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Authors: Michele Weldon
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wrestlers by this walk anywhere in any city. They were marked by thick, strong necks and backs, not as much bulk as it was a muscular control of the space they occupied, Hummers in a parking lot of Nissans. It was mass minus body fat, size without excess. It was a different walk than a swimmer’s or a football player’s; the carriage showed more pride than bravado, with a gymnast’s ease and a weight lifter’s strength.
The walk was not robotic but intentional and aimed, although we did nickname one of the wrestlers from another school RoboWrestler because he looked as if his limbs were made of metal. Each of his steps seemed studied and precise, as if he was walking on the mat for the first period of the first match, when anything was possible and thered digital numbers on the scoreboard read 2:00 . Three two-minute periods, six minutes of intensity. They all wrestled hard, whistle to whistle. Buzzer to buzzer. It wasn’t over until then. You keep wrestling. You stand up. And if you get taken down, you stand up again.
During a match, Powell would shout so loud at the wrestler on the mat, telling him what moves to do next—to takedown, shoot, pull his head up, get his arm out—that he was always hoarse at the end of the dual or the tournament. Powell was often voiceless after meets, after hours of jumping up from his seat at matside and yelling instructions. The wrestlers looked up if they could and watched what Powell motioned for them to do. At the end of a match, even if the wrestler won, Powell was there to demonstrate what he could have done better. If the wrestler lost, Powell was there to tell him what to do next time.
“I can only hear Powell’s voice when I’m wrestling,” Weldon told me once.
“When I am on my deathbed, I will be the proudest man because I gave everything to everything,” Brendan said he told the boys at practice.
Each summer Powell and three other coaches took the wrestling seniors, from the 103-pounder to the 285-pound heavyweight, on a weeklong backpacking trip, a teambuilding exercise planned and executed with the help of assistant coaches. Weldon and eight teammates went to Glacier National Park, where they climbed blue-white mountains and talked about everything in life beyond wrestling. Brendan and his teammates went to Zion National Park in Utah, where Brendan said they ate peanut butter quesadillas atop red mesas and talked about what it is to be a man who earns respect.
Weeks in advance, Powell sent home detailed lists of what the wrestlers needed to bring for the trip—backpack, sleeping pad, Nalgene bottles, sunscreen, flashlight, cash. Knowing teenage boys the way he did, he had them all bring their packed gear to a meeting three days before departure to double check. These life-lasting memories of landscapes off the mat were the backdrop for the boys’ later imitations of Powell sprinting up the side of a mountain with allhis gear plus tents, first aid, and food—perhaps one hundred pounds of equipment in all.
My three boys had dozens of coaches in other sports throughout the years, but the boys were not nearly this close to any of them. We certainly never quoted any of them at dinner.
When my sons were younger it was all I could do to get them to their practices with the help of sitters during the week, and in the evenings and on weekends sit and watch the games, matches, meets, and tournaments. I made a master list of the boys’ baseball games and practices one season when all three were playing house league baseball—forty-eight practices and games in all. Some at the same time. All on three different fields. During the week, the sitters helped. Some Saturdays, games were spread out from 8 AM to 3 PM. Some Saturdays, all three games were at 9 AM, so I drove from one field to the other hoping to catch at least an inning where that son did something he wanted me to see.
Weldon never really clicked with any of the coaches on the local baseball, basketball, or
The walk was not robotic but intentional and aimed, although we did nickname one of the wrestlers from another school RoboWrestler because he looked as if his limbs were made of metal. Each of his steps seemed studied and precise, as if he was walking on the mat for the first period of the first match, when anything was possible and thered digital numbers on the scoreboard read 2:00 . Three two-minute periods, six minutes of intensity. They all wrestled hard, whistle to whistle. Buzzer to buzzer. It wasn’t over until then. You keep wrestling. You stand up. And if you get taken down, you stand up again.
During a match, Powell would shout so loud at the wrestler on the mat, telling him what moves to do next—to takedown, shoot, pull his head up, get his arm out—that he was always hoarse at the end of the dual or the tournament. Powell was often voiceless after meets, after hours of jumping up from his seat at matside and yelling instructions. The wrestlers looked up if they could and watched what Powell motioned for them to do. At the end of a match, even if the wrestler won, Powell was there to demonstrate what he could have done better. If the wrestler lost, Powell was there to tell him what to do next time.
“I can only hear Powell’s voice when I’m wrestling,” Weldon told me once.
“When I am on my deathbed, I will be the proudest man because I gave everything to everything,” Brendan said he told the boys at practice.
Each summer Powell and three other coaches took the wrestling seniors, from the 103-pounder to the 285-pound heavyweight, on a weeklong backpacking trip, a teambuilding exercise planned and executed with the help of assistant coaches. Weldon and eight teammates went to Glacier National Park, where they climbed blue-white mountains and talked about everything in life beyond wrestling. Brendan and his teammates went to Zion National Park in Utah, where Brendan said they ate peanut butter quesadillas atop red mesas and talked about what it is to be a man who earns respect.
Weeks in advance, Powell sent home detailed lists of what the wrestlers needed to bring for the trip—backpack, sleeping pad, Nalgene bottles, sunscreen, flashlight, cash. Knowing teenage boys the way he did, he had them all bring their packed gear to a meeting three days before departure to double check. These life-lasting memories of landscapes off the mat were the backdrop for the boys’ later imitations of Powell sprinting up the side of a mountain with allhis gear plus tents, first aid, and food—perhaps one hundred pounds of equipment in all.
My three boys had dozens of coaches in other sports throughout the years, but the boys were not nearly this close to any of them. We certainly never quoted any of them at dinner.
When my sons were younger it was all I could do to get them to their practices with the help of sitters during the week, and in the evenings and on weekends sit and watch the games, matches, meets, and tournaments. I made a master list of the boys’ baseball games and practices one season when all three were playing house league baseball—forty-eight practices and games in all. Some at the same time. All on three different fields. During the week, the sitters helped. Some Saturdays, games were spread out from 8 AM to 3 PM. Some Saturdays, all three games were at 9 AM, so I drove from one field to the other hoping to catch at least an inning where that son did something he wanted me to see.
Weldon never really clicked with any of the coaches on the local baseball, basketball, or
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