By JIM HUNT
Author, Speaker, Consultant with the Harrison County News and Journal
For my column this week, I want to write about my friend Curtis Sharp. Curtis has Cerebral Palsy and I have known him for more than forty years. He uses a wheelchair and is largely nonverbal, but anyone who has spent time with Curtis knows he has a powerful way of communicating, especially through his smile and his spirit.
Curtis’s mother, Stephaney, has been devoted to him his entire life. Curtis’s father, Roy, worked for the City of Clarksburg Parking Authority and passed away several years ago. The Sharp family has traveled a road that most people will never fully understand, one paved with patience, sacrifice, fierce love, and the kind of daily courage that rarely gets recognized in public but deserves a standing ovation.
I first met Curtis when I coached the Cerebral Palsy T-ball league. Curtis, along with about fifteen other teammates, were pioneers. They opened the door for disabled children to participate in sports leagues and other activities, right alongside their peers. Coaching this group of youngsters was one of the highlights of my life. The games were exciting and had all the action and hijinks of any other team.
For kids in wheelchairs, their brothers and sisters served as helpers, pushing them around the bases after they hit the ball from a tee at home plate. We made the rules as we encountered situations that did not conform to the standard rules of baseball. I remember one time when a young boy was playing first base and flipped off the switch on a young girl’s powered wheelchair to keep her from heading to second base. I knew I had to be firm and let him know that wasn’t appropriate, but it was hard to keep a straight face in view of his creative way of playing defense.
At the beginning of the year, each team would choose a name, and we would have t-shirts printed. After the season, the McDonald’s restaurant would provide a team party, and we awarded trophies to the kids. Curtis played each season and loved having his brother Patrick push him around the bases. Curtis would move his arms and legs faster and faster as Patrick pushed harder, like he was willing his body to fly.
A question might be asked about the wins and losses of the Thunderbirds and the Rockets, but as I have quizzed many of the teammates over the years, their memories are mostly about the cheering, the laughing, and the close play at home. Curtis Sharp was a superstar, and his huge smile impacted every person who ever met him.
Curtis has been struggling lately after an accident where he broke his leg when his wheelchair slipped off a curb. More recently, he was placed in hospice. That word can hit you like a punch. But hospice is not about giving up. It is about comfort, dignity, and love. It is about surrounding someone with care and surrounding their family with support.
Curtis has taught a lot of us over the years. He taught us that communication is more than words. He taught us that joy can be loud without making a sound. He taught us patience, not the kind you learn in a book, but the kind you learn when you slow down and match your pace to someone you love.
And Stephaney has taught us something too. Most people will never fully grasp what it means to devote a lifetime to caring for someone who needs you for nearly everything. There are a thousand unseen sacrifices behind every day Curtis has lived with comfort and dignity, and those sacrifices have a name, Stephaney Sharp.
Each kid on that team was a star, but like any sports team, when one teammate is hurting, the team comes together. It would be easy to discount the value of a group of kids with wheelchairs and crutches, playing t-ball on a summer evening, with parents and friends cheering them on. I, for one, will never forget those days on the baseball diamond with makeshift bats and a spirit that would rival the World Series.
So, this is my message to the Sharp family and to everyone who loves Curtis. Thank you, Curtis, for the joy you have brought into this world. Thank you for reminding us of what a team is supposed to be. And to Stephaney and Patrick, please know you are not alone. Curtis has touched more lives than you may ever realize. There is a long line of people who are better, kinder, and more grateful because they knew him.
We cannot fix what is happening right now, but we can do what teammates do. We can show up. We can pray. We can remember. We can tell the stories. And we can hold this family close in the days ahead. Long after the trophies tarnish and the t-shirts fade, what will remain is what always mattered most, the love, the laughter, the courage, and the team. Curtis Sharp, our superstar, will always be part of it.