A short time ago I was surprised to learn that Dan was alive as recently as 1975, and might still be alive in Coralville, Iowa. The last I heard of Dan he had broken his neck at a freestyle wrestling tournament two weeks after he won the 1970 high school state meet. He was expected to be quadriplegic for life, and I always assumed that his life thereafter would be cut short due to complications. Learning that he was still alive caused some reminiscing of my high school days.
The winter of 1967-68 was my sophomore year at C. R. Washington High School and we had a sophomore wrestling meet scheduled with Jefferson High School. Even as a sophomore at Jefferson, Dan had shown promise as a wrestler, so my teammates whispered about our upcoming match for weeks.
I don’t remember our sophomore match specifically, but I do remember bits and pieces. There were no spectators because the match was held in our wrestling room and was officiated by one of the coaches. It was a low-key wrestling meet. The score in my match with Dan wasn’t any more than a 2-point differential. In the spirit of never letting facts get in the way of a good story I’ve always thought that I won the match, and that it might have been the last match Dan ever lost. That may be incorrect, but it’s the way I like to remember it.
As the next two years went by I didn’t realize that there were opportunities to wrestle year-round. Dan wrestled throughout those years, and I ran track and cross-country instead. I became a JV wrestler and Dan became an All-American. I think I wrestled Dan a couple more times, but I never beat him again.
One of those years my talented teammate, Aaron, was ineligible for a major wrestling tournament. The night before the meet I got a call from the coach informing me that I would be filling in for Aaron. Aaron was all too frequently absent from wrestling meets and I never knew why. It was always my pleasure to imagine that he was ineligible due to truancy, academics, conduct, or criminal offenses. Had I been told by the coach I would have believed any, or all of the above. It wasn’t kind of me, but that was who I was at that time.
So with infrequent varsity wrestling experience I was thrown into this major tournament as the lowest seed in a 16-man bracket and was scheduled to wrestle the #1 seed in the bracket. The #1 seed was Dan. Dan had become a wrestler of great renown, had won many tournaments in several states, and was expected to make the state finals. There was some speculation in the newspapers that he might become the next Dan Gable.
I remember several snippets from our match at that tournament. At the referee’s starting whistle Dan immediately took a shot on my legs and had a takedown and two points before I knew what was happening. He briefly worked for some back points, but then intentionally let me up so he could take me down again. I was insulted that he would give me a point by letting me escape and had the audacity to think he could take me down again. I vowed that he would not get a shot on my legs again.
Sure enough, Dan shot on my legs again and was faster than I could imagine. His takedown move was so perfectly executed that it caused me to collapse to the mat like a sack of potatoes. It really ticked me off. I knew he was going to shoot on my legs, was prepared to defend, and it made no difference whatsoever.
What I remember of the rest of that match is Dan taking me down at will and letting me up just to do it all over again. During the takedown scrambles he would occasionally get another 2 or 3 points for back exposure, sometimes for long periods of time, but was never able to pin me. I never scored an offensive point of my own – I only got single points when Dan intentionally let me up. It was a thorough thrashing by one of the best wrestlers ever in the state. Dan won by a large margin and I was out of the tournament.
What I remember vividly after the match is picking up my warm-up sweats and heading over to sit on the first row of the bleachers to cool off. My folks came over to sit with me and be supportive, but no words were spoken – none were needed. I was feeling lower than an earthworm, and hanging my head pretty low. Instead of talking to the waiting media, Dan came over to sit with me and chat. I remember thinking, “Holy smokes! Every wrestling fan in this gymnasium knows who Dan is, but not a one of them knows who I am. I bet they are all wondering why Dan wants to talk to that guy from C.R Washington he just thrashed.” I was wondering the same thing. Well, it turns out that Dan is just a good guy.
I shook Dan’s hand again, just as we do at the end of a match, and I apologized for not being much of a challenge. Dan’s reply to me, in front of my parents, is why I remember him fondly. He said that I was always a challenge, that I always made him work hard, and that I never gave up the entire match. He said he was never able to pin me and was never able to get any rest. He just hoped he had enough energy left after wrestling me to make it through the next several rounds and get into the finals.
I don’t know if any of that was true. It may have all been lies, but they were compassionate lies, and they were said in front of my folks. Dan was gracious in his victory and gave me a measure of dignity. It was a lesson I’ve not forgotten 40 years later.
