I never pretended to be a pioneer, or a crusader, or a feminist who upholds the standards of humanity and riots for great, righteous causes. Although some people may think of me as attempting to accomplish these many amazing and noble feats, the truth is, hey; it’s been done before. I like being appreciated, and since my athletic resume is one that often sparks a little interest, I don’t mind talking to people about it, although the questions do start to sound repetitive after a while.
In the era of “Political Correctness” that we live in, (the era of affirmative action and gender equality), girl, or “lady” wrestlers have been one of the most talked-about “girl power” figures. I hate the term; it smacks of the Spice Girls. However, I’m as pleased as the next girl to see gender equality enter the sports arena, particularly on the wrestling mat.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t start wrestling because I wanted to level the national playing field, or because all the other sports were too easy for me, or because I believe the male sex had committed some horrible offense against me which could only be righted if I went out and became an angry butt-kicking man-hater.
Want to know what really happened? Bottom line: I was cut from the seventh grade basketball team. Humiliation ensued. Next year, in the eighth grade, I decided that I should help manage the team instead. However, this proved to be more of a moral degradation than getting cut. When I wasn’t chasing down stray basketballs, I was staring mutely at the other girls playing. It was an hour and a half of tall blondes bounding in my field of vision as constant reminders that they were better than I was.
(It’s not exactly what happened, but if you remember what it was like to be in middle school, and your experience was anything at all similar to mine, you were also surrounded in a self-conscious and judgmental fog that disoriented you and made you wear weird-looking clothes.)
That wasn’t any fun at all. Basketball was something I couldn’t have and no longer wanted. In between ball chasing and wall-staring, I meandered into the wrestling room. (The “wrestling room” was actually the funky smelling cafeteria with the lunch tables pushed out of the way.) Encouraged by the enthusiastic and rather brainless encouragement of my friend, whom I shall call Wesley, I joined the Sylvester kiddie wrestling team. (Needless to say, the basketball coaches were distraught over my departure.) I didn’t morph into the Wrestling Wonder Woman; like most beginners, I was really bad and nearly broke Wesley’s arm when I tried to do a move that escaped my mental grasp. I also lost my first match, but, then again, no one wins the first match.
The next phase of my wrestling career is somewhat of an embarrassment. Due to a rather unfortunate brain burp and close-minded boyfriend, I instead joined the gymnastics team in the winter season of my freshman year. I was good at it. I earned a varsity letter and came close to participating as an all around. Even though I was the only freshman to advance onto the district tournament that year, there was nothing I wanted more than to be down in the gross-smelling wrestling room.
And that’s exactly where I went. Bored of the gymnastic girls’ insistent cattiness and snotty behavior, I often spent the weight-training portion of my practice in the wrestling room, sitting by the side and watching Coach Stark demonstrate the moves. Wrestling in middle school, when compared to wrestling in high school, is something like this: a walk in the park to a six-mile run in the snow. I knew that anyone could wrestle in middle school; that experience served to break the gender barrier for me. But the true luster of the high school coin was the hard-earned challenge of holding your head up in that room. You have to want it.
I suppose if you contrast the two sports, (gymnastics and wrestling), I’m a good deal farther up on the gymnastics spectrum than I am on the wrestling one. Heck, I’ve been a JV wrestler for my entire career. I lack a bit in the strength department, and I acquire strange injuries. I get weird looks and (occasionally) rather abrasive or degrading comments. If I had stuck with gymnastics, God knows how far I could have gone. Maybe I am crazy. But which one builds character? Which gives me a sense of accomplishment that I could only find through challenge and awkward ordeals?
Said repressive boyfriend and I broke up, and realizing my extreme deficiency in proper training for the upcoming season, I enrolled in Oceanview Wrestling Camp in the summer between my freshman and sophomore year. It was me and three hundred other guys, ranging from 12 to 18. The only females around were the cooks and the director’s daughter, with whom I boarded. From the moment I walked in, it was obvious that this is where I would have to start holding my head up. Oceanview served as the turning point. I discovered three things: 1) I could keep up, 2) I could win, and 3) I liked it.
I won my first match at Oceanview. Although it was impromptu and the kid weighed ten pounds lighter than me, there is a rush like no other that comes after I have won a match. It is the stuff dreams are made off. You don’t feel your dislocated shoulder or broken finger until all the adrenaline wears off, and the pain is then dulled by an incredible sense of accomplishment.
I entered my sophomore season carefully. Practice was about twenty times harder than camp. People kept telling me how cool it was that I wrestled, but I couldn’t decide if it was because they were afraid of me, or because they didn’t really want to tell me how they felt. Sometimes it was a combination of the two. Adults, I’ve learned, have less reservation and will often tell you to your face that they feel it’s inappropriate and unfair that girls are allowed onto the teams. My volleyball coach, whom I adore, told me that I’m taking away spots for boys on the team. Some feel that I lower the standard of quality.
When you read this, you probably imagine I’m some sort of beefcake girl, but I’m actually pretty normal looking, and not as gross as every believes girl wrestlers inherently are. Unfortunately, this has led to some rather awkward situations where I wish I had four chins and a mustache. Sometimes an opponent will assume things about me, which I have to straighten out post-match in a rather clear and decisive tone. Let it be known: I don’t care how sincere or well meaning you are. Anyone who has beaten me or whom I have beaten on the mat is not going to be someone I give my phone number to. I’m going to speak plainly. To everyone who is concerned that I’m a little hussy out there trying to get a date by donning spandex, strapping on headgear, and rolling around with ardent teenage boys, I feel that your argument is ridiculous. There are easier ways, trust me. (Have you, by any chance, noticed the length of our cheerleader’s skirts recently? And their fastidious set of morals? Not to deflect the glare. I would just like to express a little editorial comment: it’s not exactly the greatest concern out there.) The kind of thing I think most people fear is an over-sexed groping marathon. I encourage anyone who says those things to come to practice for a day, and tell me that I’m a distraction. It’s no longer the scandal it once was.
Plain, harsh, truth: Any opponent of mine with half a brain and an iota of dignity would rather focus and try not get beaten than cop a feel and get beaten by a girl. There’s no glory in it. Period. That’s not to say I’ve never been hit on, but, though the experience is icky, it’s usually tempered with a measure of respect and admiration. Like I said before, I’m not the pioneer of women’s wrestling, and others before me have suffered a good deal more than I have. The girl before me on the Highline team was punched once during a match because her opponent was mad that she was beating him. Kennedy High School still refuses to allow me to weigh in.
Now, you’re probably thinking that this is going to lead into some song and dance routine about the lessons wrestling has taught me. Before you run screaming from the typified (and no doubt heartfelt) diatribe which graces the pages of college-entrance essays everywhere, let me be honest with you: my accomplishment lies in conquering something which has been surprisingly hard for me throughout the years, that being setting a goal, and going about achieving it. This makes my experience what it is. What the cheesy middle school counselors tell you is true. Half of the battle is in your mind. Move mountains with faith the size of a mustard seed. You can fly. I may not have revolutionized high school sports everywhere; at best, I’ve created a stir. Even though I may not be able to bench quite as much as my male counterparts, and even though I have to wear a weird-looking swimming cap spandex head confection to hold my hair back, and wait a half an hour before I can weigh in, I still feel as though I have found my place. I don’t fear the other wrestlers, or feel threatened by them. That’s not to say that they don’t give me grief. They do. A rather gratuitous amount of it, too, I might add.
But finding the inspiration that will motivate you to put everything you have out on the mat, to not hold anything back, is the true hurdle. I know what it’s like to go to battle and put what I got out there. Lose or win, it’s always good enough.
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