My friend’s name is “Brock.” He is quite literally a mammoth of a man. I’m by no means a small guy – 5-foot-10, 200 pounds – but this guy dwarfs me in every physical aspect. Brock is about 6-foot-2, 220 pounds of muscle with 9 percent body fat. He works out two to three times per day, crushes chilidogs by the dozen, and by all accounts is an ogre. For the sake of print space, he’s the quintessential, big, dumb, jock.
Brock is also the coolest mofo on the planet. Seven months out of the year, his main goal in life is ensuring you’re having a good time. He’s the most generous guy I’ve ever met – and in all the areas that count: He religiously offers herbal refreshments, his house for any cause, function, or party, and loves to compete whether it’s beer pong or Smash Brothers; he’s phenomenal at both. In a lot ways, Brock is like a Michael Bay movie: You know what to expect – even if it’s a little stupid – but it’s always entertaining. During this roughly seven month span between March and September, Brock’s girly high-pitched giggles are abundant, and his mood is always light. Despite his fabled temper, Brock is conscious of his fuse and environment. Basically, he’s an all-around great guy.
But during the remaining portion of the year, Brock is in physical and mental agony. His workout regime goes up at least two-fold, and his love for chilidogs diminishes. He then faces 5 a.m. wake-up calls and dry chicken breast meals once per day. He no longer indulges in any substance parties – one of his favorite pastimes – and although tolerance bragging rights aren’t something you’d put on your résumé, Brock’s standards are impressive, if not repulsive.
For five months, Brock sacrifices the things he loves most and does so willingly. In doing so, he transforms into the most pained and frustrated couch monster known to man. He nurtures his anguish with an Xbox, drops 30-pounds he doesn’t need to lose, and watches in anxious jealousy as his closest friends play pong, roll Zig-Zags, and make bad decisions, making him constantly exhausted and hungry, grumpy and short, and full of expletives. Brock has gone through this half-year of doom nearly every year for the past five or six years. But once it’s over, he returns to his old form again – partying, laughing, etc.
If you haven’t already guessed, Brock is a wrestler. He’s a total beast who works his ass off year-in, year-out without too many complaints. Even after shattering his elbow, Brock rehabbed back into peak condition for another season at the University. But upon his return, Brock and the entire community were shocked to see that the sacrifices he’s made have been for nothing. I won’t bash the addition of a baseball team like Brock will because frankly, it’ll be good for the University in nearly every aspect. But how is that at the fault of the wrestling program? And yet, somehow there was room for competitive cheer? I refuse to get into a debate whether it’s a sport or not (which it isn’t), but is it really what we’re stuck with at the expense of a 53-year tradition at the University? The University couldn’t have added two female sports to its program, like women’s rugby?
Essentially, we’re cutting the single most individually demanding sport in the world for a glorified dance team. So by this action is the University suggesting that hard work doesn’t actually pay off? Brock here kills himself for the University and personal glory, only for the University to turn its back on him and the entire prestigious program.
Brock actually does exist, and he’s one of my closest friends. He’s currently in a state of constant confusion and disappointment, as though the pressures of cutting weight and staying healthy weren’t enough. Saving Oregon Wrestling isn’t about baseball or dance. It isn’t even about economic decision-making. It’s about the University fulfilling commitments it has made to students like Brock.
[email protected]