This is me caught in the head scissors of a good friend from just outside Washington, DC.

I just had a birthday, one of those -9 birthdays. The day was quiet and more-or-less comfortable--no fireworks and no meltdowns. So, it was just fine.

I was thinking about friends during the day. A couple of them contacted me electronically to wish me well. But both of them are from out of town, and only on rare occasions are they physically with me. Those friends actually present in my life are colleagues at work and siblings at church. While a couple of these friendships are rich, none are that soul-deep friendship that I long for.

I wonder sometimes if it isn't this wrestling obsession that prevents local friendships from developing into the true friendships that are so sought after. I imagine a friendship in which I can tell my friend everything about me, but I can't do that--not yet, at least--with any of the people who are with me or somehow in contact with me on a daily or weekly basis. And so I walk around with this secret hidden, desiring to share it with somebody but unable to do so. I hold back a part of me, and I wonder if they sense it. Perhaps one or two of them would be close friends but feel some mystery in me that they can't quite ignore or accept.

A few of my online friends, wrestlers like me who feel, I think, a similar longing for friendship, are truly good friends. But our physical absence one from another is the stumbling block we face. We share our secret interest, our secret desire, but we're unable to shake hands or hug or to break bread or go to a movie together. And so these friendships necessarily fall short of what I want--and probably short of what they want as well.

I've said this before: maybe the kind of friendship I long for isn't possible in an adult life filled with family and work and bills to pay. I don't want to believe that. I don't believe that. But at this point, I have no proof to suggest otherwise, only theories and intuitions.

And so I wrestle with growing older, with the absence of friendship (or with the presence of friendship that isn't all that I believe it can be), with my interest in wrestling and all the baggage that entails. And I hold onto the hope that someday some barrier will be removed--be that barrier an internal wall that prevents a friend from knowing me fully or an external geography that separates--and suddenly friendship, rich and rewarding, will be mine and my friend's.

I'm getting better and getting more and more in the mood for wrestling. Missing October's matches was tough, but I might be able to pick up a couple of those in February when I go to Louisville. I hope to wrestle my nearly local friend before that!

A Joke . . . Or Not

A man died and went to heaven. As he stood in front of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, he saw a huge wall of clocks behind him.

He asked, "What are all those clocks?"

St. Peter answered, "Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a Lie-Clock.

Every time you lie the hands on your clock will move."

"Oh," said the man, "whose clock is that?"

"That's Mother Teresa's. The hands have never moved, indicating that she never told a lie."

"Incredible," said the man. "And whose clock is that one?"

St. Peter responded, "That's Abraham Lincoln's clock. The hands have moved twice, telling us that Abe told only two lies in his entire life."

"Where's President Bush's clock?" asked the man.

"Bush's clock is in Jesus' office. He's using it as a ceiling fan."

A funny thing, this. A thing more frighteningly true than our nation will admit. I think our lies, our national sins, from the current president downward in the socio-political structure and backward through time, must raise a mighty wind in Heaven.

I have to wonder about my fan. How much of what I do is real and how much a performance? I wrestle with life more and more as I grow older, perhaps in an effort to remain alive in all the senses of that word. But any false steps, false smiles, set the hands on my clock to whirling. How many things in life do I claim to feel the correct way about and yet don't really feel that way? Do I really care for the poor and ignorant? Do I really care about those caught up in violence and addiction? I hope I do. I want to believe that I do, but that's not the same as actually doing.

These are aggressive questions and to wrestle with them is to keep open the possibility that I am "actually doing," that I am actively living and caring.

Just some thoughts brought on, perhaps, by a gray day outside my office window.

Well, the end of October turned out to be a difficult and disappointing time. I was so looking forward to wrestling on the 29th in Indianapolis and the 30th in St. Louis, but then on the 24th, I came down with the flu. As much as I tried to get better to make the matches I had scheduled, it didn't work out. I made my trip as planned, but I had to cancel the wrestling I'd set up. I was disappointed; my "opponents" were disappointed, although they showed me great support and understanding.

