A mom’s view from the bleachers
by Susan Poole
*Originally published in Grapple Alley, Issue No. 1, 2021
I eyeballed the familiar opponent, beads of sweat slowly dripping over my temples and falling from my jawline. He’d made weight, passed the skin check. I’d been hoping for a victory by default, which obviously makes me sound scared. But this particular kid was problem, had been since middle school. And now he stood in the way of a district championship. As far as I could tell, he was the best kid on the right side of the bracket. Make it past him, and the rest of the day should be a cakewalk. At least in theory. Anything can happen in this crazy sport. I should know.
My back ached and my neck stiffened. I flexed my fingers, resisting the urge to bite my nails. The acid in my stomach threatened to erupt, burning its way up my esophagus but stopping before it entered my throat. Trying to swallow, I choked on the dryness, so I chewed on my lip until I could taste blood. Despite the surrounding chaos, my attention needed to remain on Mat #2. Instead, I imagined being stranded in a faraway desert dying of thirst. I suddenly felt the urge to hurl and wondered whether I could make it to the bathroom before the whistle blew. No chance. The match was about to begin, and I prayed for my knees to stop trembling.
How must my son be feeling at this very moment?
It was bad enough being his mom sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the biggest match of his high school career to begin.
Some important backstory.
We’d made some significant investments in our son’s wrestling career. Financially for starters. Before he could tie his own shoes, he wrestled at a private club run by one of the University of Michigan’s most successful wrestlers, an All-American and four-time state qualifier. It’s there that he made some lifelong friends, many of whom went on to become state champs and collegiate wrestlers. It’s also where he struggled with anxiety and self-doubt over what kind of wrestler he himself wanted to be.
My love-hate relationship with the sport increased over time. It was never clear whether my son really enjoyed wrestling, and I was often the one responsible for giving the pep talk after a devastating loss. I tempered plenty of tantrums and wiped enough tears to fill the Mississippi. He had a tendency to lose control when things didn’t go his way. Like the time he ripped off his wrestling shoes, ran out to the parking lot and threw them up into a tree. Or, when he deliberately smashed his head into a concrete wall and gave himself a giant goose egg. And when he skipped the handshake after getting pinned, raced outside into a blizzard and found himself locked out of the building. I never understood where all that rage came from, and it scared me. “If you can’t channel that anger, why not try a different sport?” I’d often suggest.
But my husband wrestled in college. He could relate better than I could, insisting that this was all just part of the sport. “Learning to lose builds character,” he’d remind me. So, we all powered on, enrolling our son in the local school program, traveling to endless tournaments in and out of state, and encouraging him to work hard and set ambitious goals.
All his efforts started to pay off in fourth grade when he placed fourth in the Grade School State tournament—the holy grail of wrestling events at that age. Any doubts he had about the sport seemed to disappear after that victory. For a time anyway. The medals and trophies began to accumulate, and we started talking about sending him to St. Edward High School, one of the top-ranked high school wrestling programs in the country. He already knew their legendary coach from wrestling for the school’s junior high program, and most of his wrestling friends had plans to go there. Despite the high price tag, it seemed like the best fit. So we bit the bullet and enrolled him there, hoping for a college scholarship down the road.
While I’m not one to typically have regrets, soon after his freshman year began, I started questioning that decision. Something was missing. Our son didn’t seem to love the sport the way he used to. He still worked hard, but not with the same look of determination in his eyes. His friends surpassed him, winning more and more titles while our son struggled to make the line-up. He never mentioned quitting, but we watched his drive and passion slowly decrease. We were worried, but he didn’t seem to be. He’d found other interests in high school, new friends and activities. He’d grown into so much more than a wrestler, and we took that as a positive. As heart-breaking as it was to see him lose wrestle-offs and compete on the B team, we just wanted our son to be happy and well-adjusted. He still had enough potential to wrestle in college—if he wanted to—and scholarship money wasn’t as important as our child’s personal growth and development.
Just around the time my husband and I started to accept this minor shift in attitude, our son came home from practice to announce he had a spot on the A team again—with one giant caveat. He’d have to cut weight and wrestle 120. I’m still in denial over exactly what that meant. If I had to give my best guess, I’d say his natural weight back then was 140 pounds, maybe more. Not only did a cut that big seem impossible, but was it safe?
Feed that poor child.
