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Jack:
That was awesome. You must be very proud. How are you doing? Drop me an e-mail so that I can get your address and keep in touch more. I think it is time that we get together more often.
Walt
Posted by Walter Cox on 04/02/08 at 07:56 AMi can’t believe max is a champion wrestler!! well, actually i can...he’s an energetic and tough kid. hope all is well with the family of max…
best,
mother of sam
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The Contender
As regular readers of this column know, I’ve leveled some pretty vicious insults over the years, raking politicians, academics and other nefarious figures over the red hot coals. But I’ve never written anything as downright scurrilous as I did last month when I targeted my own son, tragically suggesting that his athletic ability was roughly equal to mine.
That, as it turns out, was a gross distortion of the truth.
As a reminder, my column was about my six-year-old son Max’s burgeoning wrestling career. The piece ended ignominiously, with Max tragically reduced to a pretzel and gazing heavenward faster than it usually takes him to hide his vegetables.
This is what forced me to draw the comparisons to my own career as high school grappler, midfielder and quarterback. Crappiness nonpareil.
In truth my son looks a lot like me (or a barnyard rooster). He’s short, thick of chest and cocky. Very, very cocky. But unlike his old man, he’s got the goods to back it up.
A few Sundays ago we landed at the Maryland State wrestling tournament, “The States.” Viewing it all reverently, I thought it looked like Hoosiers on a mat. Someone less charitable referred to it as “a kind of JonBenet pageant for stinky little boys.”
Either way, going into The States, Max was on fire. In his last two tournaments, his record was five and one, including his first gold medal.
Perhaps that was on his mind when he walked through the tournament doors and announced: “Dad, today is my day. I’m gonna win this whole thing.”
I told him to shut his mouth, lest he jinx it. “Get your skinny little tuchus out there and just wrestle,” I said.
The first match didn’t bode well. Max drew a scrappy kid, more than a year younger and even smaller than he was. Despite these advantages, Max struggled. There was even controversy when one of his fingers clipped the poor kid in the eye, causing an eruption of protest from his corner.
In the end, Max squeaked out a victory on points, but he came off the mat chastened: “Dad, I was lucky to beat him,” he said. “He’s way tougher and stronger than I am.”
Max was right. That kid, the brother of a U.S. champion, went on to beat every other wrestler in the weight class, pinning three hapless victims along the way. But Max kept ticking off the victories, too. And the once unthinkable was becoming plausible; he had a real shot to be State Champ.
But first The Contender had to pee. Chaperoning him to the men’s room I shielded him from the ruinous siren of the trophy table.
He must’ve peeked, anyway. When we got back, he finally faltered, counter-moved to defeat by a crafty little puppy.
That left the title in doubt. Max and his first opponent finished with identical records. This kid’s old man, a tough customer in his own right, kept a watchful eye on the officials’ deliberations. And so did I.
When the judges awarded Max the title, due to his head-to-head victory, the other father pronounced the tournament, “A joke.” Then he crowded me: “Your kid’s a cheater,” he growled. “He gouged my son’s eyes.”
Max’s mother, viewing from a distance, asked me if I retaliated. “It’s little kid wrestling,” I shrugged, “Anyway, did you see the size of that guy?”
Max toted his gigantic trophy from the room to a million back slaps. His coach, smiling, put an arm around him: “You have a great chance to win it again next year,” he said.
“No thanks,” the Champ responded. “Next year, I’m playing basketball.”
Posted by on 03/14/08 at 12:00 AM | Comments (2)
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