FLOOKER

by Craig Foster, Cypress Charger, 1975-1976

NO ONE SEEMS TO KNOW when Mike Flook became Flooker. Coach Ray Haas may have nicknamed him, in the same way he took to calling me Craiger. Or, Flooker may have always made sense, felt natural, like the kid was born with that handle. Either way, unless you're a serial killer, a nickname is mostly a sign of affection, or respect. Flooker–it's hard to imagine anyone more loved, or respected.

In the narrow wrestling pipeline between Los Alamitos High School and Cypress College, Flooker came first. He competed for Los Al at a time when the new wrestling program stunk. In fact, the Griffin mat team was one of the lowest in all of Southern California. Flooker stood out as the best of the worst, but never really landed on anyone’s recruiting radar. He lived in Cypress, an easy jog from another fledgling program at Cypress College. The Chargers were led by Pennsylvania native Haas, and the coach was busy putting his program on the wrestling map. He collected the best kids in Orange County, guys like Jim Shields, but he also welcomed anyone who loved wrestling and wanted an opportunity. Flooker loved wrestling, so he got snared in Haas’s wide net. 

Had a wrestling prospect ever been labeled a future Hall-of-Famer at Cypress College, it would not have been Mike Flook. He was a good competitor for Los Al, but unpolished scrappers rarely made college All-Americans. Flooker's lack of solid high school training showed itself early at Cypress. When he arrived on campus in the fall of 1970, he was little more than chum for a pair of rugged workout partners in All-Americans Bob Leininger and Barry Malony. Raw, bloody meat for sharks. The tenacious Griffin struggled to survive practices as the pair of hammers pounded on him. But under the eye of his ever-demanding head coach, Flooker simply would not quit. He survived that season and earned the coach's respect.

A year later, Mike was one of only three returning starters–along with Malony (142) and Bill Postmus (177)–on a team heavy with freshmen. This imbalance landed him a role he never expected: team leader.

 

Ted Wilton, a freshman and future All-American at Cypress, describes sophomore Mike this way: "I remember when I first met Flooker. He came up to me and introduced himself in the wrestling room. We both had long curly hair. We were wild and we constantly made each other laugh. It was an instant bond that lasted many years. I was more muscular than Mike, but he was a much more dangerous wrestler than me. He taught me the secrets to his fireman's carry. During his time on the mat, no one executed a better FC than Mike Flook. He taught me how to dance with my feet. He showed me his set-up. Outside tie, tap and distract the head, the shoulder, constantly dancing and changing sides. It was the first time I ever saw multiple set-ups for one takedown. The dude was a genius . . . Jimi Hendrix type genius."

 

As a high schooler, I spent some time at Cypress CC open mats. One night I watched Ted and Mike scrap, long floppy hair flying, pounding each other, stalking, chasing, attacking. Neither ever scored, and I thought, they're trying to kill each other. As they scrambled across the room, the mat cleared around them. There wasn't enough space to contain them, and anyway, everyone had to watch. It was my first encounter with true, violent intensity on a mat.

  

Flooker's leadership role grew even more prominent midway through the season, thanks to an unusual situation. When Malony returned in the fall of '71, he'd already completed three semesters, and had just one remaining. The Charger co-captain decided to use his final year of community college eligibility during the first semester, and then transfer to the University of Nebraska to join his former Western High and Cypress teammate, John Bell. Malony cruised through the first semester, racking up 28 dominant wins against 0 losses, with four tournament titles. The Nebraska coaches could hardly wait to welcome their prized recruit.

 

But something happened on the road to Cornhusker country. In early January, Cypress competed at the annual Cal Poly Junior College Invitational, Malony's last competition as a Charger. The Mustangs were the NCAA Division II powerhouse of the time, and their legendary coach Vaughn Hitchcock spent the weekend enticing Malony to the scenic shores of San Luis Obispo. A week later, Malony suddenly switched his commitment, signed with Cal Poly, and became a Mustang.

 

Ironically, Mike Flook may have benefited most from Malony's exit. No longer the "other guy" in the lineup, Flooker matured and embraced his inflated leadership role, as the Chargers began their stretch run. "Mike's improvement was noticeable," recalled former teammate Mike Henry. “He projected an air of confidence on the mat during the final few weeks of the '72 season, and just seemed more at ease."

 

With each match, Flooker gained confidence. In the post-season, he captured the Southern California Conference championship. A week later he placed 2^nd at the Regional tournament, earning a spot on the state bracket. He capped his sophomore year with a runner-up finish at the state meet, becoming the fifth wrestling All-American in the brief history of Cypress College.

The 70s were a golden era for college wrestling in California, with over 90 community colleges fielding teams. Many of those squads featured phenomenal wrestlers, like Joe Gonzales (East LA CC; future NCAA DI Champ for Bakersfield, and Olympian), and a couple dozen other future NCAA All-Americans, including Cypress product Shields, who placed 3^rd in the nation for the Oklahoma State Cowboys. The tough competition made the California CC state meet fertile ground for university coaches seeking seasoned college athletes. Flooker's late season success didn't go unnoticed, and several schools recruited him to join their programs. He signed with the University of Utah.

• • •

 

IN THE TINY Los Alamitos High School to Cypress College wrestling pipeline, I came next. Mike’s little brother, Randy Flook–a kid with his own nickname, Frog–and I were teammates and best friends at Los Al. We spent most of our free time together, and it was through Frog that I met Flooker. Frog worshipped his big brother, and before long, I did too.