As a mom, that season was the toughest. Watching your kid—your baby boy—starve himself to make weight week after week was torture. But his grit and determination was admirable. He wouldn’t even swallow the toothpaste after brushing his teeth. I did my part by making brown rice, roasted broccoli, and grilled chicken for just about every meal that winter. And I tiptoed into his room most nights after he was asleep just to make sure he was breathing. No shit. That sucked. I’d watched him transform his body into what appeared to be nothing more than skin and bones. Where was the muscle mass? How was he supposed to compete without any fuel in his tank? I fought the urge to ask questions about how he was able to lose those last few ounces after failing an initial weigh-in. What went on in that wrestling room to allow for that last-minute drop? I hadn’t signed up for any of that when I enrolled him in a youth program that promised to teach my child the techniques of the sport, and to help him develop a work ethic that would hopefully pay off long into adulthood. One thing was for sure at that point. I’d never seen him want anything else bad enough to make such drastic sacrifices.
Wrestling parents.
I hadn’t anticipated how terrible wrestling parents could be either. And I don’t just mean the ones from other teams that could be heard screaming from beyond the mat for their son to pound your kid’s ass or wrench his shoulder so far back that it pops from its socket. I had tolerated plenty of that over the years, amazed by some of the barbaric behaviors from other moms and dads.
But no, I’m talking about how parents from the same team are pitted against each other the same way their wrestlers are. Nothing could have prepared me for that. My older two kids were involved in team-only sports, so I was accustomed to team spirit and camaraderie. Lots of encouragement and support of teammates. Wrestling is different. Although wrestlers are part of a team, so much of what they’re competing for is individual accomplishment. Yes, you’re rooting for your team to win, but first your kid has to make it through the gauntlet to earn a spot on the roster. That requires challenging one or more teammates to a wrestle-off and coming out the victor. I hated myself for wishing ill on other boys, especially the ones that I’d known since they were little. Many of my son’s teammates had grown up in my house and I’d been cheering them on from the bleachers for as long as I could remember. Then suddenly, if one of those boys happened to weigh the same as my kid, I’d be sending him bad juju, hoping he’d get pinned, or teched, or worse yet, that he’d suffer an injury so my kid could easily slip into that spot without worry of losing it again the following week. I know how awful that sounds, but there’s not a wrestling mom out there that hasn’t wished for similar circumstances—especially when you’re raising the underdog.
Speaking of underdogs, that’s what our son became. He filled a needed spot on the A team throughout his junior year. He was rarely expected to win against the ranked opponents, but when he did, it was thrilling—which returns us to where we started.
Back to the big match.
I’d been studying the bracket, reading about his opponents online, anticipating this day for weeks. He was as ready as he’d ever be, but would that be enough?
I was too familiar with his M.O. Losing before he stepped foot on the mat was his specialty. My kid could psyche himself out of any victory, any time. Maybe his opponent had a better record than he did. Was ranked higher. Looked stronger, more muscular. Any combination of excuses would do. It’s as if my son’s self-confidence could vanish along with the weight on the scale. He was a good wrestler. Really good. He’d been trained by the best and worked his ass off. He deserved a trip to State this year. I wanted that more than anything. For him. He needed to have his moment, and this could be it.
I climbed the wooden bleachers to find a better seat—one that would allow a decent view of Mat #2 without sitting too close. I had always preferred to sit away from the other team parents when my son wrestled. Mostly because I needed to concentrate. I didn’t like talking during a match. Or listening to words of supposed comfort if he was losing. Plus, I could never predict the words that might come flying from my mouth. Or the ways my body might involuntarily turn and twist. Instant contortionist. That was me.
The stands were crowded, and I settled on a seat one down from the top, almost on the complete opposite side of the gym from where the action would take place. I didn’t mind. It seemed like a safe spot.
“Pardon, me. Excuse, me,” I said, squeezing between the knees of some and the backsides of others. Most people didn’t budge. Thanks for nothing.
I wriggled between two oversized spectators who were obviously not together. One wore green and yellow, the other red and black. Both sporting their team colors. I plopped down and pulled the bout board up on my phone, refreshing the browser to make sure my son was still on deck.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
The match in front of his was delayed for blood time. Come on, let’s get this going.
I tried to sit still, but my legs were already shaking. I considered apologizing in advance to the spectators on either side of me. Depending on how things went, I was destined to embarrass myself in one way or another during the upcoming six minutes. I kept quiet instead, reminiscing about some of the other times I’d been in this exact same position. Stressing about my son’s upcoming match. Praying that he could dig deep and pull out a win. Wishing so hard I could taste it and hating that I had no control over what was about to happen.
Haunted by the past.
