Rambling Rhodes

Wrestling Lessons

Back during my freshman high school year, at the age of 12 to 13, I participated in my first year of varsity wrestling. I was 112 pounds, and I had no problem maintaining that weight, because I was basically always 110 pounds, until a summer growth spurt, but that didn't happen until later, so never mind that.

I wasn't a great wrestler that year, but I didn't totally suck, either. I got destroyed by some wrestlers, mildly beaten by others, and I actually won a fair share of matches, so that my final tally at the end of the season was 16 wins and 19 losses.

Well, towards the end of the wrestling season, during the sectional playoffs, my team met up with the best team in the region, the Stewartville Tigers. So, it was the Harmony Cardinals versus the Stewartville Tigers and, as with most small avian versus large feline encounters, things did not go well for the Harmony team.

Personally, I had to go up against a defending state champion, by the name of Dennis Bly. Now, whereas I was a diminutive 9th grader who had not yet sprouted much in the way of pubic hair, Dennis was a full-fledged senior who--while he was warming up for the match--did a quick shave and took a few belts off a bottle of Jack Daniels. Or it might have been a water bottle. . . I was too intimidated to confirm either way.

I was not what you would call. . . strong. My body was putting all its effort into growing bones rather than muscle mass. As such, I was long and lanky and uncoordinated and not particularly up to state champion form, to put it mildly. I was a Charlie McCarthy doll, to put it accurately.

Dennis, on the other hand, was awash with muscle. His 112 pound frame rippled with all sorts of muscular activity. His muscles talked to each other like close, personal friends. And all those muscles were in full agreement that it was time to kick my sorry little butt.

My coach and teammates all tried to encourage me, saying things like "he's not as tough as they say," and "he's just as afraid of you as you are of him," and "he doesn't really eat babies, just puppies, and the occasional kitten." None of their encouragement did much to convince me that I shouldn't just pee myself a little bit.

Here's the thing about wrestling: you can't blame anybody but yourself if you lose. You can't point at another team member and say you lost because of them. No, you pretty much have to point that finger at yourself, and that's a horrifying thing to admit when you're growing up, especially in high school, when everyone is out to make fun of everyone else for whatever reason they can come up with. So, it takes a special kind of person to go out on a wrestling mat at all, especially when they know, they KNOW, they're going to get their ass handed to them in front of a large number of hometown fans.

I went out to the center of the mat, and I shook Dennis's hand, and I looked him in the eye, and I could see that he absolutely knew he was going to tear me a new butthole. There was no doubt in his mind. He had all the confidence in the world, and I remember briefly wondering what it would be like, to have that kind of confidence.

"Good luck," I told him, as was my custom before each match, and I could see in his eyes, and in his talking muscles, that he needed luck about as much as he needed a second nose.

The referee blew the whistle, and I moved in to lock up with Dennis, and Dennis responded with something I had up to that point never experienced in all my wrestling days: he karate-chopped the back of my neck.

Technically, what Dennis did is considered a head snap--a perfectly legal wrestling maneuver meant to distract an opponent--but, make no mistake, what Dennis did was a karate chop, and I will maintain that until my dying day. The fat side of his hand connected squarely with the nerves between my shoulders and my neck, and I distinctly remember several stars entering my field of vision. I also bit my tongue with a substantial amount of force. To say it was a distraction is like saying a nuclear detonation makes a subtle popping noise.

What transpired after the karate chop is kind of difficult to remember. I think there was a double-leg takedown involved, followed by a rapid succession of movements that put me on my back and, two seconds later, a pin of some sort. I then kind of, sort of remember standing up and shaking hands and saying something like "good luck at state," or something pathetic like that. I really can't remember, exactly.

And, indeed, Dennis went on to repeat as a state champion that year, whereas I was pretty much annihilated after the first round of the section's individual tournament.

Perhaps the only saving grace about the whole encounter is that, today, I'm six feet tall and 180 pounds, whereas Dennis is probably still relatively short and 112 pounds. So, ha ha, Dennis.

And my neck still hurts.

Posted by Ryan at February 8, 2005 11:08 AM