I wrestled most of my life, but Coach Dick made all my other coaches seem sane in comparison. Coach Dick looked like a beer bellied Paul Bunion in gym shorts and Asics. When he was in high school he won state in the 215 weight class, but as a grown man he had definitely slipped into the heavyweight class. He was a great coach: talented, dedicated, and inspirational...when he was sober. Unfortunately, you never knew which Coach would walk into the gym for practice. When he was late, our captain would send a spy (freshman) up on a recon mission to the parking lot to see if Coach Dick's rusted old Buick was already in the parking lot with him partaking in the most depressing tailgate ever imagined. You never knew for sure until he strolled in chewing something insane like 5 pieces of gum. Bingo!
On one particularly epic pre-practice indulgence, Coach Dick came into the gym and screamed, "Alright, Mary's, you think you're all tough now cause you won last week, but let's see how you do against a state CHAMPiooooon!" Practice was pretty much over before it started that day. We circled up, watched, and waited as coach proceeded to wrestle every single one of us from the 92s to the heavyweights. Every. Single. One. I think he went easy on the lower classes, but he still pinned them. My teammates and I traded fearful glances as our own weight classes loomed.
215s: It was finally my turn against this gum chewing, agitated, black bear. As we locked arms and heads on initial contact, I remember thinking that I had never been hit that hard on the back of my head before. Before I could think, "I have to try that next meet!" Coach Dick swooped to my right hip and locked his arms around my left hip and pushed. I fell backwards onto the mat. My ankle didn't: broken, end of season. Thanks, Coach Dick!
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