The rabbit hole sucked me down. The wins, the losses. The pride, the disappointment. The exhilaration, the angst. And then the voices. My husband’s words echoed in my mind first. For so long, he’d tried to say the right thing, wanting to encourage more than anything else. It didn’t always come across that way, and there’d been plenty of tension in our household during wrestling season. As a parent, it’s hard to strike the right balance—to offer words of motivation that can’t be construed as criticism. We’d both made mistakes over the years, probably even that morning at the hotel. At this point, it was really up to our son. Nothing we said should have made much of a difference, but he was a pleaser, always had been. He couldn’t help himself from caring about what we thought. We knew that, almost resented the responsibility.
The next voice that raided my brain wasn’t as kind. It belonged to a former coach—the one who accused me being too “soft.” He once told my husband to do something about how much I babied our kid, which honestly couldn’t have been further from the truth. Of course I wanted my son protected and safe. It was never easy watching someone press his face into a mat, or bending his knee sideways, wrenching it forward further than the human body would typically allow. But I’d always been the silent type. How dare some arrogant coach suggest I had anything to do with my son’s less than aggressive disposition. He was born that way. Thoughtful and sensitive, not brash, and overconfident. It’s his personality. How could anyone expect him to tap into his inner badass, if there wasn’t one there?
I remembered being called back to a trainer’s room after a match when my son had a possible concussion. That same coach was inside, and I already knew how he felt about me. The bump on my kid’s forehead was enormous and I could tell he was holding back tears while the trainer examined him. I wanted to say something comforting. Wrap my arms around my son the way I’d done since he was born. But the eagle eyes of his coach drilled right through me, so I stared at the floor and remained silent. I’ll show you NOT soft, jackass!
I felt myself growing angry over something that lingered from years ago. Then another voice interrupted me. This time it wasn’t in my head. It was coming from over my left shoulder and I’d heard it before.
I glanced back and recognized the three old men that were sitting behind me, their backs up against the wall. I’d always referred to them as The Three Amigos. They came to just about every match, and I’d assumed they once wrestled for our program—a long time ago. They had an opinion about everything and weren’t afraid to openly criticize wrestlers. Earlier in the season I’d overheard them talking about my son, saying he didn’t have what it takes to be a State placer. Of all the seats I could have decided upon, how did I end up in front of them?
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an arm raise in the center of the far mat. Mat #2. The blood time was over, as well as the match. No time to switch seats. My son was about to wrestle. Oh, God. Here goes.
The first period.
His emaciated body seemed to float toward the center of the mat. The backside of his black singlet sagged, even after he bent over at the waist and extended his hand for a shake. At this juncture, most wrestlers appeared mean, intimidating. Not my son. He usually looked like a deer in headlights—one that needed a good hearty meal. But something seemed different today, like his mood had shifted. I could taste the lump in his throat and felt sick for him. Petrified. His opponent leapt to his ready position, did a few jumping jacks jumps and bounced his way across the mat to squeeze my son’s hand with what I could tell was an overly aggressive grip. Oh, God. I immediately remembered this kid’s pre-game warm-up. He was cocky and ready. But my son didn’t appear to be taking the bait.
The whistle blew and they started to circle each other. Neither of them made any immediate offensive moves. I put my hands over my eyes—something I did often when I watched him wrestle—and peered through my fingers. The slight filter offered comfort and I focused on my breath. A deep inhale, then exhale. Don’t forget to breathe.
Suddenly, his opponent took a shot. A bad one. Whew! Dodged the first bullet. But he recovered nicely and tried again. This time he caught a knee and my son ended up face down on the mat. Shit! I couldn’t see the score, but I knew that was two. Get up, get up! Had I said that out loud or only chanted it in my head? He needed to get up. The bottom position was his weak spot. Not a good place to start. But he did it. He broke free and popped back up, taking a shot that resulted in a takedown of his own. It all happened so quickly, and just like that, the score was 3-2.
The remainder of the first period continued in similar fashion. Slow periods of inaction, circling each other like predators preparing to pounce—but not. A few more failed takedown attempts broke up the monotony and a stall warning seemed to light a fire under the other kid. But there wasn’t enough time to get anything going. The young boy with the bopper slowly approached the ref and the eventual shoulder tap signaled the end of the first period.
I suddenly realized I had been holding my breath. I rolled my shoulders to relive some tension and shook my head side to side, shifting in my seat and trying to get comfortable. Out of the blue, I took a nosedive into oblivion, submerged into a stupor that mimicked a slow fall to the ocean floor. At first, I tried to tread water, but I sunk—as if an anchor had been tethered to my ankle. Time passed during the gradual journey down, and I wondered how long I could go without air. Underwater with no life preserver.
