Post No. 1 | A YELLOW SUIT IN TWO PARTS
The First of Two Yellow Suits
As a September baby, I joined the ranks of youngsters inducted into the American public school system at the unripened age of five. The day I arrived, Jewell Elementary in Aurora, Colorado was unwittingly subjected to the shock of a jittery blonde boy that had no business being in school. A green banana amongst the plump yellow Chiquitas.
While growing up, I distinctly remember people telling me that I could be anything I wanted. Since all options seemed to be on the table, the one that presented itself as most desirable was that I would someday become a monkey. The promise of swinging through trees from my feet fit my personality and perceived physicality perfectly.
In my mind, everything was smooth sailing at Jewell Elementary School. Admittedly, there might have been a little superfluous wandering of the classroom, there might have been a little too much talking during quiet time, there might have even been an “accident” or two, I am unsure. All I knew was that my classroom had an indoor sandbox full of birdseed and that seemed reason enough to make my daily appearance.
Through the course of time, my presence in school proved to be incongruent with the standards acceptable to Mrs. Lawlor and the prevailing winds of the Cherry Creek School District. My parents must have agreed.
Like a star collegiate quarterback, I was approached by my parents with options to decide my future. As I recall, my parents called me to the main office (dining room table) and presented me with the option to, “Leave crummy school and become a full-time professional gymnast.” It’s a wonder my thorax didn’t burst. To my best recollection, I responded with something to the effect of, “It’s about time you people recognized my true calling.” If I couldn't be a monkey, or couldn't yet, a full-time gymnast would at least teach me the basics before I could get all hairy and grow a tail. Looking back now, I realize that gymnastics education was a red hankie tossed in the air to distract me from the punch in the face I would inevitably feel by being held back a grade, but that is beside the point.
And so, midway through the first quarter, I was released as a free agent from my dead-end education onto the electric blue mattresses of the local gymnastics institute. I was queued with the other pre-adolescents to summersault and hang like soggy washcloths from the uneven bars. Which I realize now is not a men’s event.
Before attending my first session to learn the gymnastics, the subject of my professional attire was in desperate need of attention.
Since my brief stint in the kinder’s garden, I have come to believe in the process of working with one's coloring and complexion, and not against it. But as a five-year-old paper-white individual I had no such inkling and chose the only option which fit both of my qualifications: 1. Ease of movement and 2. Visibility at a great distance. Following these guidelines, the uniform I chose was a goldenrod-colored sweatsuit. Top and bottom mind you.
When I think about the purchase of my uniform, I can see myself requesting access to a fitting room, asking my mother to please wait outside while I perform the Batman-style ritual of adorning myself with the paltry two pieces of whatever-the-hell-sweats-are-made-of. I would thrust each extremity through the length of cotton tubes, my bird-like wrists, and ankles shooting through their respective openings with my fingers and toes spread wide. Satisfied, I would emerge thirty minutes later in all my monochromatic glory. The thought of removing my uniform for the cashier to scan it never crossed my mind. I exited Target that day in my yellow sweatsuit with all the confidence in the world. Waving to the standers-by like I had won the gold-metal lottery.
As I mentioned before, I've since learned that one must always consider ones complexion and coloring when purchasing clothing. And maybe I simply hadn't acquired the wherewithal that would prompt me to examine myself at that point but felt no shame in my homoginocoloredness. The yellow suit seemed to fit well enough. The elastic seemed durable and forgiving enough for the rigors of gymnastitutes and I felt “dressed for success”-- as the saying goes.
It's entirely possible that if you had stood me up next to a school bus that day you might not have seen me at all.
The first day I blazed onto the bouncy floor of my new proving ground. The desire to fill my mind with shapes, colors, basic arithmetic and storytime completely evaporated from my mind. Kindergarten was history and gymnastics was my bright future.
