Maclellan Gym

[ArtusCimber]

I'll go into the oven believing that Maclellan was the best site ever for a state tournament. I was excited that UTC still wrestled duals there, but I turned on a match and was immediately bummed out by the blue plastic bleachers and the renovation that sucked all the soul out of that old place in an attempt to modern it up. They've done the same thing to Topper Palace here, only our plastic is maroon.

 

So anyway I started working on this poem. It's pretty long but I think you guys, especially you greybeards, can appreciate it. Indulge me. Let poetry be not lonely for a minute.

 

 Maclellan

I

It was the best of all the battlefields,

no better locale to contest the state,

six mats smothering that basketball floor,

wooden bleachers rolled back to shape the space,

four hundred forty eight hopeful wrestlers

packed in like cord wood with antsy coaches,

questing to find their place in the circle

some supremely confident in their shot,

some slightly cowed by the task’s magnitude,

taking to day one like adventurers,

some in fellowship with near intact teams,

others seeking treasure in ones or twos,

navigating the perilous, steep slope

of the pitiless pull through tournament-

knowing to lose that first or second match,

would require swallowing the bitter pill

of placing one’s fate in another’s hands.

II

Thursday night, culling began in earnest,

a handful falling as those who prevailed

over them in that long opening round

fell themselves to the next wrestler they faced,

taking their places in that grey limbo

vacated by the first to come to grief 

one hundred twelve forlorn unfortunates  

a quarter lost in the initial wave,

some enviously watching from the stands,

others trudging to the student center

to burn through their precious travel money

assuaging their profound disheartenment

with soft serve,burgers,fries,foosball and pool,

no weigh ins anytime soon (if ever).

III

Their ranks would double on Friday morning,

quarters losers in their defeat failing

to keep the ones they’d vanquished in the fray,

half of yesterday’s hopefuls no longer,

taking fewer than twenty-four hours

to cleave the roll of contenders in half.

The good news for the half who still survived

was that they were masters of their own fates,

those in the semis driven by knowing

that even if they lost their next contest,

they’d wrestle two more matches for certain-

And even if they fell in both of those,

they’d still be on that final medal stand.

IV

And as the day ground mercilessly on,

a hundred forty more were doomed to fall,

twenty-eight in that most bitter of rounds-

The blood round, in its fearsome infamy,

winners finding the loftiest of joys,

losers the most profound, biting sorrows.

And as the sun set on Friday’s last match,

just eighty-four of Thursday’s lot remained,

three hundred sixty four warriors downed

in roughly thirty hard, grueling hours.

V

Saturday morning found the floor reduced,

much like the field of Thursday afternoon

the floor level bleachers now all rolled out

to encircle the two mats that remained,

one for the fifth and sixth place contestants,

the other to decide the bronze medal,

both seats and spectators inching closer 

to what would eventually be one mat,

full four hundred and twenty giving way

to the twenty-eight stalwarts who remained,

best of the best Tennessee could offer

the only ones left to fight for the prize

that so many others set out to claim

little more than forty-eight hours past-

Spectators no more consigned to on high,

now a stone’s throw from the day’s principals,

their energy swirling like some tempest-

a fine phalanx of pristine excitement

a modern day shield circle of support,

enveloping the hopeful finalists

a marvelously insane, eager wall

assembled there with pure effusiveness

awaiting the first whistle of the day,

tribute worthy of this lot that remained.

VI

Everyone has their own stories to tell-

Some of unhinged elation, some of woe,

six minutes of sublime culmination

Of this great quest that began ages past,

not days, or months, but many years ago,

only fitting in this last,old school way

that this great crowd should witness only two,

two alone, to me the most fitting fate,

of these gallants who’d labored long and hard

to reach this height, this place, this pinnacle.

mine was, as Coleridge said of Xanadu, 

a miracle of sublime, rare delight,

my second match in that chair of honor,

that corner we all covet for our kids,

and Justin Anderson, my gritty kid,

mustering all his confidence and pluck

commenced to putting a right #### whipping

on a kid nobody thought he could beat-

nailing him in a brutal body lock,

the crowd’s clamor then so insanely loud

that Coach Nelson and I did not hear it-

the ref slapping the mat to end the bout,

only knowing the match was indeed done

when Justin rose in final victory,

the thunder of those fine wooden bleachers

muting any noise not intensely loud.

VII

A few years later this fine world moved on,

and the state meet moved to another site,

taking the one mat final in its train

today we have four going at a time,

the crowd actually moved farther out

than closer to the action like before,

an irony that brings me no delight.

VIII

The Mocs still wrestle duals in that old gym

but now the bleachers are bereft of soul-

blue plastic instead of the thund’ring wood

that beat the rhythm to the victor’s song-

lost to time like a Jedi’s lightsaber,

as the age grows ever less elegant,

a sign of constructive progress perhaps,

a sure blow to romance and pageantry.

IX

Still the memories of that place abide

Remembrances of combats indeed close,

All eyes in that place trained on only two,

As near the action as could be conceived,

The rumble of the crowd so powerful

To smother any sound that was too meek.

 

A place where brawls were fought the proper way.