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  As a kid, I was aware that Brad and Ray had extra challenges, but I didn’t think a lot about it. They were part of the family, as athletic and competitive as any Matthews, so of course they joined in on our daily contests. Knee football, floor hockey, baseball in the backyard, basketball in the side yard—we played them all. The contests were two-on-two when Bruz was around. We played hoops nearly every night after dinner. The unofficial rule was no blood, no foul, so we beat on each other regularly and had our share of scraps. The twins didn’t get as big as Bruz or me. Each was a little under six feet, with Ray heavier at about 205 pounds to Brad’s 180. But they both could deliver a pounding as well as take one. When Bruz left for college and with Kristy already out of the house, they were my best buddies at home. Our favorite game in those years was Wiffle ball in the pool.

  Though I had my struggles with adjusting to life in Kenilworth after our first move there, one thing that excited me was being teammates with Ray and Brad on the seventh-grade football team. They were primarily defensive linemen. Though neither played a lot, most of the guys on the team treated them well. My brothers enjoyed the camaraderie and the feeling of being equals with their teammates. They also enjoyed giving me a bad time after my injury that season. “Yeah, I’m sorry you broke your leg, Bruce,” one or the other would say, “but I got to play after that.” They were reminding me that even if I was no longer contributing to the team, they still were.

  Another place my brothers excelled was in the Special Olympics. They each captured state Special Olympics swimming medals while in high school. They wanted to win as badly as Bruz and I did, battled just as hard during competitions, and celebrated just as much after a victory. Both got ejected from Special Olympics basketball and floor hockey games for fighting with opponents and arguing officials’ calls. For better or worse, each was a Matthews to the core.

  One of the things I admired about Brad and Ray is that they didn’t sit around complaining about the disadvantage they’d been dealt. Brad was more personable and outgoing, but they both enjoyed whatever they were involved with. During my junior and senior years at Arcadia, they were the managers of the football team. It was fun to see my teammates joke with my brothers and give them a bad time—and to see Ray and Brad do the same with them. Their approach to life was a reminder to me to try to maintain a good attitude no matter what.

  I’ve seen plenty of self-absorbed teenagers in my life, and I’m sure I often was one too. But having brothers with special needs helped show me that there would always be people around me who were less fortunate and who deserved my understanding, protection, and support. My experience with my brothers gave me a deeper sense of compassion.

  That protective mindset came to the fore during an incident when I was still in Illinois as a ninth grader. I was at the high school and had just walked downstairs to a recreation area with Ping-Pong tables. I was shocked to see a stocky guy from my grade in Ray’s face, making fun of him. Ray tried to walk away and this guy pursued him, still mouthing off and still in his face. I don’t remember the guy’s exact words, but they were demeaning comments about his disability.

  Normally, I wasn’t one to make a big scene or speech even if I disagreed with what someone was saying or doing. But this was just wrong—and it involved family. My attitude was, “Dude, I don’t mind you teasing my brother or giving him crap. I give him crap all the time. But the second you start making fun of him, we’re going to throw down.”

  Now my blood was boiling. I hurried over. “Hey, what are you doing, man?” I said. “He’s my brother.”

  The bully turned away from Ray and toward me. He said something like, “You want a piece of me?”

  We stared each other down for a few seconds. Frankly, part of me was scared and didn’t want to be there. But the other part was furious and wanted to stand up for my brother. That’s the side that won out. I popped the guy in the eye with a right. He dove at my legs, so I got on top of him and put him in a headlock. “You had enough?” I said. Before the guy could answer, someone intervened and pulled us apart. I know there are times when it’s best to turn the other cheek, but this wasn’t one of them. To this day, I can’t stand watching people pick on someone who is disadvantaged.

  Fortunately, moments like that were rare during our childhood. Most people treated Brad and Ray with kindness and respect, which always warmed my heart. They’ve each been a blessing to me in more ways than I can count.

  If my sister, Kristy, had been on the scene when that guy was bullying Ray, she’d probably have given him a worse beating than I did. At five foot two, Kristy was the shortest of my siblings, as well as the fiercest. She was frank and willing to speak her mind. I learned early in life not to cross my sister.

  Kristy was Matthews tough. When she was about twelve, she went horseback riding on a wet day, was thrown from the horse, and kicked in the head. The blow split open her brow line. I remember Kristy bleeding everywhere as Dad carried her into the house and got her ready for the trip to the hospital. All of us were worried, of course, except Kristy. She was more concerned about what all the blood would do to her leather jacket.

  While I was growing up, my sister was someone I could talk to when I needed encouragement or advice. I remember discussing my shyness with girls. “Bruce, you’re not a half-bad-looking guy,” she’d say. “Just go up and talk to them like you’re talking to me.” I always appreciated it, but her encouragement seemed to go only so far. After one of our talks, I’d go to bed fired up and thinking, I’m going to talk to that girl at school tomorrow. Then I’d wake up with a pit in my stomach and think, No way am I talking to that girl. I’m not even going near her.