All I remember from the classes themselves is walking back and forth across the balance beam as the instructors busied themselves with the more promising talent. Daunted? No. Discouraged? No. Did I hold my head up high with my arms raised in a perfect “Y” as I stuck each landing? Yes. Did I cast more than a sideways glance at my peers, parents, and the powers-that-be after completing a perfect pencil straight log roll? Yes.
Certainty.
While it lasted, it was a glorious thing.
*
The Second of Two Yellow Suits
Having mastered gymnastics in the fields of pommel horse, overly chalking one's hands, and the uneven bars (again, not a men's event) I retired.
The yellow sweatsuit was hoisted above the rafters of my home (in a box in the attic) with great ceremony, not unlike the one which raised Larry Bird’s beloved #33 to the rafters of Boston Garden. Sweat stained and loosened of its elasticity, I'm sure we could still get a few solid puffs of chalk out of it if we whacked it with a broom.
With my retirement package from gymnastics in hand (I believe it was a Hi-C and a packet of those neon orange crackers with the peanut butter), I was ready to embrace the Cherry Creek School District once again.
As a seasoned first-day-of-schoolsman, I slid back into the scholastic world with relative ease. I completed the subsequent years of education with, what I would now call, low-hovering colors. Still an overconfident wisp of snow-white hair. Still a monkey at heart. Still an outsider whose friends continually fought to not be the lowest man on the totem pole. Somehow I managed to meet the minimum requirements to complete elementary school and move onto the stony pastures of junior high.
My middle school years were marked by an unseasonably long spell of awkward years that included the following; round, low-hanging glasses, a full-on party-in-the-back style mullet, a burgeoning aptitude for juggling, and the slow-train arrival of puberty and orthodontic headgear.
Prairie Middle school was the place and the blue mats of my gymnastic past were supplanted by the electric yellow ones rolled out in the gymnatorium for the first day of wrastlin.
Now, I will be the first to admit that I did not have the physical characteristics necessary to become a star wrastler. Coaches looking for the short powerful build that marks the next tournament winner might have missed seeing me because I was standing behind one of the climbing ropes hanging from the gym ceiling. Needless to say, (though I will say it anyway), I was not gifted with the raw materials that lead to success in the circled square of the wrastling arts.
Nevertheless, I signed up for the team. After all, my acrobatic and monkey-like skills could surely be translated to simply pinning another boy to the ground, right?
I am not one to count a middle school boy’s words against him decades after they are unleashed, but being referred to as “hey albino” in the locker room that first day might have dampened my resolve and caused me to linger in the locker room a touch longer than necessary. After collecting my wits, I proceeded to the gymnatorium to find that the distribution of wrastling singlets had already taken place. Those who had arrived on time to wrastlin practice had already received a brand-new navy and kelly green unit to cover their vitals.
Before we proceed, it's important to note that Prairie Middle School (PMS) had recently retired their previous school colors and adopted the more attractive navy and kelly green of nearby Overland High School. My heart sank at the back of the line as I was dealt a baggy, threadbare, yellow singlet from the olden days.
As coach tossed me the ancient shroud worn by numerous generations of pre-teens the look on his face must have read something along the lines of, “Oh son, I hope this makes great material for you to write a story with someday.”
Back to the locker room I went and emerged thirty minutes later in my brand-old French’s mustard-yellow unitard. Red elastic bands that once gripped the thighs of a past winner/ wiener (gross), lay slack around my extremities. The yellow suit that had once served as a beacon of my certainty was now a crumbling shroud of doom.
The other youths, adorned in their well-fitting blue and green, looked at me and by and large left me alone. At least off the mat that is. On some level, there must be an instinct among predators that triggers when they see prey so easy for the taking that encourages them to leave the overly-feeble alone. There’s a sense that the hobbled animal might be sick and upset their stomach if they ate it. On the mat, however, my teammates chewed me up and crapped me out with blatant disregard of any gastronomic consequences.
