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.

  

HALL OF FAME

The following is the transcript used to present my Hall of Fame induction speech on November 1, 2014 at the Hilton in Vancouver, Washington.

Video Link:  Craig Foster HOF Induction Speech

INDUCTION SPEECH TRANSCRIPT

Entering the Hall of Fame is not something you dwell on as a coach.  But as you tally some years–I'm entering my 35th–you occasionally allow yourself to dream a little . . . what would it be like?  But then you quickly stuff the thought, believing there is no way you belong.  So this is a pretty unbelievable moment for me.

I'm honored to enter the Hall of Fame, especially alongside my friends, Scott Bliss and Chris Wolfe.  Scott and I became friends when he coached at Montana and Wyoming, and I coached at Eastern.  I learned some great lessons from Scott, the most memorable of which was, "As a wrestler, keep it simple.  Don't do too much.  Don't beat yourself."  I have missed Scott.  

I knew Chris as a wrestler, then as a rival when he coached at PLU, and in more recent years as coach for Steilacoom High School.  It was always nice to see Chris and his team at the Battle at the Border.  Chris always brought a smile, and positive things to say.

 

• • •

When I moved to Blaine in 1991, I didn't know what I was getting into.  I already had 12 years of coaching experience, but nothing prepared me for my first several years in Blaine.  I was following a local legend who had coached there for 18 years, and had just led Blaine to a state title.  He was dismissed just prior to my arrival.  The community loved this coach, and felt he was unfairly terminated.

When I arrived with a completely different style, many were determined not to accept me as coach.  The controversy in those early years made it difficult to continue coaching there.  I felt like that coach in the movie, Friday Night Lights.  I’m thankful now that I didn’t give in to the pressure.  Despite the turmoil, we had success in those early years, finishing as state runner-up twice.

But suddenly, around 2002, my program nearly went extinct.  NBA player Luke Ridnour grew up and became a star in Blaine, and for many years, every kid in our little town wanted to be a basketball player.  Kids would laugh when I asked them to turn out for wrestling.

We hit bottom when we had just 7 wrestlers on the team, and most of them were beginners.  I recall lining up for a dual against powerhouse Mount Baker–and my friend Ron Lepper–with five eligible wrestlers.  It was humbling, and my detractors had all the ammunition they 
needed . . .

  

Except their ammunition did little good, because I had protection in the form of a strong athletic director named Gary Clausen, who believed in me, and stuck with me when it wasn't the most popular thing to do.

Gary became a close personal friend over the years, and we made him Godfather of my son, Tanner.  Gary is a Hall of Fame baseball coach, and when Tanner heard I would be inducted into the Hall of Fame, he joked:  "My two dads are Hall of Famers!" 

Gary and his wife Carrie made the long drive down here, and I'd like to introduce them.  Thank you both very much, for all of your support, and for your friendship.

• • •

I’m proud of many things in my career, but the thing I'm most proud of is making the decision to climb out of the hole my program was in.

Probably the most important thing I did was hold a meeting for all wrestlers between 5th and 8th grades.  I gave them t-shirts with a secret code:  WTF0206, which represented a goal.  We kept this plan a secret, because a team at the bottom of the heap talking about winning state sounds like hot air, and talk is cheap.  These kids kept our secret for years, never once talking about it to outside people–even parents.

WTF0206 stood for Worst to First–worst team in the state in 2002, to first team in the state in 2006.  The kids committed to the goal, and worked hard for years. 

We didn't reach our goal of a state title, and it hurt, but in the bigger picture, that group of kids resurrected our program.  Their commitment literally saved Blaine wrestling, and laid the foundation that would lead to a state title this past season.  While there are special kids every single year, as a group–led by the graduates of 2006–they will always hold a special place in my heart.  Even today, they remain the closest band-of-brothers, of any team I’ve ever had.

During our climb from the bottom, the disgruntled folks faded away, and I could finally call the Blaine program–mine.

• • •

Fast forward to the winter of 2014.  We had a balanced team of athletes with experience, but no dominant superstars, and we weren’t the favorites at state.  We had a great regional tournament on our home mats, and sent a bunch of guys to Tacoma, but had no one expected to make the finals.  As you know, quality, not quantity, is what usually wins at state.

