A6
THE ASTORIAN • THuRSdAy, MARcH 3, 2022
Neah-Kah-Nie player is passionately persistent
Spellman hasn’t let disability
keep him from basketball
By TOM HALLMAN JR.
The Oregonian
The Neah-Kah-Nie High School boys
varsity basketball team assembled in the
locker room before the game to go over
strategy. The Pirates were restless and fool-
ing around, expected after a two-hour bus
ride from Rockaway Beach to Gaston to
face the Greyhounds.
“Listen up,” shouted coach Erick White.
Nothing.
“Hey, listen up.”
Silence.
“Let’s huddle up,” ordered White. “All
seniors are starting tonight. We want to work
on early buckets, get that lead right and then
bring in the quick group.”
White surveyed the room, turning to
point at No. 13, Matt Spellman, an 18-year-
old senior with a classic basketball body —
6 foot 2 — and an instinct for the game as
well as a near photographic memory, able
to recall the strengths and weaknesses of the
pros from current NBA teams back to the old
timers of the 1970s.
“Spellman,” said White, “I want you
popping out on the corner. You get a shot,
you take it.”
Spellman nodded.
“Let’s go,” said White. “Let’s do it.”
The team jogged to the gym.
Spellman lagged, dragging his left foot
and moving with an uneven gait. His left
knee turned inward toward his right knee.
His left arm remained tucked close to his
waist. He can’t fully extend it. His grip is
weak, and he can’t turn his left palm to face
the ceiling. After birth, he was diagnosed
with periventricular leukomalacia, brain
damage that led to a form of cerebral palsy
affecting his left side.
The visiting Pirates took the floor first, an
announcer introducing them to the crowd.
“No. 13, Matthew Spellman.”
Spectators watched Spellman move awk-
wardly onto the basketball court dragging
that left foot. He’s worn out the toes of every
left shoe he’s ever owned.
The Pirates got an early possession and
attacked the basket, the guard dribbling up
court to set the offense. After a series of
passes, the ball ended up in the hands of
Spellman, who’d drifted out to the corner.
He shot.
He missed.
No. 13 will never dunk.
No. 13 will never make a pass between
his legs.
No. 13 will never make the game-win-
ning shot.
No matter.
No. 13 was never expected to walk.
An attraction to the game
Spellman was born nearly three months
premature after his mother’s water broke
while she and her husband were vacationing
in Bend. He weighed 3 pounds, 9 ounces.
Remember that number – 3.9.
It’s mysterious and meaningful, per-
haps spiritual in the broadest meaning of
the word, a number that summarizes a jour-
ney that began in a hospital where Spellman
spent five weeks in the newborn intensive
care unit fighting for life before returning
home to Bay City.
His parents drove to a Portland hospital
when they saw that their son, while meet-
ing intellectual benchmarks, had difficulty
trying to crawl. A scan revealed PVL. Sec-
tions of the boy’s brain’s white matter —
what transmits information between nerve
cells, the spinal cord and within the brain —
had been damaged. The medical team was
blunt, telling the couple it was unlikely their
son would walk and would need an assistive
device.
“This wasn’t going to be the fairytale life
we’d dreamed of,” said his mother, Cheryl
Spellman. “We grieved and we grieved. But
we decided we’d never become consumed
with why or what if. This was now our life,
our son’s life, and we were going to do
everything possible for him.”
And so a new chapter began in Tilla-
mook County, a place that has much to do
with what happened to Spellman. The cou-
ple lived in Bay City, a town of about 2,500
people, in the heart of Tillamook County.
The Spellmans arrived there in 1995
from La Grande after Brandon Spellman lost
his job as a soft-drink distributor when the
local mill closed, which sent an economic
ripple through Eastern Oregon. The couple
had always enjoyed vacationing on the Ore-
gon Coast, and they thought this might be
their chance to move to the beach. Spellman
called companies up and down the coast,
finally landing a job as a soft-drink distrib-
utor based in Tillamook, about 7 miles from
Bay City where they had a home.
The Spellmans were quietly taken in, sup-
ported in the unspoken and subtle rhythms
of a way of life so often found in towns seen
by outsiders as little more than dots on a
map. After their son’s diagnosis, the news
traveled from Bay City to towns throughout
the county. People offered to bring meals or
do anything the parents needed.
The family began making frequent trips to
Portland’s Shriners Hospital, where their son
underwent multiple surgeries. He received
extensive physical and occupational ther-
apy and was outfitted with devices, all in the
hopes of keeping him out of a wheelchair.
Medical records, in such precise language,
reveal what’s happening within the body, but
they can’t explore the soul.
“Matt was so stubborn,” said his father,
Sean Meagher/The Oregonian
Matt Spellman of Neah-Kah-Nie High School shoots a three-pointer during the Pirates’
basketball game against Gaston last month.
Sean Meagher/The Oregonian
Spellman gets a few words of wisdom from his father during the Pirates’ basketball game
against Gaston.
