A bunch of my sixth graders are on the wrestling team, and their excitement was so present this morning as they were chattering about the first meet, which was at home, that I knew I had to go. It didn't hurt that their coach is one of my closest friends on staff. "At least their weight classes are at the beginning of the match-up," I told myself, but as the day wore on, I realized I was looking forward to going down to the gym.
Heidi also had a student on the roster, but he would be at the end; even so, at 3 o'clock we locked our doors and made our way to the enormous field house attached to our school. The mat was laid, the rows of chairs set, the scoreboard lit, and the bleachers not too empty when we arrived. Neither team was in the arena, but there was a handful of colleagues, kids, parents of students, former students, and even a former student who was the parent of a student.
Fortunately, we spent our time visiting with the many folks we knew, because the meet took a long time to get going. When it did, my face twisted into a grimace whenever kids were actually wrestling. To the uninitiated observer that I was, their activity looked so brutish that it seemed impossible to me that it was not only allowed but encouraged. When one of my homeroom students pinned his opponent, though, the look of pure exultation on his face made a convert of me, and I was in.
Then when the next student also won his match and ran over to shake my hand, the deal was sealed, and having his mom give me a quick hug was gravy. Hours later, our team won the match, and the sense of community I felt was so moving that I wondered how I could ever leave it behind.
I have a few decisions to wrestle with myself.
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