Throughout the tourney we suffered close losses, but also put up enough wins and bonus points to hang in the race.  When the smoke had settled heading into Saturday night, we had two in the finals, to Forks' 1, and Forks held a 1.5 point lead.  Our first finalist, Jon Stewart, lost  close, and Forks' finalist also lost.  That left our fun-loving heavyweight, Mikey Antczak, with the hopes of an entire team and town in his hands. 

Rarely have I seen a state meet come down to the final match of the night.  And Mikey stepped up, wrestling a near-perfect match.  I still get chills when I recall the crowd and his teammates chanting MIKEY-MIKEY-MIKEY during the last 30 seconds of that match.

Mikey was the headliner, but it was a total team effort, with many kids contributing wins and bonus points, and earning eight medals.

For me, it was the thrill of a lifetime in coaching. Accomplishing a goal like that as a team, and seeing the tears in the eyes of the kids, and families, and alumni, and fans, is something I will never forget.

• • •

Along with Chris and Scott, it feels good to join so many coaches I’ve admired, and friends, in the Hall of Fame.  A few of these include my college coach, Stan Opp, one of my college wrestlers, Scott Jones, and a good friend and former teammate, Manny Ybarra.

Stan was the first person I met in Washington when I arrived.  He put me up at his house, and helped me transition into school and wrestling.  He was a slick technician, and has always remained a loyal friend.

I remember the day I met Scott Jones, an 18 year old freshman, in the Eastern weight room.  We went to the wrestling room the day we met, and drilled.  That was before his beautiful wife, before all those great children, and before his amazing coaching career.  Back then, Scott was just a young kid, trying to do good things, and he’s been doing good ever since.  I’ve been proud of Scott from that very first day.

Manny Ybarra and I became friends during my early days at Eastern, and later I watched as he built a strong program at his alma mater, Quincy High School.  Manny is the person who nominated me to the Hall of Fame.  Thank you for that, Manny.

There are many other friends and coaches I've admired in the Hall of Fame.  It's such an honor to join them all.

• • •

Some of us remember how we felt as kids on Christmas morning.  Or, we recall the twinkle in our kids’ eyes, and their excited squeals as they bum-rushed the Christmas tree.

For me, somewhere along the way, tournament mornings started to feel like Christmas.  It’s an excitement that comes from the anticipation of seeing my wrestlers, bright and early, and hopeful that some will make a breakthrough that day.  It’s the promise of long, funny, and sometimes stinky drives.  It’s the love of competition.  And the joy of seeing coaching friends again.  It’s the guilty pleasure of eating way too much great food, and hanging out for fourteen hours with my best friend and assistant coach, Jim Rasar.  I guess Christmas comes early when you get to spend hour-after-hour on a wrestling binge.

I love wrestling.  And that feeling seems to grow stronger every year.  Still, this past season, my wife Jeri and I decided that it would be my last.  And I thought it would be my last. Right through the spring, and through the summer, I thought so.  But as the new school year began, I knew I couldn't quit.  I love it too much.  So now, I’m prepping for my 35^th season.

There are lots of things I like to do.  Coaching wrestling feels like what I'm supposed to be doing.

• • •

If you've been in the wrestling game for a while, you've encountered kids with all kinds of life stories.  For me, I could tell you about coaching a Naval Academy grad, a commercial pilot, a construction company owner, an air traffic controller, and on it goes.  But because wrestlers often come from tough circumstances, or make bad decisions, I can also tell you about coaching drug addicts, and alcoholics, and prison inmates.  Sadly, I can even talk of wrestlers who’ve passed away, too young. 

Despite our efforts as coaches, some things are out of our control, and life can be unforgiving.  The Academy grad and those like him are easy.  You just cheer them on, and appreciate ‘em.  But I'm drawn to the challenge of the others, maybe because I was once that kid.  I had great parents and a stable home, but still, I brought issues on myself.  Without getting into dirty details, I will only say that when I found myself in jail at age 15, it was my high school wrestling coach, Cary Brody, who bailed me out.  And for many years after, wrestling continued to bail me out of bad decisions and hard times.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I can say that wrestling–forever loyal wrestling–was put in my life for a purpose, and it literally saved me–faithfully sticking with me–always there to get me back on track.  When I could finally stand on my own, I grew to love and appreciate wrestling for its influence in my life.  Because of that, using wrestling to help struggling kids feels like my most important responsibility as a coach.  I haven’t always succeeded, but I will always try.

