My Last Wrestling Match

My Last Wrestling Match

Being a small boy at Richardson High School took a lot of fun out of those glory days. I couldn’t get a date for the Senior Prom and had only one date during high school. Boys being boys, bigger guys picked on me as they grew, while I stayed at 95 pounds my freshman year. Fortunately, my friend, Lane, talked me into joining the wrestling team. They needed someone in the 95-pound bracket, and I fit right in. Let me clarify. Lane meant Olympic wrestling, not the silliness of professional wrestlers on television.
In my first match, a kid from the School of the Blind pinned me with my shoulder blades on the mat for three seconds. I lost the match in front of my father. Talk about humiliation. I vowed never to be pinned again, especially by a blind guy. My workouts moved to a higher level as I wrestled larger guys on the team with fierce intensity. I listened to everything the coach said and started winning. Word spread in the school not to mess with me. I had no more problems with the bigger guys. I ran with the wrestling team, a quasi-gang of strutting, testosterone-filled teenagers who loved to wrestle (fight) anyone who challenged us.
In my senior year, I came into my own, going into Regionals against a rival who had previously beaten me four times. I worked myself into a rage before the match because someone stole my pre-match snack. I attacked him hard and fast to win first place at regionals, ending the regular season undefeated in the 126-pound bracket. Next, I went to Odessa in West Texas, seeded number two for the State meet. The tough boys from out west generally were unbeatable, winning the State Championship year after year.
I progressed easily to the semi-finals before encountering the number one seed from Odessa. I might as well have been wrestling a bobcat. His strength and ferocity were unbelievable as he blocked every move I attempted. I spent a lot of time on my back, but he did not pin me. I ended up losing by only four points. He took first place, while I won the consolation round for third place. By then, our team strutted the school halls cocky and proud. The other jocks, even the football players, left us alone.
I left home for college at Trinity University in San Antonio. They had no school wrestling team, but intramurals gave me a chance to wrestle again. By then I had put on a little weight and signed up for the 142-pound bracket, more than a little overconfident that being a stud, I would walk away with first place. After a year off of competition, I thought a light workout with other wrestlers made me ready.
Many of my friends and football players from my dorm attended the meet to cheer me on. My first couple of matches ended fast with me pinning opponents. During that time, I had been watching another fellow, Mark, progress to the finals against me. Although technically a freshman, he had just left the Navy where he spent four years wrestling during tours in Vietnam. He moved fast with plenty of muscles, easily pinning all of his opponents. Though Mark impressed me, he wasn’t as good as the champion from Odessa. However, I walked onto the mat with a little apprehensive, realizing I was not in peak shape anymore.
As with most sports, two tactics could be taken in wrestling. Offensive or defensive. I typically took the defensive track, holding back for an opening to take advantage of. One offensive tactic that often worked well involved diving into the opponent as soon as the whistle started the match, catching the other guy off guard with a surprise attack. I intended to go that route, but when Mark strutted confidently onto the mat and shook my hand firmly, his intimidation cracked my shell just a bit.
When the whistle blew, I waited, circling around the mat. I should have gone for it. Instead, five seconds into the match, Mark attacked me in a blur of a move I had never seen and still don’t know what happened. He threw me down onto my right side, sending excruciating pain through my right shoulder. During a brief moment of shock, he rolled me over, going for a pin. After a few seconds on my back, I used my head and neck in a bridge to lift us both off the ground. I rolled onto my stomach. Now he had five points and we had just started. Paralyzing agony kept my right arm limp. Okay. No giving up, I would wrestle with one arm.
I stood and broke loose from his grip, scoring one escape point. I circled and evaded Mark, finishing the first period with no more points lost. When the whistle blew at the end of three minutes, I crumpled onto the ground, holding my right arm.
The referee came to me and asked, “Are you okay?”
“No. I hurt my shoulder.”
“Are you quitting?”
“I don’t know.”
“You get a two-minute injury time out, then make your decision.” He blew his whistle and signaled an injury time out, then went to the scorekeeper to explain the situation.
