How It Feels To Wrestle Competitively After 8 Years Off

In 2008, within 1.5 years of being introduced to the sport of wrestling, I received one of my most formative athletic memories. It happened during the Midlands Championships in Evanston, Illinois. I remember there were a few memorable storylines at this event. I remember the 12th grader, Jason Welch, competing as the #1 high schooler in the nation. I remember watching him dominate his first two matches then get molly whopped by #1 ranked IL native Mike Poeta. I realized then and there, "oh shit, there are levels to this." But this wasn't THE formative memory from the event. That memory is from watching Chris Bono.

Bono was the head coach at Tennessee-Chattanooga at the time. But at this event, he didn't put on his coaching polo for this event, he strapped up his singlet and Twister headgear. I don't know how old he was, but in my mind, he was double the age of his competitors. Watching him beat Cyler Sanderson in the finals lit an odd fire in me. One that burned slow, low, and in the background for many years.

Eventually, I became a coach myself. Like many young coaches, I quickly realized I was a better wrestler than I had ever been. I couldn't help but think about competing again, and whenever I did, Chris Bono was on my mind. His interviews about his '08 Midlands championship were inspiring. He spoke of how he wanted to show his athletes the correct way of doing things. How to prepare, cut weight, and win a tournament like a professional. Listening to these old interviews fired me up. I felt the itch to compete again.

Then reality hit. I realized how challenging competing "like a professional" is when you are coaching. As a coach, training correctly is at the expense of your athletes. To train the right way, you have to be selfish, but as a coach, I couldn't afford that. I told myself for 6 years, "I'll find an open and jump in next year," but I never did. I quit before I competed as a coach.

After quitting, I knew I couldn't leave the sport so I began volunteering at a local college. As a volunteer, I wasn't instructing as much. I got to wrestle more than I had since I graduated college. My fire to train and compete grew. Bono was back in my head. I kept thinking that the door to compete was as open as it ever had been. I finally decided to go for it. A month ago, I decided that for my 31st birthday, it was time to strap up again for real. It would be the first time in 8 years.

I picked out the Buena Vista Open in Storm Lake, Iowa. A low-key D3 open near my old home turf as a former IIAC boy. I committed to training 3-4 days a week. A far cry from when I competed full-time, but it was a commitment for me. I knew I wasn't going to cut any weight. I was going to have fun at my near-natural weight wearing my high school headgear and a singlet my brother made for me in the 10th grade.

And let me tell you, I had a freakin' blast. I knew I missed competing, but doing it for real made me realize all these details that I loved. Here are a few of them.

What was once scary, is now fun.

I knew I missed the pre-match jitters. The anxiety that I know every current competing wrestler despises. I missed it! It made me feel like a thrill seeker looking for the next plane to jump out of. I felt alive in a way that I hadn't felt in a long time. I realized the anxiety that I once loathed is truly one of the most unique and unforgettable elements of wrestling.

The mind is a crazy place.

I expected the anxiety, but I somewhat forgot about the bizarre mid-match thoughts you get when competing. Ideally, your thoughts center around the match at hand: The strategy, the technique, the time, etc. As someone who hasn't competed in a while, my mind was like an untamed bloodhound. A strong nose without much control. Luckily, I did not care too much about optimizing my performance. I was able to laugh about the tangents my mind would take. One moment I thought of my next piece of offense, the next moment, I was thinking about the funny way my opponent taped his shoes. I noticed how bored the table worker was, a hungover BV athlete with zero interest or knowledge of what he was doing. I even let my mind think during the third period of my tight semi-finals match: "Fuck I am tired. I could just quit right now and go home", only to snap out of it and find a way to get the win.

Too small of a world to be incognito.

I went into the event trying to be anonymous. I drove 7 hours to get away from the IL/WI coaches and athletes hoping no one would notice me. My efforts were in vain. The wrestling world is too small. Even as a guy with no team name on his sweatshirt who was minding my own business, old opposing coaches noticed me. They gave me looks and nods like they vaguely remembered me. Rick Stahl, a referee who worked probably 1/4 of my college matches said, "Hey buddy, how ya doin'?" He was trying to place me- not knowing if I was 21 or 31.

Feeling lonely in a place that was once home

I was alone with no coach or wrestling partner and as a Duroe boy, I needed a good warmup. I went from coach to coach, asking if I could jump in. Every coach was kind. A few couldn't help me as their numbers were even, but I ended up being able to jump in with Coach Peters at Simpson College. He explained his unique lingo to me and was grateful for me to warm up his guys. It was funny feeling like an outsider at a wrestling tournament. A place that felt where I've always felt confident in my efforts.

Can't hide the coach in you

Then there were things I couldn't help myself with. I wrestled three matches. I went 2-1 and placed 2nd. I absolutely could not help myself but talk to the guys I wrestled. I had to coach them up (the ones I beat). I knew better than to do it immediately; who the hell wants to hear advice from someone they wrestled? I was patient, though. I waited until the end of the day and spoke to each of them. I had insight into their wrestling and wanted to help them. Each of them was receptive and grateful. They could tell I was an old geezer.

Unexpected joy

Nothing I described surprised me. There was one thing I truly forgot: the unexpected comradery in the post-meet visitor's locker room. Before the tournament, everyone is too busy sizing people up and executing their mental warfare to be nice. But after the event, when everyone is tired, bloodied, and ready to go home, we're all friends. I had a few conversations. All began with the standard "how'd ya do?" and ended with thoughtful discussions about the experience of wrestling. I inevitably had to get on my soapbox and preach to them about how lucky they were to be doing this and how much they will miss it. Each conversation ended with a handshake "good luck the rest of the year," even if it didn't apply to me. Everyone is some sort of happy when it's over: win, lose, or draw.

In the end, I know I'm not Chris Bono. I didn't win Midlands or prove anything to my team, but I did realize how much I took for granted. I know now that Bono was doing more than showing his team "how it's done." He was chasing the old high. He remembered all the old feelings, good and bad.

I hope athletes, not only wrestlers, realize what they have. Because at this moment between emails and spreadsheets, I desperately miss the training, the competitions, and all the bonding moments. Shit, I even the PB, banana, and honey sandwiches. I know most athletes don't realize what they have, how could they, they've never not had it. I've been through the wringer and hung up the shoes. Now to experience it again, I relished every moment and yearn for the next time I get to strap up.