2 of my all times favorite wrestlers: Mark Schlagel and Reece Hunter. I think that my shirt (courtesy of Ken Parsons) says it all: "The older I get, the better I was!"
Every wrestler worthy of the title "wrestler" must at some point in his life make the pilgrimage to the NCAA Division I Wrestling Tournament and pay homage to our most worthy sport. This is something akin to a devout Muslim trudging to Mecca, or the faithful Christian visiting the Holy Land. There is nothing quite like it in any other sport. Wrestlers love and hate their sport like no other. They curse the first time they stepped onto a wrestling mat, and yet know that their life would be so much the poorer without the experiences that have enriched their lives. In wrestling, they know there will be pain every day and bleeding most. And so, it comes as no surprise that wrestling would have its greatest success in the heartland of America, and in small towns spread across our great nation. In places where the corn grows high and there is no sun or recreation to distract young men. Names such as Gable, Schultz and Brands are still whispered in reverance and respect because of what they accomplished.
This past week, a small retinue of committed wrestlers, parents and fans made the weary trek to St. Louis to watch the NCAA wrestling tournament. We took 6 wrestlers and about the same number of parents. My brother, Jeff and several coaches joined us from Michigan. There were some memorable matches. The quarterfinals were utterly amazing. The semis always seem to be better than the finals. This year, the quarterfinals were as intense as any semifinal matches that we have witnessed. For many on our trip, this was their first NCAA tournament.
Now to change the subject just a bit. Confessions are very much a part of a well lived life. Well, I keep telling myself this. The older I get, I swear the stupidier I become. Late Friday night, I and three parentless wrestlers became separated from the rest of our crew. These young men begged me to take them to dinner at Hooters Restaurant. You all know the place as a fine establishment with excellent food and impecable decor. Okay, Okay, I know that none of you have been there. The whiny pleas to dine at Hooters are made frequently by grapplers on our wrestling road trips.
"Hooters! Woohoo! Hey Coach how 'bout Hooters?"
"No."
"Coach, c'mon, if our parents were here, they'd take us."
"Then get your parents to take you."
"They're not here."
"Exactly. NO! We are going to find a 'nice family restaurant.' "
"C'mon Coach. Pleeeeeeassssse!"
"NO!"
"C'mon Coach. Pleeeeeeasssse!"
"No. And if you ask me again, my answer will include pain--lots of pain."
Silence.
This dialogue has repeated itself with very little variation on every road trip with the West Valley high school wrestlers this year. Have I mentioned how much I missed Shea this year?
On Friday night by the time we exited the arena, it was late and as we walked past Hooters I realized there was not much open. Our choices were extremely limited. It was smokey bars or Hooters. I trudged on hopeful we would find something...anything but Hooters. In desperation I stopped by the Hotel and inquired with the desk clerk (we obviously weren't staying at the Hilton--there was no enlightened concierge to provide aide). He advised us that the only thing open that late that was not a bar was Show Mes. This is Missouri after all--the "Show Me" state. Show Mes sounded like a great family style restaurant. As I was walking out, he added, "They're famous for their ribs." I was encouraged. Show Mes was a short walk from the hotel through an almost safe neighborhood. My little group of wrestlers were still pouting about the fact that I would not give in and take them to Hooters. I was relishing in their misery (After all I am a wrestling coach. I am never truly happy unless my wrestlers are hungry, mean and really angry. Mission accomplished!) We were quickly seated at Show Mes despite a crowd. No sooner had we been seated, than I realized, what "Show Mes" was all about. Almost in chorus they enthuiasitically chimed, "We love you coach! This is like Hooters, but skanky!"
Now for the confession:
This past week, a small retinue of committed wrestlers, parents and fans made the weary trek to St. Louis to watch the NCAA wrestling tournament. We took 6 wrestlers and about the same number of parents. My brother, Jeff and several coaches joined us from Michigan. There were some memorable matches. The quarterfinals were utterly amazing. The semis always seem to be better than the finals. This year, the quarterfinals were as intense as any semifinal matches that we have witnessed. For many on our trip, this was their first NCAA tournament.
