Summary
"They don't know me. They don't know what I'm capable of." Diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder, a form of autism, as a toddler, Anthony Ianni wasn't expected to succeed in school or participate in sports, but he had other ideas. As a child, Ianni told anybody who would listen, including head coach Tom Izzo, that he would one day play for the Michigan State Spartans.
Centered: Autism, Basketball, and One Athlete's Dreams is the firsthand account of a young man's social, academic, and athletic struggles and his determination to reach his goals. In this remarkable memoir, Ianni reflects on his experiences with both basketball and the autism spectrum. Centered , an inspirational sports story in the vein of Rudy , reveals Ianni to be unflinching in his honesty, generous in his gratitude, and gracious in his compassion.
Sports fans will root for the underdog. Parents, teachers, and coaches will gain insight into the experience of an autistic child. And everyone will triumph in the achievements of Centered.
Booklist Review
The career stats for author Ianni, a center on a Michigan State University basketball team coached by the legendary Tom Izzo, are abysmal: 0.1 point, 0.3 rebounds, 0.1 assists averaged over three seasons. Yet they mask a career unique in college sports: Ianni is the first person known to be on the autism spectrum to play Division I men's basketball. His unexpected journey--from a preschooler traumatized by the light and noise at MSU's basketball arena, to a gawky and bullied high-schooler feeling his way in the world, to a college-level athlete toughening up his MSU teammates in grueling practices, which led to a scholarship his final year--is singular for its dogged perseverance; for the compassion shown to him by so many family members, friends, teachers, coaches, and teammates, notably future NBA all-star Draymond Green; and for Ianni's willingness to reach out to the public about misperceptions regarding autism. "They're not alone," he writes of autistic kids. "They're not weird." If the general reader is deeply moved by Ianni's story, parents of autistic children, and the children themselves, will find Ianni's story a source of boundless, manifold inspiration.
Excerpts
Kids push each other's buttons. That's a fact of childhood. Sometimes they mean to and other times they don't. Either way, this posed a real problem for me. First, I had so many buttons. There were a million ways to upset me: Have a toy I wanted. Say something I disagreed with. Refuse to play with me. Second, once the button was pushed, I wigged out. My thrashings and wailings could shake walls. My grandparents hosted Easter every year at the farmhouse in Morenci. One tradition we had was an Easter egg hunt. My grandma wrote a specific grandchild's name on each egg--about fifteen or so for each of us. The plastic eggs contained candy, chocolates, little bouncy balls, quarters, or folded up dollar bills. Every year, my dad and my uncles took the eggs outside and hid them around the farm. Eggs went in bushes and behind trees, on my grandpa's truck's bumper, on the hood of the tractor, in the seat of the riding mower, and in the barn behind the door or on the tool shelf. Once Dad and my uncles said the eggs were ready, we dashed out of the house with our buckets. I wanted to be the first one to finish, but I was the youngest, so I was a little slower than my cousins and less familiar with the hiding spots. Soon my cousins David and Kyle filled their buckets, and they trotted over to where I was, frantically poking around the barn. "Ha ha! We finished and you didn't," they said, waving their buckets in my face. "We won, we won." I began to protest and whimper, revving up for a wig-out. Tears formed. My grandpa must have flashed me a critical look that said, Why the hell are you crying? It was just normal teasing. Kyle and David weren't trying to trigger a massive explosion, but they were about to get one. That's when my cousin Angie rescued me. "Come on, Anthony. I'll help you find the last few." Angie was seven years older than I was, and I admired her. Everyone in the family talked about what an incredible softball player she was, and sometimes we drove across the Ohio border to watch her games. Allison must have been relieved to have someone else play the role of big sister. Keeping me from erupting probably felt like a full-time job to her. I know my IEP says that Allison allowed me to win games in order to keep things peaceful, but that's not how I recall it. I remember her winning often at Monopoly, and whenever she did I would slap her and scream. "Sit next to me, Anthony," Angie said, after we'd found the last of the eggs with my name on it. "We can open our eggs together." When I was finally calm, Kyle and David tried a different button. "Michigan is way better than Michigan State," David said, as if it were an incontrovertible fact. "Michigan State is terrible." "No way! Michigan State is better!" The previous football season was months ago, and the next one was a long way away. Who cared about college football? We did. "Then how come Michigan won last year?" David persisted. "MSU is better than Michigan! MSU is better!" "In your dreams." *** One day at recess I sought out a classmate who had the same name as my sister. "Play with me, Allison," I insisted. It didn't matter that Allison already was playing with other girls. She tried to be nice about it. "I can't play with you today, Anthony, but I'll play with you tomorrow." The next day, I found her on the playground. "Play with me," I demanded. "Not today." "But you promised." "Sorry, Anthony. I'm already playing." Crying, I fled. I found my mom and began to wail. "She said she would play today! She said she would play today!" Mom held me close. "Sometimes people have to change their plans," she said gently. "Things don't always happen the way people say." "She said she would play today!" "It's going to be OK, Anthony." She hugged me tightly. Always the coach, Mom actually started training me to handle disruptions. There were mornings when she announced the day's schedule, knowing that later she would break it. "After school today we'll go to the park," she promised one morning at breakfast. "Yes!" I shouted. All day in school I anticipated the trip to the park. That afternoon I reminded Mom, "It's time to go to the park now." "I'm sorry, Anthony, but the car doesn't have enough gas. We'll have to go another day." "But you said!" "I know, but the car doesn't have enough gas. Things happen. Sometimes you can plan to do something, but then there's a problem." "We're going to the park." Mom had me take long, slow breaths. She told me to count to ten, and she bear hugged me. Mom ran this drill again and again--not that I knew what she was up to at the time, of course. Sticking with the sports metaphor, Mom thought of these schedule changes as "curve balls." My autism made me one of the world's worst curve ball hitters. Champions are made in practice--that's a classic sports aphorism. Coach Mom was running practices in our kitchen, and she endured tantrum after tantrum from me. Would her drills ever pay off? Would I ever improve? Excerpted from Centered: Autism, Basketball, and One Athlete's Dreams by Anthony Ianni, Rob Keast, Tom Izzo All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