The roar of the crowd finally propelled me to the surface but the surrounding sights remained blurred, the sounds muffled. I blinked to clear my vision, but the gym continued to spin. I pinched my nose and blew out the strongest force of air I could muster to clear my ears. Nothing seemed real, as if I’d been transported to another place and time.
I eventually caught the sound of the whistle coming from Mat #2. Was the match over? Had I missed it? What was the damn score? Suddenly, one of The Three Amigos tapped me on the shoulder.
“Your boy looks great,” he said without a hint of surprise in his voice.
The hair on my arms prickled. “Can you see the score?”
“It’s tied 6-6.”
“What period is it?”
Amigo #1 smirked. “Where’ve you been, Mama? His match is going into overtime.”
No use explaining that I’d been distracted fighting my way up from the bottom of the ocean. I just grinned, awkwardly, but a grin all the same.
Overtime. Oh shit!
Sudden Death
The boys lined up for another faceoff. They were both winded. The whistle blew and they grappled a bit for what seemed like eternity. The first to score would win.
Offense, offense, I chanted in my head.
My son shot for a leg, but his opponent avoided the takedown and sprawled on top. The clock was ticking somewhere, and I could taste the bile rising in my throat again. Every cell in my body was clenched tight and I have no recollection of what the people around me were doing. All I could see was my boy. My pride and joy. The kid who worked so hard and always seemed to get the short end of the stick. His disappointments weren’t for lack of hard work or perseverance. To the contrary, he was one of the most resilient young men I’d ever known. This could be his moment—or not.
And then it happened.
From the bottom where he typically got stuck.
Without warning, he tapped into his inner resolve, pulled his opponent’s leg in, and scored a quick takedown.
The ref raised his arm with the sign of peace.
“Two!” he bellowed.
Match over. My son won! I finally spotted the clock. Only four seconds to spare. I watched as he clapped his hands together, so deliberately that I could feel the sting in my own palms. His head jerked forward. His hair flopped over his eyes. Then he clenched his fist, jerked his elbow down toward his waist and raised his knee. Even from across the gym, his body language said it all. I embraced the electric current raging through my own body, getting as close to what he was feeling as humanly possible—as if he were still living inside of me. Pure exhilaration and joy!
A few final notes.
Nobody expected my son to win that match. His opponent had been ranked 11th in the state, and some pollsters even predicted he’d make a surprise appearance on the podium that year. But he just got knocked out of the tournament. His dreams of a state title vanished in that moment, and my kid, ranked #18, was not only responsible, but he himself was headed to the State tournament. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I always knew he had it in him.
Everything that followed paled in comparison to that match. That victory was our magic moment. Yes, my son competed in the State tournament. Another thrilling milestone along the journey. He didn’t place, but he wrestled well and with lots of confidence, finishing one win away from the podium. But that district match—the one that brought that hand clap, that elbow pull and that knee raise—that was the one for the record books.
I can only speculate about the joy my son got to experience in that instant. I imagine it being similar to the rush an Olympic athlete feels after securing that first gold medal. A pro golfer winning that first major tournament. Or a mountain climber reaching the top of Mount Everest. Anyone who works that hard at their sport, or any craft for that matter, deserves a moment like that. But not everyone achieves it. I can already picture my son as a middle-aged man, reminiscing about his glory days and telling his friends and family about that match. He’ll be talking about it forever, and so will I.
How lucky I was to share in it with him.
I spotted my husband waiting alongside the mat, caught him wiping a tear from his cheek. He felt it too. All of it. And as I watched my two favorite men in the whole wild world embrace, the feeling that I thought couldn’t get any better, did just that.
Wrestling is a crazy sport, for everyone involved in it. But if you can handle the ups and downs, there’s no better feeling than the pride that comes with the arm-raise after a hard-earned victory.
My son’s wrestling days are over now. They ran their course. But the memories of those days…those matches…all that hard work and sacrifice…they’ll always stay with me. Not at all the same way they’ll live on inside my son—as they’ve shaped his character and made him into the outstanding young man he is today. Thanks to all those years of grinding it out, he’s armed with a tireless work ethic, the ability to handle himself with grace under pressure, and the strength to persevere even when the odds are stacked against him.
But those days had a significant impact on who I am, too.
A Wrestling Mom—forever in my heart.