  Another thing I learned from Kristy was that it was okay to stand up for myself, even for little things like asking for the right dinner at a restaurant if the waiter messed up the order. That was something I admired about her because it didn’t come naturally to me. When we were kids, she was quick to defend Brad and Ray from any form of teasing and, after she got married and became a mom, she was just as quick to stand up for her kids, Devon and Ashley. Family definitely comes first for her. She’s as loving as can be, but she also has an edge to her. That competitive family nature must have been passed down, because Ashley was an All-American soccer player for USC and team captain when the Trojans won the 2007 national title. She plays soccer professionally today.

  I still talk regularly with Kristy and she still encourages me. I definitely value my relationship with her, as I do with all my siblings. They’ve been part of my life from the beginning. I’d do anything for them and know they’d do the same for me. It’s true that no one gets to pick their family, but in my case I can’t imagine choosing anyone else. I got the very best.

  6

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  HUMBLED IN HIGH SCHOOL

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  In all the setbacks of your life as a believer, God is plotting for your joy.

  JOHN PIPER

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  IT WAS GREAT TO FINISH ninth grade in California. New Trier East back in Illinois had an institutional feel. The buildings and hallways were walled in because of the harsh weather. But in Arcadia, everything was open. Our lockers and lunch space had a roof over them but were outside. At lunchtime, I could easily get in on an outdoor pickup basketball game on the nearby blacktop. Plus, New Trier East was a four-year high school, while Arcadia’s was only three years. Instead of being a lowly freshman, I was suddenly one of the older, more experienced students at our junior high. I went from low man on the totem pole to feeling like a big shot.

  I was big in another way: I was in the midst of a growth spurt. At the start of the school year I was five foot ten and 165 pounds, but by the end of the year I was six foot and two hundred pounds. My clothes didn’t fit as well, but I didn’t mind. I was getting leaner and adding strength.

  Since I’d already been through the experience of
starting high school in Illinois, I felt more confident as I looked ahead to entering high school the next year at Arcadia. Then I received news that made me even more eager to get started. The football coach invited me to practice with the varsity, while the baseball coach suggested I move up to the junior varsity team, where he said I had a great chance of starting at catcher. The baseball program at Arcadia was especially strong. This is awesome, I thought. I’m back home where I’m comfortable and getting great opportunities in football and baseball. Unlike in Illinois, I couldn’t wait for school to start.

  That spring and summer, I played Pony League baseball. Our team, King Meat (our sponsor was a butcher shop), was league champion for the second half of the season, so we faced off against the first-half winner in a single contest for the overall league title. The game was tied in the top of the final inning when I came up to the plate. The pitcher threw a fastball and I nailed it for a home run, which turned out to be the game winner. That ball traveled a long way. Urban legend has it flying over the left fielder’s head, then over the playground beyond the outfield, and then over the elevated railroad tracks beyond that. If that were true we’d be talking Babe Ruth territory, maybe five or six hundred feet. No way did I hit it that far as a ninth grader—but I have to admit I haven’t done much in the years since to dispel the rumor.

  Finally, it was August and time for football. Arcadia’s head coach and athletic director was Dick Salter, a no-nonsense type who would say when you went to get a drink of water, “Don’t swallow any of that, just spit it out.” The preseason included five days of two-a-day practices known as Hell Week. Each practice was an hour long and consisted of grass drills at six stations: pushups, bear crawls, burpees, up-downs, and more. At the end of each hour, everybody on the team ran eight “gassers,” forty-yard sprints down the field and back, down a second time and back again. If even one player didn’t finish within the determined time limit, the whole team had to run gassers again. That week was brutal.

  I was always quiet on the field. I never talked back to my coaches. I’m sure they thought I had a great attitude. But there were times when that whistle blew and the coaches lined us up for another sprint that I thought, What? Are you kidding me? I’d ride my bike home exhausted after those practices and ask myself, Why do I play football? I hate this. But those of us who stayed with the program definitely developed a bond. I’m sure that had a lot to do with our shared “survival” experiences on Arcadia’s football fields. Today I’m still close with several of my high school teammates, especially my buddy Dave Samarzich.

  “Sam” was just fun to be around, a guy who would say and do things I never would. Before home games, we’d eat at my house, then go to my room and get fired up by listening to the soundtrack of the original Rocky movie. A few years later, Sam was on the football team at Pasadena City College. I told him I was coming to one of his games. Sam wasn’t a starter, but because I was there, he inserted himself into the game by telling another player the coach wanted him out. Sam talked about the Arcadia Apaches so much in junior college that he became affectionately known as “Apache Sam.”

  In 1976, Sam was on Arcadia’s freshman/sophomore football team, while I was thrilled and honored to make the varsity squad. The only other sophomore on the varsity was a running back, Jim Mohr, so I was in rare company. I was on the defensive line in the first game and got in on probably ten or twelve plays. I thought I did all right. But on the Monday after the game, Coach Salter called me into his office. “Bruce,” he said, “I know you’re not going to like this, but we’re going to send you down to the sophomore team. We want you to play every down. That’s exactly what you need.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was crushed. I was so proud of making that team. Now I felt as though my world had collapsed. I still remember walking out to that first practice with the sophomore team, seeing the surprised look on the faces of some of my friends, and feeling like a failure.