Brandon Spellman. “He was determined to
one another as if they were brothers and sis-
ters. But the middle school years – big city
walk. He’d pulled himself up to things and
or small town – can be tough, a reality Spell-
hang on to stand, even just for a moment or
man found out in the sixth grade. He told no
two.”
one until one night when he was at his moth-
Doctors did more surgeries, changed the
er’s house sitting and talking with his stepfa-
braces and continued therapy, telling his par-
ther, Mike Bentley.
ents that he should be given a walker, but the
“He said no one wanted to play basket-
child would have none of it back in Bay City.
ball with him at recess,” Bentley said. “The
“He wouldn’t even hold my hand,”
kids said he couldn’t walk or run like them.
Cheryl Spellman recalled. “He wanted
He started crying right there in front of me.
to walk. But he was so unstable. That boy
He said people said no one wanted to be
would fall backwards and hit the floor. He’s
stuck with Spellman.”
experienced more falls in his life than any-
one I’ve ever known. He never cried or com-
At school one day, Spellman saw a sign
plained. He just got up and tried again.”
about an upcoming contest a few months
Spellman doesn’t recall those early years.
away involving basketball. Students were
“What I really remember is when I started
invited to compete in a free throw compe-
tition to determine the best shooter in the
school,” he said. “I’d see these other kids
school. To enter, a student had to get 10 pay-
walking and running. I’m not going to lie.
ing sponsors with the all the money raised
There were times it was terrible. I couldn’t
going to support OHSU Doernbecher Chil-
even step over something with my left leg.
dren’s Hospital. It was easy for Spellman,
I’d get mad and wonder why it was happen-
ing to me.”
an outgoing kid, to go hit up adults for a
A younger sister was born. His parents
donation.
divorced when he was 7. They agreed to
Then reality hit.
joint custody — the kids coming to spend
The boy no one wanted on the team
a week at a time at the other home. Bran-
would have to go out on the court in front
don Spellman moved to Tillamook, less
of all the students and attempt to make a
than 6 miles away from his ex-wife’s place.
shot from 15 feet into a basket 10 feet off
Spellman’s parents eventually found love
the ground.
with others, bringing stepchildren into an
“It wasn’t going to be easy,” he said. “My
extended family.
balance is super affected because of my left
When Spellman was at his father’s house,
side. I had to get some strength and learn
he watched basketball games on televi-
how to use my left arm as a guide.”
sion. His father showed him highlights of
So began an intense period of training.
Michael Jordan, con-
He practiced shooting
sidered the best player
free throws at the hoop
‘WHAT I REALLy
in NBA history. He
at his father’s house,
told his son that Jor-
he was up at 5 a.m.
REMEMBER IS WHEN and
dan was great not just
doing daily strength and
because of his obvi-
I STARTEd ScHOOL. balance exercises.
ous athletic ability,
“He walked through
but also because of his I’d SEE THESE OTHER the house constantly
drive to win.
pretending he was
KIdS WALKING
“I studied Jordan
shooting the ball,” said
like a religion,” Spell-
Cheryl Spellman. “It
ANd RuNNING. I’M
man said. “It made me
drove us crazy, and we
NOT GOING TO LIE.
want to be like him.”
kept asking him to stop.
At his mother’s
refused.”
THERE WERE TIMES He On
house, he became
the day of the
obsessed with try-
event, the rules were
IT WAS TERRIBLE. I
ing to use a basket-
simple: The winner
ball, difficult at first cOuLdN’T EVEN STEP would be determined by
because he had to rely
who made the most free
OVER SOMETHING
on only one arm.
throws in 20 attempts.
WITH My LEFT LEG. Spellman was realistic
“I had a great room
we never used,” said
and hoped only not to
I’d GET MAd ANd
Cheryl Spellman. “I
make a fool of himself.
cleared
everything
“There were some
WONdER WHy IT WAS
out and put a plas-
real basketball players
HAPPENING TO ME.’ in the contest,” he said.
tic hoop out there. I
could never find that
“Some eighth graders,
Matt Spellman
kid anywhere but in
too.”
that great room. He
Then it was his turn.
couldn’t even make a
He
concentrated,
basket, let alone hit it. He had no power in
thinking about his form and balance, all the
his arms.”
shots and exercises he spent hours perfecting.
His father began taking his son to basket-
“I made 14 out of 20,” he said. “I won.”
ball games at the local YMCA.
It was, in that young life, a turning point.
“He’d watch us play, a bunch of older
“People underestimated me,” he said. “I
guys,” said Brandon Spellman. “He loved
may not always be first. But I’ll never be
the game. I got an adjustable hoop I could
last.”
lower, and I put it on a court at our house. I’d
‘He does everything we do in
play him one-on-one. I mean hundreds and
practice’
hundreds of games. He was always trying
When he started at Neah-Kah-Nie High
to do his best. He never gave up. There’s no
School, he learned the school is so small that
quit in the boy. I have to tell you, I’m envi-
ous of that.”
administrators instituted a “no-cut” rule for
Spellman’s speech and intellect were first
kids who wanted to join a team or participate
rate. He made friends in school and earned
in a sport. The freshman got a spot on the
good grades. The Neah-Kah-Nie School
junior varsity team but was in over his head
District has one middle school and one high
that year and his sophomore season.
school, which has 250 students.
