So I've been in a funk this week. I'm always the last to know about these things.
"...your world is slithering on a down slope at the moment…" That's my dad. He's trying to cheer me up. I didn't even know I was down until he mentioned it. Thanks Dad. Dad's actually good at the pep talk thing, even when he doesn't say anything. He's the first one I told when I quit wrestling in High School.
I still remember it. We were in the grocery store and I just kinda spilled it out. "I'm quitting." By this point, I'd been wrestling for 3 years. Dad and Mom bought me cool shoes and everything.
"Why?" He asks, pushing the cart along. Mom was shopping, and I didn't want to tell her yet. I needed Dad, so I'm timing my answers between shelf trips.
"I just don't want to do it anymore. I'm not enjoying it." To be honest, I was terrified to admit that. It sounded like a chicken-shit reason to quit to me, but it was all I had. If it sounded like that to me, what would it sound like to Dad?
Here, the easiest way to explain my wrestling is to cut a chunk from my unpublished novel. Yeah, I know, what a cop-out, huh? See? But here's the thing, It's kind of autobiographical, especially this part, and I don't know how to relay it any better than I did there. So rather then five you a generic rehash, I'll give you what I pored over for months. You are so lucky. The part of Rob is played by Tom, and the pop references are actually later than my high school career but you'll get the idea. You're an intellectual reader. Here goes. I start by talking about my yearbook:
The previous year it had read "JV Wrestling.” In fact, the first time the yearbook advisor...asked me to describe myself I’d said:
“I’m a wrestler.”
“Okay,” she wrote it down and asked “and what do you want to be when you get out of school?”
“I’m a wrestler.”
“I see. Not much call for that in the working world is there?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know who I am.” I replied with confidence.
“Good for you.” She wrote something else down and quickly excused herself.
Up until my junior year I had immersed myself in my sport. Oh, I wasn’t the best, just the most passionate. What I lacked in agility, I more than compensated for with stubborn surety. I was no Dan Gable, but I would win, even if it was only because I wore my opponent down.
I was very proud of my accomplishments and wore every win like a medal; my coach even awarded me with a “Most Dedicated Wrestler” plaque. I was the relentless yap-dog on the leg of wrestling.
One day I met a girl and everything changed. Her name was Melissa and I can’t tell you much more about her except that she was soft and smelled good. I spent all my time with her and when I wasn’t with her I thought about being with her. Our song was George Michael’s “Father Figure;” a song I would have normally detested for its sappy sentiment, but when you’re in love pap rules the world.
This had an unsurprising effect on my wrestling. I started to lose and I began to doubt my desire. Had my dedication been unfounded? . By the end of my junior year my record was 0-3. I decided it would be my last year. After all, I was clearly a lover not a fighter.
“What are you going to do when you get out of school Tom?”
“I’m a lover.”
“Not much money to be made legally in that profession, is there?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know who I am.”
“Good for you. But I think I’ll leave in JV Wrestling.”
I went after being a boyfriend like I went after wrestling: I wasn’t Don Juan, but I was in there trying. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the odds against surviving a first romance.
George Michael had promised:
I will be the one to love you till the end of time…
I thought you found somebody you liked and the match was over. I didn’t realize there were more rules and tricks to a relationship than any sport imaginable. Even though you have this one pinned down for three seconds she can still twist free, and in love there are no points for a near-fall.
I knew things were degenerating when she asked for my best friend’s phone number. As in wrestling, I refused to give up. Little did I know that the same traits that make you a “dedicated winner” in sports make you a “creepy stalker” in love.
But sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…
I couldn’t understand why the harder I tried, the scarier I seemed, and the more out of control life became. I finally kept away from her completely. It was the only way to maintain my sanity.
So when you remember the ones who have lied…
Fuck you George Michael.
See? That's where I'm coming from. From here I see some other parallels that are downright scary. No, MyUnwife did not ask for my best friends phone number…
Anyway...I did quit wrestling before I started dating my real life Melissa, but I'm not going to argue that that wasn't part of the reason. I didn't need to prove anything to the guys on the mat anymore. My ring was my world.
So when I explained this to Dad in HS Jr. speak of "uh" and "uhm" he did his best to understand. Listening until I fell silent, he finally asked "are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Ok." And that was that. Rob was no longer a wrestler. I don't think I ever told Dad what that moment meant to me. I grown up believing quitting was failure, and I had just said, "Dad, I failed." My dad let me make my own decision, and still loved me even if that decision was failure. I always wanted kids so I could pass that gift to them. I'm getting used to the idea that that probably won't happen, but that's a blog for another day. I just try to pass the gift to others in my life.
I see the whole thing repeating now. My ring was my world. I'm gonna have to expand that world a bit now. But the further I get from my marriage the more things I find I'm interested in. I still have days of growing pains where yeah, my world is slithering down a slope, but I think it's part of the process, and I'll bounce back. Tonight I'll stick with my routine. I'll go out and write, and I'll buy groceries. Maybe serendipity will smile upon me and the skies will hail manna. Maybe it won't. But at least I have people like my dad, who'll hang out until the next upswing. In the meantime, I still say, "Fuck you George Michael."
Robby Boyd Man/Boy in tights.
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