Not only was I sick, but I lost the desire to wrestle. This happens to me now and then. I just don't feel like wrestling, and so I don't want to wrestle. Makes sense, right? The same happens when I get busy at work and life like I have been lately. I don't think about wrestling, and as a result, the facts that I've actually wrestled and actually liked wrestling seem foreign to me.

This morning, a little of the old desire began to creep back into my mind and body. More than likely, I'll be ready to hit the mats again soon.

I think life is like this too. When we're sick--it's not that we don't want to live (generally). We lose a sense of how enjoyable life is when we're burned up with fever or weak and aching or shaken hard by coughs. Living takes a back seat to surviving. And then we get too busy, and life takes a back seat to workworkwork and runrunrun. We're wrestling with life and losing. I guess that's the thing. We have to keep wrestling to keep our heads clear, to keep our bodies in shape.

It's all about the contact. We have to make contact with life and each other, whether we're wrestling or just living. So, regardless of sickness and overwork, stay in touch. Keep a good hold on your opponent, friend or foe, and always be thinking about your next move toward winning or at least enjoying yourself.

Indianapolis & St. Louis

In a few days, I'm driving to Denver. Along the way, I'm going through Indianapolis, where I'll wrestle my good friends Larry and Ed, although not at the same time. This should be a great stop along the way, and I'm looking forward to it.

Larry and I first wrestled in Atlanta in November 2001. Since then we've wrestled once in Nashville and twice in Indianapolis, and we've always had a good time. I'm especially looking forward to this upcoming time. Larry has recently been recovering from some physical difficulties, but being now well along on his road to recovery, he's excited about the wrestling he's able to do. And when Larry's excited and able, he's great fun to wrestle--actually he's great fun to wrestle even when he's not as able as he'd like to be.

I've wrestled Ed only once, and we had a great time. But we were cut short because of his dog's being terribly ill. We expect to be clear of complications this time. Ed is a powerful wrestler, and favorite hold is the head scissors, which is my favorite also. I expect my head and jaws to be sore after this match, which will likely go well into the night.

The next morning I leave Indianapolis to continue on my way, but I'll be stopping in St. Louis for a lunchtime match with a new friend named Mike. We're looking forward to a good wrestling lunch and then lunch afterward.

Then it's on to Denver, where I hope to hook up with Matt, a man I've talked to off and on for years. We had a match scheduled a couple of years ago, but I had to cancel. Hopefully I can make it up to him.

"Get a Room"

One recent morning I stood in a field with a small group of male friends, some younger and some older, and a pretty young woman I had only just met. (The reason we were there is neither important nor interesting.) Somehow the conversation got 'round to a recent mass arrest of men meeting in local public parks for homosexual activities. These men were apparently coupling in the men's restroom or in places in the woods like one called "The Man Cave."

Aside: Although I saw nothing of this on television or in the newspaper, my friends in the field expressed concern that of the 40 men, two were particularly focused on--a pastor from a nearby town and a teacher in the local city school system. Certainly these two--and those married among the 40--play best in the media, fair or not. Too bad for them. They shouldn't have been doing what they were doing; at least they shouldn't have been doing what they were doing where they were doing it. But I feel sorry for them and their families. One man, sadly, has already committed suicide.

My friends in the field seemed relatively unconcerned about these acts themselves. If these men want to do "whatever they do," the suggestion was that they confine themselves to private space. In other words, "get a room."

I stood there listening, knowing that in a couple of hours I would be meeting a man in a motel room. We weren't planning to have properly private sex but to wrestle. I wondered how my friends in the field would receive and interpret this news if they know what I knew.