The crowd went silent, hoping I would bounce back.
I laid there, holding my arm in misery, wishing it to stop hurting; but I knew something bad had torn inside my shoulder. I had never quit before. I did not want to quit now, especially in front of my fraternity brothers and the football players I had beaten while wrestling around the dorm. There was no coach to encourage me. I had to suck it up and tough it out. A little movement returned to my right arm when the referee came around at the end of two minutes.
“Are you going to wrestle?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Cheering broke out from the crowd when I stood and walked onto the mat. I glared at Mark as I willed my arm to do what needed to be done. I started the second period on my hands and knees with him on top of me. I knew he would not put me on my back or pin me. I learned those defenses long ago after losing that first match. I dropped to my stomach and stalled as he attempted in vain to turn me over. Being on the bottom was the safest place to be with my bad arm, but it didn’t score points for me. After a while, the referee warned me to quit stalling. We started again, Mark on top. I immediately jumped forward with an escape for another point. I backed away and circled, evading several attempts by Mark to take me down. I didn’t think that whistle would ever blow. When it did, Mark still led by two points.
I sat, breathing hard, planning an attack. By now my right hand worked and my arm moved to shoulder height, but with little strength. It would have to be enough to finish the match despite my injury. I was still two points down. Trying to score two or more points while on top was difficult, as I had demonstrated the previous period. He could easily stall on his hands and knees, riding out the clock. On top, I would need to use extreme strength with leverage from both arms to turn him on his back, but I had little steam left. This would be the time to try to outsmart him with a trick strategy I had used once before. When the whistle blew, I could stand and release Mark, giving him one point for an escape and a three-point lead. He would be surprised, then I would immediately take him down with a second surprise and turn him on his back, earning four or five points for the win. If he took me down instead with some mysterious move like he did at the start, it would be all over. If I took him down but didn’t turn him over, I would also lose. The odds were against me. What to do?
The referee brought us out to the mat for the last period. The crowd noise rose to a crescendo. Sweat poured off my body. Mark dropped down to his hands and knees. I took a position on top of him, holding him with all my limited strength. What to do? The ref pointed at us. Stand or stay down? Stand or stay down? The whistle blew. I just couldn’t give him more points with an easy release. What if I didn’t take him down? He might circle and evade, running down the clock. It would be all over. I clamped down hard and grabbed his ankle, a standard riding position. Instead, I had to put him on his back to score points. He fell to his stomach. Damn. He was going to stall as I had. I shifted from side to side, trying to worm an arm under him for leverage. No go. Mark pulled in tight, laying still. The referee cautioned him for stalling. With agony I used my right arm, attempting to pry him off his stomach. He moved around just enough to keep from being penalized. The crowd screamed for me to do something as time elapsed. I put an elbow on his head and pushed a hand under his neck. God that hurt. Nothing. I knew then it was over. I frantically attacked him, pushing and pulling his legs and arms as time ran out. The whistle blew. That was it. One of my rare defeats. I hated losing. We stood in the center of the mat where the referee raised Mark’s hand, declaring him the winner. I walked away in defeat with my shoulder badly injured. I had lost by not taking the initiative of an immediate attack, or trick move in the third period. Never again would I pause in indecision. Victory goes to the aggressor.
For a week, I barely slept because of shoulder pain. Midterms were approaching. I didn’t have time to see a doctor. Surely my shoulder would get well. I toughed it out, but the injury did not heal. The next time I went home, Dad’s orthopod x-rayed my shoulder. He diagnosed a torn rotator cuff that probably could not be fixed. The next year I tried to wrestle again, but my wrestling days were over. For the rest of my life, I could not throw a ball or do gymnastics or sleep on my right side. The pain eventually dropped from agony to aggravating. Years later, several surgeries attempting to repair my rotator were to no avail. Though my injury from 48 years ago still limited my shoulder’s use, like most jocks, the memories of my glory days were worth the pain.