 

Mike was a lightweight wrestler (134 pounds) but larger than life, especially to a young kid like me. Along with being a stud on the mat, Flooker was colorful, creative, wild, hilarious, good looking, and had a never-ending stream of beautiful ladies pursuing him. He was the most charismatic person I’ve ever known. Legendary, really, and what all us teenagers aspired to be. I grew to love him, just like I loved his brother, Frog. It was even better that we were Griffins.

 

Los Alamitos wrestling was slightly improved by the time I competed there, but like Flooker, I came out rough around the edges. Much of what I learned in wrestling prior to Cypress came courtesy of Flooker during impromptu clinics where he would torture us in someone's living room or backyard. The torture sessions often occurred along with a little 1970s style shenanigans. Those who knew him, know Flooker was a multitasker.

 

Once, while watching one of our high school duals in Long Beach, Flooker pulled me aside and showed me a set-up for his signature fireman's carry. He'd shown me his fireman's another time, but this particular set-up was new, an open shot with no initial tie-up. It was a slick combination of fake-drag, rake-the-head and penetrate, and left the opponent reacting directly into the carry. I stepped onto the mat and promptly fake-dragged, raked, and carried my opponent to his back, first try, without ever having practiced the set-up. This wasn’t a testament to talent or skill on my part. Instead, it was the direct result of Flooker's ability to communicate technique, to really sell it, and motivate you to go for it. It was also about a kid's unconditional belief in his hero, and wanting to make him proud.

 

This kid went on to use his hero's set-up and carry throughout the remainder of his career, including a win in the state CC championship finals. Back at the hotel, Frog, who had come along to support me, insisted we call Flooker to give him the good news. After we told him, Flooker yelled into the phone, "NOT that old set-up!" I shouted back, "TWICE!" Today, I'm a little embarrassed to say that in 36 years of successful coaching, no matter how hard I tried, I was never able to get a wrestler to hit that set-up. Clearly, Flooker had a little magic in him.

• • • 

 

MIKE FLOOK SPANNED THE LIFETIME of Cypress College wrestling, competing there in the early days, and coaching there until its end. The program began in 1968 with Ray Haas, and Mike competed for the Chargers from 1970-1972. He began coaching there as an assistant to Haas in 1985, became the head coach five years later, and remained until the program was axed in 2003. It's an unusual sidebar that a program lasting 35 years had only two coaches during its tenure. Even more unexpected, to my delight–one was a Griffin.

 

Flooker's story can't be told without hearing from those who knew him, those who wrestled for him, those who loved him. A few Flooker-trained wrestlers and relatives shared comments that scratch the surface of his life, on and off the mat.

 

Ernesto Vargas shared, "The Flooker once challenged every wrestler in the room to shoot on his drinking leg. Not a single takedown was scored that day."

 

Aaron Cross gave his perspective: "The Flooker was the greatest storyteller I ever heard. He could take some mundane thing and make it a memorable yarn. I still quote his story about him training to beat his nemesis Arballo from Fresno City and yelling, 'Arballllooo, you asshole!!' while he was running."

 

Gerardo Rodriguez related a favorite story. "Anyone who ever wrestled for Mike worked the fireworks stand. If he trusted you, you got to sleep in that sketchy parking lot and guard the fireworks stand at night. While the stand was running, Mike was in the Town Tavern. If you know Mike, you know he had a heart of gold and would do anything for kids. Frequently the kids from the middle school where he taught would come by, clear out the trash and run errands for free fireworks. One day one of our helpers needed to use the bathroom, so Mike, in his infinite wisdom, took the 12-year-old into the Town Tavern to use the restroom. The owner, who must have been 74 at the time, started giving Mike grief about bringing a 12-year-old into the bar. Mike proceeded to tell the guy that after all the money he had spent over the years in his establishment, he could at least let him bring a kid in to use the bathroom. After a back and forth, Mike says, and I quote: 'Look dude, you're not too old to get your ass kicked.' And that's how the Flooker was banned from the Town Tavern. The place went out of business shortly after. Coincidence? We will never know."

 

Rodriguez added, "We stayed close in the years after I was done wrestling. I loved Mike and I miss him . . . he was family."

 

Frog's son, Cypress wrestler Chad Flook, and Mike’s daughter Elke shared a cryptic exchange that dances around a harrowing but typical Flooker adventure. Chad: "The story about Uncle Mike making it to my wedding is epic. Gotta love Flooker." Elke: "Chad omg. The death-defying road trip with Jake to UT. What an animal." Chad: "Only your dad could do that. 'What an animal' is the only way to describe him." Takeaway? Daughter and nephew agree on ‘animal.’

 

It's been said that Elke was the love of Mike's life. She had this to say about her father: "Mike Flook LOVED his team. Year in and year out, he lived for coaching, teaching, mentoring, and storytelling. He LOVED music, especially greats like Van Morrison and The Eagles. But it had to be louder than hell, and there had to be dancing. Entertaining was something he took great pride in. Playing pool, BBQing, Jacuzzi going, lots of food and laughter. That was the norm in my house."

• • • 

 

ALUMNI OF ANY TEAM, college, or group enjoy a similar past. Charger wrestling alumni are no different. Together we make up the 35-year history of Cypress CC wrestling, having competed at the same college for one of two coaches who formed the backbone of our shared experience. Most of us logged our two years and moved on, but we'll never forget our time at Cypress. 

 

Throughout the history of Charger wrestling, from the near-beginning to the very end–Mike Flook, the wrestler, the assistant coach, the head coach, the legend–was the single most persistent thread. The glue, as they say, fastening us all together. I'm an alumni of Charger wrestling. But like many of you, I'm also a grateful Flooker alumni, part of that fortunate set of folks he touched through the years.

