Cory Collins

Star correspondent

Susan Mahan woke up in the middle of the night, her alarm clock the answer to an all-consuming question.

Only a few hours before, she had told her husband, Jim, it wasn't possible. She couldn't take care of this little boy. She wasn't ready emotionally. A former foster child who endured her own search for a new home and new parents, how could she take on a child's suffering?

A child who, when adoption agencies sent out a referral asking which families would take on this special case, had just two willing homes.

Whose scars were not just a reminder of a painful past, but a promise of a future daily fight just to live.

Yet at 4 a.m., Susan Mahan woke up, shook her husband awake and looked him in the eye.

"If Owen can do it," she said, "so can we."

* * *

Owen Mahan does not know that he is any different from the next kid.

Just another Indiana kid who dreams of going fast, going all the time. The 6-year-old will tell you his favorite subject is "recess," his favorite book "baseball," and his favorite thing to do with his brother is a game of Batman on the Xbox.

He'll tell you that he wants to be a race car driver. Why?

"Because they go fast."

He'll tell you that his new nickname, "Big Daddy Jack Rabbit," fits as well as his new baseball glove. Why?

"Because I'm fast."

And he'll tell you that he likes baseball because, quite simply, he gets a chance to bat, then run ... fast.

But Owen Mahan is different from the next kid.

He was two years old and living in Lawrence, Kan., when normalcy was suspended by a splash on Oct. 3, 2009. Owen's biological mother told a news outlet months later that she and her boyfriend had filled a bathtub with scalding hot water to clean an aquarium. For a moment, the room was unsupervised. In that moment, Owen fell in.

Second- and third-degree burns covered 98 percent of his body, rendering him nearly unrecognizable from the child he'd been before. His hands were closed into fists. He bore the wounds of a boy practically boiled alive.

Doctors said he had zero chance at survival. Then he lived.

Doctors swore Owen would never walk, or talk, or ride a bicycle again. He has conquered all three.

Reuniting Owen with his biological mother, who could not be reached for comment, was unsuccessful following his stay at the Shriner's Hospital in Cincinnati. The Mahans adopted Owen on Sept. 9, 2012. His biological mother isn't allowed to see him. Owen's biological father makes supervised visits.

Doctors didn't believe Owen could become a normal boy. And they were right. He's extraordinary. A normal boy lives. Owen brings life to others. A normal boy complains when pain persists. Owen smiles.

Scars cover most of his body. Two painful surgeries per year are penciled into his schedule, as regular as summer break and Christmas holidays.

He can only be comfortable in his own skin after first enduring the pain of replacing it.

Even then, it must be maintained.

Before he can get out of bed each morning, the skin that tightens up at night must be stretched. Eye drops go in every two hours. Lotion is massaged onto his entire body four times a day to keep the skin from drying and tearing. His prosthetic feet must be fitted, put on like a pair of shoes. He takes various medications every three hours.

Even when Owen goes outside, play requires patience. Since he doesn't sweat, Susan carries a cistern to hydrate his skin. Sunscreen is applied every two hours — more often if it's hot and sunny. A hat on his head and water on his lips are required.

If a kid stares a little longer than normal or asks Owen a question, his cheery voice quips, "I was burnt. Let's go play."

There's something else that sets this kid in kindergarten apart. He's a recess junkie who already happens to be on a college baseball team.

* * *

An old man impacted.

Physical therapy restores the tangible — muscles, ligaments, skin and bones.

It can also rehabilitate the spirit.

Owen arrived in Brownsburg to stretch and exercise his ever-changing body. For him, the therapy does not come with the promise of restoration and release. As his mother said, "He'll have therapy for the rest of his life." But he soldiers on because he always does.

Nearby, an old man, likely in his 80s, starts to give in. His body aches. He's too old, too tired. Then he sees Owen, this burned boy, his body being stretched, his limits tested. And he sees that this boy doesn't complain or cry.

