Now that I am writing sports on a regular basis - and into it like a witch in a broomstick factory (I love that new Gieco commercial) - I must put any apprehensions aside and get in the game. I'm not embarrassed to say if I'm a little out of touch on a sport, but there is something a little intimidating about wrestling.
Last night I geared up, notebook in hand, camera bag on my shoulder, journalism credentials hanging around my neck, a stick of Wrigley's cinnamon gum in my mouth and headed into "The Nest", Wasatch High School's barely three year old high-tech gymnasium. I was an hour early. The gym was empty except for one person, Head Wrestling Coach Wade Discher. He saw me immediately. It was on. We met and introduced ourselves and he thanked me for coming. He spoke briefly about what was in store for the evening's season introducing intersquad matches, then he disappeared into the tunnel. I was so relieved. I would not have to wrestle Coach Discher.
As I sat alone in the gym writing down a few questions I would seek answers for throughout the evening, I began to look at the championship banners high in the rafters. Now I've looked at these banners before. They are spectacular and there are many. But my eyes focused on one long stretch of them that all said State Wrestling Champion. By far, more than any other sport played at the school. 13 of them, in fact, have been hung at Wasatch in the last 20 years in the sport of wrestling. Impressive. I got chills down my spine staring at the ones from the 1990's when Cael Sanderson, arguably the greatest amateur wrestler of all time, grappled on the very mats of Wasatch High School.
Then my eyes rolled back into my head and everything got fuzzy. I'm just kidding of course, but stay with me. Cue the creepy do-do-do-do...do-do-do-do music and let's go back in time. Back to the aforementioned F.J. Reitz High School. My alma mater in Evansville, Indiana. It is 1978 and I'm a freshman (second gulp). Many of my friends from the football team were going on to join the wrestling team. I had never wrestled and had no idea on how to wrestle outside of totally dominating the little kids in my neighborhood. I decided, at the urging of a few buddies to go to the first meeting and check it out. That's the closest I ever got to wrestling on the team.
I'll never forget our wrestling coach... and for more reasons than one, that I'll explain later. His name was Jerry Latham. He was a monster of a man. This guy could destroy Popeye after a canned spinach binge with one forearm. His chest was bigger than my whole body. The meeting was in the wrestling locker room which was in the basement next to the boiler room. This room's cement block walls had never seen a coat of paint. The pipes that ran throughout it's exposed ceiling creaked and even dripped in spots. This was no place for a budding writer.
For the next couple of days, I avoided Coach Latham as I ducked through the school's hallways. I'm not sure why I was afraid, I just didn't want to be confronted by him on why I decided not to go out for his team. Besides, there were 60 boys in that meeting. No way did he notice my scrawny little 100 pound butt.
Fast forward two years. I am now about to be a junior. Eight inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. I may have even had a couple of whiskers on my chin. My family had just built a house farther out in the country and I was getting to know some of the kids in my new neighborhood. About 10 houses up the winding road lived a kid I became fast friends with. His sister, who had graduated from Reitz the year before, was the darling of her class and come to find out the daughter of Coach Latham. This guy who could bend a bicycle frame into a pretzel was now my neighbor and his son was my friend and I couldn't keep my eyes off of his daughter. I was soon to be dead. The confrontation I had built up in my mind as inevitable was now... well, inevitable.
It wasn't long before I was invited into the Latham house. Mrs. Latham was a beautiful woman and as kind as they come. Their daughter, had thankfully moved on to college, so that lessened my chances of getting put into the sleeper hold. Do they still use that? Anyway, as it turned out, I would not have to wrestle Coach Latham. He actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy. You see, the gruff wrestling coach persona was held in check at home by Mrs. Latham, who could pin Coach Latham at the drop of a hat. One afternoon while I was comfortably watching television at the Latham house, the coach mumbled out to me, "so why haven't you come out for wrestling?" It was on. I shrugged like any 16 year old being confronted with a question about a secret they had harbored for years and replied, "I dunno." "I thought when I saw you in the meeting two years ago that you looked like you might make a pretty decent little wrestler," the coach said, his eyes fixed on the tv. "But, it ain't for everybody," he said. That's when my friend nudged me on the arm and motioned for us to go outside. He was just trying to get me out of the clutches of his old man. That wasn't really necessary though. I felt so relieved all of a sudden. Two years of guilt and fear of not following through on going out for the wrestling team had suddenly drained out of my body.
I spent the last two years of my time at Reitz following the wrestling team... even writing about them in our school paper once or twice. I was into supporting my buddies who had the grit and guts to participate on a historically winning high school wrestling team. I'll never forget my friend Jeff Harp, the scrawniest kid on the freshman football team, who went on to win four state medals in the 98 pound weight class. I think back fondly on that sweltering wrestling room next to the boiler room where guys would go to jump rope in full sweats just to lose a couple of pounds to make weight. An unhealthy practice that has fallen to the wayside, but a standard back in the day (third gulp).
Do-do-do-do... do-do-do-do. I snap out of my flashback to the sound of the entire wrestling team rolling the giant mat out onto the floor in preparation for the evening's matches... about 40 young men with the grit and guts to participate on a historically winning high school wrestling team. It was the beginning of an exciting night. The lights went down spotlighting only the mat. Coach Discher addressed the crowd, welcoming them and thanking them for allowing their sons to be a part of his program. It was then time to wrestle. The rock music played and the cheerleaders cheered. 14 matches took place pitting teammate against teammate. They wrestled with vigor. They wrestled with heart. They shook hands then went for the pin. They grappled for their coaches attention and for the adoration of their parents. It was energetic and fun. It was a team of young men giving it their all to be at their best. As the lights came up and the mat was respectfully rolled up and put to bed and the crowd chatted and slowly dispersed, I realized that not much has changed with high school wrestling. And it's a darn good thing it hasn't.
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