 

Mike Flook passed away in 2015. Frog says with pride that his big brother "lived life his way, on his terms, all the way until the end." Yes, by all accounts, Flooker lived fully, unapologetically, without political correctness. Through good times, and during hard times, he maintained a creative, fun-loving spirit that infected the rest of us with happy memories.

In 2018, Flooker was posthumously inducted into the Orange County Wrestling Association's Hall of Fame. Elke, his light, was there to accept his award.

  

In an enduring show of respect and true to the Flooker brand, Aaron Cross shared a simple legacy: "I still yell, 'The FLOOKER!' when I hit blackjack on tables in Vegas."   

 

IT MAKES YOU FEEL

I stalled for a couple of months, waiting for a sign that maybe the time wasn't right.  A sign never came.  So, after 36 seasons–every single one blessed with special kids–it's clear to me that now, is right.

The right timing doesn't make it any easier to retire as a wrestling coach.  There is so much to leave behind.  The daily grind.  The competition.  The pursuit of dreams.  The kids. 

When I finally found the courage, I sent a letter home to wrestlers and their parents.  I told them I was done.  I explained a few things.  I thanked a lot of people.  I did my best to answer the questions, why now, and why us?

Why?  There are many good reasons.  Age.  Energy.  Health.  Family.  Different dreams.  A host of other reasons, none of which include a declining love for wrestling.  That's why it's so damn hard.  In the face of the many absolute reasons to quit, I love wrestling, and coaching wrestling, more than ever.  

So when I found the guts, I made a leap into the unknown, an abyss without wrestling for the first time in over 40 years.  I sent a letter bomb to deliver my message, which took all my strength to drop in the mail.  Cowardly?  Maybe so, I won't argue.  I was afraid of calling a meeting with kids I've been to battle with, kids I love, to tell them I would no longer be their coach.  I wasn't sure I could have managed it.  But, I also wanted the word out–directly from me–to parents and kids at the same time.  I didn't want rumors or questions to persist, or my verbal story filtered through 20 teenaged brains, and dispersed to everyone seeking answers.  So, I dropped my bomb in their boxes.

My letter reached mailboxes yesterday afternoon.  I know, because my wife Jeri is a rural mail carrier.  I texted her relentlessly.  Have you seen any letters?  Have you delivered any?  Who did you deliver to?  How do you think they will handle it?  Should I be worried?  She's busy and had reason to be annoyed, but she wasn't.  She patiently answered my questions.  She loves me, and knows I'm twisted up, inside.

I knew today at school–my first day seeing wrestlers without a coach–would hurt.  I didn't know how much.  I entered the locker room before classes, unsure of what to expect.  I found myself being stealthy and quick, head down, traveling directly from A to B.  One of my guys spotted me, and came to my PE office. 

"Coach, I heard a nasty rumor," he said.  He looked at me, then cast worried eyes downward, waiting for me to tell him it wasn't true, to make it all better.  I couldn't.  We hugged, said we loved each other, and he shuffled back to his locker.  I bolted from the locker room.  One, was enough for now.

I went to a classroom and began writing greeting cards to each kid I was leaving.  Therapy.  A last chance to tell them how I felt.  One last thing, something, to leave them with. 

Before 4th period I handed a card to a young state medalist, a little boy in a man's body.  The kid is a beast with a heart of gold, who benches and squats a million pounds.  The gold-hearted beast quietly took my card, and no words were exchanged.  Later, after 5th hour, he appeared in my office.  Again, he said nothing.  It looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words.  I told him I was still here, and would always be here for him.  Just not on the corner of his mat.  We fought tears, as men try to do, and hugged.

Later during my weight training class, another wrestler and I kept our distance, avoiding eye contact and proximity.  We both knew this was going to be tough.  Eventually he passed near me, and I asked, "How ya doin'?"  He flashed an awkward smile, a mask, then answered, "How you doin'?" I returned the same smile-mask, mine with quivering lips.  Then, he asked, "Written any letters lately?"  After a pause, I countered with, "Got any letters lately?"  He said, "No, but I heard about one." 

Our little word-dance quickly dissolved into a strong, tearful hug between a young warrior–a two-time state medalist–and his old coach, in the center of the weight room, while other students watched, and wondered.  He quietly whispered something that included the word "father," and we both sobbed harder.  Eventually we let go, tried to compose ourselves, and moved in opposite directions, disappearing through different doors of the weight room.

Later, I saw him in the locker room.  I told him something I've re-discovered many times, something that always feels fresh and new, and absolutely true: The greatest thing about wrestling, is that it makes you feel.  Sometimes it hurts beyond description, and other times it's amazingly good–even beautiful.  Real life, at it's finest.  The highs don't happen without the lows, and both occur because there has been work, and commitment, and pain, and love involved.

If the retirement of an old coach didn't hurt this bad, it would mean that everything along the way didn't really matter.  But it does hurt.  It matters.  In its own painful way, it's beautiful.

Wrestling always offers new discoveries.  Today, I found there is something I will miss far more than the competition, the winning, the practice, the grind.  I discovered a thing  I intuitively knew all along.  I will miss the kids most of all.

GOODBYE

May 10, 2016

Dear Wrestlers and Wrestling Folks,

I write this letter to share my thoughts and feelings with my current wrestlers and parents, and to express my appreciation and thanks to many people.  All things in life eventually come to an end, and no one coaches forever.  I’ve decided to resign as wrestling coach at Blaine High School.  I’ve been coaching for 36 years, and it’s time. 