• • •

Now, I’d like to list a few of my most influential role models, mentors, and friends.  Some you may know, and others you probably won’t.

Cary Brody, my high school coach, who tried his best to straighten out a wild kid, and was the first adult outside my parents who believed in me.

My former teammates and childhood best friends, Randy Flook, Jeff and Ted Wilton, and Chris Faircloth.

Mike Henry from California, and later, Oklahoma, who always had my back, who got me my first teaching job, and showed me what it meant to run a total wrestling program.

Mark Leen from Oklahoma, and later, Tennessee, who taught me how to believe in my team, and how to get them to believe in me.  He also showed me how to stand up to your boss when necessary, and how to take bold chances.

Jim Rasar, my wingman during my time in Blaine.  The bad cop, to my good cop.  Every coach needs one.

John Owen from North Idaho College, who always had time for a young coach.  John was generous with his time and advice, and though I never wrestled for him, he coached me up more than he knows.

Anders and Per Lars Blomgren, because who doesn't love them?  They are so much fun to spend a day on the mats with.

Jay Breckenridge, my former teammate and one of my best friends in wrestling, who showed me there’s a fine line in stating your opinion, and how to cross that line and keep your job.

Ron Lepper, who just retired as Mount Baker wrestling coach.  I will miss him.  We had over twenty years of intense competition against each other, and somewhere along the way we discovered that you could love your fiercest rival.

DJ Duncan, my former wrestler and loyal assistant coach for the past 5 years.  I love loyalty.

John deWeber, my very good referee friend.  Coaches and referees can be like cats and dogs, but somehow, through our mutual love for wrestling, we have become the very best of friends.  John inspires me, because I’ve never seen a man more committed to his craft, or to the sport.

My wrestling sons, Tyson and Tanner, who have lived this journey with me for their entire lives.  Nothing I can think of is more special than coaching my own kids in this great sport.

I'd also like to mention my own parents, who are gone now.  During my high school and college matches, they would sit quietly, high in the stands, out of the way, and simply enjoy watching me wrestle.  I came to count on them being there, and before every match, I would quietly make eye contact with dad for a moment.  It gave me confidence.  He was the strongest, gentlest, most honest man I've ever known.  Mom was a gracious host, putting my teams up at her home during many road trips, feeding, doting, and even tucking into bed.  Some of the last wrestling memories I have of my folks are them sitting quietly in the front row at the Rock tournament on Vashon.  They could no longer climb the bleachers, but still, they couldn't be kept away.  I miss them every day, and I know they would be proud to sit in the front row, today.  Perhaps they are.

Next, I'd like to thank the girls in my life.

My daughter Chloe is a die-hard wrestling fan, and whenever I talk about retiring, she will have none of it.  She's been the coach's daughter for her entire life.  I love that my little girl loves wrestling.

Just like I didn't know what I was getting into when I came to Blaine, my wife Jeri had no idea what she was getting when she married a wrestling coach.  She had no experience with the sport before me, and she probably thought it was just something I did in my spare time.  She soon found out that wrestling not only consumed me, but swallowed up our life together.  She learned that "normal" holidays would never happen, and that "regular" life would be put on hold for the better part of every year.  Wrestling has dominated my life, and so it has dominated hers.  And Jeri has accepted it with grace, because she knows how important it is to me.  Honey, I appreciate your support over all these years, more than I can ever say.  Thank you.  This honor is as much yours, as it is mine.  I love you.

• • •

If there is any wisdom I can pass along to other coaches after all these years, here are a few tidbits I find important.

Being tough is more important than being slick.

Teaching how to win matches is different from teaching wrestling skills.

Without a “no-doubt” fitness level, nothing else matters.

Keep it simple.  Doing a few things well is more important than a big bag of tricks.

And last, relationships are more important than anything else in a wrestling program.  Especially between coaches and wrestlers.  When you have trust, and respect, and love present in those relationships, you can teach them to wrestle.  And so much more.

• • •

Finally, I’d like to say to all wrestling coaches–first year guys–old dogs like me–and everyone in between:  We usually have our game faces on, and sometimes we battle too hard in competition, but I know what it takes to coach this great sport, and I respect you all for it.

Thank you very much.