Anyway, the hours passed, and that afternoon in a little motel room off the interstate, wrestle we did. M had wanted to wrestle all his life--47 years--but never had. I've wrestled several times in the last 11 years, but I'm not really that good at it. M was strong and aggressive and enthusiastic, as might be expected from a 260-pound man who works out at least five times a week and is excited about wrestling. I don't know how many falls we wrestled over the three hours we were together, but I know for certain that I won only three of them--one with a reverse chinlock, one with a body scissors and one with a head scissors. I'm guessing M won 10 or more falls, and I was happy for him.

We did a lot of talking. We're interested in lots of the same things, and our conversation--strange only because we were both sitting there mostly naked in our black briefs, sweating (then drying)--was rich and deep. We have the potential to become great friends, I think.

I left there and drove home--tired and a little achy and sure that I would be crazy sore the next morning. But when I got out of bed, I thought, 'Hey, this ain't so bad!' I had a little pain in my neck and pecs and shoulders, but other than that I seemed fine. Then I got in the shower! As I began to lather up and scrub down with a wash cloth, I realized that I hurt all over. Everywhere I pressed to scrub turned out to be another painful place, especially my areas around my neck and across my chest. My temples hurt. Even my left ear hurt. Much of this was probably pain brought on by M's crushing headlocks, a hold with which he won almost all of his falls. I just couldn't stay out of it. I started to laugh there in the shower, thinking, 'Oh yeah, yesterday didn't hurt me at all!'

That's life! The wrestling life!

What follows is an excerpt from an email I wrote to a new wrestling friend--

If we found the opportunity and gathered the nerve to wrestle on the mats where I work out, I'm sure we would dress in more than just the briefs there as well: t-shirts and shorts? full sweats? or maybe singlets? Again, I despair of this ever happening. I doubt we could pass ourselves off as wrestling coaches or even former high school or college wrestlers, not without a good bit of work beforehand. I'm right there with you, Mark: "Why is this such a freaking stigmatic sport?!? Why can't guys our age and size just drop down in the gym and go at it without being judged and questioned?" Again, no valid reason exists to differentiate a friendly wrestling match from a pick-up game of basketball.

Last year, I was riding a bike down the Virginia Creeper Trail, and when I was stopped in Taylor's Valley for one of their wonderful hamburgers and their fabulous chocolate cake, I overheard a conversation some of the locals were having in front of the cafe. They were talking about wrestling at the factory or garage or someplace where they worked. They talked about these two guys in particular who seemed to be the featured match during every lunch break. They laughed at one's dirty tactics such as pulling his opponents shirt up over his head and trapping his arms, leaving him open of a working over.

That brought up another idea. Is wrestling more stigmatized in the white collar world than in the blue? Does the proverbial white collar demand that its wearer remain cool and remote from something as earthy as wrestling? What about education? Does that remove us from that cultural zone in which me might freely enjoy a good wrestle without fearing condemnation or ridicule? I think of being in country stores or even some suburban stores--convenience stores, I mean--and seeing men, mostly young but some older, come in only their jeans and shoes. I laugh to myself, trying to picture me standing in line with my bottle of water or my honey bun and wearing no shirt. But these guys have no problem with it. Not that I want to go into a store without a shirt, but I seem to see some connection between the mindset that could allow a man to do that and the mindset (and culture) that would allow a man to wrestle without social consequence.

A couple of final notes and I'll stop: Also connected to these ideas are the current cultural stigmatizing of the overweight and the untanned. Have you seen the Subway commercials that show people ordering non-Subway meals like this: "Uh, I'll have an order of spare tire and a side of big butt"? These obviously slam the eating habits of the overweight, but they also further ingrain the prejudice against big bodies. Well, to connect this to what I said above, one recent commercial has a guy asking for an order of "Don't take your shirt off." So, big men get the message that they shouldn't take their shirts off in public, not unless it's at the swimming pool. The guys in line at the convenience store haven't gotten that message. As for the untanned, a group of which I definitely am part, I wonder if I could more easily think about being shirtless in public if my big belly and love-handles were tanned to a socially acceptable level. I doubt I could be the fish-belly white big man on the wrestling mat any more readily than I could be the same standing in line at the Circle K.