The Pride of Puglism

 

People my age have questioned the wisdom of continuing to be engaged in pugilistic endeavors such as wrestling and Brazilian jujitsu.  The following might explain my addiction to pugilism:  Growing up, my older brothers were great baseball players.  I, on the other hand, sucked pond water when it came to baseball.  I knew I was terrible because I once over heard my Little League coaches strategizing, "Maybe if we put Smart in Center field he will have support from both sides and the damage will be minimized."  Ouch! Words like that can leave a mark for life.  Knowing that baseball was not in the cards for me, I thought maybe I would try my hand at basketball, after all we played almost everyday on our back yard court.  I could hold my own in this venue.  However, when I went out for the team at Lincoln Junior High School it became apparently that the only reason I could hold serve on our back yard court was because no one ever called fouls.  A foul had to be pretty obvious to be recognized as such at 1807 South 3rd East; and by obvious, I mean it needed to involve maiming, freely flowing blood or disfigurement.  I was shocked when I played for the first time at my junior high school and was told that charging was a foul.  I thought, "How else am I going to get close enough to the hoop to make a shot if I don't bull rush whose ever guarding me?"  I mused, "That's just a crazy rule." In fact, it wasn't until I went home and complained to my dad about how they were calling the game at school that I learned the truth about this well guarded basketball secret called "charging."   When it was settled in my mind that this rule was, in fact, going to be enforced and that I was likely to be whistled every time I ran down the court for some ticky-tacky touching foul, I reasoned, "Dude, you gotta find a new sport!  You absolute stink at baseball; you're pretty small for football; and apparently you are certain to consistently foul out in basketball."  I was pretty disappointed.  That is, until I walked into the wrestling room for the first time. 

My introduction to wrestling, and my first sight of the wrestling room must be described in some detail to appreciate the significance of this event.  My first recollection of wrestling was walking with a group of shirtless 7th graders into the poorly lit, dingy wrestling room in the basement of Lincoln Junior High School.  The mat was a relic--a grayish coarse canvas cover, the consistency of sandpaper with horsehair stuffing, the surface of which was about as soft and inviting as worn concrete.  I describe the mat as grayish because no one really knew the original color of the canvas.  It had areas that were pinkish and yellowish, extant remnants of blood and urine, we supposed.  It had differing sizes of mysterious and random black and red spots in amoeba like shapes; but mostly it was just filthy shades of gray.  The edges were so tattered and worn that the rough horse hair padding was spilling out onto the mat, and had been littered over much of the canvas, creating an itchy, miserable surface.  The mat burns that we dished out and received on this mat were horrific. 

On the mat we were instructed to wear a jock strap, shorts and socks.  Coach Kotter sternly explained to us, "Everyone needs to wear socks; we don't want your stinking feet dirtying up the mat!"  Honest!  I am not making this up.  While I have exaggerated many things in life, my description of the wrestling environment at Lincoln Junior High School is a remarkable exercise in journalistic restraint.  This mat was so dangerous and filthy that it's impossible to accurately and completely describe the health and safety risks it posed.  The wrestling/boiler room at Mingo Junction High School in the movie Takedown was a muted representation of what I faced on day-one of wrestling at Lincoln Junior High School.

Coach Kotter taught us three essential moves, guaranteed to defeat any opponent:  a double-leg takedown (to get our opponents to the mat), a half-nelson (to turn our opponents), and a stand-up (to get away).  I'm dead serious when I state that he only taught 3 moves.  However, it was not the paucity of instruction that was so shocking, but rather how it was taught.  The following was the entirety of the double-leg takedown instruction:  With great confidence he declared, "To take down any opponent you use what I like to call a double-leg takedown.  To execute this move you tackle your opponent so fast and so hard, and then violently drill him to the mat so that he can't defend your attack.  Works every time."    We then divided into partners (not necessarily by size or weight) and took turns smashing each other into the canvas.  The half-nelson instruction was pretty much the same:  "Make a lever with your strong arm by going under his arm and over his head.  You then pry and drive him against the canvas until you either break his neck or he turns over--his choice.  Works every time."  We then took turns on the crowded mat with the same mismatched partners and tried to break each others' neck with our newest weapon, "the half-nelson." 

Finally, the most frightening bit of instruction was the stand-up:  "On the whistle, just jump to your feet and throw elbows as hard as you can.  Swing 'em hard enough to break teeth.  He'll let go of you.  Works every time."  Following this instruction, the mayhem began in earnest.  My criticism of Coach Kotter's instruction was not its lack of technical precision, but rather its lethal effectiveness.  You see in 1969, Lincoln Junior High School was full of sociopathic idiots. For them, this type of instruction was a license to maim and kill.

It was in this Mad Max like environment that I learned to wrestle.  If you wanted to score points and win, you executed everything with bad intentions.  The blood flowed freely in those chaotic practices.  There were no rules governing bleeding. We just proudly bled on each other.   I remember many times showering and watching the pink water wash away in a cleansing ritual that was almost spiritual in nature.  I had battled, and whether it was my blood or the blood or my opponent, it hardly mattered.   Technique meant nothing at Lincoln Junior High School--it was more like street fighting in gym shorts and I loved it. I knew I was in a very special place.  I felt that I belonged.

I loved the sheer physicality of wrestling--the steely taste of blood in my mouth, the stinging sweat in my eyes and the burning in my lungs.  Despite a total lack of technical instruction, I started figuring things out.  I had a natural feel for how to beat stronger and bigger opponents.  I went home and dreamed about wrestling. I would play out scenarios in my mind and how I could do things that might help me win.   I soon discovered that I could beat everyone in the room.  It was the only sport in which I had ever excelled.

Over the years, I have come to discover the pride of pugilism.   In addition to wrestling, I dabbled in Judo and boxing, but it was always wrestling that held sway for me.   I took pride in the pain, the meanness and the physicality of the sport.  I came to see the beauty in the dance of pain that is wrestling--it is technical and complex on one level, and yet at its core, is essentially a contest of brute strength and speed.  And then there is the strength-to-weight-ratio-battle that plagues every pugilist.  Wrestling cannot be truly appreciated until you have cut weight.  There's not room in this post to blog about the mental battles involved in cutting weight, but suffice it to say, that cutting weight is a lonely walk that demands a level of sacrifice that only pugilistic competitors can appreciate.  Yes, gymnasts cut weight, but wrestlers (and other pugilists) do this in the context of daily physical beatings in a room full of tough competitors who want nothing more than to see you fail.  

I believe the evolution of pride for wrestlers begins with the inescapable realization that after all the hard work and pain and sacrifice, that socially we are still viewed as a pariahs, outcasts and misfits.  Wrestling is not pretty to watch and everyone (including wrestlers) knows it.    While everyone respects wrestlers, no one other than wrestlers love this sport.  They don't watch it; they don't follow it; they just don't care.  While wrestlers might well complain and ask,  "Why are we not appreciated?  Why are we always underfunded?  Why do we invariably get the crappy schedules and worst equipment?", they eventually take pride in their status as second class citizens.  "Give us your worst, and you will see our best!" they chant.  Wrestlers (and I believe pugilists in all forms) are a very prideful group.  They treat every disrespectful comment as a challenge and every criticism as a personal affront. When people push, we push back. 

So, when friends question my sanity, I don't expect anyone other than a fellow pugilist to understand.  All I can do is shrug and blame it on the stubborn pride of pugilism-- you see, I would rather have my face beat in, or have it pounded on the canvas mat in the basement of Lincoln Junior High School, than yield even a single point.