In the backroom of a gym, humid from the rain outside, stand the competitors. They are stripped down to their boxer-briefs, standing in-line waiting to be weighed. Most have been preparing for the scale for days. “You lose two pounds when you sleep if you don’t use blankets,” Max from Woodland Senior High tells me. “I was heavy, so I didn’t eat yesterday; you never want to wrestle a weight class up, they’ll wax the floor with your chubby ass.” Max’s team mate Seth adds. They all seem to know the routine; jeans, a sweatshirt, and shoes can add up to five pounds on the scale, five pounds they would rather weigh in meals, so the clothes come off. Standing in line there are no team colors, no junior varsity or varsity ranks. Most are leaning on the wall or one another, slouching from sleepiness in their sacrifice of a Saturday. I was obligated to sacrifice mine in the name of education, but these pre-men are likely putting off their school work and social life to strip down, line up, and get tagged with a number in holocaust concentration camp fashion. In the lineup, some look soft and fleshy, they would last a long time in a concentration camp, but I wonder if they have muscle hiding under a layer of pudge, if they will last long on the mat, if they are going to win this league meet and prove they are champions despite or because of their weight.
The wrestlers trickle out of the back gym in packs. Curtis, Andrew, and Max walk by me and show the weight class tattooed on their shoulder with permanent marker. Dressed again in their school colors they claim their space on the bleachers overlooking wrestling mats. Wrestlers divide themselves by clan, maroon for Natomas, green for River Valley, black and gold for Pioneer, and Woodland, the most prominent, in bright orange. Green beans and butterballs, lean to stocky the ritual is the same: off the scale and strap on the feedbag. From bagels and cream cheese to donuts, crackers and breakfast bars. Powerade, Gatorade, Amp, and Redbull peek out of bags, but those are for energy boosts between bouts. Wrestlers don’t always have the opportunity to carbo-load before a tournament. Some of these wrestlers have been starving for days to get their weight down, now they can indulge in carbs, and sugars, most likely an unhealthy practice.
Even before they spar on the mat, the team fights with each other. “I said you could have one, not the whole box!” They move as a team to be sure their stuff isn’t getting looted. It seems fitting that this team has an animal mascot. The Woodland Wolves scavenge for food if they neglected to kill or purchase their own. They play with each other like cubs, always bickering and fighting.
Nick, the 103 pound wrestler from Woodland, was sat on by Andrew, another Woodland Wolf, injuring his arm. Soon a bulge at Nick’s elbow started to form and continued swelling. I saw this growth turn purple. He showed it to team mates who urged him to look for a trainer. He looked at them questioningly, “Screw that, I want to wrestle.”
Later he stepped onto the mat, his third arm making painful progress. Every time his opponent grappled with that arm or twisted Nick onto that elbow I cringed. Is pain tolerance the mark of courage or obstinance? For three, two minute rounds the two were entangled, faces distorted with pain and effort. After an agonizing bout, the referee raised the tired, limp hand of Nick’s opponent into the musty air of the gym while the attached body slumped in exhaustion. Despite his painful injury, Nick was a formidable adversary. As the two wrestlers sauntered to the other team’s coach, the wrestlers waiting to use the mat paced.
Rules keep this sport civil. Hair must not fall past your ears, fingernails clipped so they don’t scratch, facial hair all but non-existent, shoe laces tied and taped, and head gear worn to protect ears. Points are given for gaining control and taken away for unsportsmanlike conduct. I believe the most interesting rule is “Blood time.” Up to two minutes a match is given to clean up or stop bleeding, and two minutes for injuries.
James, known as Chicklett teeth, the sophomore that can eat a horse in half a bite, the guy whose teeth get in the way of his tongue, paces in a lettermen’s jacket that shows his past league triumphs, he paces like the wolf he is. Half an hour earlier he was taping a sprained foot. The pain gets swallowed, his jacket, sweatshirt, sweatpants, it all comes off until only his singlet remains. Facing off on the mat, the wrestlers look like painted warriors. Through skin-tight latex-spandex every muscle is defined. The whistle is blown and the match begins. Snarling they circle each other, head to head, pushing, shoving, looking for an opening, a weakness. One darts toward the other’s leg and they’re both on the mat tumbling, struggling for control. In a tangle of limbs the crowd sees shoulders inch closer and closer to the mat and the screams of exhilarated fans and team mates rises. Coaches try and tell the wrestlers how to pin the opponent and how to get out of getting pinned, where to put an arm, a leg, their head. Moments before James gets the pin to win the match, the whistle sounds and the round is over. The wrestlers are centered on the mat, chests heaving, brows furrowed in concentration. They wait for the whistle to tear each other apart.
In the third round, the scores are tied. James gets the reversal for two points, his opponent escapes for one. James calls a time out and falls to the mat clutching his foot. “I twisted it,” he tells his coach. But this is the league tournament, he is going to wrestle. Up to two minutes can be given for injury. After collecting himself, James struggles into position. Twenty seconds hang on the clock and the whistle shrieks. The two grapple and with a twist James’ opponent slips from control. He has to get out of reach completely to gain a point for the escape and take the round into overtime. James entangles the retreating legs with his arms, slips to his hands. Judging by the pain plastered on James’ face, he won’t last if this goes into overtime. Luckily, James grips onto the ankles, is dragged across the mat and maintains his hold until the victory sound of the whistle cries. Cheers of victory and defeat sound from all around the gym.
To these high-schoolers, the choice to wrestle is simple. For that moment on the mat when the referee raises their triumphant fist into the heavens above, proof to the world that they are better. That one moment is worth missing meals, surrendering weekends, and enduring early morning concentration camp lineups. Max tells me, “Team sports are over rated, in wrestling when you win, it’s because you’re just better than the other person. You’re stronger, know the moves better, and you can last longer than them. … Great wrestlers have smarts, speed, endurance, endurance, and endurance.” This tournament will reveal the best in the league, who will go on to sub-sections, sections, and hopefully make it to the state where they will wrestle some of the best high school wrestlers in the country. And when they win, they will know it’s because they are the best, and everything up to that point was worth it.
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Did you like it? This is my observational essay for English... think I'll get a good grade?
