JT started wrestling in 8th grade and I have since then come to realize that it’s as much a sport as it is a cult. Our coaching staff is not of the old-school starve-yourself and sport-a-cauliflower ear variety, for which I’m enormously grateful. In a state with a commitment to the sport, our team has a tradition of tough practices and an admirable team ethos. Outside of practice, the team is closely-knit and there is a lot of laughter among the wrestlers. It’s detracts from mat-burned faces, so I think that’s all to the good.
I’m told that there’s nothing like 6 minutes of grappling on the mat to show you what you’re made of. As a mama who has watched her son battle through those 6 minutes, I’ve decided that I’ll let his example teach me the lesson. Where cross country fans are a civilized cheer-everyone-on variety, wrestling has a more bloodthirsty fan base. I’m gearing up to yell things like, “stuff the head” and looking forward to the inevitable moment of the season when T gives me a sidelong look as she sniffs the funky gym air and points out, “If you’d had a girl, we’d be watching basketball right now.”
Alas, we are wrestling moms instead. Stuff the head!
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