Wrestling with It

© 2008 by Heather Klassen

“Wrestling is gross,” Britta says.

“A bunch of sweaty boys groping each other,” Mia adds.

“It’s not gross—it’s a sport,” I patiently explain. “And I’m going to join the wrestling team.”

Britta and Mia stare at me from across the lunch table. I’ve actually found a way to render my best friends speechless.

“You’re kidding, right?” Britta asks.

“Wrestling is a boys’ sport,” Mia tells me. “You can’t wrestle.”

“Actually, I can. Remember when my brother wrestled in high school? He always used me to practice on. I know all the holds, everything. And I’m not too bad.”

“No, Sarah,” Britta says, reaching over to grasp my wrists. She looks right at me and speaks slowly, as if explaining something simple to the village idiot. “Whether you know how to wrestle or not isn’t the point. The point is that wrestling teams are for boys, not girls. You’re a girl. Girls don’t wrestle.”

I pry my arms out of Britta’s grasp.

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” I tell my friends. “For your information, if a school doesn’t have a comparable team for both genders, then girls can play on boys’ teams and vice versa. And there are a few girls wrestling in our state, even our district. You just never noticed them.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Mia asks me.

“Seriously weird,” Britta says before I have a chance to answer.

I don’t answer. I am serious, and it hurts to receive a total lack of support from my friends, to be called weird by them. How can I make them understand that I enjoy wrestling, that I do want to join the wrestling team? Maybe I can’t make them understand that.

I stand up, hoist my backpack onto my shoulder. “I have to go pick up the paperwork for the team,” I explain. Then I walk away, leaving my friends staring after me. Probably making mean comments about me. Which doesn’t feel good.

But wrestling does feel good to me—the skill involved, the skills I developed wrestling with Daniel. I want to find out how good I am, if I am any good at all.

After school, I head home, the wrestling papers tucked into my backpack. Both of my parents are home, working in their downstairs office.. I’m glad they’re home, and at the same time I’m not. I know that this wrestling idea is not going to be easy for them to understand. But I need parental signatures on the paperwork. And I really want them to get it, even if my friends don’t.

I dump my backpack in the hall, pull out the papers, and run down the stairs. “Hi Sarah,” they greet me in unison.

“Papa, Dad,” I start. They both look up from their computers. I don’t usually sound so serious. “I need you to sign something. But I need to tell you about it first. I want to join the wrestling team at school.”

Stunned silence is not just a cliché. I’m experiencing it right now. My parents stare at me, speechless. I seem to have that effect on people today.

“I really want to wrestle,” I explain. “I’ve loved wrestling ever since Daniel taught me. I want to be on the team. So please sign the forms for me.”

My papa finds his voice first. “Sarah, wrestling is a boys’ sport. Girls don’t wrestle.”

“Most girls don’t,” I agree. “But I want to.”

“You’ll get hurt,” Dad says.

“Injuries are rare in wrestling, Dad,” I reply. “I could get injured playing volleyball. I think what you’re really worried about is that I’ll get groped. But I won’t. That’s not what wrestling’s about. I’ll be fine—I’ll make sure of it. So will the coach. Other girls do wrestle, just not at my school. At least not yet.”

“Other girls aren’t my daughter,” Dad points out.

I slump onto the sofa, still gripping the forms I need my parents to sign. “Papa, Dad, please. This is something I really want to do. I’ve wanted to for years. I don’t want to play basketball or volleyball or any other winter sport. I want to wrestle. It’s my sport—I know it is. It’s me.” I pause and look right at my parents. I don’t want to plead. I don’t know why this has to be so hard. “You never questioned Daniel’s decision to wrestle. You went to all of his meets, cheered him on. I want that, too.”

“Your brother,” Papa says, as if suddenly remembering his college-attending offspring. “I’ll email him and get his opinion. We want to be fair, Sarah—we really do. It’s just that this is a difficult decision. Give us some time to sort it out.” He holds out his hand, and I give him the papers. As I leave the room, he and Dad are already reading them. I hear their low voices, and then the tapping of the keyboard again.

