Name: Anonymous 2008-05-15 13:27
http://stcharlesjournal.stltoday.com/articles/2008/05/15/opinions/sj2tn20080513-0514stc-opsh10.ii1.txt
When I was 13 I saw a boy my age perform the most courageous act I have ever witnessed.
And I never even knew his name.
It wasn't in war. It wasn't even a life-threatening situation; but it was, by far, the bravest act I have seen.During the winter of 1964, a year of great unrest, I wrestled on my school team and for the local YMCA team. One Saturday, the Y team participated in a tournament involving teams from several Y's in the Oklahoma City area.
Soon after we arrived at the gym, the match coordinator told me my opponent became ill and most likely I would win by forfeit. I was disappointed but watched as other matches proceeded. Just before the time for my match, there was a commotion in the back of the gym. A large crowd gathered near the judges' table, with many people shouting and yelling for reasons I did not understand.
Finally, the crowd dispersed and moved back into the stands. The referee came out to the center of the mat and called my name and the name of my opponent. I was thinking I would be declared the winner by forfeit when suddenly a boy appeared across from me. I realized a substitute had been found for my match and I was going to wrestle after all.
The crowd began to boo and yell. I assumed they were upset because they somehow thought the rules had been violated by allowing this substitution.
The referee whistled the match to begin. I knew right away I had my hands full. This guy was very strong, but I began to see he didn't know much about wrestling holds or technique.
We went back and forth for several minutes, neither of us able to gain an advantage. He threw me around with his upper-body strength, which I countered with good moves and escapes.
Throughout our match I could hear people in the stands yelling horrible names at my opponent. I could see the effect these words had on him. His face showed signs of the impact of this verbal abuse. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and his lip quivered slightly once when we were face-to-face on the mat.
As time was running out in our match, he tried desperately to roll me onto my back. I dropped my shoulder and rolled the opposite direction. He didn't see this move coming, lost his balance and fell backward. Within a split-second I was on him and pinned him.
The crowd cheered for me while continuing to shout unspeakable insults at my opponent.
For an instant, time seemed frozen. I saw in his face a lifetime's worth of pain, anger and hate, for me and everyone else in that gymnasium.
This young man was black. He was the only African-American in a gym filled with about 150 ignorant white people.
The toll this experience had on him left me visibly shaken. As we got up, I tried to shake his hand, but he turned away, head down, tears streaming down his face. None of his teammates came out to console him, and he took a place of the end of the bench, burying his face in a towel and sobbing.
I sat across from him on the opposite bench and stared at him. I could feel so much of his pain and wished I could do something to console him or make up for the terrible names he was called. A wrestling match lasts only a few minutes, but this young man endured a lifetime of hatred and abuse in that brief time.
When the tournament ended and people began to leave, I tried to speak to him, but he hurried out before most of the crowd. As our bus pulled away, I saw him sitting under a tree, waiting for a ride, his head still down.
I've thought of this young man thousands of times since that day. In my entire life I have not endured the abuse this young man received in just a few minutes in that gymnasium. I've wondered how his life turned out. Did that day scar him forever? Or was this horrible experience not the worst he ever endured at the hands of ignorant people? Did he grow up to hate me and the rest of my race? I can't say that I would blame him.
In looking back at that day, him walking into that gym full of white people, with not another black person in sight, was by far the greatest act of courage I have ever witnessed. If the situation had been reversed, I would not have had the gumption at age 13, in 1964, to walk into a gym full of African-Americans.
I often ask myself, "If I could do that day over again, what would I change?" I couldn't change the way the idiots in the stands acted. I couldn't change the way his teammates ignored him after his defeat. The only things I could change were my actions.
This is how it would have played out: I would have fought a valiant battle, right down to the last whistle, but in the waning seconds of that struggle my opponent would have pinned me. I would have jumped up and congratulated him on a great victory. After the tournament, I would have shaken his hand, learned his name and tried to become his friend. We would have left the gym together, with me daring anyone to continue the vicious harassment of him.
