TUCSON – The wound on the bottom of Billy Cronin’s leg was already bleeding inside his prosthetic when Canyon del Oro boys basketball coach Jason Dickens offered him an out during a two‑mile conditioning run.
“Billy, if you want to do some stretching and plyos on the side, I’m cool with that,” Dickens told him.
Cronin didn’t hesitate. “Is anybody else?” he asked rhetorically.
Then he completed the full two miles.
“I had a burn on the bottom of my leg,” Cronin said. “It was bleeding all over, but I just ran.”
Dickens realized in that moment that the Dorados freshman wasn’t interested in shortcuts.
“He doesn’t want you to treat him different,” Dickens said. “Never brought it up. Not once.”
Before Billy’s parents, Bill and Georgina, had to endure long nights in the hospital and constant chemotherapy cycles with their son, they remember the start of his basketball journey. As a tiny 4-year-old on a YMCA team run by a 6-foot-8 coach who towered over everyone, Billy discovered what eventually became his unquestioned passion.
“He’s always been strangely coordinated and strangely accurate,” his dad, Bill, said. “He could pick up anything and figure out how to use it.”
That uncanny ability convinced Billy that basketball was for him.
“It was probably the fifth grade I really took the jump to only basketball,” he said. “I was always taller; for baseball, I was kind of like being a waste of height. But for basketball, I fit in the position. I fit everywhere.”
A turning point in his health threatened that fit. He came home from practice one day wearing a brace and told his parents that someone had noticed something wasn’t quite right. When Bill checked his leg, he felt a hard lump above the ankle, which was something he had never felt before. That discovery set off a chain of doctor visits that ultimately revealed osteosarcoma in September 2024.
Osteosarcoma is a rare and aggressive bone cancer that most often affects children and teenagers, typically forming in the long bones near the knee or shoulder. The disease causes bone cells to grow uncontrollably, creating a tumor that weakens the bone and leads to pain, swelling or a noticeable lump similar to what Billy felt. Treatment usually requires months of intensive chemotherapy and, in many cases, surgery to remove the tumor, including limb‑salvage procedures or amputation below the knee, as it did for Billy.
The next year was a blur of chemo cycles and hospital nights. Billy spent his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s in a hospital bed.
“I was heartbroken,” he said. “I was crying myself to sleep every night. I had a bunch of thoughts thinking this might be the end for me.”
The amputation brought its own trauma as surgeons removed his right leg below the knee, and the shock overwhelmed him.
“He woke up screaming and yelling about where his foot was,” Bill said.
A medication error only made things worse, resulting in a severe slowing of his breathing and heart rate. For days, the pain came in waves, and Bill held his hand through each one.
Good news came at last when a biopsy after surgery revealed something extraordinary: The tumor was completely dead. Doctors had expected 75 to 80 percent necrosis, but Billy’s was 100 percent.
When he walked into the Dorados’ gym for the first time, Dickens saw the prosthetic immediately, but Billy didn’t mention it. Dickens expected a conversation about limitations or accommodations. Instead, he asked how he could play JV.
“Some kids have more talent,” Dickens said, “but they’re only on JV because they’re not reliable. Billy, because he’s here every single day, is able to play up.”
That reliability made Cronin one of the rare freshmen who could play both JV and varsity.
“His ego’s not in the way,” Dickens said. “He just wants to play.”
Billy said his surgeon told him he’d never play again, but that didn’t discourage him.
“I told him, ‘No, I’m going to play,’” Cronin said.
Opponents who doubt his ability have learned about his resolve the hard way, mostly through confident trash talk backed up by his performances.
“You’re getting cooked by a guy with one foot,” he tells them.
Dickens said opponents often underestimate him until he drives past them or beats them to a rebound. After that, the tone changes.
As Billy’s role grew, so did the physical toll. His parents watch every game holding their breath, knowing how much strain his body absorbs each night.
“I’m just really hoping he doesn’t hurt his knee,” Bill said. “He’s only got one ankle.”
Georgina said Billy comes home covered in bruises, every one serving as a reminder of how hard he plays and how little he holds back.
“He doesn’t care if he’s going to hurt himself or not,” she said. “He just plays.”
Despite their concerns, they also understand the impact he has on others. His effort has become a standard inside the program and also serves as a quiet challenge to anyone.
“If any of those guys are tired and ready to quit,” Bill said, “and this guy’s out there just doing it, are you gonna stop?”
Dickens recognizes Billy’s impact as well. At tournaments, referees and coaches often approach him, saying they’ve never seen anything like him. One longtime official inspected his prosthetic to make sure it met regulations, then told Dickens, “I’ve never seen this before.”
Billy doesn’t think about that, and Dickens said he doesn’t even seem to notice. He just wants to play. But he does think about the kids who can’t.
“The kids in the hospital, people like me with prosthetics who think they can’t play,” Cronin said. “I want to motivate them and tell them they can.”
High school basketball isn’t Billy’s end goal either. He wants to become the first college basketball player with a prosthetic leg. He’s researched it, and he hasn’t found anyone who’s done it.
Now heading into his sophomore year, Billy is looking to continue defying the odds, and there’s one line in particular that defines him.
“If you believe you can do it, do it even if the odds are 99 to 1,” he said. “If you see that 1 percent, believe in that 1 percent.”
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