Six years ago, Blair walked into a kids’ wrestling camp without having a lick of experience. For three days, he struggled to stay alive. He was 10 years old.
Wrestling is the last sport I’d wish upon my kids, but the first one I get excited about…
There was a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.
No points scored for 3 days.
Blair’s back seemed to have a love-affair with the mat. He got pinned a lot.
But on the last day, there was a wall-sit contest.
An arduous 18 minutes later, he was still squatting. Tears jetted from his eyes. He stayed standing the longest and took his first win.
"We've got a wrestler!" I announced.
You don’t choose wrestling. It chooses you. It filters out sensibility and practicality and leaves behind rugged curiosity.
It’s a physical endeavor that’s ready to teach you life’s hardest lessons in the shortest amount of time. It’s either the worst sport in the world for someone, or the best…
Ever since that first win, we’ve been putting in the work. Small glimpses of talent in my kids are always nourished and pushed to the max by me, for better or worse.
Long drives to practice, daily.
Late nights…on school nights.
Summer camps.
Snapped tendons.
Broken bones.
Weight cuts.
Dehydration.
Big losses in the final seconds of big tournaments.
…but never a broken spirit.
When we started wrestling, I promised Blair to never “live vicariously through him,” I’ve already had my glory days and they were awful, LOL.
Instead, I promised to be “with him.”
And to prove it, I always dreamed of competing in a national wrestling tournament, right by his side.
Blair is 16 years old now. Last weekend, we did just that—in Las Vegas!
In typical Blair fashion, he methodically dismantled his opponents, and was quick to help them up and give them a hug. But then he came face-to-face another trophied grappler.
He took a 6-2 loss.
His coach assured him, “You can beat that kid if you stick to the basics.”
Into the loser bracket Blair went.
After crawling through the consolation rounds, he met his nemesis once again. They squared off to duke it out for 3rd place. Blair walked away with the win, 12-0 courtesy of “keeping it simple.”
Strategy is everything, once you get past nerves, athleticism and brute force.
Then it was my turn!
At age 47, the oldest competitor, I squared off with a 23-year-old.
To the average wrestling fan, it wasn’t going to be good. I don’t have a TikTok, I was old enough to be my opponent’s father, and my clothes were too tight. Enter “old man, grandpa strength.”
To most onlookers, it was unfair to me.
To me and Blair, it was unfair to the younger grappler.
A cesspool of negativity grew on the sidelines as more people came over to witness “the massacre of the old guy.”
“He’s past his time,” one onlooker yelled.
My opponent laced up his shoes, telling his corner, “I got this,” with a smirk
A dozen referees flocked closer to watch The Old Vs. The Young.
As I laced up, I told Blair, “I brought my shovel,” also with a smirk.
Blair got comfy in my corner, yawned, and waited for the show.
On the whistle, it was heavy hands and hard banging to my head. I held the most basic of wrestling stances and invited the brute force. It quickly became a battle of power versus technique.
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Regardless of the outcome of any match, it’s the work put in and the experience that matters—the kind of stuff money can’t buy.
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