Ugh, wrestling. As a mother, I sometimes wonder why I ever let my boys do this sport. There are times when I feel it is the worst form of torture—and not just for them. I feel every cross face, tight waist, arm-wrenching moment they experience. This season has also been extremely frustrating because I have to experience the pain of watching one son lose, and lose, and lose, while at the same time my other son wins, and wins, and wins. I sometimes feel like I can’t enjoy the wins at all—like it’ll pour lemon juice on the pain of the other son who is already suffering. Then this last weekend happened…

It wasn’t that the losing son started winning, he won only one match, but he’s effort changed. He didn’t walk out on the mat looking like a whipped dog. He walked out with the stature of a young man ready to give it his best shot—and he did, coming close several times. I’m sure the other spectators wondered why I clapped and cheered so loudly when he lost, but the growth I witnessed in the last tournament was incredible.

I’m proud of both of my sons, but I’m especially pleased with the losing son. It’s hard to stick with any sport when you’re getting your butt handed to you all the time, but he has. He’s never once asked to quit, and he fully plans on coming back next season. That kind of determination will come in handy as he grows into a man.