Beware of...

There are defining moments in every person's life. Those moments that make you smile or cry each time you replay them in your mind’s eye. Perhaps it is a song that triggers the memory, or a picture, a smell, or a movie. Whatever it is, I'm confident that each person has experienced defining moments that have strongly influenced who you are today.

I grew up around the sport of wrestling. Some of my earliest memories are from spending Saturday mornings in a gymnasium watching my "heroes" wrestle. Many people who hear "wrestling" and "heroes" probably think of Hulk Hogan, Sting, Andre the Giant, and the rest of the crazed men who once sported a Speedo and face paint. I am actually talking about names like Degood, VanDyke, Lampe, and the other young men who endured the excruciating work needed to become great high school wrestlers. I was young, but I took notice.

As I watched these guys wrestle, I began dreaming of the day I would compete and wrestle in front of a packed Gross Memorial Coliseum at the state tournament. My ten year old squirrely body would often—in the privacy of my own bedroom—rehearse my response to hearing the final buzzer sound in my imaginary state championship match. I would get up, throw my arms in the air, and thank God for the victory. I had no idea if I would actually ever experience this in real life, but it was a dream.

The small spark that was initially lit from watching great high school wrestlers compete when I was a young boy was "fanned into flame" by my dad. He spent countless hours helping young men become great wrestlers—over thirty years coaching the sport. He saw my dream, and he was equally committed to helping me attain it.

When I was in sixth grade, I attended a wrestling camp at the University of Iowa. In addition to driving me to the camp—it must have seemed like eternal distances driving across the Midwestern plains--my parents shelled out hundreds of dollars to pay for the camp. I walked around the campus amazed at the men I was encountering. “Wow”, I thought to myself, “There is Dan Gable!” I was star struck. Similar to a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert, I was in awe of seeing these people whose pictures appeared on posters that were hung all over my bedroom wall. In the midst of collecting autographs, I also managed to learn a few new moves. Most importantly, I jotted something down in a little notebook that would serve to motivate me for the next ten years. In messy sixth grade hand writing, I wrote, "My goal is to be an All-American."

I had a lot of dreams as a kid. Many of them were a little "out there". I proudly announced at my sixth grade graduation that my life goal was to become the middle linebacker for the Denver Broncos. That dream didn't quite pan out. Apparently, the scouts weren't looking for a 150 pound professional football player. But, the dream of becoming an All-American never faded.

Being an All-American is attained by placing in the top eight at a national tournament. My mom and dad were faithful to drive me all over the country during my high school years to give me the opportunity to accomplish my goal. In fact, it was common for them to drive seventeen hours only to watch me lose two matches and come home. Lord, bless them.

I had success in high school at the state level and eventually became a state champion. As sweet as the victory was, I couldn’t forget about my sixth grade goal of placing at a national tournament. I took the plunge and decided to wrestle in college. It didn't take long for me to realize that college wrestling is a different animal.

Halfway into my freshman year, I called my dad to announce to him that I was going to quit the team. His response was something that I can still hear ringing in my ears. "Son", he said, "You need to finish what you started." Being in college put me in a position where I didn’t technically have to listen to my dad’s advice. However, he had earned my respect as a man and as a coach. I listened to him and continued grinding along. I managed to barely qualify for the national tournament, and sure enough, my parents endured the marathon drive to Minnesota to support me. The result was the same as previous years. I found myself beat up, discouraged, and quickly out of the tournament after losing two matches.

It wasn't looking good for me to attain my goal, but I decided to give it one more shot. I decided that I would wrestle one more year in college. I had mediocre success during the regular season, and (again!) just barely qualified for the national tournament. I wasn't ranked. I was largely unnoticed and certainly not expected to do much at the national tournament. To be honest, as bad as I wanted it, I really didn't expect it to happen either.

