YARD WRESTLER CONFESSION, II

Every Wrestler Earns Their Yard Wrestler Medal.

There’s always someone who needs to give it a try when they find out you wrestle, used to wrestle, or went to a wrestling match.

“Let’s wrestle” isn’t the best invitation to throw out when you don’t know the person saying it.

If it’s anyone from an Oregon State picture like the one above, you’ll know your mistake. After it’s too late.

In high school I learned a few tricks on the mat. My older brother, a non-wrestler but good athlete, needed to see what he could do.

To the front yard!

After a gentle take down I worked on him until he wanted to change.

Call it round two.

He was up, I was down. I switched him and cranked on him some more.

Big brothers are great to work on the yard, but not so good at playing the victim.

He didn’t like my crossface the first time, something about lifting too hard on his nose.

My dad watched me put grass stains on his football playing son’s face. He said he wanted some too, except he wanted to box.

Good idea?

Warning: Never Box Your Dad.

We pulled on the big gloves and the old man punched me out. He moved like I’d never seen before.

He jabbed and danced and slid around the yard like a pro. He knew what he was doing.

After he decided I’d had enough, he called it a day and had a cigarette. I didn’t land one punch, but threw many. He was untouchable.

Sugar Ray Daddy.

The lesson learned? You never know the sort of weapons your opponent has in his bag, even if you’ve known them all your life.

Bigger lesson? Your father will not, and should not, let you win just because you’re his kid.

You’ve heard whiners say things like, “My dad never let me win anything.”

If you’ve grown up and have kids, or plan on it, will you let them win? Will you give them a false sense of themselves? If you do, they’ll know you tanked to avoid hurt feelings.

I never boxed my dad again, way out of my league, but the yard wrestler was a different matter.

Fast forward from seventeen to thirty-seven, married with young kids who would be wrestlers.

My front yard was a beautiful collection of plants, lights, and decorative gravel walkways. My wife had a vision and we built it together.

One Saturday the doorbell rang.

I saw two men at the door.

Too old for a Mormon visit, and the wrong gender for Seventh Day Adventists, I stopped hiding and opened the door.

The smaller man was a local grade school principal, the other a stranger.

What not to say to yard wrestler strangers.

The guys were there on a fundraiser for the district.

“Hi. Sure I remember you. You’re the principal,” I said to the little guy. “Who’s your pal.”

“He’s a wrestling coach,” the principal said.

“You coach wrestling?” I asked the other guy.

“I do,” he said.

“So you know how to wrestle?” I asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ve heard coaches take it easy on their wrestlers these days. Are you one of those coaches?”

“No, that’s not how I coach,” he said.

“There’s only one way to know. We go two out of three on body locks. Score a point for locked hands around the other guy. You probably don’t do this on your team, so I’ll take it easy. Do you understand the rules?”

“Yep.”

“Then let’s go.”

Ordinarily you might expect the other guy to start out with caution. I did. Caution lasted about two seconds, then I was all about defense.

This wrestling coach started at 100 mph and kept his foot on the gas. We flew around the front yard stomping plants and kicking over lights.

We pummeled each other for underhooks, pushed faces back, grabbed two on ones, dragged arms.

He was more than enough challenge for anyone, but I baited him by leaving a little room between my elbow and side. Turns out he was baiting me, too.

Look at the top photo. The coach is third from the right, top row, during his OSU days.

He faked an underhook by stabbing his arm inside just far enough for me to clamp it with my right elbow before pulling it out and wrapping it around my arm. I didn’t notice he had wrist control on the other side, which he released for the tightest arm-trap bear hug I’ve ever felt.

The next feeling was a crunching sound, followed by a knife-like sensation on my next breath. I knew I’d popped a rib. Not the first time.

Time to save some face, and more, for this yard wrestler.

“Not bad, coach. Let’s call it a draw. I’ll get that fund raiser check, then I’ve got to get busy out back. We’ll finish our two out of three locks when I have more time.”

My wife came out and gave them a check. I saw her face. Not a happy face.

It was something about the front yard looking like a pathway for migrating wildebeests. Crushed and broken aren’t words used to describe thoughtful landscaping.

Once we got inside the house she said, “What was that all about?”

“Two wrestlers, honey. Yard wrestler stuff. It happens.”

“What happened?”

“I think I broke some ribs.”

“No, what happened to my yard and when are you going to fix it?”

“As soon as I catch my breath, honey. I’m thinking next week. I’ve got some ribs going on.”

“Serves you right.”

“Maybe I ought to get them looked at?”

“Maybe you ought to grow up.”

“Yes, maybe. Maybe that’s what I ought to do.”

“Do I need to take you to Urgent Care?”

“Well, that’s what a grown up would do. What would a wrestler do?”

“I give up.”

“Wrong answer. Wait a while and see if things clear up. Feeling better already. See?” I said, raising my arms and hiding that particular agony.

“If you can do that, you’ll be fine.”

“That’s what I think, too. Do we have any ice?”

Moral of the yard wrestler story.

When a local high school wrestling coach shows up on a fund raising visit, just write the check.

It’s not like a basketball coach you can challenge to a game of horse, double or nothing.

If a wrestling coach accepts the challenge to compete, run inside and lock the door.

They can’t lose on your front yard, and they won’t.

Add more years to the story. I met Coach Matt Hamilton’s wife, Tonya Russo Hamilton. She’s a teacher and author.

One of her books is Wrestling With The Devil.

Her name didn’t click with me at first. She’s the daughter of a great wrestling coach and part of a big wrestling family.

Look at the image at the top again. Her cousin and brother are second and first from the right on the third row.

“What’s your husband do?” I asked.

“He coaches wrestling.”

“You married a wrestling coach after spending so much time around wrestlers?”

“Who else do you think I knew?”

I told her the story about yard wrestling. She’d heard it before. It was her husband and I in my front yard. She’d already heard the story from the principle.

The legend of yard wrestler came full circle.

If you’re still wondering about the yard wrestler medal, it’s grass stains on your face.

Do you have your medal?