"What's his story?" he asks.

Susan Mahan nods. The therapist tells Owen's story. The old man considers.

"Well if that boy can do it," he says, "so can I."

And he resumes that ongoing battle for a better life.

* * *

February 11, 2014. The scene was surreal. Cameras were clicking as the young boy signed his letter of intent to join the University of Indianapolis baseball team. Once he slipped his new jersey over his shirt, it was clear he belonged.

Owen Mahan, No. 1.

"He was very timid when he first walked in," baseball coach Gary Vaught said. "But then I said, 'Owen, are you ready to put that Greyhound uniform on?' It was like a light switch went on. We put that jersey on him and it was like, 'Hey, I'm a part of this team. I'm on this ballclub now.'"

Sophomore infielder Anthony Asalon added: "When he officially became a part of the team, you could see that smile light up. I've never seen anything like that. He was so happy to be there. I'll have that memory the rest of my life."

Asalon and his teammates were captivated by the young boy's spirit. Within a few minutes, they were laughing and joking with him as teammates do. They were watching "Handy Manny," a Disney Junior show, and invested in Owen's take on the repairman and his talking tools.

"I think he's probably the coolest kid I've ever met in my life," said Asalon, whose Twitter avatar includes his and Owen's wide smiles. "If I put myself in that position, just in my head, I can't see myself being as happy as he is."

Owen enjoys the simplest pleasures because, in his life, they were never guaranteed. One surgery at a time, one skin graft at a time, a once-broken body was turned back into a boy who could not only survive, but run, and bike, and smile.

For a boy with fingers restored, a grip on life rediscovered, a glove is a godsend.

"When he put that baseball glove on his hand, it was unbelievable," Vaught said. "Kids don't get excited like that anymore."

Susan Mahan added: "The team did not see his scars. They just saw him as being a pretty awesome little boy."

He's a part of the team. So much so that the coach gave him the nickname "Big Daddy Jack Rabbit" to join the ranks of other Vaught disciples: "Big Chief," "The Hawk," "Bull." So much so that Asalon said, "He's just like one of us. He's just another guy on the team."

That's why Owen Mahan isn't like the next kid. The next kid isn't considered an integral member of a team with NCAA tournament dreams.

The Greyhounds are just outside the NCAA Division II tournament right now. Six teams from each region are selected, with UIndy moving from unranked to seventh this week. The Greyhounds faced Southern Indiana, No. 1 in the Midwest, this weekend and play in the Great Lakes Valley Conference tournament next weekend, giving them a chance to earn a berth.

"The growth I'm seeing (in my team) right now, the maturity level, shows that already he's a huge plus for us," Vaught said. "I think it comes from a little guy walking into our lives that should've died, but he didn't. And instead, he has a zest for life."

So perhaps this season, the definition of success rests on smaller shoulders for the Greyhounds. A little boy has given them perspective and something else for which to fight.

"Everyone wants to be a champion. But when it comes down to it, every day that I can get out there and play is a success," Asalon said. "It makes me feel like I'm not just playing for a national championship. I'm playing for a little boy to have a good day, to have a good time … to smile."

It was a match made possible by Team IMPACT, a charity that matches children such as Owen with sports teams in an effort to fulfill their stated mission: "Establishing and expanding vibrant team-based support networks." It is intended to boost the child's morale, or, as the acronym suggests, Inspire, Motivate, and Play against Challenges — Together.

But this wasn't just about a boy being impacted. This was about a boy with the gift to impact others.

* * *

A young man impacted.

For Anthony Asalon, baseball represents not just a sport, but a birthright. He knows the game like he knows his name, and they are often intertwined. His father coaches Northern Kentucky University's baseball team, and passed that passion to his son. The Cincinnati native grew up idolizing his hometown Reds, and respecting the game.

But Owen helped him respect life — helped him see that baseball was a blessing.