This has been a tough decision, and two things are especially hard.  First, I’ve been a wrestler or coach for most of my life.  Wrestling is–and has always been–my identity.  I love the sport, and I’m not sure who I’ll be without it, but I look forward to finding out.  Second, I knew the day would come when I’d have to leave a group of wrestlers.  It was inevitable, but still, it hurts.  When you watch kids sacrifice, and suffer, and work like these boys do, you can’t help but love them for it, and saying goodbye to people you love is one of the hardest things in life.  They aren’t all state champions or medalists, but they are all special, and equally hard to leave.

Still, many wise old coaches have said, “There will always be wrestlers, so if that’s your criteria, how do you ever quit?”  In 36 years, I’ve coached many hundreds of kids.  Today, I leave an exceptional group of wrestlers and their families.  Behind them is another wave of kids, and after those, many more.  So yes, the old-timers are right.  There will always be kids, but at some point all coaches will leave their teams behind.  Now, it’s my turn.

In learning this news, some of you might be sad.  Others may be hurt, or even angry.  Some may even be thinking, “It’s about time!”  These are all natural reactions when someone has coached as long as I have.

If you’re sad that I’m leaving, it means you are loyal and appreciative of my efforts, and our relationship.  I appreciate you in the same ways–your kindness and loyalty mean the world to me.  Please remember the good times, let go of any sadness, and look to tackle new challenges.  In wrestling and in life, there are always new challenges.  One can’t afford to stand still for long, and as you move forward, I hope you’ll offer your support to a new coach.

If you are hurt or angry, I ask for your grace in understanding that my leaving is not about you, but rather, because it’s time to give my wife, my family, and myself that best part of me that has been reserved for wrestling through all these years.

If you welcome a change, I understand.  Coaches cannot be all things to all people.  But I hope you understand that I gave my wrestlers all that I had to give, for many years.  Now, I wish for them the best coach possible, one who carries on the solid tradition of Blaine Wrestling.  I will be rooting for the new coach, and for these boys.  I believe they are capable of competing for a state title, and it will be exciting to follow their progress.

To the many alumni, parents and fans that embraced me as your coach, thank you!  Your loyalty and support have lifted me throughout my career.  These positive relationships are important to me, and I hope that my resignation will not cause our friendships to fade.

To my long-time wingman, Coach Rasar, and to all of our other coaches over the years, we experienced a good share of success, and faced many struggles together.  We worked our way through it all, and had a blast in the process.  I will miss my time on the mats with you.

To my troupe of managers and stat girls, you are a small sorority of awesome people!  Many of you don’t know each other, but you are a band of sisters (and one brother) who enhanced our program, and my life.  When your faces flash in my memory, I can’t help but smile.  Thank you for all you gave to me, to our wrestlers, and to our program.  You were very important to Blaine Wrestling, and are still appreciated.

To the hundreds of opposing coaches and referees I count as friends, our relationships are one of the best byproducts of being involved in this wonderful sport.  While I’m sure we’ll see each other from time to time, I’m aware that not having a team to compete with changes the dynamic in our relationships, and that saddens me.  Things will never be the same, and change can be bittersweet.  

To our administration in the Blaine School District–the School Board, Ron Spanjer, Scott Ellis (and former Principal Dan Newell), Wayne Vezzetti and Steve Miller (and former ADs Gary Clausen and Tom Luehmann)–you have treated me, our program, and our kids with unprecedented support.  This level of respect for wrestling by our administration is not apparent in many districts, and I appreciate working for each of you.  You are simply the best.

To our teachers and staff in the BSD, and to our community and businesses, you’ve taken a measure of pride in Blaine Wrestling, embraced our program, and supported us through your sacrifices, efforts, donations, and more.  In return, we appreciate and respect you all.  Thank you.

Finally, to the wrestlers who competed on my teams–in Blaine, Los Alamitos (CA), Shawnee (OK), McLoud (OK), EWU (WA), and Delhi Tech (NY)–we share a bond that is one of the most special aspects of my life.  Of the relationships I’ve had outside of family, my relationship with you is cherished above all.  We faced some moments together, enjoying amazing highs, and suffering devastating lows.  I’ve learned that experiencing one, makes the other that much more profound, and the intensity of feelings evoked by wrestling is unlike anything else.  But as I reflect, I realize that what happened on the mat is only a small part of things.  The van rides and hotel stays, the classroom interactions, the hard work, the joy and the suffering together, the life emergencies, and graduations.  Then, the weddings, and babies, and second generation wrestlers.  Like life, this list goes on and on, but it’s wrestling that binds us together.  While I have naturally been closer to some of you than others through the years, I love you all for what we shared.  Thank you for your hard work and your commitment.  Thank you for your loyalty.  Thank you for your friendship.

Sincerely,

Craig Foster

           

A TALE OF TWO • Tony Ramos & Victoria Anthony

It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.  Aristotle Onassis

•••••

FIVE IN THE MORNING, and I cruise on a treadmill at the gym.  I wear ear buds, and listen to a YouTube video of my favorite spiritual guru, Gabby Bernstein.  I’m no spirit junkie, as Gabby calls herself.  I’m just a wrestling coach with an open mind, and I like to double-down on good vibes in the morning.  This morning, it’s exercise and positive messages.  Gabby tells me to “be the light” today.  I resolve to try. 

            I glance at a TV screen 20 feet away, where images capture my attention.  A beautiful woman in a white toga lights the Olympic Flame in Greece, and after its journey across that ancient country, the Flame will snake through Brazil on a 95-day tour, culminating in Rio at the 2016 Summer Olympic Games. 

