Trophy Season

We brought home my son's trophy today. It's almost a foot tall, with a baseball player ready to swing on the top of a gleaming green and gold pedestal. The plaque affixed to the front of it reads: "T-Ball Participant 2006." I couldn't be more proud. I couldn't be more jealous. I thought of all my physical endeavors, and the rewards and acknowledgements I received. In high school I got a red ribbon for coming in second in men's doubles in my tennis class (there were two teams). I had a couple of friends in high school who were a year ahead of me, and they realized their only chance to get a letter jacket was to try out for track. A little skill and a lot of luck got them their jackets - gold with a big purple "B" on the chest. There were no letters for being in marching band, or even for being in Pep Band, or even being Pep Band President.
My glory days were over before they started. But back in junior high, I was on the wrestling team. Wrestling appealed to me because it had all the support of a team, but was still fundamentally a one-man show. I had to work to stay at 119 pounds, but sometimes wrestled a light 125. I wasn't a great wrestler, but I was committed. I learned all the holds and moves from both the left and right sides which gave me some advantage over my slower-witted opponents. If you get used to reacting to something from the right side, since ninety percent of the guys you wrestle come from that side, it can be very confusing for a double-leg takedown to come suddenly from the left. I wasn't the strongest or the fastest, but I was the most cunning. Sadly, this did little for me in terms of dealing with the guys on my team. It just so happens that 119 and 125 are very popular weight classes for wiry little fellows who will grow up to be high school champions. I had one a year ahead of me, and one who was the same age as me, so I spent three years trying to get a spot on the "A" mat squad. I was wrestling against kids who had wrestling mats installed in their basements, who got a new pair of wrestling shoes each season, who had fathers who gave them pointers. I got a lot of encouragement from my dad, but his working knowledge of wrestling was a little sketchy.
I never did get to wrestle on "A" mat. I challenged every week, and got thumped back down to "B" mat. Over and over. In ninth grade, at the end of the season, there was a tournament. Actually, there were two tournaments: one for "A" mat and one for "B." I lost only one match, and that was good enough to place third. On "B" mat. I got a nice white ribbon to remind me of my struggle. I got to keep my wrestling shoes. I participated. When I got to high school, I gave it up to be a full-time bandie, for which I received no trophies. Just a whole lot of memories.