Editor's note: In Day 2 of Ben Rushin's story, Ben broke two years of silence in the back seat of Debby's van. He said "waterslide," and Debby has yet to tell Richard.

By Callie Clark and Bob Miller ~ Southeast Missourian

The waiting game continues in Jackson High School's gymnasium, but it won't be much longer now.

The wrestling tournament moves slowly. Richard Rushin walks over to the fourth row of the bleachers and tells his son, Ben, there will be four more matches before his turn.

It's important for Ben, a 10-year-old with autism, to stick to a schedule.

Ben used to throw fits when the Rushins took a different road from Jackson into Cape Girardeau. There was only one way to make Ben happy -- and the scenic route wasn't it.

Ben is still a stickler for punctuality, but he can handle variations in schedules much better now. A forewarning goes a long way to reduce Ben's stress level.

After Richard updates his oldest son on the wrestling docket, they go over strategy: the Rushin attack, if you will.

In about 20 minutes, Ben will wrestle for the Jackson youth league championship.

At 103 pounds, Ben is big for his age but the smallest boy in Weight Class 32, which goes up to 121 pounds. Ben, seeded third out of five, is an underdog wrestling against boys who have as much as 20 pounds on him. In the semifinals, Ben avenged two losses against a boy who dominated him earlier this year.

Ben is wearing his camouflage T-shirt and his lucky black shorts. The Rushins have a sacred superstition -- you don't wash the lucky black shorts after a win.

Ben hopes the lucky shorts come through again today as he hopes to repay a prior loss in the next match, too, against a blond boy who pinned him earlier this year.

"What are you going to do if he shoots high?" Richard asks.

"Push his head down," Ben replies.

"What are you going to do if he shoots low?"

"Jump on top of him," Ben replies.

"Then what?"

"Head and arm."

"What are you going to do if you get on your back?"

"Get up at all costs."

"And who's gonna love you no matter what?"

"You."

The father-son dialogue is something Richard cherishes.

More than a word

When Ben was about 4 years old, he broke free of autism's communication lock and spoke for the first time in two years.

Ben's breakthrough happened at an odd time, while Debby was passing by the waterslide on U.S. 61 between Cape Girardeau and Jackson.

"Waterslide," Ben said, from the back seat, from nowhere.

Debby was speechless. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't wait to go home to tell Richard.

Debby threw open the door.

"Ben said 'Waterslide!' Ben said 'Waterslide!'"

Richard's mind momentarily rejected the words.

"No way. Did he really?" he looked to his other three children for confirmation.

"Yeah, he did, Dad. He did," they replied.

To Richard, waterslide was more than a word. Waterslide was a miracle.

Richard and Debby had no idea why that word was the first thing to come out of Ben's mouth. Ben had never been to a waterslide, and they had no idea where he might have picked up the word.

The reason didn't really matter. This back-seat miracle was what they'd prayed for and cried over for nearly two years. Waterslide, the most wonderful word of all, was proof that the pessimistic therapist, the one who'd told Richard his son would never speak, had been wrong all along. Waterslide was Ben's new beginning.

But there were still challenges ahead. Ben had to re-learn how to talk at age 4. While other children his age recited the alphabet and practiced writing their names, Ben repeated "momma" and "daddy" and still had problems with fine motor skills. He couldn't yet grip a pencil or button his clothes.

There were weeks when he wouldn't say a word, but Richard once again started his nightly ritual of talking to Ben. When Ben did speak, his words were difficult to understand. Benonese, Richard called it.

Kindergarten on time

On one hand, Richard and Debby worried that school officials might not allow Ben to enter kindergarten on schedule. On the other, they worried about Ben fitting in with the other kids.

When it came time to enroll Ben in kindergarten, Debbie and Richard chose not to include information about his PDD diagnosis on the school forms.

It wasn't an easy decision, but they didn't want the label to hold their son back. They also didn't want teachers to fall back on that diagnosis if Ben misbehaved or had trouble learning.

By the summer of 1998, Ben's vocabulary had improved, and he started kindergarten on time.

Not long into the school year, Debby and Richard took their children to Jackson City Park for a soccer game. Richard kept a careful eye on Ben, making sure the 5-year-old didn't climb up the slide backwards or fall down.

