When I spoke to Sebastian about setting his feet and squaring his shoulders before he shot, he’d stare at the ground or to his right, and then walk away. I often spoke to him, but I never got replies. He never looked at me or acknowledged anything I said to him.

In the first few games, his shots always missed the backboard, but by mid-season, he’d improved. A few of his shots hit the rim, and I hoped this would be the time he’d finally score, but none dropped through the netting.

No one intended for it to happen, but a storyline developed on our team. Our team’s season became dedicated to helping Sebastian get a shot to fall through the basket.

Before our last game, Sebastian’s mother pulled me aside and with tears in her eyes thanked me for coaching her son. She said it was the first time in his life that he was a member of a team. Something had finally engaged him. It gave her hope he’d find more things in life that would motivate him.

I told her it was my pleasure to coach her son and I meant it. Sebastian never missed a practice or a game. Every time he launched a shot, he tried his best. It’s all a coach could ask of any player.

It sounds like a movie ending, but it happened. In our last game, Sebastian caught a bounce pass and shot. He didn’t set his feet or square his shoulders. His head was cocked downward as he shot. But without even looking at the basket, he achieved quite a feat. From outside the three-point arc his shot caromed hard off the backboard and slammed through the netting.

For the first time, I saw Sebastian smile.

Then something happened that I’d never seen before or since. Both teams erupted in joy, yelling and clapping. Sebastian wasn’t a kid who hugged or even high-fived, but everyone else did. Including the coaches. I have no memory if our team won the game, but I do know that every player and coach on the hardwood floor that day walked away with admiration and respect for ten-year old Sebastian.