TOURNAMENT MORNING

Too early for bright lights, so I turn on only one switch in the locker room.  My wrestlers file in.  One here, a couple there.  Groggy faces, tousled hair.  Shoulders wrapped in sleeping bags, prepared for the always-cold bus ride.  One, 17 years old, snuggles into his tired Winnie the Pooh blanket. 

The guys strip down and line up to check weight.  A few, relieved, grin and brag about how far under they are.  One looks stressed.  I ask, “How much?”  “Point-eight," he growls.  There is always one. 

Nothing more needs to be said.  Point-Eight shuffles to his locker and bundles up in heavy sweat gear.  He makes his way through dark hallways to the darker gym, where darker doesn’t matter.  He knows the gym.  He’s run it a thousand times, and could run it with his eyes closed.  A teammate follows him, prepared to push him when he can no longer push himself. 

He sprints, back and forth, back and forth. He’s dehydrated, and knows he’ll have to run hard and long to break that final stubborn sweat.  He does the work.  After 20 or so down and backs, his teammate feels the forehead inside his hoody.  Wet, a good sign.  The teammate says, “Good, now keep it flowing.  Bus leaves in ten and your sweat needs to flow until you climb in your seat.”

Back at the scale, my heavyweight is way under weight, and checking weight is unnecessary.  He checks anyway.  He wants to be like everyone else, but he’s not like everyone else.  He had dinner last night.  He checks, grins, does a little heavyweight dance, and belts out, “30 pounds under!”  One extra-lean teammate swears at him.  I’m OK with the bad language.  They love each other.

On the bus now, checking off an attendance list of 20 guys.  Ten minutes past departure time, and there are 19 check marks.  There is always one.  Sometimes a train hold-up, so they say.  Sometimes a faulty alarm, so they say.  The truth is, they are adolescent boys who love to sleep.  I’m getting angry, but check myself.  Then I smile.  I’ve been doing this a long, long time, and there is always one.  There was one 34 years ago when I began coaching, and there is one now.  I use the wait-time to talk to the guys on the bus.  “You all have your headgear?”  They nod, sleepily.  “Singlets?”  They nod again.  “Shoes?”  Suddenly a senior jumps up and rushes past me, off the bus.  Some things don’t get better with experience.

Speeding headlights enter the parking lot and race to a stop.  Late Kid bolts from the car and scrambles onto the bus.  As he passes me, our eyes lock.  I don’t smile, and neither does he.  I don’t want an excuse and he knows it, so none is given.  It is what it is.

I say, “You got all your gear?”  He nods.  “You gonna check weight?”  He shakes his head.  I don’t like it, but it’s on him.  He’s late, so we’re late, and we need to go.  Besides, I know he’ll make weight.  He’s never missed.

The yellow school bus pulls out carrying 20 sleepy teenage bad-asses, and once more, I smile.  We’ve connected all the dots so far. 

I love tournament morning.