Richard turned his back for a moment and heard a loud, distinct crack. The sound was one Richard had heard several times in his lifetime, on the football field or on the wrestling mat. You don't forget the sound of breaking bone.

Even more eerie than the crack was the sound that followed. Silence. Every time Richard heard that cracking noise before, a scream of agony immediately followed.

He turned around and spotted Ben laying motionless on the ground near the 10-foot-high slide, the tallest slide at the park.

He's dead. He's broken his neck, that's why he didn't scream, and he's dead.

For an instant, Richard gazed at his son, horrified, paralyzed. And then Ben lifted up his head and held up his arm. His forearm was broken in two, with his hand and wrist grotesquely folded over, hanging onto the rest of his arm only by muscles, ligaments and skin.

The image took the breath from Richard's lungs, but Ben was unfazed. Ben didn't cry, didn't writhe around on the ground or even whimper. Only Richard's face showed the pain.

Ben's arm stayed in a cast for 6 weeks. The incident taught Richard and Debby something about their son's tolerance for pain. Some autistic children just don't feel pain. Or fear, for that matter. The incident was another example of why Richard and Debby had to watch over Ben at all times.

Toward the end of Ben's first year in school, a familiar pang of uncertainty crept back into Richard and Debby's minds. Would Ben go on to first grade, or would the school hold him back?

'I heard every word'

Then came the day when Ben took Richard by the hand, led him into a bedroom and pointed at a framed photograph displayed on a dresser.

In the picture, Ben was hanging from a fence at the Southeast Missouri District Fair, admiring a goat.

The 6-year-old looked up at his father and said, "Daddy, do you remember when I couldn't talk?"

"Yes, son. I do," Richard responded.

"Daddy, I heard every word you said," Ben replied.

The revelation brought Richard to tears. He had an epiphany; a realization that everything was going to be OK. Ben was getting it. The cross-wired circuitry was getting reconnected one precious moment at a time. The lights were coming on again, and the shadows of doubt that once clouded Richard's dreams for Ben slowly receded.

The therapies continued in first and second grades. Ben loved animals, and therapists used them to motivate him. Ms. Shelly, who transferred to South Elementary when Easter Seals shut down, found repetition techniques worked well with Ben. And all Ben needed for motivation was a high five and a smile.

The progress was slow and steady, but gradually Ben was gaining ground on his classmates, both academically and physically.

He didn't run quite like the other children. Perhaps that's why he didn't like soccer.

Ben could do most of the work that the rest of his students did; it just took a little more time.

By the time Ben turned 9, his confidence reached a new level. He decided, with Richard and Debby's encouragement, to join his sisters in the Show Me Games, an amateur sporting event for children and adults held in Columbia every year.

Richard talked Ben into trying the shot put, and Ben wanted to try the 800 meter run, a half-mile.

So Ben practiced both. He liked running, even if he didn't run quite as well as everybody else. But he was determined. He'd run a little, walk a little around the track four times, trying to improve his time at each practice.

When the Show Me Games came around, Ben was ready. He took fourth place in the shot put, just barely missing a medal.

When the gun sounded to start the 800 race, Ben watched the rest of the field take off without him. Ben would run a little, walk a little, while the other boys trotted around the track.

'I finished strong'

By the time the rest of the field was finished, Ben was just starting his final lap.

As he tried to run, the crowd started cheering. Louder and louder the shouts grew. Everyone was a Ben Rushin fan now. When Ben approached the last stretch, he reached down for something extra and sprinted as fast as he could to the finish line, the strangers in the bleachers pushing him the entire way.

It was another teary moment for Richard, who can't hide his soft side when it comes to Ben.

Right after the race, Ben, his chest heaving for breath, went straight to Richard. The boy was undaunted by finishing last.

"Did you see that, Dad? I finished strong. What was my time?"

Ben broke his personal record.

That race was a microcosm of Ben's life. If Ben is anything, he's an achiever, defined more by effort than a neurological disorder. He may get off to a slow start, he may take more time to get to the finish line, but he's going to finish strong. You can bet on it.

cclark@semissourian.com

335-6611, extension 128

bmiller@semissourian.com

243-6635