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Wrestling with Chekhov: A Theory of Mothering, Art and Sport
Here's how I know I'm cultured and refined. At wrestling regions this weekend, I did not scream "kill him!" to either one of my sons as they stalked their opponents on the mat. I only thought it. I bit my corndog from the concession stand demurely and chewed with my mouth closed. As I hiked up and down the bleachers dodging supine bodies, I apologized sweetly after every collision. So where does this land me? In the elite class of upper bleacher wrestler moms, a position I have fiercely defended these last fifteen years.
For those unfamiliar with high school wrestling, it plays like this: two people, guys and/or girls, most of whom have just cut 5 - 10 pounds in the last 5 days, wearing nothing but a spandex singlet and a fancy pair of flat sneakers, face each other like panthers in the center of a circle, and attempt to vanquish the other by pinning them, helpless, to the mat.
It's primal, intense one of the most amazing display s of pure strength and athleticism. And one more thing. If you're a mother of one (or two) of those spandexed, ripped and twisted bodies on the mat---its sheer fear. Necks aren't supposed to bend that way. Backs should not fold, heads weren't made to be mashed, and bloody noses deserve more than a coach ramming a twisted piece of Kotex up the nostril---O child of mine!! I can hardly watch. The only way I can survive this sport which my sons love and have been competing in since they were 4,--is with a camera. And later, a laptop. I stand at the edge of the mat, a mere 30 feet from the action, lens to face.
Now it's about snapping a good photo, not worrying about the other guy snapping my son's back. It's about the composition, documenting the drama, the faces, snatching a second of art. And between matches, I sit behind the keyboard, exhaling.
Which is where Anton Chekov comes in. I'm reminded of his famous prescription for writers:
" A writer is not a confectioner, not a dealer in cosmetics, not an entertainer; he is a man bound under compulsion, by the realization of his duty and by his conscience. To a chemist, nothing on earth is unclean. A writer must be as objective as a chemist."
There I was, the chemist-photographer, safely and objectively documenting my sons' pins, wins and losses. It saved me a section of stomach lining, I'm sure. I took factual detached notes during this phase. Items like this:
1. People, mostly females with certain pitched voices, shouldn't be allowed to scream inside a closed, densely populated gym.
2. Other people, mostly males, with a voice at a certain decibel level, shouldn't be allowed to yell inside a closed, densely packed gym.
3. Former wrestlers greet each other with a headlock rather than a handshake.
4. Wrestling coaches have extra springs in their legs to launch them off their chairs when shouting directives to their wrestlers.
5. Wrestlers in the heat of their matches do not listen to their coaches instructions, particularly when the coaches are airborne.
But the longer I was there, the more my objectivity shrank. By the time the 8th hour approached (with 5 more to go), I had watched the blind wrestler approach the mat with his white cane. I followed the kid who lost every match. I talked to the undefeated heavyweight, cheered on the girl wrestlers built of wire and guts. In short, I got close.
Chekhov's brilliant fiction is so often true, yet these words, these particular hortatory words ... they feel a poor prescription for writers, and for mothers, even sport spectators. The best art and sport (and parenting) comes from immersion, passion, where everything matters all at once, and you are desperate to get it right. "The only books worth reading are books written in blood . . ." Frederick Beuchner says about the writing end of this.
" Write not just with wit and eloquence and style and relevance but with passion. Then the things that your books make happen will be things worth happening-things that make the people who read them a little more passionate themselves for their pains, by which I mean a little more alive, a little wiser, a little more beautiful, a little more open and understanding, in short a little more human."
I put my camera down, finally, by the last matches. I watched my sons with unshielded eyes and roiling stomach as they writhed, fervently and dangerously on the mat, as I shouted equally fervently from the mat's close edge.
If I hadn't, I would have nothing to post here, except a few photos, a couple of medals, a list of observations about the peculiarities of human behavior at wrestling matches.
As it is, the photos didn't turn out. Not enough light, the wrong setting. Most of my journalistic notes were abandoned. I've never been good at operating from a distance.
I write all of this now to you, friends and readers, meeting you here in this space, this mat we call a page. I come close with a promise, with arms poised to clinch, to draw you yet closer, not further. To bring you immersion and passion, perhaps even to spill a little blood along the way, yours and mine. My hope is the same as Beuchner's, that we both emerge from our matches a little wiser, more understanding, more alive, yes, a little closer to the human beings God meant us all to be.
To do this, I would love to hear back from you. I am not good at technology-yet! But talk to me through my email address (
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) or Facebook-until I can figure out how we can all speak together hand to hand, word to face.
Blessings and peace in this Holy season,
Leslie
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