He would have gone home that day knowing at least one person there did not hate him for the color of his skin.
When I was 13 I saw a boy my age perform the most courageous act I have ever witnessed.
And I never even knew his name.
It wasn't in war. It wasn't even a life-threatening situation; but it was, by far, the bravest act I have seen.During the winter of 1964, a year of great unrest, I wrestled on my school team and for the local YMCA team. One Saturday, the Y team participated in a tournament involving teams from several Y's in the Oklahoma City area.
Soon after we arrived at the gym, the match coordinator told me my opponent became ill and most likely I would win by forfeit. I was disappointed but watched as other matches proceeded. Just before the time for my match, there was a commotion in the back of the gym. A large crowd gathered near the judges' table, with many people shouting and yelling for reasons I did not understand.
Finally, the crowd dispersed and moved back into the stands. The referee came out to the center of the mat and called my name and the name of my opponent. I was thinking I would be declared the winner by forfeit when suddenly a boy appeared across from me. I realized a substitute had been found for my match and I was going to wrestle after all.
The crowd began to boo and yell. I assumed they were upset because they somehow thought the rules had been violated by allowing this substitution.
The referee whistled the match to begin. I knew right away I had my hands full. This guy was very strong, but I began to see he didn't know much about wrestling holds or technique.
We went back and forth for several minutes, neither of us able to gain an advantage. He threw me around with his upper-body strength, which I countered with good moves and escapes.
Throughout our match I could hear people in the stands yelling horrible names at my opponent. I could see the effect these words had on him. His face showed signs of the impact of this verbal abuse. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and his lip quivered slightly once when we were face-to-face on the mat.
As time was running out in our match, he tried desperately to roll me onto my back. I dropped my shoulder and rolled the opposite direction. He didn't see this move coming, lost his balance and fell backward. Within a split-second I was on him and pinned him.
The crowd cheered for me while continuing to shout unspeakable insults at my opponent.
For an instant, time seemed frozen. I saw in his face a lifetime's worth of pain, anger and hate, for me and everyone else in that gymnasium.
This young man was black. He was the only African-American in a gym filled with about 150 ignorant white people.
The toll this experience had on him left me visibly shaken. As we got up, I tried to shake his hand, but he turned away, head down, tears streaming down his face. None of his teammates came out to console him, and he took a place of the end of the bench, burying his face in a towel and sobbing.
I sat across from him on the opposite bench and stared at him. I could feel so much of his pain and wished I could do something to console him or make up for the terrible names he was called. A wrestling match lasts only a few minutes, but this young man endured a lifetime of hatred and abuse in that brief time.
When the tournament ended and people began to leave, I tried to speak to him, but he hurried out before most of the crowd. As our bus pulled away, I saw him sitting under a tree, waiting for a ride, his head still down.
I've thought of this young man thousands of times since that day. In my entire life I have not endured the abuse this young man received in just a few minutes in that gymnasium. I've wondered how his life turned out. Did that day scar him forever? Or was this horrible experience not the worst he ever endured at the hands of ignorant people? Did he grow up to hate me and the rest of my race? I can't say that I would blame him.
In looking back at that day, him walking into that gym full of white people, with not another black person in sight, was by far the greatest act of courage I have ever witnessed. If the situation had been reversed, I would not have had the gumption at age 13, in 1964, to walk into a gym full of African-Americans.
I often ask myself, "If I could do that day over again, what would I change?" I couldn't change the way the idiots in the stands acted. I couldn't change the way his teammates ignored him after his defeat. The only things I could change were my actions.
This is how it would have played out: I would have fought a valiant battle, right down to the last whistle, but in the waning seconds of that struggle my opponent would have pinned me. I would have jumped up and congratulated him on a great victory. After the tournament, I would have shaken his hand, learned his name and tried to become his friend. We would have left the gym together, with me daring anyone to continue the vicious harassment of him.
He would have gone home that day knowing at least one person there did not hate him for the color of his skin.