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Allow me a short story about myself. Growing up, I never thought about wrestling, unless it was to dismiss it as the sport of thugs and 300-pounders. Imagine my surprise when, as a scrawny 100-pound freshman, my P.E. coach, also the school's wrestling coach, asked me to come out for the team. Coach, you see, was doing what most wrestling coaches have to do: He was scouring the halls and his classrooms to fill out his roster. He didn't have a 96-pounder on the freshman team. "What the heck," I thought. "I don't play a winter sport, I'm competitive and (most important to me at the time) I can quit whenever I decide I don't like it." Well, that never happened. I never was much good (though my team won two state titles, I didn't qualify for state until my senior year, and it's much easier to do that in New Mexico than it is in California), but I learned to love the sport. I grew up in that wrestling room. My mom and dad were doing a fine job, but I never would...
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