Here's a poem for all you moms. I didn't write it. I think Luellen did maybe.
When first he said unto me,
"A wrestler is what I want to be,"
I did not know, I did not see,
All I knew was from TV
"Oh, darling boy" I cried in fright,
"Wrestling is such a terrible sight.
They bite, they gouge, they kick, they scratch."
"But, Mother Dear, that's called a match."
"Please, dear son, consider track,
That won't make you blue and black,
Or basketball, it requires great skill,
At least they don't scream kill, kill."
All of my pleads were to no avail.
A wrestler he would be without fail.
I fussed, I screamed, I really went on a tear,
But all he said was, "Mother, don't be a square."
So about wrestling I tried to learn,
The midnight oil I did burn.
My son now thought I was a pretty hipped mother.
I read all I could, I listened with both ears,
What I learned about sets, and falls and pins,
I learned about takedowns, decisions and wins,
I never missed a match, even out of town,
Where my son was wrestling, there I could be found.
I can hardly wait for next season to start,
Because now I'm wrestling's biggest fan,
For there's no greater sport in all the land.
