Winning

Creeping up on 50, for the first time in my life, I have become a voracious reader. As knowledge goes in, understanding comes out. I am currently reading The Kite Runner and it is largely about a son winning his father's love. Of course, that sounds absurd. Shouldn't a father's love be unconditional, readily available, always accessible? Yet, having to win love is often the case, or that's how it appears to us sons anyway.

He could hardly stand it. I laid wheezing, flipping back and forth like a doomed fish, bridging on my heals and on my head; the other boy's grip tightening around my neck, his chest pressing even with mine. I think he's still yelling, but I can't hear. I see nothing but the black and white trim of the neckline on my opponent's orange singlet. No cheers. No sound. No hope. I can't breathe. I surrender. My legs lay flat. I give in to what feels like a car lowering slowly onto my small frame. Then a sound, a familiar sound. A dull hard thud that I know is really a slap. The referee ending the match; his palm racking the surface of the padded green stage that I just fell off of. A cheerleader sitting cross-legged lends a glance as I get back up and I know it is an attempt at kindness, but it fades fast and she joins her pack in revving up for my 105 pound team mate; a surer bet. He is already sitting back down. As lame as it would have been, strictly against the warrior code, I wanted him to run down and hug me. I wanted him to say that I did my best and that he was always proud of me. But I had failed again.

He wasn't angry or even disappointed. It was more like confused; like he knew that I had quit and just couldn't understand why. He loved me; more than I knew, certainly more than I would acknowledge to myself. But I needed him then and couldn't figure out how to tell him. I couldn't even figure out how to tell myself. So it went on, the losing. Several pins and too much silence after. Walking with my Columbus High Sailors green and white duffel bag, head down, away from the sweaty half-naked teenage boys out into the cold. I didn't want to get in the car. I just wanted to do it all over again and change the ending; turn that kid over, smother him, hear the cheers and see Dad still standing. I wanted a man hug, a victory hug. But I couldn't change it. It was painful to rehash. Eventually I quit.

The next chapter is on the sunnier side. There was respect and recognition and love underneath. We coached together. He had me demonstrate moves for the junior high kids. I sparred with the middle weights. I refereed the younger ones. I sprawled out on my belly, fanning three fingers under shoulder blades, giving points, blowing the whistle, slapping the mat. It was all upstairs. It was out from under. It was promising. It was easy to get in the car, to stand in the cold, to wait and talk and strategize. 


I stayed close to the sport. I loved wresting. I still do. We watched lots of matches together and we went to the NCAA Championships year after year. We traveled. He told jokes. We ate together and sat next to each other in the stands. He loved wrestling and he loved me. Wrestling was a right of passage. It just took some time to get there. It happened in the car, the hotel rooms, the restaurants and stadiums. Next to him-anywhere.

Winter always ended though. Then there was golf. But that's another story; one about fathers and sons and long walks together. It's another reel I play back and treasure. Someday I'll walk over a big hill and across a small stream and beyond the green, just before the next tee and sit with him on the bench while we wait to tee off. And it will be right and real and perfect. And I'll get that victory hug and we'll laugh under the Iowa sunshine and I'll see my daughter in his eyes.