How one mother’s 24 hours of free throws raises big money for Special Olympics

Almost every parent eventually confronts the same concerns about their children. Will they find their people? Will they build a fulfilling life? Will they be happy?

Debbie Antonelli, the longtime college basketball analyst and mother of three boys, has spent years wrestling with those same thoughts. But those worries carried extra weight with her middle son, Frankie, who was born with Down syndrome.

“You can’t make somebody want to be your son’s friend,” Debbie told the N&O. “It doesn’t matter how much you may try, how much you may invite or include them. When Frankie was in high school, not one time in his four years of high school did any kid call the house and say, ‘Can Frankie go to the movies with us? Can Frankie go to dinner?’ Not once.”

Today, though, Frankie Antonelli is thriving.

Now 28, he lives independently at Clemson with support from ClemsonLIFE, a cutting-edge program designed for students with special needs. He works two jobs. He has friends and a busy social calendar. And, like his mother, he remains consumed by basketball. Both Frankie and Debbie are pure shooters.

“My mom didn’t really dribble at all,” Debbie’s youngest son, 24-year-old Patrick, said. “She’s just catch and shoot. That’s all Frankie does.”

And the duo has put their skills to good use.

This weekend marks the eighth installment of Debbie Antonelli’s “24 Hours Nothing But Net” fundraiser, an annual around-the-clock free-throw marathon benefiting Special Olympics. Across the first seven years of the event, Antonelli has made 16,800 free throws while shooting 94 percent from the line and raised $1,413,200 to help thousands of athletes like Frankie.

“She never sleeps,” Frankie said. “(And) she never misses.”

At the center of the effort is Debbie. But at the heart of it is Frankie.

“There’s not one piece of me that believes that without the Special Olympics he would have had the opportunity to do what he’s doing,” Debbie said.

A crazy idea

The fundraiser started, fittingly, with a shooter’s ego.

Years before she came up with the idea for “Nothing But Net,” Debbie created a summer shooting challenge. For each day of July, she timed herself making 100 15-foot jumpers. If a college player beat her posted time for the day, Debbie sent them a medal.

But after several years, she wanted to turn the idea into something larger. A friend running the New York City Marathon sparked the breakthrough.

A former basketball player at Cary High School and N.C. State, Antonelli knew she could not run 26.2 miles. But she wondered whether she could monetize the one athletic skill she still trusted most: her shooting.

The answer became “24 Hours Nothing But Net.”

Every hour for 24 consecutive hours, Antonelli makes 100 free throws. By the end, she reaches 2,400 makes — a clean fundraising number attached to an endurance feat bizarre enough to grab attention.

“If you want to see a lady who gets AARP mail every other week or so come out at 3 a.m. and make 94% of 100 foul shots for the best cause possible,” Debbie’s eldest son, Joey, said, “you should come watch.”

The first year, Debbie did not know whether she could physically finish. She did not know whether anyone would tune into the livestream to watch her shoot. And most importantly, she did not know whether anybody would donate.

But the first event raised $85,000, which Debbie thought was “amazing.”

Last year alone, the fundraiser dropped $300,000.

Now entering year eight, the challenge has outgrown the Antonelli driveway. This year’s event is moving to The Deb, a gymnasium in Debbie’s hometown of Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. The gym was renamed in her honor last October.

The Antonellis still struggle to process that sentence.

“All my friends give me some crap about it,” Patrick said. “Like, ‘Hey, we’re going to play in your mom’s gym.’”

At 61, Antonelli trains for the challenge with the seriousness of an endurance athlete. Her workouts include sprint-bike sessions, strength training and a drill she calls “free-throw burpees” — alternating free throws and burpees in her driveway for hundreds of repetitions.

“Trust me, my neighbors, they think I am nuts,” Debbie said. “They walk by and they shake their head.”

Even her sons had some skepticism.

“When she first told us about it, we all were kind of skeptical,” Joey said. “‘Really? You’re gonna be up 24 hours making 100 free throws every hour?’”

Then came the first event.

“We all were kind of like, ‘There’s no way she does well,’” Joey said. “And then she blew it out of the water. So we were pretty proud that she did so well.”

“Now we’re seven or eight years into it and over a million bucks (raised),” Joey added. “Definitely I’m impressed. Definitely I’m kind of shocked.”

President Frankie

Joey remembers understanding, from a young age, that Frankie received different kinds of attention than he and Patrick did. What he did not fully understand until later was how difficult social inclusion can be for people like Frankie.

Special Olympics gave Frankie a space to play sports, but more importantly, build community.

“He just had so much fun doing it,” Joey said. “He was always smiling and laughing. And to be quite honest, he won a lot. He was pretty athletic. He has some pretty good genes from our family.”