            The Flame news story invokes memories of ten days ago–the United States Olympic Trials in freestyle wrestling, and the plights of two athletes I’ve admired from a distance for many years.  I recognize that if they were in my place on the treadmill, and caught this news report, it would crush them all over again.  That’s the trouble with deep scars.  There are always reminders, so it’s death by a thousand cuts.  I'm human, and feel heartache for both, so I wonder how I could possibly “be the light" for them, or at least try to find the good, hidden in most bad situations.  I open up to the idea, take a few deep breaths, and an idea surfaces.  Maybe I can find a light in their circumstances, through writing.

            Like a wrestler battling doubts, a writer sometimes faces the inadequacy of his

tools–words, in trying to paint a picture of happenings so powerful that they can never be truly understood, except by those living them.  After watching the 2016 Trials, I find myself in that position, wondering if my words might offer anything.  Still, in facing difficult challenges, I’ve learned to simply do my best, and have faith that my work will lead to someplace bright.  I decide to try.

            I know neither of these athletes personally, other than some pleasant Facebook messaging with one.  But then, who really knows a person?  In truth, we are all outsiders, and can only speculate on the depths of what others celebrate, or suffer.

•••••

Determination becomes obsession, and then it becomes all that matters.  Jeremy Irvine

•••••

            Two extraordinary athletes, a young man and a young woman, stalk the same dream.  She has traded most of her young life for the rarest of opportunities, and he has done the same.  The dream they chase is more than a goal.  Goals are important and powerful, but are often usual, everyday things.  Losing ten pounds is a goal.  Or, earning an A on a test.  Winning an Olympic Gold Medal in wrestling is an unusual, once in a lifetime achievement for an infinitesimal few.  In the hierarchy of goal setting, or even obsession, this quest sits many rungs higher, miles beyond ordinary.  It wouldn’t be too dramatic to say that this pursuit is akin to life and death.  When a person literally trades his life for something, faithfully and unconditionally, and suddenly loses that thing, it must feel like a living death, a death of the soul–spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically.  For elite athletes who are accustomed to winning, and cannot conceive of losing, the initial shock is stunning.  The aftermath, when thoughts race and reality sets in, causes the pain to remain fresh and flowing for days, years, and perhaps, a lifetime.  Even the consolation prize of being the first alternate for the United States Olympic Team is no comfort, and in many ways, adds to the pain.  Pick your cliché:  So near, yet so far.  All, or none.  Second place, is last place.

•••••

Sunday, April 10, 2016 • U.S. Olympic Team Trials • Carver-Hawkeye Arena

•••••

            Victoria Anthony and Tony Ramos dream of being Olympic Champions.  They are beautiful athletes with distinctly different public personas and wrestling styles.  Victoria is friendly and outgoing, with an explosiveness on the mat rarely seen in women’s wrestling.  Tony sports a perpetual game face, is openly intimidating, and usually bullies opponents, in prototypical Iowa style.

            Victoria is a four-time WCWA Women’s National Champion, a former World Team member, a Junior World Champion, and was 3^rd in the 2012 Olympic Trials.

            Tony is an NCAA Champion and three-time All-American for the Iowa Hawkeyes, is a current World Team member, and has been the dominant American at his weight for two years.  He is the top seed.

            Both athletes ride their preparation, personalities, and styles into the Sunday evening championship finals of their divisions at the Trials.  They take the mat, with their lives on the line.

•••••

A Match

•••••

            It’s just a match, like a thousand before it.  Six minutes of time.  But it’s a match that, if permitted, defines the life previous, and the lifetime remaining.  It seems so out of balance.  Years of excessive pursuit of a dream funnel down to one six-minute window, or even one precise moment–a speck on that window.  An imperceptible mistake.  A microscopic lapse in focus.  An uncharacteristic surrender of perfect body position, and poof, it’s over.  With everything on the line, Victoria and Tony lose.  Neither will represent America, in Rio. 

            They are just two of many who suffer losses of this magnitude on this day.  As such, they are each just another wrestling news story, because in every match, someone wins, and someone loses.  But there is an allure in these massive losses, like the captivation of a passerby, unapologetically gawking at a horrific car wreck.  Did anybody die?   

            The aftermath of defeat is what distinguishes one loss from another, one person from the next.  How does one respond in the moments and hours following a shattered dream?  Most of us will never find out, because we have neither the talent or will to chase something with virtually impossible odds.  In their own ways, Tony and Victoria–bursting with talent and will–allow us inside their pain.

 •••••

So great was the extremity of his pain and anguish,

 that he did not only sigh, but roar.  Matthew Henry

•••••

            "I was stabbed in the back."  Tony Ramos speaks deliberately in a post-apocalypse press conference.  The familiar game face threatens to melt at any moment.  Some say the interview is brutally timed, occurring while he is still reeling from the stunning finality of the loss.  His heart is broken.  His thoughts race.  Emotions work on him, but he tightens his lips and muscles through it.  He’s an old-school Hawkeye, perhaps the last of a legendary breed. 

            After the obligatory acceptance of responsibility, "First, the loss is on me," Tony's subsequent comments reveal his true anguish.  He lashes out at his coach, Olympic Gold Medalist Tom Brands, for promising to be in his corner, but who instead sits between the two Hawkeyes (Ramos battles former Hawkeye Daniel Dennis in the finals), and coaches neither.  Ramos also challenges the loyalty of another coach, Ryan Morningstar, after spotting Morningstar and Dennis eating dinner together.  In calling out others and seemingly deflecting responsibility, he shows a soft underbelly, perhaps for the first time in his career.  It belies the bulletproof, take-no-prisoners armor of stare-downs and machismo for which he is famous.  To those of us watching from afar, we finally see that Tony Ramos has feelings, and bleeds like the rest of us.  He is human, after all.

