Wrestle mania

As we sat on the bleachers watching our son race through his warm-up routine we didn't know what to expect. 

Not a clue. 

The boy had been going to an intramural wrestling program at school (for 10 weeks every spring) since the second grade, but we hadn't been allowed to watch.

This day and age such a rule usually sets off alarm bells. 

All the other sports had wide open fields and plenty of parents. 

We cheered and loud as we laughed during the penguin days of soccer. We tried to be silent in solidarity for baseball. We huddled along the sidelines for flag football. And we held our breath as if we were possessed each second of basketball when our kid had possession. 

It's what we're supposed to do. And we do it dutifully, the same way we tried not to cringe and show any disappointment during the times our son made a point to catch butterflies instead of pop flies. 

"Sports doesn't have to be his thing," we'd say within earshot of our kid who didn't let something as small as flatline stats keep him from being a team player.

Some things you just don't want to watch. 

I mean, who wouldn't want to see their little darlings tossing each other around on three-inch foam mats that have been collecting the perspiration of at least two generations of grapplers?

"You'd be surprised," said the wrestling coach, who explained that the sport can be hard to watch ... especially in a room that barely fits the enthusiastic swell of its co-ed participants. 

I could relate. The last thing I want to do is watch some other pocket-sized humanoid mop the mats with my kid.

So we dropped and skedaddled, leaving the boy with him, and about 100 other kids, and a handful of varsity helpers. 

An hour and a half later he'd emerge from the doors with his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his bright red face, which was beaming.

The coach even handled the fight every parent has had to engage with their prepubescent boys after any significant exertion:

"Coach said we have to shower, so we don't get 'bursa or fungus.'"

Which, of course, elevated the man to miracle worker of sorts. Though no one in their right mind - even at the still unripened age of 11 - would ever risk wrestling mat cooties for the price of a 10-minute shower.

Still, it seemed like ages ago. 

We couldn't even imagine what watching our kid get planted face first into a mat would look like. Or how it would feel to watch.

But in our own corner of the bleachers, holding our hands over our mouths, we stared off unblinking into this new form of wild.

And that tree we never saw pinned down in the forest following a half-Nelson reversal -- or whatever the preferred nomenclature of grappling embodies -- was still out of sight, out of mind, even as a teenaged ref tossed himself on the floor, slapped his hand on the mat and declared our son the winner.

And time and time again, our wriggly boy snaked his way out from under and kept racking up points. Not that anyone was keeping score.

Every few minutes each pair shook hands and went back to their corners.