That experience gave Frankie confidence. There’s “not a nervous bone” in Frankie’s body, per Joey.

So while Frankie’s family may have had some nerves about him attending Clemson — Patrick is pretty sure he “begged” his parents not to let his brother go off to college — Frankie knew he’d be alright.

Frankie said he was “never scared” because he knew he would have fun and make friends.

“That, to me, is what’s been so important with what Special Olympics has evolved to now,” said Barry Coats, CEO of Special Olympics South Carolina. “We don’t want people to feel sorry for us. We want to be a part of the community, just like everybody else.”

“The skills they’re learning through sports is in the confidence, self-esteem, teamwork and knowledge they gain,” Coats said. “All these things are going to help them in life.”

Today, Frankie’s life looks dramatically different than what many families like his were told to expect a generation ago.

Debbie still thinks about that evolution.

“Our society has changed in the 28 years that Frankie’s been alive,” Debbie said. “I mean, it’s gone from you can put them in an institution to living independently with two jobs.”

At Clemson, Frankie navigates life largely on his own. He walks to his jobs at The Shepherd Hotel and Your Pie Pizza. He Instacarts groceries. He works out with a trainer. He socializes constantly.

Joey describes his younger brother as “the most charismatic, outgoing person” he has ever met.

“The bigger the audience, the more personality comes out,” he said.

That personality now sits at the center of the free throw fundraiser.

“He’s the president of 24 Hours,” Debbie said. “He takes a lot of pride in it, and he’s my best fundraiser.”

This year, Frankie will be entertaining the crowd with some DJing. He has his own equipment, and may be joined by his friend Noah.

“We have a live band coming,” Patrick said, “and Frankie will probably get up there and sing a song or two.”

Patrick prefers Frankie’s renditions of Frank Sinatra. Frankie said Morgan Wallen songs are his favorite to sing. Either way, attendees can expect a good show.

“If you were to meet Frankie and meet some of his friends, you would fall in love with all of them,” Joey said. “It’s the best cause you can probably get behind.”

Free throw line extended

The fundraiser’s reach now extends well beyond South Carolina.

Two years ago, leaders with Special Olympics Texas approached Debbie with an idea: custom trucks branded with the fundraiser’s logo, complete with basketball hoops and shooting machines attached.

“I was in tears,” Debbie said. “I could not believe it.”

This spring, after working the women’s Final Four in Phoenix, Antonelli flew to Texas with her sister and drove one of the trucks more than 1,200 miles back to South Carolina.

The vehicle now travels to Special Olympics events around the region, drawing crowds and helping raise money.

For Antonelli, though, her advocacy isn’t limited to Special Olympics.

Over years, she has quietly pushed her alma mater, N.C. State University, to create a program for students with intellectual disabilities modeled after ClemsonLIFE.

Her most meaningful contribution, she said, has been that: helping launch the Elevate program at N.C. State. Elevate is a cohort-based program that provides opportunities for students with intellectual and developmental disabilities, like Frankie, to thrive in college.

Launched last year with $3 million in annual funding from the North Carolina General Assembly, Elevate has since welcomed its first cohorts of students.

Antonelli calls the effort — supported by football coach Dave Doeren and major donor Wendell Murphy — the best thing she’s ever done.

On April 30, Antonelli was inducted into the Order of the Long Leaf Pine by North Carolina Gov. Josh Stein.

She suspects basketball alone is not the reason.

“I really believe it’s for the Elevate program, Special Olympics,” she said. “And the basketball as well.”

Through the night

The challenge itself unfolds like a telethon crossed with a basketball practice.

Antonelli shoots for roughly 15 minutes at the top of every hour — if she’s hitting at her normal 94% clip. The remaining time is filled with interviews and livestream programming highlighting Special Olympics participants from around the country. Interview subjects have included college basketball coaches, television actors and A-list sports celebrities like Caitlin Clark.

Debbie’s family handles the behind-the-scenes chaos — setting up tents, transporting guests, coordinating logistics and helping Antonelli survive the overnight hours.

Friends stop by, which could mean Roy Williams, Dawn Staley, Dabo Swinney or one of Debbie’s neighbors.

Some stay for an hour. Others may stay all night.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Frankie is usually nearby — smiling, talking and celebrating made shots like a Game 7 buzzer-beater.

“He’s just one of a kind,” Patrick said. “You’re never gonna meet anyone like him. He’s the happiest, friendliest person in the world. He’s my best friend. I wouldn’t be anywhere I am without him.

“He’s the reason why I think a lot of us do everything, because we all just want to make sure that he’s OK,” Patrick continued. “And he’s the most OK out of anyone I know.”

This story was originally published May 7, 2026 at 5:30 AM with the headline "How one mother’s 24 hours of free throws raises big money for Special Olympics."