Wrestle Mania

A father's story about his wrestling son by Greg Mercer

"Dad, I'm going to go out for wrestling," my son said five years ago.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Wrestling is the hardest sport there is."

At the time, I found it hard to reconcile my 13-year-old's laid-back personality with what I thought I knew about wrestling. Of course, what I knew about the sport was confined to what I had seen during Saturday afternoon televised exhibitions between characters like Haystack Calhoun, the Andersen Brothers and, of course, Rick "the nature boy" Flair. I learned quickly, however, to appreciate the beauty of amateur wrestling, which can best be described as a balance between raw strength and athletic agility. Because there are 14 separate weight classifications (beginning at 103 pounds), and since you compete against others weighing the same, wrestling allows young men too small for football or too short for basketball to engage in a sport where size isn't the determining factor. But the most intriguing aspect about wrestling is that while it is a team sport, in each match you are alone against your opponent. There is no one to pass the ball to, no one to block for you, you can't call time-out and get advice from a coach. A difficult match draws on every ounce of mental, emotional and physical energy the wrestler possesses. Alone, out there on the mat, there is nowhere to hide. There is something profoundly elegant about this. Wrestling teaches self-reliance and accountability unlike any of the stick and ball sports of my youth. So despite my initial concerns (or maybe because of them) my son began wrestling in the eight grade. The coach immediately told him not to expect to win a match for a couple years as he would be competing against bigger, stronger wrestlers with much more experience. Of course, being a contrarian, my son placed third in his very first tournament and was awarded a bronze medal that hangs in his room to this day.

I recall two things from that very first tournament. My first memory is of intense pain (mine, not my son). A month prior to the tournament, I had a hernia repaired and I was skeptical about sitting on a hard bench for several hours, but the coach assured me my son would lose in the first round and we would home in no more than an hour ­ two at the most. Of course as my son continued winning that day I learned a valuable lesson about wrestling. How ever long they tell you an event will take, double it and you'll come out about right.

The second lesson was how proud I was of my son, not so much for doing well but how, for the first time, I had seen him throw himself 100% into something. Wrestling at a championship level requires tremendous dedication. Most wrestlers know the pain of not eating for several days in an attempt to make weight. All know the pain of pushing yourself to attain a level of conditioning most athletes could not or would not endure. By the end of the season, wrestlers are competing with broken fingers, sprains and have endured enough bloody noses to supply the American Red Cross for a week. In a world that encourages kids to sit on a couch and play video games, what motivates these young men? For many, the lure of being a state champion is the goal that drives them. For most, the best opportunity of becoming a champion is your senior season. Each wrestling season, young men point to the state finals in February, believing this is the year that all the sacrifice, all the hard work and the all the pain will be worth it. Parents, coaches and teachers all encourage this by telling our children that if you work hard, play by the rules, eat your vegetables, etc., good things will happen. But what do you say to that same child when the hard work doesn't pay off with a blue ribbon or a gold medal?

At this year's state tournament, my son's final match was tied at the end of regulation with my son nearly pinning his opponent before time ran out. The first overtime was just as close with neither able to score. In the second overtime, my son's opponent was on bottom. Thirty seconds was placed on the clock. If my son could hold his opponent down for 30 seconds he would win. If his opponent escaped, my son's dream of a state medal would be over. For 25 gut-wrenching seconds my son called on every resource at his command to hold his larger, stronger opponent down. For 25 gut-wrenching seconds, his opponent struggled to rise out of my son's grasp. With two seconds left on the clock, my son's opponent broke free and scored the tie-breaking point. Five years, thousands of hours of practice, a ton of sweatand it was over in two seconds. The disappointment I felt and I knew that my son was feeling was crushing. Instead of complaining about a couple of tough calls which could have gone his way, or refusing to shake his opponent's hand, my son simply stood up and hugged his opponent in a way that only those who have been tested by fire can truly understand.

The next day I told my son that he had done his best and that was all any father could ask. I told him that true glory comes from the struggle, not the winning or losing. I told my son I loved him and how very proud I was of him. And then he simply stood up and hugged me in a way that only a father and son can truly understand.