Our Little Warriors

I said to Betty, "It kind of weirds me out to think I'd spend good money to watch two little boys having a fight." She said, "Well yes. I'd be trying to get them to stop!" I was on my way to the Cliff Keen Tulsa Nationals -- (one of?) the biggest youth wrestling tournaments in the country. 2,400 (that's right) boys from ages 6 through 15 were entered. They came from Pennsylvania, Indiana, Ohio, Texas, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and many other locations.

As I watched the combatants battle it out for a place on the podium, I observed a common phenomenon for those who lost: they did what comes normally and naturally in defeat: THEY CRIED. They'd given it their all, and it wasn't good enough. So THEY CRIED. And I was able to observe another, related, very interesting phenomenon: with the exception of a brief hug or pat on the shoulder, their coaches, their opponents, their parents pretty much ignored it; allowed it to happen. No child was shamed or scolded or admonished for their tears. Let them cry. No one was picked up and cuddled or soothed or offered sympathy. Just let them cry. Losing hurts.

But soon the tears were over, the child had pretty much soothed himself, and he went on with business.

Sometimes the winners cried, too. Sport can be stressful.

We see editorials about our youth being passive, lazy and out of shape. Not these kids. We see articles about our youth being coddled. Not these kids. We see some "helicopter parents" protecting their offspring from all emotional and physical risk. Let 'em take up wrestling.

I have an idea that when the time comes these young men will be adequately prepared and goal-directed for life's inevitable challenges.

Peace,
Warren