            Ramos and Tom Brands each take incoming shots following the press conference, but it runs much deeper than an athlete airing dirty laundry that is best contained inside the walls of the Dan Gable Wrestling Complex.  Brands may or may not have told Ramos he would corner him, or he may not have communicated well, or he may have just gotten stuck.  As a wrestling coach for many years, I’ve experienced similar moments–loyal to two opposing forces, loving both sides in some cases, getting caught in the middle, and bungling things.  It happens.  Admittedly, it’s unprecedented in a situation as dramatic as the one traversed by Ramos and Dennis.  But rather than judging Brands, it might be decent to attempt to understand him in the context of this complicated situation.  He coached Ramos for five years as a Hawkeye, and several more years in freestyle wrestling.  Brands and Dennis have a similar history.  For years, Brands has given both wrestlers everything he has.  Then, at the decisive moment, he sits in the corner of neither, effectively showing loyalty to both. 

            After Tony has his say, Brands counters in his own presser with, “When you're in a guy's corner, you’re in his corner for life.  I've been in that guy's (Tony’s) corner since the day he walked on campus.”  He believes the bigger picture matters.

•••••

To forgive is to set a prisoner free, and discover that the prisoner was you.  Lewis B. Smedes

•••••

            Tom Brands has always seemed the very embodiment of loyalty.  Here, he finds himself entangled in an impossible situation involving true-blue Hawkeyes, and despite criticisms of his actions, he’s earned the benefit of the doubt.  Tom bleeds, and he is human, too.  He deserves forgiveness.

            Tony Ramos has also earned a pass.  He suffers a devastating loss to a former Hawkeye in his home arena, a place where he has never lost over the long course of his career.  Beyond the crushing disappointment, he may feel he has lost face.  His wrestling persona is that of a bully, and when a bully is challenged and defeated by a beloved underdog, the bully is left empty, while the underdog is adored.  If Goliath had lived, his image and legacy would have been forever altered, while David ascended to a throne. 

            Further, at the highest levels, where technique and bodies and tactics are ultra

fine-tuned, wrestling morphs into a mental game.  The absence of his coach in the corner may be the chink in Tony’s mental armor that Dennis exploits.  In an athlete’s terms, it got in his head.  In razor-thin competition at the highest level, anything negative in the head can be disastrous. 

            Perhaps most significantly, Tony may feel deserted by family–the fiercely loyal Hawkeye family–perceived by him now, as less than faithful.  Rightly or wrongly, he may take the love showered on Dennis as a personal affront, because Tony is a Hawkeye too, one who represented as well as any before him.  Still worse, he feels abandoned by his mentor, a man he surely loves, at the most pivotal moment in his career, if not his life.

            This combustible mix of intense personalities and high stakes, this perfect storm, led to Tony’s angry press conference.  In context, it is not a bad thing.  On the contrary, it seems perfectly natural under the conditions.  He too, deserves forgiveness

•••••

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts

are conscious of our treasures.  Thornton Wilder

•••••

            Victoria Anthony suffers in a different way.  Within hours of the most crushing defeat of her career, still stunned, she is suddenly overcome with gratitude.  She takes to Facebook, and posts the following message:

 I just want to say thank you to everyone who has given me so much of their love and support.  To my parents, sisters, family, coaches, sponsors, friends, boyfriend, fans.  Earlier today I was brought to tears at the realization of all I have to be grateful for via the sport of wrestling – it has brought me my best friends in the world, who have become family to me.  Allowed me to travel the world and experience countless cultures.  Meet my boyfriend and continue our relationship.  Been a vessel for my family and friends to show me just how deep their love is for me – they would all do anything to help me realize my dreams.  And they have all made it clear that their love is unconditional.  This night makes no sense at all to me and is going to take time to recover from and to understand, but I can be thankful that all of the above remain true.  Thank you everyone. 

 

 Victoria signs off with a tiny pink heart.  Her gratitude in the face of acute suffering shows us that in her own journey, she embodies Cael Sanderson's philosophy.  When listening to any interview with the Penn State coach or his wrestlers, invariably they credit gratitude as the single most important factor in their success.

•••••

The best way to pay for a lovely moment, is to enjoy it.  Richard Bach

•••••

            At the Trials, gratitude enables Penn State alum, Frank Molinaro, to relax and find joy in battling through one of the most brutal brackets of all time.  Coming from the ninth seed, the former Nittany Lion claws his way to a stunning first place finish.  What separates him from all of the other NCAA champions and World Team members in his weight class?  His weapon is gratitude.  In interviews, he says that competing with gratitude eliminates pressure, and in what should be the most pressure-packed event of his life, he relaxes and finds joy in the fight.  He somehow travels back in time to become that happy-hearted, giggling little boy with a twinkle in his eye, scrambling across a mat.  For Frank, the formula is clear:  Gratitude = Joy = Success.  Five NCAA team titles in six seasons for Penn State, is all the proof necessary.

            While gratitude guides Frank Molinaro to his place on the Olympic Team, it empowers Victoria Anthony to claw out of her living-coffin.  Gratitude is her healing light, and she refuses to dwell in dark places.  A few days following the Trials she is back on her feet, taking action.  She posts photos of her freshly scrawled, year-long training calendar that peaks at the 2017 World Championships, a year after the current Olympics.  For Victoria, the formula is also clear:  Pain + Gratitude = Motivation.