Up in the kitchen, I think, Okay, I’ll give them some time. But I wish I didn’t need their signatures for what’s really my own decision. I wish I could just have their support. Their blessing, even. And my friends’, too. I can’t help it if what I want to do seems different, weird to everyone. I know it’s the right choice for me.

I sit down at the kitchen table and stare at the fake wood grain. Everything that everyone said to me about this subject today echoes through my head. Maybe I should just drop this. Maybe I shouldn’t wrestle. Then I wouldn’t have to endure my friends’ looks and unkind words and my parents’ concern and disapproval. Life would be easier this winter. I could even go to the wrestling meets and cheer on the team. Everything would be fine.

Except for the fact that I’d be desperate to be down there on the mats myself, trying out my moves, maybe even making pins, maybe hearing myself being cheered on. Doing what I really want to do. Being me.

My parents emerge from the basement.

“I emailed Daniel,” Papa says. “I know he checks his email around dinnertime. I’m sure he’ll get back to us then.”

“So we’d like to postpone this decision until later tonight,” Dad explains. “Okay, Sarah?”

What am I supposed to say? It has to be okay since I have no other choice.

Dinner is quick and quiet. No one brings up the word “wrestle,” not even in the context of wrestling with their conscience. I guess we all had ethical-dilemma-free days.

My parents disappear back downstairs after dinner. After I finish the dishes, I wander into the family room and settle in front of the computer. Might as well check my email while I’m waiting.

I’m surprised to see an email from my brother. Dated today. I click on it.

“Hey Sarah,” I read. “I hear you’ve thrown the parents into the throes of a major decision. They’re pretty freaked out. I’m not. I know you inherited my wrestling moves, and I think you’d be pretty good.

“I hope Papa and Dad will let you wrestle. They let me, why not let you? So what if it’s not the usual choice for a girl, if it’s right for you, why not?

“I’m not claiming that college has turned me into a wise old man, but I have learned some things along the way. And one major one is this—don’t make your choices based on what other people think is right for you. Those other people may come and go in your life. Do what’s right for the one person who will always be with you—yourself.

“I say go for it, wrestle, Sarah. I hope they’ll let you. You have a good heart and a good head, little sister. Keep on following them. Daniel.”

I read the entire message twice through. These are probably the most words my brother has ever said to me at one time. And probably the best, too.

My brother’s words are the ones I needed to hear. Right now and forever. I press the print button on the computer. I’m going to save this message, these words that are just exactly right for me.

I hear my parents’ footsteps coming up the stairs. I don’t know exactly what Daniel told them, if he was able to convince them. I don’t know whether they’ll sign the papers or not. I don’t know whether I’ll be wrestling this year or not.

But I do know that as I get older and I’m signing for my life for myself, I’ll know how to make the right choices. I’ll keep my wise old brother’s words close to my heart, and I’ll make the right choices for me, the real me.

“Sarah?” Papa’s voice says from behind me. “We’ve made our decision.”

I swivel around in the chair, ready to face my parents’ decision, whatever it may be.

Dad starts. “We’ve done some thinking. We’ve always trusted you to make good choices, and you have. It wouldn’t make sense for us to stop now.”

“You mean you’re going to let me wrestle?” I almost can’t believe it.

Papa holds out the papers toward me. “We’ve signed them, Sarah.”

I practically jump out of my seat to cross the room and grab those papers. But as I reach Papa, he suddenly holds the papers above his head. “Just one thing, though.”

Oh no, I think. Now what? “What?” I ask.

“Do you promise to save first row seats for us on the bleachers at every one of your meets?” Dad asks.

I laugh. “Of course,” I reply. “In fact, I’ll save you a whole row if you want.”

“We do,” Papa says. “We wouldn’t miss watching you wrestle for anything.”

Then he hands me the papers, and even though I know I’m going to get those forms all wrinkled, I grab both of my fathers to give them the biggest hug ever.