I watched a whole team of them last Saturday doing what these angels do — play excellent basketball and bless the life of a young friend of mine.

Crowds quickly recognize when a special needs kid is on the court. Usually it’s because she’s the kid who never touches the ball. She just runs back and forth, keeping up with team members who actually play ball.

But not this team. The players — and their like-minded coach — are aware of Nikki (not her real name) and make sure she plays. It means some turnovers. But they are good enough, both in their playing skills and their generosity, to keep the game in their favor, and hers too.

The coach, wearing a basketball T-shirt that cheerfully quips, “Court is now in Session,” puts Nikki in the game as often as possible. This basically turns her five-member team into a four-member team with a spare. Nikki is in it but not equipped to win it.

Her team members — some who are also members of the local junior high team — hone their skills in this league action. But under their coach’s guidance and their own generous natures, they also sharpen their human skills, their kindness skills, their going-outside-of-themselves skills to lift a peer who is different from them, yet longs to be like them despite a sometimes cruel world that mocks, taunts or just tolerates her.

The coach has taught Nikki some basic skills: how to stretch her arms up and make herself larger and taller, even how to hustle for the ball a little — something not natural for her. She also taught Nikki how to shoot a basket — not necessarily to shoot into the basket, because that would be a pretty tall order for Nikki. But at least how to dribble twice, then shoot.

The game winds down. Nikki’s coach nods to her team members, who know the drill. They work around, passing, fighting for the ball, then feed it to Nikki. “Shoot! Shoot!” they shout. Nikki automatically dribbles twice, giving an opposing team member an easy chance to steal, gallops to the other basket and scores.

Not a problem for angels. They just do it again. Set it up, pass the ball, feed it to Nikki and shout, “Shoot! Shoot!” Nikki catches the ball, dribbles twice, the other team holds back this time, and a fraction of a second before that final buzzer, she pushes the ball up toward the basket.

The cheer that explodes from the entire crowd is deafening. It seems the place is filled with angels who looked beyond the scoreboard to pray for a miracle. So when some angelic hand lifts that ball up, up, up and into the basket, pandemonium breaks loose.

Me, I just cry. Cry because she got her basket. Cry in gratitude for a coach who understands how a group of players can become a team and how a team can become a force for good. And cry because standing right there in front of me is a group of young girls who get it, who genuinely understand that winning is not the entire reason for playing. The amount of grace they give to a teammate who usually can’t hit the baskets they effortlessly sink with one hand is staggering. They are magnificent.

Nikki stands in the circle of congratulations with a shy little grin on her own angelic face. She’s not used to being the center of attention, not used to succeeding, not used to having people say good things about her. That little smile is cautious, but oh, so real — as real as the pats on her back, the honest smiles, the sincere, “Way to go!” expressions.

They take a team photo. Nikki stands there, back row, middle. She’s never middle in a photo — always off to the side, almost apologetic that she’s in the picture at all. But not this time. Not this day. This day is a day of angels, and there she is, in the midst of them.

Angels play basketball. And grace. And life. Sometimes much better than we grown-ups do.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.