by Cross-Country Coach Dean Wilson 
I have a new friend. His name is Scott and he is from Branford, Conn. I know he is from Branford, Conn., because he reminds me of the fact several times a day. It is not that he is especially proud of where he comes from, rather, he reminds me because he forgets that he has told me before. Scott has Down syndrome which just means that Scott’s brain and other parts of his body work a little differently than you might expect them to.
Scott repeats himself – a lot. When he speaks, his words tumble out in a jumbled torrent that, for the uninitiated, can sometimes be difficult to understand. I think that is one of the reasons he repeats himself. He knows that different words get garbled every time he speaks, and he knows, with sufficient repetition, sooner or later you’ll get them all. He is patient with you - he can talk to you all day, and will - if you really need him to. The standard tests may say he has a lower-than-average intellect, but those tests don’t measure clever – and Scott will be the first to tell you – he doesn’t come ‘standard’.
Far from it – Scott could probably be best described as pear-shaped (not a shape that I consider to be all that unusual). Although many of Scott’s joints are far more limber than they are supposed to be (dangerously so in the case of his cervical vertebrae) he has some difficulty in moving around. His various parts just somehow don’t always seem to arrive where he wants to put them.  He is not put together in the ‘regular’ way. The legs are a bit too long, the arms - a bit too short. His mouth is smaller than it should be, his tongue is larger, his fingers shorter and thicker than they ought to be, his feet bigger and wider. If these are difficulties, Scott doesn’t seem to mind much. He gets help with the things that are physically impossible to do, and for the rest, the try-try-again approach seems to get him by just fine.
The one part of Scott that seems to work flawlessly is his heart – not just his physical heart which through his exercise and diligent care, appears to be strong and healthy enough for now, but that part of him that informs his every action and interaction with the world around him. Scott is a very balanced man.  He doesn’t take himself too seriously, yet he doesn’t sell himself short either.  Scott loves freely but not obsequiously. He appreciates attention, but he isn’t needy. He can work a crowd like a seasoned politician, and still be sincerely and quietly shy in close company. Scott’s emotional dial has a full range of expression, from apathy to rage, but its default is set on ‘Joy’. Scott loves life and it shows in everything he does.
Scott is a nice guy - extremely nice. I am fairly certain that Scott has never read Norman Vincent Peale, but it doesn’t matter: he’s got the winning friends and influencing people thing down pat. You can’t help but like him, maybe even fall in love with him. You see, no matter what you do in life, he will happily proclaim to the world at large that you are the absolute best at whatever it is that you do. Just when you are convinced that he does it simply because it makes people treat him more nicely than they ordinarily might, he will slip one of these little affirmations to you quietly, in private, when no one else can hear. The look in his eyes tells you that his opinion on the matter is not open to question – you are the best.
Speaking of being the best – this nice guy does not finish last. I was with Scott at the Special Olympics World Winter games, where Scott marshaled all his strength, control and determination to win a gold medal in the 50-meter Cross-Country Skiing competition. As I watched him triumphant on the podium, shaking hands with the dignitaries and his competitors, I thanked God for the opportunity to be in that place at that time – to see Scott in his moment of glory and achievement. It was then that Scott ensured that he and I would be friends forever. In that moment, he sought me out, calling to me over the noise of the crowd, and having spotted me, bulldozed his way though the crowd to capture me in an end-of-the-world embrace. “We did it!” he said, “We did it!”
He had that look in his eye that told me the statement was not open to question. He had made me a part of his personal victory. I didn’t cry. I came apart. I wept tears of satisfaction and triumph. I wept tears of joy – joy in his victory and in having played a small part in it. I don’t think Scott understands this – I don’t think he knows the value of the gift he gave me that day. To Scott, we are friends and his achievement is just something we did together.

If I ever need a reminder of why I am involved in Special Olympics, I have my friend Scott. Thank you, Scott.