Born to Wrestle?

The acrid residue of defeat hung in the air, a bitter undertone for a balmy October evening. Amidst the departing line of cars in the school parking lot stood Jason, our formidable 280-pound state champion; Coach McDonald, a beacon of guidance; and me, a mere shadow in the 160-pound weight class.

Coach McDonald's hands, still warm from the intensity of the competition, firmly gripped my shoulders, his gaze piercing through my veil of doubt. "Billy," his voice, rendered raspy after a steady chorus of screams with intermittent cheers, cut through the uneasy quiet. "Son, the potential within you to become an extraordinary wrestler exists. It takes time, and you're only a sophomore," he argued.

A skeptical smile ghosted my face before I responded. "Don't you see? I lost... again. And my opponent was ten pounds lighter than me." Frustration and emotion clung to my words like wet cement as I stepped away from Coach McDonald. Pulling my cell phone from my equipment bag, I said flatly, "I need to call my mom. I hope she'll pick me up."

While awaiting her to answer my call, the tempting notion to quit the sport rumbled in my brain. High school wrestling seemed an insurmountable mountain where I could never measure up. I held my ground in junior high, but these older, superior athletes bested me at every turn. Today, even Val, my girlfriend, witnessed yet another defeat.

Still smarting from a quick, but difficult conversation with my mother, I rejoined our little group. Jason leaned nonchalantly against his truck as I walked up, and erupted with a harsh laugh, his voice reverberating like thunder against the gymnasium's brick wall. "Billy, your loss to that kid today means nothing. My first year, I lost to a girl," he confessed, his words hanging in the air like pink balloons. He repeated the revelation, this time slowly, deliberately, and couched in a whisper… "a female."

My eyebrows raised in sophomoric wonder, “She must have been a big female.”

Jason nodded and ran a hand through his wet hair.

Coach McDonald, fueled by unyielding determination, closed in. "Billy, look at me,” he took hold of my chin. “Pound for pound, you're the strongest and most flexible kid on the team. That's a winning combination. Master the techniques in practice, and victory will be yours, I promise."

I coughed, peeling my sweat-soaked singlet away from my chest. "When, Coach? When will I be a winner?"

An impatient breath escaped Coach's lips as he turned to Jason. With a knowing look, Coach said, "How long did it take you to win your first match?"

Jason straightened up, squinting as if recalling a painful struggle and putting a counterfeit grin on his face. "My first year, I lost every match. Ended the season 0 – 11."

"And your second year?" Coach prodded.

"I haven't lost at all in the past two years. 32-0, including two state championships." Jason slapped his hands together, his imposing chest stretching his t-shirt to the limit.

Coach bumped me with his elbow. "Billy, that can be you someday. But it'll never happen if you quit."

Alone in the deserted parking lot, our discussion continued, Coach and Jason, countering my quitting rationale with compelling reasons to continue.

Finally, an introspective silence cloaked our small group, each of us gazing downward at the pavement. In that soundless moment, I internalized Jason's remarkable metamorphosis from loser to champion. I felt a slight tingle in my inner parts, but it was weak, not strong enough to alter my decision. Coach cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. "Well, I'm hungry."

"And here comes the minivan," I said, picking up my bag.

Coach McDonald squeezed my bicep. "Billy, you are a powerfully built young man, but are you tough enough to be a wrestler?"

Jason, fixing me with a stern look, swung open the F-150's door. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, then delivered the blunt truth: "Billy, don't be a quitter."

In the car, I thanked Mom for picking me up, but it fell on deaf ears. She was irritated about driving after dark.

"William, you could have walked home; it's not ten minutes from school," she stated abruptly, shielding her eyes from oncoming headlights.

"Sorry, I'm late. I had to talk with Coach McDonald. I didn't even shower."

"Yes, I can tell."

I smiled, aware that she was serious.

"Okay, tell me about your talk with Coach."

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Mom, you know how many matches I've won, right?"

"I do."

"Then you know I stink as a wrestler."

She remained silent as she honked at a dog by the road.

A cold knife twisted in my chest. Then I uttered the words. "I told Coach I want to quit the team."

She was quiet for a full minute. Then, calmly, she said, "How many matches have you had?"

"Four."

"You've lost them all, haven't you?"

I sniffed, "You know I have."

She glanced at me; her eyes owl-like. "So, quit. I'll wash your singlets tonight, and you can return them tomorrow."

My heart fluttered, and a shiver ran up my spine. When she turned her big eyes toward me, I suspected I was in some kind of trouble, but was always uncertain of her next reaction. It could range from passive-aggressive silence to full-blown anger. This evening, she focused her eyes back on the road and shook her head... slowly.

Best to keep my mouth shut, I thought.

After an awkward minute, allowing her to regain composure, I ventured a statement, "You're telling me I should quit?" It was more a question than a statement.

She didn't hesitate. "I'm telling you to do what's right for you."

I shook my head, not expecting nor appreciating that advice. How did I know what was right for me? I had never quit anything, except a lame summer camp when I was ten. Mom forced me to go, and I stayed only one day. At that moment I knew only one thing, I’d lost all my matches and couldn't see a bright future in the sport.

As the minivan cruised the dimly lit streets, a heavy silence filled the vehicle. The weight of my decision to quit was suspended in the air, almost tangible. I stared out of the window, watching the passing streetlights cast momentary shadows on my mother's face. The residue of defeat seemed to have seeped into every corner of the car.

Mom's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. Finally, unable to contain her thoughts, she spoke with a measured tone that cut through the stillness like a blade. "Billy, quitting is not a sign of weakness. It takes strength to recognize when something isn't right for you."

I turned in my seat, surprised by the wisdom in her words. The streetlights flickered, casting a play of light and dark inside the car. She continued, her gaze steady on the road ahead, "Winning or losing doesn't define you. What matters is whether you're pursuing something that brings you joy and a sense of purpose."

Her words resonated in the confined space, challenging the doubt in my mind. I hesitated, then asked, "But what if I disappoint everyone? Coach, Jason, Val..."

Mom interrupted her voice firm yet understanding, "Billy, the only person you should worry about disappointing is yourself. Others will have expectations, but your happiness and well-being should always be a part of your decisions. Quitting is not the end; it's a choice to redirect your efforts toward something that fits with who you are."

The weight of her words settled over me, and I felt an unfamiliar mix of vulnerability and clarity. The truth in her statement cleared up the self-doubt that had clouded my decision. Perhaps quitting wasn't a failure, but a courageous step towards a different path.

As we pulled into the driveway, Mom turned off the engine and faced me. "Remember, the only person living your life is you. Don't let fear of judgment dictate your choices. Be true to yourself, and you'll find the strength to navigate whatever comes your way."

I nodded, absorbing the profound simplicity of her advice. The balmy October evening felt different now as if a subtle shift had occurred. The bitter undertone of defeat still lingered, but beneath it, a seed of self-discovery had been planted. The journey ahead was uncertain, but Mom's words had ignited a spark of courage within me—an understanding that quitting, when done for the right reasons, could be a powerful act of self-determination.

Mom reached down to open the door but stopped. “Billy, my tennis coach in college told all her players, “You may win, or you may lose, but you will always learn.”

I nodded.