  I was so angry during those last seven or eight games I played for Arcadia’s sophomore team. I abused my opponents, taking out my frustrations by playing as hard as I could. Not surprisingly, the more I played, the more I developed my skills.

  Wrestling season was a different and better story. I was still growing—after Christmas, I was up to 210 pounds—so I wrestled at heavyweight. My experience the year before in Illinois, combined with perfecting the techniques my dad taught me, allowed me to thrive. I won the Pacific League title that season, though I lost in the first round of the state playoffs. I went through the usual anxiety and stress before my matches, but overall I enjoyed it.

  Another part of my enjoyment at that time was my anticipation of baseball season. I still harbored dreams of a career as a big-league catcher and the baseball coach’s prediction that I might win a starting role with the JV team still rang in my ears. Maybe I had a chance to someday catch for the San Francisco Giants—why not?

  What I didn’t realize was that I was setting myself up for another major disappointment.

  Part of the blame was due to my wrestling success. The California Interscholastic Federation wrestling tournament lasted a full two weeks beyond the regular season, causing me to miss all of Arcadia’s baseball preseason. When I showed up for practice just before the games started, the coach pulled me aside. “Bruce,” he said, “you’ve missed all this time and you’re behind the other guys, so we’re going to put you on the sophomore team.”

  Once again, I was crushed. If I felt like a failure before, now it seemed as though I couldn’t do anything right.

  My season soon went from bad to worse. I’d never experienced back trouble, but during my first practice I had a spasm. The abrupt transition from wrestling to baseball must have caused me to tweak something. I never saw a doctor about it, but it bothered me the rest of the season and contributed to my terrible start. I managed just one hit in my first twenty-five at-bats. Our team was pretty good, but I felt as if I wasn’t contributing.

  My junior season of football was much more satisfying. I picked up the nickname “Horse,” and started on the varsity as an offensive and defensive tackle, as well as the team’s long-snapper. The only time I came off the field was on kickoffs and kickoff returns. We did well in league play, then we went on to win three playoff games to advance to the CIF Coastal Section finals. We came up short in that title game, losing to Long Beach’s Millikan High, 34–14. Even so, it was a great season overall.

  In wrestling, I built on the momentum I’d established the year before. I went undefeated during the league season and expected to do really well at state. But to advance, I first had to defeat an opponent in the league title match that I’d beaten before. I didn’t expect to have much trouble, but I got a little too full of myself. Heavyweights usually stay with the basics on the mat and don’t do throws, which involves lifting an opponent and “throwing” him down on the mat. But I enjoyed employing those fancy moves and tried it. My opponent’s arm slipped out. Instead of me throwing him, I landed on my back. He earned a two-point takedown and three-point near fall. I lost the match, 9–7.

  My season was over, and though I didn’t know it then, so was my wrestling career. Due to budget cuts, the school dropped the program after that season. We have a picture of me walking out of the gym after that match. I’m next to my dad, my head down. Even now, when I see that photo, it brings back all the disappointment of that day.

  My junior year was also my last season in organized baseball. I was still upset over my experience the season before, so I didn’t go out for the high school team. I did play that summer in my final year of Colt League eligibility and enjoyed it, but I’d figured out by then that football was my best sport. If there was any doubt, it was resolved my last game. I was part of a Colt All-Stars series against a team from Covina. In one game, I tried to score from third base on a ground out. The ball reached the catcher before I slid into home plate. I was clearly out, but what upset me was the catcher making what I thought was an
unnecessarily hard tag as I was lying in the dirt.

  In the final game of the All-Stars series, I again found myself on third base. When I took a big lead, the pitcher noticed and whipped the ball to the third baseman. I was caught in a rundown. All right, I thought. I’ve had it. I’m six foot four and 235 pounds, so I’m going to use it.

  I sprinted for home. The throw went to the catcher, the same guy who’d tagged me hard before. There was no slide this time—I slammed into his chest, a clean hit, and sent him flying at least five feet. To his credit, he held on to the ball. Once again, I was out.

  For the first time in my life, I heard jeers directed at me by the crowd. “Hey,” one yelled, “this isn’t football!”

  “I guess this confirms it,” I told myself. “I’m not a slippery, sliding base stealer. I’m a guy that likes contact and runs through people. Football truly is my future.”

  From that point on, my athletic focus was on football.

  After our success the year before, expectations were high for Arcadia’s football team going into my senior season. Then we lost our first three games and people were down on us. When a reporter interviewed me, the tone of her questions left me feeling personally accused, as if she were saying, “You’re not playing at a high enough level.” I kept my cool during the interview, but afterward I thought, Man, that just ticks me off. Once again I was feeling humbled by life.

  I talked to my dad. “Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it? You’ve got a couple of options. You can let it get you down or you can come out swinging and give your best on the field every opportunity you get.” I knew how he’d responded to challenges in his life. It helped inspire me to fight back and show anyone who was watching that we were better than what we’d demonstrated so far.