When the state meet came around I was cheering for Dan when he beat Aaron 4-3 in the state finals. Dan was 29-0 that year.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Despair
As if the pain wasn’t torture enough, the uphill sucks every cheerful notion from my soul, and I feel like there is nothing left of me but an empty shell. It’s like the Dementors from a Harry Potter movie have descended on me and are sucking out the last wisps of physical and emotional well-being. As I trudge up the hill I am left with a soulless despondency. There is no hope. There is no joy. There is only this step, and the next, and a seemingly infinite number thereafter, each causing my heart to pound furiously and my lungs to heave. My legs are dead. My arms are dead. The effort is excruciating, and I want to cry out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
But God didn’t do this to me. I did this to me. The vague recollection that I’ve survived this before is my only salvation. I am in the 3rd mile of a 4-mile pickup, which was preceded by a 6-mile warm-up. The final sum will be 11, but I dare not think of a number that large. It is too much to face and would be the end of me.
My mind is bombarded with all too many pain signals telling me to slow, to stop, to sit, but some small remnant of will allows me to focus on taking this step. I have faith that the next step will take care of itself. I will face the challenge of that next step when it comes. There is only the here and the now. The next step, and all the future steps are too much to face. All I want to do is take this step, knowing that it is one step closer to my car and eventual relief from my misery.
This hill is the last major obstacle on today’s run. It drains what little emotional life-force I have left. My pace has slowed, my stride-length has shortened, and I am barely moving, all of which means that my time spent in this self-inflicted hell will be even longer. It will take twice as long to run up the hill as it will to run down it. If I could climb this hill any faster it would shorten my misery, but there is no hope of that. It’s a physical and emotional impossibility. I have nothing more to give. Concepts like “mind over matter” and “giving “110%” are silly phrases that coaches and sports writers use. At a moment like this there is nothing to do but endure and persist, though my endurance left me miles ago.
I only know that this too shall pass. I cling to the fact that the hill is finite. I know this full well from past experience, and that knowledge gives me my only hope. If the hill is finite, then my suffering must also be finite, and that if I can only continue and not give up, the hill will end and the pain will lessen at the top.
And so the top of the hill is finally reached, and I start to fall down the slight decline on the other side. My stride lengthens and my pace quickens to keep me from falling on my face. I feel some wind on my cheeks that was not there before, and a small hint of life returns to my legs, and the sense of deliverance makes me want to scream, “I’m Alive! I’m Alive!”, if only I could breathe.
But God didn’t do this to me. I did this to me. The vague recollection that I’ve survived this before is my only salvation. I am in the 3rd mile of a 4-mile pickup, which was preceded by a 6-mile warm-up. The final sum will be 11, but I dare not think of a number that large. It is too much to face and would be the end of me.
My mind is bombarded with all too many pain signals telling me to slow, to stop, to sit, but some small remnant of will allows me to focus on taking this step. I have faith that the next step will take care of itself. I will face the challenge of that next step when it comes. There is only the here and the now. The next step, and all the future steps are too much to face. All I want to do is take this step, knowing that it is one step closer to my car and eventual relief from my misery.
This hill is the last major obstacle on today’s run. It drains what little emotional life-force I have left. My pace has slowed, my stride-length has shortened, and I am barely moving, all of which means that my time spent in this self-inflicted hell will be even longer. It will take twice as long to run up the hill as it will to run down it. If I could climb this hill any faster it would shorten my misery, but there is no hope of that. It’s a physical and emotional impossibility. I have nothing more to give. Concepts like “mind over matter” and “giving “110%” are silly phrases that coaches and sports writers use. At a moment like this there is nothing to do but endure and persist, though my endurance left me miles ago.
I only know that this too shall pass. I cling to the fact that the hill is finite. I know this full well from past experience, and that knowledge gives me my only hope. If the hill is finite, then my suffering must also be finite, and that if I can only continue and not give up, the hill will end and the pain will lessen at the top.
And so the top of the hill is finally reached, and I start to fall down the slight decline on the other side. My stride lengthens and my pace quickens to keep me from falling on my face. I feel some wind on my cheeks that was not there before, and a small hint of life returns to my legs, and the sense of deliverance makes me want to scream, “I’m Alive! I’m Alive!”, if only I could breathe.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Temptation
At the end of my junior year in college I couldn’t take the final exam in Probability and Statistics at the normal time. The real reason escapes me after (2011-1974) 37 years. I expect there was a track meet that conflicted with the final. So Dr. Charles Lindsay, bless his soul, allowed me to take the final exam at a different time.
Dr. Lindsay plunked me down in the Chemistry Lounge in Peterson hall to take the exam. I was pretty confident that I could nail this exam; I was a junior and at the top of my game, so to speak. I was full of myself. I felt I could re-invent or re-derive whatever I couldn’t remember during the exam, but I still crammed up until the last minute and took my textbook and reference book along in case Lindsay had written an open-text exam.
So Lindsay plunked me down in this room all by my lonesome and told me I had two hours to complete the exam. It was a closed-book exam, so I tucked my notebook and books under my chair and set to work.
