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Lost at Wrestling

 Wrestling in the grass was a regular pastime at the park, and I practiced more than most. I only remember losing once—and not because I said, “I give up.” That was the usual way to lose, but I was too stubborn for that. It was never going to happen.

That day, I was wrestling with a friend while my brother Bruce watched. Another guy wandered over to watch, too. I’ll call him John. I had only seen him at the park a few times, but Bruce told me he was in his class. That meant he was younger than me, and from what I could tell, he was also shorter.

There were a few of us hanging around, taking turns wrestling. The usual rule was that the winner stayed in, facing a new challenger each round. I had just won another match when John, who had been watching closely, spoke up.

"I can beat you."

I laughed. “Let’s go.”

Before we started, I had already noticed something—John had some serious muscle. But I didn’t think it would make much difference. Strength alone wasn’t enough to win.

As soon as we locked up, I realized I had underestimated him. John was strong—really strong—and impossible to get a hold of. No matter what I tried, he wasn’t budging. A few minutes in, I couldn’t move. Neither of us could. We were stuck in a human trap.

"Give up?" we both asked each other, but neither of us was willing to say it first.

I don’t know how long we were locked in that stalemate before I heard Bruce’s voice.

"I’m going to tell Mom."

"NO!" I shouted, but he ignored me. I guess he could feel my pain.

Bruce took off running. We only lived across the street, so it didn’t take long before he was back—with Mom right behind him.

"Let him go right now!" she yelled.

John and I obeyed immediately. We agreed—he won.

Looking back, I realize John was probably working out and training. I had walked into a match with someone who actually knew what they were doing.

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Tackle or Flag

The equipment locker didn’t open until 9 AM, but there were usually a few kids at the park earlier. While waiting, we might wrestle on the grass, burning off energy until it was time to play for real.

As soon as the equipment room finally opened, the first decision was always the same: Tackle or flag?

We all knew we were going to play football—there was never a question about that. Most of us wanted to play tackle because it was more fun, but sometimes, someone got hurt the day before and pushed for flag football instead. We didn’t want to leave anyone out, so if even one kid insisted, we’d play flag.

Choosing sides came next. The older guys—usually a little bigger and stronger—were the captains. One by one, they picked their teams. No one wanted to be chosen last.

Mark, a little overweight and not the fastest, always ended up as the last pick. After a while, he figured out a way around that—he started showing up late. Now I realize that was probably his strategy all along.

In the back of my mind, I was always focused on one thing: beating the older, bigger guys. But I learned fast—going head-on against them was a mistake unless I wanted to get knocked flat. Instead, my strategy was to trail the ball carrier. Even if they were bigger and faster, all I needed was one chance to dive and grab a foot. A good ankle tackle was just as effective as a full-body hit.

Mom always called me home for lunch. I’d scarf down my food as fast as possible and run back to the game before I missed too much.

At 4:30, the equipment locker closed for the day. That was usually the signal for everyone to head home—unless, of course, someone was still up for wrestling.

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