I remember distinctly how that tournament felt different than all the others. It wasn’t because I fully expected to attain my goal of placing in the top eight. It was simply because I realized that this would be my final tournament of what had been a seventeen year wrestling career. No matter the outcome, I was just thankful that my parents had made the long drive to experience the final chapter with me.

I always got nervous when I heard my name announced indicating that it was time to head to my mat assignment. “Let my final tournament begin”, I thought to myself as I heard my name come across the booming loud speakers. When I arrived at my assigned mat, I looked over and evaluated my competition. He appeared to be bigger, stronger, and more confident than I. He was nationally ranked and expected to be an All-American. Most people who knew the sport expected him to cruise through his first match--yes, against me. Lacking confidence, I looked across the coliseum and spotted my dad who had worked his way into a front row seat. Seeing him gave me confidence. The look on his face communicated that he really expected me to win. What was wrong with him?! Had he already forgotten about all of the other years? Did he really expect that this year would be different?

I walked on the mat, shook my opponent’s hand, and within the first minute found myself flying through the air only to experience an abrumpt thump as my head bounced off the mat. Worse than the pain was the reality that I was on the verge of being pinned--and humiliated. I half-heartedly fought off my back and considered giving up. My mind instantly began to think that the final chapter would be the same as the rest of the book--a lot of work with little to show for it.

I can't explain it, but something inside me came alive. Something clicked deep within me. Similar to Rocky when he punched Drago (work with me here) for the first time, I managed to get off my back, escape, and turn around to score a quick takedown. We went out of bounds, and I glanced at the scoreboard as we walked back to the center of the mat to see that I was losing 5-3. I looked at my opponent who was visibly surprised by my flurry of activity. As I neared the center of the mat, I heard something that caught my attention from across the coliseum. It was a sound that I’ll never forget as long as I live. It was my dad’s voice, and he yelled, “Come on, son. Fight.”

I was taken aback by his boldness. I think the entire section of the coliseum heard him. How embarrassing it would have been for him to boldly support me only to watch me come up short again. He believed in me, and it did something in me. The words that carried across the floor of the coliseum and overpowered the voices of hundreds of other fans ignited something that needed to be lit.

This was about more than a simple wrestling match or a childhood goal—this was about being a man. My dad was speaking courage into the deepest places of my soul. Filled with a new sense of confidence, I fought back from the initial deficit and pulled out an upset win, 8-7. This was a defining moment in my life. My eyes were opened to see that the story doesn’t always have to end the same way as before.

I won my next match 10-8, and I was surprised to realize that I was one win away from becoming an All-American. I was even more surprised when I looked at the bracket to see that I was wrestling a kid that I had already beaten earlier in the year. I got away by myself and prepared for the most important match of my career.

I walked on the mat nervous but optimistic. I didn't have a chance to see where my mom and dad were seated, but I was confident I would soon hear my dad—and so would the rest of the fans in the arena!

The match was close as I found myself losing by one point with ten seconds left. My opponent simply had to defend for ten seconds to be crowned All-American. In what felt like a miraculous moment, I snapped him to the mat, and shucked him by to score a last second takedown. My coach went crazy. I went crazy. But the thing I remember the most, was the speed in which my dad sprinted down from the upper seats, picked me up, and gave me the greatest bear hug of my life. He was crying. I was crying. It finally happened--and it was surreal.

It has been ten years, and I still think about that moment often. As much as I wanted to become an All-American, that’s not what I remember about that day. I remember the joy I felt from making my dad proud. He was delighted, and because of it, so was I.

I am convinced that it would not have happened if I hadn’t heard his words during my first match. I was defeated. I was on the verge of giving up. But, my dad was resilient in his belief of me. He spoke courage to me when I needed it the most. In reality, he demonstrated the nature of our Heavenly Father.

I have since learned that this is how God operates. He believes in you whether you believe in yourself or not. He doesn’t subscribe to the belief that you will always fall short. He sees endless possibility when his eyes behold you. And if you listen carefully, you may hear him yell, “Rise up. Fight, son…Fight.”

Beware; something within you may come alive.