by Andrew Vuocolo

“Jamie?—Jamie Smith?—your divisions ready! Please step up and check in with the attendant at Table Two. And please be ready with a coach or parent.”

These are some of the common instructions given to a child at a grappling tournament. Few truly know the monumental challenge of getting young Jamie with parents, siblings, grandma, grandpa, cameras, and coach all in one place, at one time. Even more difficult—also getting Jamie’s opponent, parents, siblings, grandma, grandpa, cameras, and coach all in the same place, at the same time.

And some kids do this at tournaments once every month or two—chasing medals, swords, belts, and all kinds of other prizes.

Welcome to the grappling circuits of America.

“Where’s Jamie Smith? Is anybody from her team here?”

“Jamie, please come to Table Two,” I say into the microphone now while wrapping a green band around the opposite competitor’s ankle. One down, one to go.

I myself didn’t start studying in the grappling arts until later in life, and I don’t have a kid of my own yet either. But through the personal experiences I have of helping raise my own sister, and the years I’ve spent refereeing small children as well—I’ve learned a few things. And among those things has been the lesson that kids come in all types. They shouldn’t be pushed or forced to do anything they don’t want to do. Forcing a child can often have the reverse effect.

The table attendant looks over at me. “Jamie’s here, sir. Not ready though.”

I look over and see Jamie, face red and eyes watery.

It still blows my mind, after refereeing for so long, that so many children willingly sacrifice their Saturdays to get stretched out and beaten up at grappling tournaments. From the ages of 4 through 17, these children continue up the competitive totem pole of skill, ranging from ‘novice’ to ‘expert’ levels based on things like total training time and belt rank. And with so many of these matches beginning and ending all day, they easily tend toward becoming nothing more than blurs of red and green ankle bands by the end of it all.

Still though, there’s always the match that sticks with you.

“Give me a minute,” I tell the table attendant, seeing Jamie’s Coach walking over.

“I’m not sure we’re ready yet,” she says.

I nod. “Can I speak with Jamie for a moment?”

Every now and then a situation arises where a young kid gets stage fright; or maybe the kid just has bad anxiety on any given day; other kids who compete have mental disorders, ranging from all kinds of minor to major.

So I’ve learned that it’s especially important to be tolerant, open-minded, and polite, in these situations more than most.

These situations, where a kid’s ready to back out of a match, I’ve come to think of as “Out on a Ledge” moments—in which we either choose to keep climbing or we choose to quit.

Because when someone fails to face their fear this way over and over again, they often do quit.

Think about yourself—how many times have you missed an opportunity because you didn’t take that shot you first saw? The idea makes me think back to all those Bad Boy shirts in the 1990’s, that saying on the chest—“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” We can’t win if we don’t try.

And, you think it’d be easy, after seeing so many thousands and thousands of matches, to just give up myself and let little Jamie quit. But then Jamie never gets the gift of satisfaction pulling a win off in front of a crowd, or the gift of learning the heartbreak from falling short.

An insignificant three minute match could shape history forever. Your own personal history. Of all the things you thought yourself incapable—a three minute match has the power to leave you questioning what you thought was impossible altogether.

And then, I remember why I started doing this to begin with.

“Hey Jamie,” I say smiling, “my name’s Andrew. Can I tell you something?”

Jamie nods and I paint my face solemn, “I get scared too,

“Being in this building with a thousand people gives me anxiety every Saturday. It makes me want to run away. But I can’t… because this is my job—to keep you safe. And there’s been times when I’ve competed too—just like you’re competing now—except I used to puke. Couldn’t help it. So…at least you’re not puking.”

Jamie chuckles and stifles a hiccup.

“Everybody here, including the kid across from you, gets scared. The trick though is we have to fight fear head on…just like you’re here to do right now. And the coolest part?—just by fighting it, you make it weaker. Winning and losing don’t matter. Because you get to find out that a little bit of what you thought was impossible, is possible.

“And, if it gets too crazy out there, you can always just say stop. And I’ll stop it right away. I promise.” We link pinkies and Jamie takes a breath.

“So,” I ask, “are we ready?”