My First Wrestling Match

I met up with some grade school friends of mine the other day and amongst the pre-Oktoberfest talk we started to reminisce about the ole’ days which in turn inspired me to write about a very important experience in my life........
I quickly ran downstairs juking stair rails and hurdling out-of-place toys. I made my way to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth like any other ordinary day. I woke knowing this not-so ordinary day would be special. I was awake an hour earlier than my mom had planned on waking me up. What a weird concept. I had never been the first one to roll out of bed in my hustle and bustle household. Nonetheless, my teeth had to be brushed, my face admired in the mirror, and I had to get dressed. Oh wait! I had been looking forward to the day so such that I forgot I had dressed myself the evening before.
I knew my Saturday morning cartoons would have to be put on hold. I had a duty to accomplish, but it was a little unclear at the time. All I really looked forward to was my chance to mingle and socialize with my peers. All my first grade friends would be with me, running through bleachers and causing mothers to worry. My book bag was packed with strictly essentials: extra sweats, a pair of barely worn shoes, my lucky stocking cap, and a half a bag of skittles (energy food).
The floorboards creaked as I romped around like a booming marching band. My mother woke first. A bit disgruntled from my overly excited antics, she scolded me mildly, but accepted my cause. Mom had said she was going to make my favorite breakfast on my big day. I wolfed down the toast and homemade jelly as the sun began to rise. Hmmmm!
My little sister woke up next, with a little help from her much more mature brother. I woke her up with a graceful swipe of her pretty pink comforter. It took a couple of tugs, but I got the Barbie blanket off her peaceful sleeping body. "Get up Bridge! Get up!", I screamed as she eventually popped out of her twin sized safe haven.
One more obstacle stood in my way to starting my day in a noisy hectic school gymnasium, about 3 miles down the road. It was my older brother. He was an eighth grader that slept like a bear and growled the same. I only had one way to wake this adolescent young man; guerrilla warfare. My hit-and-run tactics had proved successful in the past, so I dug through my toy box of weaponry and found it. It stood out like cowboy fan at Lambeau Field. TaaDaa, I found a second-hand, tattered wiffle-ball bat. BAM! That's what my big brother woke up to that December morning. Then he must have heard my little inexperienced legs scamper down the stairs. I'm not too sure because I was too busy hiding behind my oblivious mother. "Don't hurt your little brother on his big day, Andrew!" pinched a nerve in the older brother, but their wasn't much he could do. After all it was my big day. I didn't hesitate to stick my tongue, just to advertise the well-manipulated situation.
After all the drama we loaded up in the family car, if you want to call it a car. It was more like a dilapidated, rusty, unreliable oversized go-cart. However, it did haul our family and today the Corsica was taking us to the High School. By now I was bouncing off the walls. If there was ever a need for ridoline, now was the time. My mind was not so much focused as it excited.
Whew, the go-cart worked that day. I walked through the shiny glass pane doors, with no previous experience. My mother's hand must have hurt they way I clung to her. The signs posted throughout the brick walls guided us through the maze of new environments. Kids were running around in the maze just as hamsters searching for morsels of cheese. Most of the brats were foreign to me, but as I made my way throughout the seemingly endless institute, I began to come across fellow friends, foes, and even distant family. My brother took sister to the lunchroom to partake in fresh donuts and the smell of cheap coffee. They didn't get their favorite breakfast like I did. Ha! I kept following mother just because that is what any first grader of my experience only knows. Finally we got to my area. An obese man with stubble for facial hair bellowed, "K through second grade weigh-ins! All Kindergarten through second grade kids step on the scale.", so like a solider in boot camp I did as I was told. Forty-eight pounds I managed to muster up that day, forty-eight measly pounds. The big man, who had to drop one of those fresh donuts, scribbled a barely legible forty-eight on my left hand. My mom filled out a note card with some irrelevant information, and I was ready. My name was officially part of the 1993 Royall Youth Wrestling Invitational. Like I cared. All I cared about was finding those other crazy first grade friends I spent countless hours at school with.
Before I was set free mom showed me her reserved spot for me on the bleachers. At the time I wasn't impressed with the oversized gym or the rows of beaten wrestling mats. I especially didn't care about warming up. Tag was the name of the game. Running around the huge school proved to be both an adventure and a way of life for 150 elementary schoolers. I caught myself playing with kids from surrounding schools, not knowing of school rivalries or prejudices. Barely lit staircases, and rooms filled with weird looking instruments provided necessary hiding places when I was out of breath or just wanted to explore.
Just as quick as the childish games had commenced they became obsolete as a loud voice echoed in others as well as my ears. Was god at Royall High School? I wasn't for sure what the voice had mumbled that day but I did watch as kids, like cattle swarmed to a doorway on the far side of wrestling mats. I jumped on the bandwagon and proceeded in a smelly cavern of jock straps and ancient benches. Kids from all walks of life were swinging from lockers, and in general, horsing around. Some derelict kid was even playing with a urinal cake. Even I knew that kid didn't have a lot going for him. I'd like to think I was above those immature wrestlers but I too couldn't contain myself with all the mayhem.
The loudness of the children was subdued, by some grown-ups calling out names. The names were called in groups of four. I being such a lightweight was part of one of the first couple groups called out. Four of us stood together after being called, each with our own look of intimidation. Our hands met as instructed, when we followed a man back into to gymnasium. A lack confusion and chaos filled the once chaotic wrestling mats. Our group of round robin wrestlers made it way to mat number two. Shortly after our arrival, mom, brother, and my reluctant sister showed up. I thought to myself half the entire country must be in this gym right now starring at my combatants and me. If you think that fazed me, an attention deprived, middle child, think again. I loved it. Then it happened. A referee grabbed me and another boy wearing a bright blue singlet.
The boy was a little taller than I and a bit slimmer. His wrestling shoes were shiny and his socks white. We made our way to the center of a sectioned off square on a black, heavily-warn mat. That wrestling mat had seen its share of first graders sparring off. "Your green kid", said a referee who had almost hit puberty. I thought to myself, "No I'm white, dummy!". Without any reaction from my part he strapped an ankle band around my skinny calf. It went around twice before the Velcro pieces united. We were to step on a taped line, so I put both feet directly on the line. Before this match of epic proportions began, I looked my family's way. They looked so happy for me despite having to kneel on a floor that badly needed revarnishing and being surrounded by intense soccer moms screaming as if they belonged in a pub on the north shore of Ireland. As I daydreamed about soccer moms, I guess the referee had initiated the wrestling match. My taller nemesis had completely shocked me with a blow to the hips. Wow was this exciting.
My organized Tuesday, Thursday practice sessions were about to pay off. Or were they? This kid was strong. He backed me out of bounds. I thought to my self," I can't let this punk beat me". The match quickly restarted. I took the offensive this time, only I didn't attack him. I just ran around him as if I was a merry-go-round circling an axis. This confused the poor kid, so like a leopard I pounced on pondering wrestler. I scooped up his ankles, just then he fell to the ground. I tackled somebody! The excitement consumed my thought processes. I could have laid on the mat all day, ankles in hand, if it hadn't been for my mom. She yelled to me to grab his chest and pin him, so I worked up his legs and extended my arms to each one of his boney shoulders. It was working, he tried to wiggle out of my grasp, but I wasn't about to let this twirp get out of bounds. The boy in the blue singlet acted as if he was a worm about to be hooked. Just as I thought he was too much to handle, the referee announced, "Pin!"