Now to change the subject just a bit. Confessions are very much a part of a well lived life. Well, I keep telling myself this. The older I get, I swear the stupidier I become. Late Friday night, I and three parentless wrestlers became separated from the rest of our crew. These young men begged me to take them to dinner at Hooters Restaurant. You all know the place as a fine establishment with excellent food and impecable decor. Okay, Okay, I know that none of you have been there. The whiny pleas to dine at Hooters are made frequently by grapplers on our wrestling road trips.
"Hooters! Woohoo! Hey Coach how 'bout Hooters?"
"No."
"Coach, c'mon, if our parents were here, they'd take us."
"Then get your parents to take you."
"They're not here."
"Exactly. NO! We are going to find a 'nice family restaurant.' "
"C'mon Coach. Pleeeeeeassssse!"
"NO!"
"C'mon Coach. Pleeeeeeasssse!"
"No. And if you ask me again, my answer will include pain--lots of pain."
Silence.
This dialogue has repeated itself with very little variation on every road trip with the West Valley high school wrestlers this year. Have I mentioned how much I missed Shea this year?
On Friday night by the time we exited the arena, it was late and as we walked past Hooters I realized there was not much open. Our choices were extremely limited. It was smokey bars or Hooters. I trudged on hopeful we would find something...anything but Hooters. In desperation I stopped by the Hotel and inquired with the desk clerk (we obviously weren't staying at the Hilton--there was no enlightened concierge to provide aide). He advised us that the only thing open that late that was not a bar was Show Mes. This is Missouri after all--the "Show Me" state. Show Mes sounded like a great family style restaurant. As I was walking out, he added, "They're famous for their ribs." I was encouraged. Show Mes was a short walk from the hotel through an almost safe neighborhood. My little group of wrestlers were still pouting about the fact that I would not give in and take them to Hooters. I was relishing in their misery (After all I am a wrestling coach. I am never truly happy unless my wrestlers are hungry, mean and really angry. Mission accomplished!) We were quickly seated at Show Mes despite a crowd. No sooner had we been seated, than I realized, what "Show Mes" was all about. Almost in chorus they enthuiasitically chimed, "We love you coach! This is like Hooters, but skanky!"
Now for the confession:
-There really was no other place to eat.
-It was late.
-I was tired.
-I didn't want to spend the money for cab fare to haul these ungrateful teenagers anywhere better.
-I was really hungry.
-My wrestlers had to eat.
-They're famous for their ribs.
-The waitresses seemed nice...blah, blah, blah... It's amazing what enough excuses or rationalizations can produce. We stayed. I would like to say that Show Mes' world famous ribs were worth it. No, not remotely true. As I choked them down with warm water that had a funky aftertaste (they were out of ice), I surmised that their world famous ribs had more to do with the ribs showing on the skinny frames of the waitresses in short, pink hot pants and skin tight wife beater t-shirts. Certainly, their name: Show Mes should have been clue enough. I might just make my personal mantra: "The older I get, I swear the stupidier I become!" It will be a while before I live this down. Coach Smart refused to take his wrestlers to Hooters, but apparently "Skanky Hooters" is a "nice family restaurant." With wrestlers there's no appreciation; no understanding; and certainly no sympathy. You would think they hate me for making them suffer. Go figure?!
In the end, we witnessed some amazing wrestling, with some fantastic young men.
In the end, we witnessed some amazing wrestling, with some fantastic young men.
Me
Jace getting hustled in the metro for $20. This occurred a mere 10 minutes after we landed in St. Louis. Did I mention he was out of money by Friday?
2 comments:
So funny! Sounds like you guys had a great trip!
Show Mes...LOL. I'm still laughing. I hope they never let you live that down. That is hilarious and so...you. Sounds like you had fun. I'm glad Jeff met up with you. We watched most of it on TV. Brent was sad not to be there. He made sure the boys were watching too. I think he was trying to teach them some moves.
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