I proceeded to lose every match throughout the course of the 93/94 season. We’re not talking about just sanctioned matches here. We’re taking every practice, demonstration, scrimmage, competition, and tournament. My defeat was complete. Having routinely run the full digestive tract of my opponents and my yellow hair, skin, and singlet smeared across the yellow mats, I thanked God for the camouflage provided for me at each practice and home tournament.
After several losses, there was most certainly more than one occasion that I gazed towards the heavens from under the bleachers looking up at the asses of parents and various-cheerers-on while tears streamed down my face.
Without question, I recognize this all sounds pretty bleak. But there's nothing like a little rage rendered completely ineffectual to teach a guy to be humble. And I've reaped the benefits of being savagely humbled ever since. For that I am grateful. That said, my unimpaired losing record had brought me to a place of fierce determination to win at least one match.
If Lose Yourself had been written at that time, I would have popped it into my Discman and blasted the radio safe version into my skull at full volume on my way to my final tournament. I was ready to give it all. Everything. If I had to bite, Indian burn (not sure if this is still an acceptable term), grab in inappropriate places, or employ dirty tricks, I was going to do anything to win. One win. That's all I needed to show for my days as a wrastler.
Yellow suit, on. White sneakers, on. Pre-match mirror pep talk, done. As this was an away tournament. The other school’s deep green mats meant I would not blend in. My impending victory would stand in stark contrast to the usual wiping across the yellow floor.
I lost the first two of three matches that day. By the time my name was called by the announcer for my last shot I was surging with adrenaline and I didn't even hear my opponent's name. I just knew that I had to whip his ass.
If I had been listening to the announcer it's possible the warning bells might have sounded in my brain when my opponent's name was called. After all, Tiffany Johnson is an odd name for a young man preparing to enter the ring.
For the first time in my wrastling career, I was the center of attention. As I arrived at mat #3 time slowed down and I saw the crowd staring at me like bystanders watching an Orange Julius franchise about to get destroyed by a runaway truck. I was ten steps away when I saw her and realized that the girl hidden under the tumbleweed of straw-colored hair standing in the middle of the ring was waiting-- waiting for me.
It's important to note as I look back now that have the utmost respect for this young lady. She was braver than any of the prepubescent lads out there, myself included. She was a good wrastler by all accounts. But in my mind the thoughts of the biting, Indian burning, grabbing of inappropriate places and dirty tricks now carried an altogether different connotation than they did in my solo pre-match pep talk. My mind did some very quick calculations and produced two sums that could come from this equation. 1. I could beat up a girl (beating up is the wrong choice of words here. After all, she was there to wrassle just as all of us were), or 2. Get beat by a girl. Neither of which seemed like a desirable outcome in my adolescent mind.
I forfeited the match. Thus sealing my perfect record for the season. When I say forfeit I imagine your mind painted a picture of me quietly approaching the announcer, whispering into his ear, and then retreating to the underside of the bleachers. Rest assured, that was not the case. When you forfeit a sanctioned wrassle in the Cherry Creek School District, both wrasslers are led by the hand to the center of the mat by the referee who then proceeds to raise the winner’s arm in uncontested victory.
Queue the sad clown music.
I returned to the locker room, red face on fire, my stretched-out yellow singlet straps slipped off my arms, and fell to my knees as I shrugged my shoulders in resignation.
It's safe to say that the seeds of uncertainty in my abilities had ripened on the vine in those few short moments. Glorious red bulbs of juicy doubt kissed by the golden rays of my unitard. I learned that desire does not equal achievement. An earth-shattering realization for someone still holding out hope that becoming a monkey might still be a possibility.
If I had the chance to do it again, present-day me would tell middle school me to unhinge and wrassle that girl. To bite, burn, grab anywhere and fight dirty. To go down in flames of glory. I don't say this with a smidgen of confidence that I would have won. On the contrary, I have every confidence that I would have lost. I say it because I could have at least given Tiffany Johnson the knowledge that she had crushed a real dirtbag.