“The coach at the time was all about
That means students are as familiar with
working the ball inside for layups,” he said.
“Those are hard for me. I’d get into a game
for a maybe a minute, but I never scored.”
For one game he and the team traveled by
bus 80 miles to play. He never left the bench.
He came home and told his mother he was
considering quitting the team.
“I wasn’t getting anything out of it,” he
said. “I had my moment of anger and then
started to look at the big picture. I was get-
ting an experience I’d never get again. I
was getting to be with my teammates. I told
myself that even if I never got to play again,
I should enjoy the memory.”
Spellman began working out daily, work-
ing to raise both arms to catch a pass thrown
from far away, something he’d need to be
able to do if he was going to be a long-dis-
tance shooter.
The pandemic disrupted everything. The
JV basketball coach left, and the coach of the
girls’ varsity squad, Erick White, was asked
to fill the vacancy while continuing to work
with the girls.
All the kids knew White, who was born
and raised in Nehalem and graduated from
Neah-Kah-Nie High School in 1997. He has
two daughters and a son, and over the years
volunteered to coach multiple youth basket-
ball teams. When his best friend, the high
school’s athletic director, asked him to coach
the girls varsity team, White agreed and then
suddenly also had the boys JV team dropped
into his lap.
“I knew Spellman,” said White. “He’d
been going to school with my kids, and
they ran in similar groups. I think one thing
that’s pretty valuable about being a coach in
a small town is you get to be more present.
You’re not just a coach a couple hours each
evening. You bump into these kids and their
families year-round in the community.”
During that COVID-19-shortened JV
season of Spellman’s junior year, White saw
progress in the kid whose professional bas-
ketball idol was no longer Jordan but Ste-
phen Curry, the Golden State Warriors point
guard and prolific outside shooter.
“I knew what I couldn’t do in basketball,”
said Spellman. “I was never going to be able
to take the ball to the rim. I knew I was never
going to be able to out jump another player.
I knew I could never be physical or fast.
All that was left for me was to learn how to
shoot.”
During tryouts for this season’s varsity
team, White saw Spellman had developed
into a player with a shot that was impossible
to ignore. Spellman, who expected to remain
on the JV squad, was stunned when White
named him to varsity and assigned him No.
13.
“This was no charity pick” said White.
“I don’t believe in that. He does everything
we do in practice. Sometimes his leg gets
sore, and he’s got to sit something out. But
he never, and I mean never, expects special
treatment. We all treat him like he can, not
like he can’t.”
White is reflective.
“Honestly it’s not just about the product
on the floor,” he said. “Spellman’s a great
teammate. He notices the little things. We
were doing film study the other day and he
was pointing out things other players miss.
He told me, with a smile, that when he’s
sitting on the bench so much, he learns to
notice a lot of things.”
Teammate Matt Erickson said Spell-
man’s work ethic is “crazy.”
“If he didn’t have cerebral palsy,” Erick-
son said, “he’d be the best player on our
team.”
Erickson said a player on another team
was “talking mad trash” and making fun of
Spellman in the weeks before the two teams
met, saying that Spellman would never con-
tribute to the team. When Spellman entered
the game that night, the trash talker guarded
him.
“He was rough, adding an extra shove and
doing cheap stuff the ref wouldn’t be able
to see,” said Spellman. “Later, a teammate
kicks the ball out to me. That kid guarding
me came running out and I shot it over him.
It was a rainbow. It went in and the crowd
freaked out and I knew that trash talker was
demoralized. The player who wouldn’t con-
tribute made a three-pointer over him.”
Spellman relishes the memory.
“I didn’t say a word,” he said. “My shot
spoke for me.”
Spellman has begun considering his
future beyond high school. A couple years
ago he started a business, sourcing and sell-
ing high-end collectible basketball shoes
to buyers around the country. He’s turned
a profit and now plans to attend college in
Oregon and major in marketing and minor
in recreational sports management.
This year’s basketball season was up and
down. Practices were called off and games
had to be rescheduled because of COVID-
19. Even so, the Pirates were in contention
for a final league playoff spot if they could
beat Columbia Christian Knights at an away
game in Portland.
From his spot on the bench, Spellman
knew the Pirates were going to lose. He
dealt with what he called waves of emotion
– sadness, melancholy and an awareness that
nothing is permanent. Losing didn’t matter.
What hurt was knowing that his life on a
high school team would soon be over. He’d
miss the fooling around, the rides on the bus
and wearing that uniform.
Coach White interrupted his thoughts.
“Do you want the last seconds?”
The clock showed 3.9 seconds left in the
game.
3.9.
“You want in?”
A nod.
And with that, No. 13 checked into the
game one last time.