ones on us. I don’t know how it happened, but all I know was that the tides will turn next half. No mercy, baby. Score: 8-6.

At halftime, I realize that my arms are pulsating in pain. I can’t move them anymore. Not a good sign. The morale of the troops is dwindling as we tenderly wheel ourselves around the court.

From the second half, I will only include a few highlights (or maybe low-lights, as the case may be): 18:29—I can’t feel my arms. Score: 12-6.

5:42—Now the girls are scoring on us. I hang my head in shame; I hang my arms in pain. Score: 20-10.

0:00—The end of the game. Score: 24-10.

After a 40-minute struggle, I thought of how silly it was that we would play basketball without using our legs.

It makes the game so much more complicated. Whoever invented wheelchair basket-ball should be punished.

As I was walking home on my two perfectly functional legs, I realized that I missed a learning opportunity. Wheelchair basketball builds arm strength, tears apart confidence and build respect. Or at least it should.

The night after my team struggled to score just ten points was the first time I have thanked the Lord for the use of my legs.

And because without them, I would be a worthless basketball player.