•••••

At times our own light goes out, and is rekindled by a spark

from another person.  Albert Schweitzer

•••••

                  I understand Gabby Bernstein's "be the light" message to mean, take initiative to bring the light into a dark situation, to somehow infuse positive into a negative circumstance.  I am nobody to Tony Ramos and Victoria Anthony, so I don’t presume that I can affect either in a meaningful way.  But as a fan of each, and a wrestling purist who wants our stars to feel whole and our dynasties to remain intact, maybe I can find a light to shine on a deeper meaning, to uncover a universal lesson or two, or to make some difference in how each is perceived going forward.

            For Tony, the light may be found in the lesson of forgiveness, a healing force, and one of the most uplifting gifts a person may give or receive.  Here, there are many opportunities for Tony, who could forgive himself for what he may view as his own failure while competing, or could forgive himself for any regrets about his press conference.  He could offer an olive branch to Tom Brands and Ryan Morningstar, for what he considers disloyalty.  He could forgive the entire Hawkeye Nation, if it feels right.

            The opportunity to forgive is also available in the other direction–Brands and Morningstar forgiving Ramos for his public rant.  

            Here, I'm aware that my naivety may be showing.  These are clearly stubborn people, a trait and asset on full display when they compete.  A tangle of ego and pride further complicates matters.  Still, if they can find forgiveness in their hearts, these once committed relationships emerge stronger than ever.  But someone will have to step up and go first, for healing to begin.  Maybe it's already happened behind the scenes.  I hope so.  If not, pain and anger will persist as a stubborn wound, and fester.

            For Victoria, the light is present in what she intuitively already knows.  Gratitude is an absolute healer, a catalyst for joy, and great performance.  Her message of gratitude, and her massive strength in picking herself up off the mat and moving forward at the darkest moment, is a lesson for all people. 

            In the throes of epic disappointment, no one cares for lectures about life lessons via adversity.  However, it seems clear that Victoria has learned one, or called on one already in her character:  While pursuing something bright and shiny–something she wants in the worst possible way–she already owns a thing more beautiful, a tremendous extended-family of people who support her and love her unconditionally, no matter what happens on any mat.  It is from that sturdy foundation that goodness thrives, and gold medals are won.     

            This is a tale of two–two human beings, two medals, and two lights. 

            Two people react to extreme disappointment in different ways.  It might be tempting to judge Tony harshly, especially when compared to Victoria’s outpouring of gratitude.  But it’s clear that in a moment of deepest disappointment, he speaks from the heart and expresses his truth, without pulling punches.  It’s admirable, and perhaps even worthy of respect.  It mirrors his honest, straightforward approach to a match.  Confident, forward, hard.  Put it out there, and leave it.  Victoria's handling of the situation needs little analysis.  Her own words are enough, beautiful and enlightening.  

            Two silver medals represent crushing setbacks with the power to cripple each athlete, or spring them forward.  Which, depends on how they ultimately respond. 

            Finally, two gentle lights–forgiveness and gratitude–guiding us out of dark places.    

  

ROOM

It's springtime, early evening, and days are getting longer.  Waning sunlight filters through banks of windows on either end of my room, highlighting the slick surface of the mats.  I call this place my room, because I'm the only head wrestling coach it's ever known. 

When they built my room, I didn't like the windows.  I thought they would be a distraction for my guys: on one end, students passing by, stopping to stare; the training room beckoning from just across the foyer, a magnet for guys who would rather be "hurt," than work; parent noses pressed to the glass, enjoying the action–or judging their kid, other people's kids, and coaches.  On the other end, a concession stand, where basketball spectators slip away from the popcorn line to sneak a peek, and wonder at the brutality of that other winter sport.  Mostly, I worried that the windows would remind my guys of the world outside, a world that is relatively sane, a place where people live in comfortable temperatures, work to humane limits, eat what they want, and avoid pain.  A world calling for them, when there is work to do.

For a while I blocked the windows with poster board.  Sunlight still eased past the edges, helping dissipate the dungeon effect, but not entirely.  Then, one day I changed.  I realized I love the sunshine–especially early morning and early evening, washing over my mats, cleansing them.  I removed the poster board.  Seasons with sun came and left, and I grew to appreciate the onlookers beyond the glass, peering in at something they will never understand, with respect.

I've either wrestled or coached for the past 45 years.  I've been in hundreds of rooms.  My wrestling journey has taken me to a handful that I called home.  My first, at Los Alamitos High School in California, was a multi-purpose room, shared with everyone.  We had a stiff, wrinkled, one-section mat that we unrolled and rolled up (folded, is more precise) daily.  There were no wall mats, and one corner of the room had what passed for a weight room back then, a multi-station Universal Gym.  I learned very early that a nice room has very little to do with how good a wrestler decides to become.

I graduated and moved to the room at Cypress College in Orange County.  Again we shared, this time with gymnastics and PE classes, but we had an organized coach from Pennsylvania, Ray Haas, who taught us solid wrestling.  I watched Ray diligently clean the mats every day, using a push broom and towel soaked in solution.  I remember thinking, "Wow, this whole thing is important to him."

After Cypress, I transferred to UNLV, for the inaugural Runnin' Rebel wrestling season.  The room was small, but our own, fully wall-matted and ready to go.  NCAA Champion Bill Murdock from Washington was our assistant coach.  Bill was at my weight, so we wrestled daily, and he usually won every position.  I rarely scored, but one day I managed to ride him for over a minute.  He grinned, grabbed a pencil, and wrote on a piece of wood trim above a wall mat: Today, Craig Foster rode Bill Murdock for one minute.  Many years later, long after the program had been dropped, I made a pilgrimage back to the room while on a family trip to Vegas.  The room had become an aerobics studio, but there, on the wood trim, I could still make out Bill's writing.  He died in a motor vehicle accident not long after coaching us.

