A world of sound, silence for South Rowan basketball player

From: Lexington Dispatch, NC - Feb 12, 2005

By SUSAN SHINN

David Wolford stands at the free-throw line. He spins the ball, drops it and dribbles three times.

Behind him, fans from the opposing team start chanting, "Brick! Brick! Brick!"

David keeps his eyes on the goal, spinning the ball in his hand.

The Raider Rowdies start up their own chant.

"He can't hear youuuuuuu!" they scream.

David shoots.

Swish.

David, who turned 17 on Thursday, is a sophomore at South Rowan High School. This year, he's playing on the varsity basketball team as a point guard. A childhood illness left him profoundly deaf, but he was fitted with a cochlear implant at age 5 - also the year he started playing hoops.

Only trouble is, sweating shorts out the implant. So in middle school, David realized he'd have to make a choice. Don't play basketball, or play without the implant, and hear absolutely nothing.

He plays without it.

David has played basketball through school, the YMCA and AAU. He tries to practice every day, either at school, at home or at the South Rowan Y.

"It's fun for me," he says.

Moving up to varsity has been his goal. "It's a higher level and I like it."

The injury-plagued varsity team has had to rely on some freshman junior varsity players, so David has had to assume a leadership role pretty quickly.

Coach John Davis recently called him a "veteran" - only half-jokingly.

Millen Mabe, an employee of the school system, serves as David's interpreter, in class, at practice, at games.

"If you want his attention, talk basketball," she says.

"He's a good player," says Larry Deal, the school's athletic director. "Teammates respect him for his work ethic and his intensity."

The school's fans - the Raider Rowdies - Deal says, "are behind David - in his corner, 100 percent."

Luckily, David has escaped injury this season. Playing without hearing seems to sharpen his focus.

"I just do it and I know what to do," he says. "I use my eyes a lot."

He's pretty good, he allows, at knowing where his teammates are at all times - and where the competition is. He can feel the vibrations in the floor, and takes cues from that, too.

"I can guess really good at what the ball is going to do," he says.

"He's always cool and calm and knocks 'em down for us," Davis says.

His lifelong dream is to play for Coach Mike Krzyzewski at Duke.

Once, another coach gave Davis a card for Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C., a college for the deaf. He could get David in.

Heck no, David told his mom. I'm going to Duke.

Basketball, says Susan Wolford, is where her son can shine.

"Sports has leveled the playing arena for him," she says.

David was a happy 6-month-old, right where he should be developmentally. But one morning, he developed a fever and began projectile vomiting. Susan Wolford took him to the doctor. The physician took one look at the now lethargic infant and said, "Meet me at the emergency room."

Diagnosed with spinal meningitis, David spent two weeks in ICU.

"It completely bowled you over," his mom says. "It was pretty traumatic."

David's doctor told Shane and Susan Wolford about all the side effects of the disease - blindess, mental retardation, paralysis. Another was hearing loss.

Shane Wolford, who as a child developed a progressive hearing loss because of a bone disease, decided it was the least of all evils.

After their son had been at death's door, Susan Wolford says, "We felt like we could handle anything else that would come our way."

The couple knew early in their son's recovery that he was deaf.

The Wolfords have pushed their son toward a hearing world.

"He's got to learn to function in a hearing world," his mom says.

He's completely mainstreamed in school. He makes straight As. If he makes a B, his father says, he doesn't drive.

"We didn't want him to use sign language as a crutch," says Susan Wolford, who signs to her son only when he doesn't understand what's being said.

He reads lips extremely well.

His speech has been affected by his hearing loss, but you can understand what he says.

At school, Mabe stays near David, but tries to blend into the background. After two years of working with him, she knows his body language, and she knows if he needs her assistance. David typically waits for students to approach him - he doesn't want to make anyone uncomfortable, she says.

Hearing-impaired himself, Shane doesn't allow his son to have any pity parties. Like other kids his age, David worries about not having enough friends.

But there's text messaging on cell phones. There's IM and e-mail. And there's the cochlear implant, which he wears most of the time.

Friday nights in the South gym are pretty much the same as they've been since the school opened in the '60s. The weird fluorescent lights shine weakly on the huge collection of red and black championship banners. Guys saunter in wearing letter jackets. Girls come by in groups of two or three, wearing low-slung jeans and lip gloss. Landis police officers stand by the door. One of them props his foot against the wall.

Tonight, the girls' game against West Forsyth goes into double overtime. The boys' team watches from the back hallway. The Raider Rowdies are out in full force. Four rows deep, they stand during the entire girls' game.

The pregame warm-up features high-energy dance music, piped in. The buzz of the crowd grows as the first buzzer approaches.

David hears none of this. He's wearing his game face. Number 10 never cracks a smile on the court. He shakes hands with his teamates as they come off the bench during introductions.

Wearing black, Millen takes her place by the coach's side.

The 5-foot, 10-inch sophomore starts the game with his teammates. Soon after the clock starts ticking, Coach Davis slaps the floor to get David's attention. He doesn't respond. Instead, he runs the length of the court and nails a three-pointer, putting his team on the scoreboard.

Shane and Susan Wolford and their daughter, McKenzie, 10, are a fixture in the stands. Even with his own hearing impairment, Shane Wolford can be vocal in his criticism of the officials. Tina Odom is in the stands tonight. She's David's speech therapist. They meet twice a week to work on diction and vocabulary. He's one of 28 students she works with at South.

"He'll do anything you ask him to do," Tina says. "He's a very hard worker. He's so sick today. I'm surprised he's playing this hard."

A group of players lunges for a loose ball. David's on the bottom of the pile.

Tonight, David gets three fouls in the first half. He doesn't play as much as usual. He's also recovering from a bug that's going around.

Still, he ends the night with 15 points. He's the team's high scorer.

At the end of the game, John Allen, one of the West Forsyth assistant coaches, approaches a photographer, asking for pictures of David.

He does a lot of motivational speaking, he explains, and this kid's motivated.

"He's playing it fun, he's playing it hard," Allen says. "He's a great shooter. I think the world of him."

After the game, groups of parents linger in the gym, waiting for their sons to get out of the locker room.

"That's my man," Lamar Wilkerson says of David. He's David's AAU coach. David's been playing with him for three years.

"It was a challenge," Wilkerson says. "I'd never coached a deaf kid. We set signals and numbers to let David know what was going on on the court. He was a kid with a lot of passion. You'd never know he was a deaf kid, because he talked too much. He was one of the hardest workers we had."

On Wednesday afternoon, the varsity and jayvee teams combine for practice. The gym smells about the way you'd imagine a gym full of guys to smell. The incessant dribbling of balls echoes off the walls.

Mabe stands near Davis, ready at a moment's notice to relay whatever comments he makes.

He doesn't say much to his teammates; then again, nobody's standing around chatting.

The kids hustle down the court, running drills.

If they miss a basket, they must do "down and backs," running back and forth the length of the court.

Suicides, they used to be called.

In groups of three, the players run a drill, yelling when they want the ball.

David yells just like everyone else when it's his turn.

Swish.

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Information from: Salisbury Post,

© 2005 Lexington Dispatch