The first thing I do when taking a math test is to jot down all of the major equations I expect to use; I do a brain dump. This serves as my own personal reference sheet as I motor through the test. It is a comfort and confidence-builder knowing that those equations are on the paper should I have a brain freeze or moments of anxiety during the exam. If I remember that there is one I don’t remember (confused?) I try to relax and believe that it will come to me at some point later in the exam. It’s like trying to remember the name of your sixth grade PE teacher. If you try to remember, you can’t, but if you don’t try, it will often pop unexpectedly into your head later on.
To digress further, which is standard form for this blog, the second thing I do on math exams is to read all the questions. Problems on math tests aren’t lengthy. Solving the problem may be lengthy, as in a page or more of work, but stating the problem is usually brief. So I read the questions and mark all the ones I know I can do easily with the letter A, and put the letter B next to the problems that are not immediately obvious but I expect I can solve with some effort. I leave the hardest problems unmarked.
I like doing the A’s first to build confidence, score some points early, and ensure a passing grade. In the process of doing the A’s I find I remember stuff along the way that helps me knock out the B’s and build even more confidence. Along the way I re-remember equations and add them to my reference sheet. Finally I attempt the tough problems and try not to get confused by any difficulties I encounter.
So anyway, back to the story. I was sitting there in the Chemistry Lounge rocking through this Prob & Stat exam and I came across a problem that required some arcane equation from (analytic?) geometry, like the surface area of a sphere. (A = 4 x pi x r2) This had nothing to do with Prob & Stat, but it was necessary to solve the problem. I knew this equation then, and I know this equation even now, 37 years later, but at that brief, dark moment during the final exam, I forgot the equation for the surface area of a sphere. I had a brain freeze.
If this had been the normal exam setting I would have raised my hand to speak to Lindsay. I would have pointed out that solving the problem required knowing the surface area of the sphere. I would have asked him if he really meant to test us on our knowledge of geometry equations during a Probability and Statistics exam. I would have told him that I generally know this equation, but couldn’t pull quite pull it out of my brain at that particular moment. I would have asked that he plunk this equation on the board so that all the class would have the benefit of not being required to know it.
But I was sitting in the Chemistry Lounge all by my lonesome. I knew the equation existed in one of the books I’d brought with me. I knew the equation existed in hundreds of the chemistry books that surrounded me. I was sure that Lindsay did not intend for this obscure equation to be an obstacle to the problem, so I was tempted to look it up; sorely tempted. I really wanted to ace this exam and ace this course. I knew the material inside and out. I was a decent math student and wanted to hold my own with the best and brightest in the school, and we all knew who they were. (Hobby, Sheryl, Ann, and Gary, among others) I wanted to do really well so the top of the geek pecking order wouldn’t look down on me with pity as a really dim bulb.
Lindsay hadn’t checked on me in over an hour. What was the probability that he would show up during the one minute it would take me to look up this equation. But then I thought if Lindsay came in at that precise time he might think I was cheating. He might think I was cheating liberally if not singularly. How would he know that I was only looking up the one equation; he would only have my word. What if he disagreed with my personal assessment that this equation wasn’t relevant to the exam or the course?
Whether or not this was a significant infraction or not would be up to Lindsay’s judgment. Lindsay might decide to fail my exam, which would likely cause me to fail the course, and I would not graduate on time, that is if I was not expelled outright. Word would get around about the scandal and I would be the subject of scorn. My professors, my classmates, and my family would reassess my character and find it wanting. Jean would not want to associate with such a disreputable fellow.
I considered Professor Lindsay a friend, a friend who trusted me to take this exam on my own, to do the right thing while nobody was looking. I ultimately decided that one question on one exam wasn’t worth ruining everything I had done so far in my life, and much of the future. Getting a B on the exam and in the course wouldn’t be the end of the world, so I decided to noodle along on the other problems in hopes that my elusive memory would return, but I remained emotionally shaken that I had even considered jeopardizing everything.
Lindsay showed up soon thereafter to check on me, which, given the evil thoughts I’d just been considering, was an emotional jolt. I really would have been caught. I didn’t ask Lindsay about the geometry equation because I felt guilty about thinking about cheating, and decided that handicapping myself was the penalty I deserved.
I continued to work on the other problems and eventually realized that the derivative of the spherical volume equation would result in the surface area equation I needed. I knew the volume of a sphere was 4/3 x pi x r3, so the derivative was, and still is, 4 x pi x r2.
Problem solved.
Life saved.
Do the right thing, even when nobody’s looking.
(More sanctimonious self-righteousness)
Dr. Lindsay plunked me down in the Chemistry Lounge in Peterson hall to take the exam. I was pretty confident that I could nail this exam; I was a junior and at the top of my game, so to speak. I was full of myself. I felt I could re-invent or re-derive whatever I couldn’t remember during the exam, but I still crammed up until the last minute and took my textbook and reference book along in case Lindsay had written an open-text exam.
