by TomEB
Back in about 1977, at the tender age of 10- my dad was going through a phase where he was a member of the Sunrise Optimist Club back in Cedar Rapids. This club did stuff, and must have met once in a while- but that is all speculation on my part. As far as I knew, what they did was hold a wrestling tournament at Coe College once a year. I knew this because for 3 years my dad had been a timerkeeper, and gave me an important job- I had a rolled-up towel, and it was my job to go out onto the mat when there were 30 seconds left, and tap the referee on the shoulder with the towel when time expired- since he was too busy watching the wrestlers to watch my dad drop his arm to signal time.
Simple job, and I was pretty good at it for a few years.
But then my dad tells me one year- “Tom- you’ve been wrestling me here around the house pretty well- you are now old enough to wrestle in this tournament, and you should enter. You’ll do great”
I should note here that my father never wrestled in any sort of organized competition himself.
But knowing that Father is Always Right- I agreed.
So come tournament day, there I was getting weighed in. This was my first clue that this would be a long day- I was taller and heavier than anyone else my age, and wrestling is by weight. So I was assigned to a bracket of kids mostly 2 years older than me. Uh oh.
Pairings are announced, and I’m matched up with some kid named “Bye” Oh- that means I don’t have to wrestle the first round? Ok.
Second round- off we go. Wait- it’s over? What the hell happened? Pinned in 15 seconds dummy- that’s what.
3rd round- since I had the bye- this is for 3rd place. I sure won’t get pinned this time! Crap- I’m already on my back. Fight it! Fight it! Hey- this hurts, I’m tired, and I really don’t want to be here- I give up.
After that 3rd round I was pretty woozy, and don’t really remember the awards ceremony. I just remember that I got home with a 4th place ribbon I didn’t really feel I deserved, and a photo of my grimacing on the stand with the other kids. The picture and ribbon went into the closet and I never wreslted again outside of gym class.
Flash forward to present day:
Bricker announces that the B-Squad will play in a tournament. I’m pretty stoked- I envision a day-long picnic with softball games taking place around lots of people with kids, lawn chairs and potato salad- kind of like a family reunion with umpires. We would hang with the other teams between games, who were also there more for the atmosphere than the game and it would be a pretty nice day.
Then a few weeks ago- someone brings my nice little delusion crashing down: “these guys are serious” I hear, “the pitchers wear helmets, the infield needs cups, and the ball will travel 8000 miles per hour every time they hit it” Oh oh- we’re wrestling the 12-year-olds, aren’t we?
“You’re just messing with us”- I say. “No” comes the reply- “these guys are not kidding around. Oh yeah- the rules are different too. Pitching is totally different- they dance.” Defnintely the 12-year-olds.
Then, we have one of the most emotionally brutal regular games of the season. Details escape me- I was pretty woozy- but I remember feeling later “was this it? Is this the End Of the B-Squad? Will this tournament take all the remaining fun out of this thing? We’re getting older- how much more can we take?”
Then, a glimmer of hope! A scouting report comes in “We can totally play with these guys!” Well, it sounds better. But I still hear that echo of my dad “you’ll do great”
Saturday morning- I pull into the complex in Minnetonka. I’m ready- this could be ugly, but I think it won’t be any uglier than we’ve seen before. There’s been some rain but it’s clearing off. Cool, breezy weather with some sun- but not enough to get in your eyes. I can do this.
Then I see it- two groups of very young-looking men in very complete very nice uniforms doing group warmups with near-miltary precision. And for that moment, I’m 10 again. This is gonna suck.
Then I realize that they are on a baseball field, not a softball field. I’m looking at 2 high-school varsity teams getting ready for a game and it has nothing to do with us. I’m back.
The location is not quite what I had seen in that first moment of excitement- there is no big pinic, the fields are all fenced in and stacked next to each other in a way that reminds me of the old Chicago Stockyards, without the smell. There are some kids running around, but not the giant relaxed Como-Park-on -Saturday kind of thing I had envisioned. This is a Softball Tournament.
As we gather for game one- I see that the other team- while they look like they’ll be pretty good, is not going to win a national title any time soon. And sure enough- they bat the crap out of the ball. I’ll leave the game details to others, but it was called after 2 innings due to the mercy rule. Yes, it was ugly- but it was the kind of ugly I can handle.
During the 30-minute wait for the next game, I reflect on my fears and remembered one part of the wrestling experience that I had not really thought much about. After that first horrendous match- one of the 12-year-olds who was doing well sat down with me and talked to me. He asked about my wrestling experience, and then proceeded to give me tips and a pep-talk. Then he cheered me on for the second match, and came over to check on me as I weaved my way to the stands after that last mulitiating defeat.
And there you have it. During that break, I got a pep-talk from a 12-year-old wrestler who’s name I never knew. And the next game- we fought it! We fought it like nobody’s business! And didn’t quit. Not this time!
TomEB
PS- I got last out. So I got the beer next game.
Tom, you should totally wrestle Bricker. I think you could take him.
Don’t know how I got here, but this is a great well written story. Saw your group photo, you guys look like a great group. Take Care & Thanks