October 12, 2006 is not a day I remember in particular detail. I went to school. I was sixth grade dealing with the tortures of middle school with no more grace than anyone else. My vice-principle made one of his jokes over the intercome during the morning announcements - the one’s that we grossly despised. Yes it’s fair to say that it was a perfectly normal day in white picket-fence suburbia.
I didn’t hear about the accident for a few days. It wasn’t something that I would have been exposed to if my parents had kept the “Voice of the Valley”—the town newspaper—out of reach. But there on the front page was the picture of a familiar face. It was not of someone I knew, but of someone I’d seen around hanging out at the house of my nextdoor neighbor Sammii. Apparently they were really good friends. But as I read farther and farther into the article, I’m sure my mouth gradually grew more agape. An avid and talented athlete, Zach Lystedt had suffered a serious concussion in a junior high football game, continued to play and then collapsed in front of his father, unconscious and near certain death. Soon it was all the little town of Maple Valley, Washington could talk about. He was thirteen years old, two years older than me. Growing up in a town where everyone knows everyone and one grew up with the kids one went to school with, I took it to heart as much as everyone else did. The whole community grieved for Zach and his family and all were eager to lend their love and support.
But Zachery Lystedt didn’t have a real affect on me, until after I’d moved away from the little suburb of Maple Valley, five years later. Always eager to go back and see my friends - for it was only a thirty-five minute drive from my new house to “home”—I took initiative and gathered up a group of friends to attend Tahoma High School’s homecoming game that fall. Zach hadn’t crossed my mind throughout those five years, so naturally when everyone told me “Zach’s back,” I attributed it to someone I didn’t know of and left the matter alone. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. A recent move and the fact that I was at a different high school had left me out of touch with the circle of news that had always seemed to find my way.
The first half of the game went surprisingly well. I never thought of Tahoma as having a good high school football team - in fact almost no one did, so the fact that we were winning had everyone on their feet and shouting with excitement. But halftime was a completely different story. Suddenly everyone started sitting down and I could not figure out for the life of me what was unfolding. I’d expected to see something like the cheerleaders performing or a funny skit - entertainment that was a staple at my apparently extravagant school. The truck carrying the homecoming royalty began its procession in front of the grandstand and I assumed - as naive as ever - that it would be nothing but a parade of the popular crowd that always dominated social events such as that. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The announcer called out the names of all except the Homecoming King, pausing for the quiet applause that followed. I was utterly appalled expecting to hear loud cheers for the people that we’d set on pedestals earlier in life. It was only when the announcer read out the last name, that I truly understood. The bleachers erupted into a roar so palpable I was tempted to cover my ears at first.
Zachery Lystedt was back.
There he was draped in a red velvet robe, head adorned with a gold plastic crown, his wheelchair decorated like nothing I’d ever seen before. And then he stood. Never in my life had I seen a display of such triumph pride and support. I like so many others around me, was overcome with emotion, shedding a few tears at the sight of something so beautiful. His return made headlines around the country. News crews from all over captured the fireworks show that was the backdrop to his parade. He had just won his own Olympics.
