Wrestlemania, Youth Edition

At 6:00 am last Sunday, my son Thomas, age 13, and I headed out to his club wrestling tournament.

Cue the theme from Rocky, "Gonna Fly Now."

Youth wrestling tournaments are quite the spectacle, beginning with the early morning traffic jam for weigh ins.  We arrive just before 7:00 am at the dark, dank gymnasium north of Chicago, a perfect setting for a blue collar sport.  Forget the brie and chardonnay, this is a Velveeta and Red Bull crowd.  Kids file in with gear over their shoulders, parents carrying coolers.  Once inside, the kids are round up like Holsteins to have their weight, hair and fingernails checked.

After a quick team warm-up, we all sit, and sit, teams and parents clustered together on hard, unforgiving bleachers, which is fitting. 

Wrestling is a grueling sport, who's one-on-one nature and continuous movement results in a twisting, reaching, ongoing vulnerability.  I competed in high school with teammates who now coach my son.  We are all older, fatter and balder, but the lessons remain.  As legendary Iowa coach Dan Gable says, "Once you've wrestled, everything else is easy." 

Beginning at 9:00 am up to 12 matches take place at once on four mats, made possible because kids as young as 5 don't need much room.  Groups of kids are called up to the "bullpen" room by age group, then sent out to wrestle each other, often after a 30 minute wait with nothing to do but stare and flex at each other.

Whoever came up with chaos theory had youth wrestling tournaments in mind.  Where else can a parent sit for over seven hours to watch their child in action for a total of 30 minutes, presuming each six minute match "goes the distance," which at the youth level is as likely as Tim Tebow embracing Buddha.  Unlike baseball or choir (my oldest daughter's passion), where you are vested in a "team" because your kid is part of a group, it's hard to get excited watching the 40 or so matches before my guy is up.  Then again I have never seen someone throw a hip toss on a mezzo soprano.

At the youth level matches are quick and random.  Last year, Thomas lost a close match, after which I went for my constitutional. As I emerged, his coach ran up to me and said, "Man, what a great turnaround." Turns out he pinned another kid while I was, ahem, away.

On this day, Thomas lost his first match, then battled back against three opponents to take fourth place, winning a nice medal (any parent knows it's all about the hardware). 

We headed back around 4:30, stopping for his obligatory McFlurry before we talk about the day.  In his fourth match, for third place, he faced a kid known for headlocks, youth wrestling's version of a "one trick pony."  Thomas countered him the first two times, stepping in and managing a takedown, but missed the third time and got pinned.  I tell him how proud I am, for persevering, at which point he flashes a sheepish grin and says, "Thanks Dad, but I was just tired and ready to go."

Marv Levy, who led the Buffalo Bills to four straight Super Bowls, used to walk the field during warm-ups and ask his players, "Is there anywhere you would rather be than right here, right now." 

My answer, of course, is no. 

Sweetness...Timeless

Author Jeff Pearlman's new Walter Payton biography, "Sweetness," has some unflattering details about the Chicago Bears Hall of Fame running back.  In the book, Pearlman alleges that Payton had affairs, battled depression and abused pain killers.

I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising.  Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's. 

In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song:  Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify. 

Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words. 

We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings.   A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty. 

For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward.  Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen. 

I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings.  I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later.  And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back. 

Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads.  So quick, so strong, so tough.  With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."

I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit.  Payton rarely "got hit."  He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer. 

Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams.  He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon. 

Here's my Payton story:

My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf.  My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.  

One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform. 

A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears.  I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line. 

As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs.  Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two).  Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back." 

I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man. 

Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year. 

Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless. 

Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."