"To be honest, I never really thought about it before," Asalon said. "If I had a bad day, I'd whine or complain about it. I'd be down on myself, or down about something.

"Now, honestly, I can't. It's hard to be down on yourself when you see the way a kid that doesn't have what you have lives. It gives you a perspective on life. It changes it completely."

He thinks of Owen, the way he fits right in with the goofballs on the team.

"Sometimes, you just have to act like a little kid and have fun," said Asalon. "That's what Owen brings. He brings out the little kid in us …

"When you get to play one of the greatest games, how can you not be having a good time?"

As if to say, if Owen can have a good time, so can we.

* * *

Susan Mahan tells a story that breaks the heart. Of a boy hospitalized for 11 days after grafting surgery left him immobile from the waist down. Of a boy who endured "horrific" pain when she changed his dressings twice a day, once they got him back home.

One time, Susan cried. Tears rolled from her eyes. And Owen looked at her. "It's okay, Mommy," he said. "I know you don't mean to hurt me."

He lifts the family that sacrificed their lives to take on his struggle.

"After Owen was placed in our home, I'm a lot more positive than I've ever been," Susan said. "He's really humbled us and made us more grateful for things than we've ever been."

He lifts the team that sacrificed their time to take on his spirit.

When the Greyhounds take the field to start a game, they huddle. Their hands meet in the center. They count to three. But it's not the word "Greyhounds" that sends their fingers to the sky. It's, "Owen!"

Asalon can already see how Owen's spirit breaks through the boundaries of his body.

"Everybody's got scars," he said. "Everybody looks different. To us, we don't see them. We look past it. We don't see the scars. It's not about what you look like, it's about the character behind it. It's about the heart that you have and how happy you are, and what you give out to other people. He has a chance to change a lot of people's lives, and he doesn't even know it."

As it turns out, he does.

Despite his young age, Owen serves as a "Patient Ambassador" for Shriners Hospital, giving speeches on occasion. He's 6, so you'd expect the one-liners that made for easy laughs on "Kids Say the Darndest Things." But, as always, Owen isn't your average kid.

"As soon as he starts speaking, you just stop and listen to him," said Susan Mahan. "It's just something about his demeanor. He's just inspiring, and people really listen to him."

Owen had Mountain Man of "Duck Dynasty" fame "eating out of his hand," according to Susan. Now it's hard to say who is a bigger fan of the other.

But it's easy to measure the impact of Owen's words. At his last speaking engagement, he finished to a standing ovation. Because if Owen, after all he's endured, can stand, so can they.

* * *

A team impacted.

Gary Vaught is no stranger to what it means to succeed.

The 62-year-old coach has over 800 wins, including 648 for the Greyhounds as he enters his 20 th season in Indianapolis. Only 11 Division II coaches have more. He has taken the university to eight NCAA tournaments.

But with old age comes new perspective.

"There are times that, we as coaches, we come into our profession, and we look at the W's and the L's, and we don't look at what other impact we can have," he said.

He thinks about the way his team has grown to care for Owen, how they ask about him at every practice, how they stopped showing up to practice complaining about a bad day once they discovered their fortune in life. And he forgets the wins for a moment.

"If these kids pass on this penchant for caring," he said, "this will be one of my most successful seasons at UIndy baseball."

* * *

Susan Mahan shook her husband awake. "If Owen can," she said, "so can we."

Owen can move through a superficial society and force others to see the beauty beneath his body.

He can enter a sport of physics, force and strength, and from his feeble frame, make a team stronger.

"His scars just represent what he's had to go through," said Asalon. "I think that's pretty empowering."

Owen can choose to live and breathe life into those he touches, while others write his obituary.

"They gave Owen a zero percent chance of survival, initially," Susan Mahan said. "And I tell people, 'God left him here for a reason.' We see that reason every single day. I believe Owen was left here to inspire people. To remind us there is good in the world."

He succeeds. To know him is to believe.

To meet him is to learn the blessing of life.