So Lindsay plunked me down in this room all by my lonesome and told me I had two hours to complete the exam. It was a closed-book exam, so I tucked my notebook and books under my chair and set to work.
The first thing I do when taking a math test is to jot down all of the major equations I expect to use; I do a brain dump. This serves as my own personal reference sheet as I motor through the test. It is a comfort and confidence-builder knowing that those equations are on the paper should I have a brain freeze or moments of anxiety during the exam. If I remember that there is one I don’t remember (confused?) I try to relax and believe that it will come to me at some point later in the exam. It’s like trying to remember the name of your sixth grade PE teacher. If you try to remember, you can’t, but if you don’t try, it will often pop unexpectedly into your head later on.
To digress further, which is standard form for this blog, the second thing I do on math exams is to read all the questions. Problems on math tests aren’t lengthy. Solving the problem may be lengthy, as in a page or more of work, but stating the problem is usually brief. So I read the questions and mark all the ones I know I can do easily with the letter A, and put the letter B next to the problems that are not immediately obvious but I expect I can solve with some effort. I leave the hardest problems unmarked.
I like doing the A’s first to build confidence, score some points early, and ensure a passing grade. In the process of doing the A’s I find I remember stuff along the way that helps me knock out the B’s and build even more confidence. Along the way I re-remember equations and add them to my reference sheet. Finally I attempt the tough problems and try not to get confused by any difficulties I encounter.
So anyway, back to the story. I was sitting there in the Chemistry Lounge rocking through this Prob & Stat exam and I came across a problem that required some arcane equation from (analytic?) geometry, like the surface area of a sphere. (A = 4 x pi x r2) This had nothing to do with Prob & Stat, but it was necessary to solve the problem. I knew this equation then, and I know this equation even now, 37 years later, but at that brief, dark moment during the final exam, I forgot the equation for the surface area of a sphere. I had a brain freeze.
If this had been the normal exam setting I would have raised my hand to speak to Lindsay. I would have pointed out that solving the problem required knowing the surface area of the sphere. I would have asked him if he really meant to test us on our knowledge of geometry equations during a Probability and Statistics exam. I would have told him that I generally know this equation, but couldn’t pull quite pull it out of my brain at that particular moment. I would have asked that he plunk this equation on the board so that all the class would have the benefit of not being required to know it.
But I was sitting in the Chemistry Lounge all by my lonesome. I knew the equation existed in one of the books I’d brought with me. I knew the equation existed in hundreds of the chemistry books that surrounded me. I was sure that Lindsay did not intend for this obscure equation to be an obstacle to the problem, so I was tempted to look it up; sorely tempted. I really wanted to ace this exam and ace this course. I knew the material inside and out. I was a decent math student and wanted to hold my own with the best and brightest in the school, and we all knew who they were. (Hobby, Sheryl, Ann, and Gary, among others) I wanted to do really well so the top of the geek pecking order wouldn’t look down on me with pity as a really dim bulb.
Lindsay hadn’t checked on me in over an hour. What was the probability that he would show up during the one minute it would take me to look up this equation. But then I thought if Lindsay came in at that precise time he might think I was cheating. He might think I was cheating liberally if not singularly. How would he know that I was only looking up the one equation; he would only have my word. What if he disagreed with my personal assessment that this equation wasn’t relevant to the exam or the course?
Whether or not this was a significant infraction or not would be up to Lindsay’s judgment. Lindsay might decide to fail my exam, which would likely cause me to fail the course, and I would not graduate on time, that is if I was not expelled outright. Word would get around about the scandal and I would be the subject of scorn. My professors, my classmates, and my family would reassess my character and find it wanting. Jean would not want to associate with such a disreputable fellow.
I considered Professor Lindsay a friend, a friend who trusted me to take this exam on my own, to do the right thing while nobody was looking. I ultimately decided that one question on one exam wasn’t worth ruining everything I had done so far in my life, and much of the future. Getting a B on the exam and in the course wouldn’t be the end of the world, so I decided to noodle along on the other problems in hopes that my elusive memory would return, but I remained emotionally shaken that I had even considered jeopardizing everything.
Lindsay showed up soon thereafter to check on me, which, given the evil thoughts I’d just been considering, was an emotional jolt. I really would have been caught. I didn’t ask Lindsay about the geometry equation because I felt guilty about thinking about cheating, and decided that handicapping myself was the penalty I deserved.
I continued to work on the other problems and eventually realized that the derivative of the spherical volume equation would result in the surface area equation I needed. I knew the volume of a sphere was 4/3 x pi x r3, so the derivative was, and still is, 4 x pi x r2.
Problem solved.
Life saved.
Do the right thing, even when nobody’s looking.
(More sanctimonious self-righteousness)
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