My son and wrestling
December 6th, 2023. I remember the day because it was my husband’s birthday and instead of a nice family dinner and homemade chocolate cake I had made, we were at a middle school wrestling match.
It was apparent the ref was favoring the other team. I realize this statement is a fully biased conjecture, but I’m the mother. I can think what I want even if it is totally wrong. And there the ref went, not giving our team the points we desearved as the sweaty 6th grade to 8th grade boys grunted and tumbled on the mat trying to kill one another. The gym smelt like urine. Smelt like urine so bad I stepped outside for a moment.
As I waited out in the hallway for my son’s match, mumurs of “F*ck that ref” were heard from the other Gen X parents just waiting for their Rage Against the Machine moment to stick up for their kid.
My son was up next.
I purposely stayed on the other side of the gym on the bleachers as to keep myself away from the motherly hormonal instincts about to kick in.
Other less than wise mothers were screeching at their sons at the mat to my right.
“Kill him!” -Ok no that’s not what they were yelling, but hey that’s what it sounded like to me. I digress.
My little boy came out. 6th grade, his first year in middle school wrestling. Wrestling with the big boys. And here was the baby of the family. With the A-hole ref. Round one and my son shot out like a lightening bolt and cradled the other kid.
Ref stood there. No points.
The tension in the crowd rose quickly as we were late in the evening. My heart rate also went up.
What? Where were the points?
The other boy spun around and did some lame move.
Ref: Two points. Other team.
All eyes went to my son’s match now.
Round 2: I watched as my son looked over at the score board in frustration. He was by far the more skilled wrestler. The round started and my son had the other boy down immediately ready for the pin. The ref blew the whistle.
Penalty.
“What?” I saw my son say. The round started again and we all watched as the other boy began to claw at my son’s face with his fingernails. The ref watched on, not stopping the match. My stomach lurched. I’d never seen a match like this before.
The ref gave the other boy two more points. My son zero.
A deep red color flooded my son’s cheeks. He’s the child in the family that wear’s his emotions on his face and even from my far vantage point I could see his eyes, mouth, and forehead wrinkle up in frustration.
He was beginning to realize this wasn’t going to be a fair fight.
My son glared at the ref and I’m pretty sure he growled at the other boy. He got down low. The ref blew the whistle to start. My son made some more great moves. Again he wasn’t given any points. The other kid was and continued to scratch at my son’s face.
Blood spewed across the mat. The other kid had scratched enough to cause my son to get a bloody nose. The blood pouring down my son’s face, and the look of exhausted frustration only made the scene more gruesome. The match was stopped immediately. People ran from everywhere trying to mop up the blood.
My son’s coach, a non-paid childless volunteer, disappeared from sight and was no where to be found. Other volunteers gloved up and frantically wiped the blood off the mat.
As a rule, parents aren’t allowed anywhere near the mat. Blood ran down my son’s face and I watched as he ran back and forth looking for someone to help him.
And when that ref put his hands on my child and shook him, yelling out “Stand still!” my less than 20/20 vision barely caught sight of my husband moving so fast across that mat, words I couldn’t hear from my vantage point flying out of his mouth-that ref turned from my youngest son and shot up his arm toward my husband in the familiar “You’re out!” signal.
I’m pretty sure I stood up and flung myself down those bleachers all in one motion, flinging off my coat as all of my 44 year old, 5’3” 115 pound bodybuilder frame could muster, stomping down those hollow steps and striding past the colosseum floor.
I neared the mat about the time my son was about to start again. Seeing one parent get ejected must have sped things up to lightning speed. I walked faster while visions of “I’m bout to go viral on YouTube” danced in my head. I got down low right behind that ref in front of my child and screamed my son’s name.
My son’s eyes met mine and I put my fist up and he nodded.
That ref could kick one of his parents out, but not both of us.
My son fought hard but through all of his efforts, the ref refused to give him the points. The ref refused to call another pin although the other kid was on his back several more times.
Finally the other kid halfway rolled my youngest, who was exhausted at this point, onto his back. I lurched forward only to have my husband (who had come back. You can’t keep a good dog down.) place his hand up in front of my face. I stepped back in restraint.
The ref lifted his hand up in the air.
Slap.
Pin.
I watched my son’s shoulders instantly slump in defeat.
You didn’t dare disappointment on my face although my heart sank for my kid. I stood stoic in the same arm folded position I had assumed at the edge of the mat.
Because this was wrestling. Losing was a part of the game. It didn’t matter if it was fair. It didn’t matter if you were the better athlete. It didn’t matter. When you lose. You lose. And one simply could not be a “sore loser”.
After shaking hands with the opposing team, and speaking briefly with his coach, who had suddenly reappeared, my son came straight to us, his parents. (We both took notice of the fact that no one shook hands with the ref).
We brought our youngest out into the hallway out of earshot.
“I tried my hardest!” he sobbed.
Yes you did, son. Yes you did.
“That ref was so unfair!”
Yes he was. We saw the whole thing. Sometimes in life things are unfair, and we just have to accept that.
And usually at this juncture your typical 6th grade wrestler who had just lost a hard match would begin to cry. And cry. And cry. I had seen it many times before. The hallways outside the gym lined up with boys sitting on the ground tears streaming down their faces, licking the wounds of their most recent loss.
But that evening my youngest boy stopped crying.
Maybe because he’d seen his parents, who have lost again. And again. And again. Get up and fight for him tonight like a pair of ghetto ass ex-homeless orphans that we are, getting kicked out only to show back up again for him like a pair of human parental boomerangs.
Or maybe because said parents have had him in this sport of wrestling since he was four years old. And he has endured loss. Again. And Again. Some wins. But only to lose again.
My youngest son sighed wiping the still pouring blood from his nose.
“I’ll do better next time.” He stated. And with that he smiled and ran off to find his brothers.
Now one might be tempted to chalk this up to child-like resilency, but after year of the crying and the nashing of teeth over many losses in the sport of wrestling, I realized something.
My youngest had begun to master the art of losing.
My argument is we cannot carry out our lives of expected victory, without knowing how to handle the pain of loss. Countless men and women in history have suffered tremendous loss both before, during, and after any sort of well known victory or accomplishment they were later known for.
Because life is hard and courage is elusive. But if we can extrapolate wisdom from our losses, We may rest assured that although we may lose of few battles, we will win the war over what is most important to us. Growing stronger in the face of adversity, and getting back up to fight another day, even when all the odds are stacked against us and life is unfair, produces perseverance to keep going.
Until next time,
-Jaydi
The Art of Losing 
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