I volunteered at a huge wrestling tournament we had at the Junior High School this week. Two gyms covered in mats and eight teams in attendance, it was a packed school. My husband and I were asked to run one of the tables for the matches.  I watched the time and flipped the chart for points made, while my husband kept track on each bout card handed into the main paring table.  Who knew I’d be getting some mat time too.

It all started when my son’s name showed up on a bout sheet for our mat.  Of all the mats in this place, he was going to have to wrestle on ours.

Now watching my oldest son wrestle is always pretty stressful for me, but having to run the table at the same time, whoa momma, being an impartial official went out the window.  Oh I flipped the points chart, and was careful about the time periods, but I rooted shamelessly for my son—even my husband did so I wasn’t alone.  When the match was over, my son had to come to the table to sign the bout card because he won.  The referee comes over and puts his hand on our son’s shoulder.  “It’s pretty obvious who this one belongs to.”

“How’d you guess,” I said raising my shaky hands. “I’m a frazzled mess.” I swear, whenever he steps out on the mat, it feels like I’m out there with him.