Hill-Topics
As the editorial to the left attests, there's a lot to be said about sports, and most of it, I believe, is positive.
Sure, the lessons learned in athletics can be learned elsewhere; working on the farm, or in a foundry, or by joining the Marine Corps. But for most of us, sports was the anvil on which our character was formed. Take wrestling, for example.
The essence of wrestling is facing off against an opponent who wants to do nothing less than dominate you physically, destroy you emotionally, and humiliate you mentally.
How do I know this?
When I was a kid growing up in Wichita, we lived next door to a state high school wrestling champion. His name was Stuart Stephens and I can attest that he was without a doubt the toughest, meanest wrestler in the 103-pound class.
How do I know this?
Because I was his practice dummy.
He twisted me like a hot pretzel, in late fall, on the soft, brown grass in his front yard. I'd go home feeling like an abused Gumby doll.
Which is to say that even though Stuart was an impishly-small high school senior and I was an average-sized seventh grader, I never, ever, had a chance against him.
But, I sure learned a lot.
"This is a half-nelson," he'd say, as he wrenched my neck and took me down. Or, "This is a fireman's carry."
Wham! Wheeze! Oomph!
It was great fun, for him.
For me, well, even though I'd learned all the moves, I never, ever, considered wrestling in high school.
I wimped out. Played basketball.
There will be six Hillsboro High School wrestlers competing at Hays Friday and Saturday in the Class 3A State Tournament. You can read about them in the sports section of this paper.
Coach Scott O'Hare has his guys breathing fire; which is to say, they're ready to grind their opponents into the mats, Stuart Stephens-style.
* * * * *
I have the flu.
I don't know where I got the bug, but my wife, Claire, is an elementary teacher.Her immune system seems to be galvanized against germs. She never gets sick, but she's a carrier. I think she brought the contagion home with her, just for me.
When I was a little boy and feeling punkish as I am today, my mom would feel my head and look down my throat, and say, "Well, Grant, you have the Purple Mongolian Glug."
What is that, you ask?
To this day, I have no idea.
It must be hereditary, though, because somehow all of our children have had the "glug" as well.
When our kids were down, we used to read them this poem, entitled "Sick," by Shel Silverstein, from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends."
"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay. "I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more — that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue —
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke —
My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my spine is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out,
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is — what?
What's that?
What's that you say?
You say today is
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
— GRANT OVERSTAKE