Las Vegas wasn't a good fit for a young hooligan, so I found my way to Eastern Washington University, first as a wrestler, and later, as the coach.  The room was red–red mats, red wall mats, and red names of All-Americans on the wall.  It was my first room that felt like a real wrestling facility–two mats, fully padded walls, cleaned by the athletic department staff.  I arrived in spring, and that summer before my senior year, I scrounged for training partners.  One day my coach–former National Team member Stan Opp–told me, "There's a guy here from out of town for a few weeks.  He wants to train with someone."  The guy was NCAA All-American Dave Allen, from Iowa State.  We wrestled, lifted, hit the town in the evenings, and became friends.  I was taking a summer sports history class, and Dave agreed to help me re-enact a legendary Olympic match involving Milon of Croton.  We rehearsed in the room, and one day, in front of a class of college kids, we transformed into ancient Greek wrestlers wearing togas (naked and covered in olive oil would have been a little too historically accurate), and threw each other in the dirt outside the athletic facility.  Eventually summer ended, Dave returned to Iowa, and that winter I got my red name on the wall.

I found my first teaching job in Oklahoma, where I became the assistant coach at Shawnee High School.  I worked under head coach Mark Leen, who would go on to win National High School Coach of the Year, and father future NCAA Champion Jordan Leen.  I remained there for just a year, but I clearly remember one practice when Mark and I divided the kids into two teams, and ran a mock dual between the "USA" and "RUSSIA."  Colorful, future state champion Shawn Davis, competing for team "USA," pinned his opponent, sprung to his feet and shouted, "Take THAT, Hitla!"  Mark and I collapsed onto the mats of that tiny room, laughing and cracking jokes about a Shawnee education.

The next year, I became the head wrestling coach in the neighboring town of McLoud, Oklahoma.  I was hired by wrestling-fanatic Athletic Director Warren Boles, who was old school before old school was cool.  We didn't have our own room, so one day in the fall, Warren said, "How about you use the two old classrooms above the elementary gym?"  He gave me an open account at the local hardware store, and I went to work–with no building experience, no permits, no inspections, no help, and few tools.  I learned to use a masonry blade by cutting out a cinderblock wall between the two classrooms, with no concept of load bearing or safety.  I needed a hole, so I made one.  I drove to Oklahoma City and purchased dense foam, vinyl and a staple gun, and fashioned homemade wall mats for the entire perimeter.  To an outsider, the finished product must have been hideous, but to me, my team and Warren, it was beautiful.

After a year at McLoud, I returned to my room at Eastern Washington, and trained for the Olympic Trials.  In hindsight, I had no chance at the Trials, but I trained as if I did, flew to Carver-Hawkeye Arena in Iowa, and competed.  Dan Severn ended my dream.

I spent several seasons coaching in the Eastern room, but eventually left for upstate New York, where I took a dream job as head wrestling coach and fitness center director at S.U.N.Y Delhi.  I had an office upstairs, and just downstairs was the fitness center, and adjacent wrestling room.  I told the AD, Gary Cole, that I was an experienced wall mat technician, and he allowed me to reproduce my efforts from McLoud.  I worked alone through Thanksgiving break in the deserted Delhi Tech athletic complex, 3000 miles from my Washington home.  I finished the mats, and coached two seasons in that room, before returning home to marry my girlfriend, and become the head coach at Blaine High School.
  
I spent my first 11 years in Blaine's old room, with its cinderblock walls, orange, hand-painted state placer names, and decades of tradition.  For the past 14, I've been in my room, where ultra-high ceilings create echoes when I teach skills, or yell at someone for lying on his stomach–and not fighting.  Pull-up bars, ropes, and a row of single words line the walls:  RESPECT.  LOVE.  COMMIT . . .

Sometimes I come to my room in the mornings, before school starts.  I leave the lights off, but early natural sunlight seeps in.  It's dark enough to feel hidden, but light enough to see.  It's quiet.  I move about, picking up a forgotten headgear, cleaning a table with a Clorox wipe, collecting towels and mop heads to wash.  I invent things to do, because I love being here.  It's peaceful.

At some point I drop to my knees on the soft mat, close my eyes, and just breathe.  For an instant, I wonder what passing students think, but I don't really care.  I'm in the most comfortable place on earth.

A furnace kicks on, and air rumbles through exposed ceiling ducts.  I open my eyes, and emerge from a trance.  I peak up at the boards featuring the names of our state placers.  The medals and the years are listed, but I could care less.  I see only names of kids I love.  College graduates and laborers.  Airmen and Marines, Sailors and Soldiers.  Carpenters and prisoners, teachers, pilots, and addicts.  Entrepreneurs and homeless, and some no longer with us.  Kids from the right side, and the wrong side of the tracks.  Hundreds of others never made the wall, but submitted to this room's demands and called it home, just the same.  Here, cut off from mommy and daddy, electronic devices, and the world, they all suffered and became men.  They were equals here, and no matter their position today, they still are.

Absently, I daydream across the vacant mats in the almost-dark, and I can see a takedown in progress.  I hear grunts and other quiet sounds of brutal work.  Across the room, a phantom wrestler climbs a rope, hand over hand over hand.  Nearby, an elbow dislocates.  I watch sprints, and see a boy slip in a pool of sweat, sprain his knee, and finish the work.  I see push-ups and sprawls, and blood, everywhere.  I watch a fistfight between best friends, and later, a hug.  I hold a senior, brought to tears following his very last practice, after 10 years in my room.

My room, and every wrestling room, holds a thousand stories of work, and sacrifice, and love.  Only those who have lived in these rooms will understand.  

I have to say, I love my room.  I will continue to come here alone, whenever I have the chance.  It is home.