By: Clayton Webb
I left that life behind when I came to Bard. The lights, the fame—it was all too much. I didn't turn down a full ride to SUNY Oneonta for mud wrestling just to do the same thing here. I came to Bard for a quieter life. Things were getting better—I could go visit the farm without jumping into the pigpen in a blind rage, and I visited three soccer games without anyone getting... hurt. I even started being able to walk past the Kline tent mud field without losing control. But after a Robbins party last week, I relapsed. I was on the dance floor, and then we went outside, and a certain fool challenged me to a dance off. But it had rained the night before. All I remember was seeing a flash of brown, then I came to, covered in mud, standing triumphantly over their body as the crowd chanted and cheered my name.
I don't want to mud wrestly. But I know what Bard wants. I know that look in my professor's eyes when they ask as "what did you think about the reading". They want me to mud wrestle. When I walk into Kline, I know the looks—they're sizing me up, assessing grip strength and slip potential. I know they are because I'm doing it too. I don't want to mud wrestle.
It's not that I'm afraid of losing. I'm not afraid of losing. I'm afraid of the person I am in the ring. I want kids. I want my kids to know a life free of the primal heat of the fight. I want to give them the life I never had. There was a time that I wanted to go pro, so that I could better provide for my family. Now I know that I have to give it up if I want the people closest to me to be happy.
Is the thrill the greatest I've ever had? Of course. If there anything sweeter than a $25 meal from Sizzlers bought with a prize gift certificate? Certainly not. Is there ant success that will ever be so fulfilling as being the most decorated amateur mud wrestler the northeast has seen since Ricky "Slopsinger" Falcone? God willing, no. I want the quiet life. I want the white picket fence. I want the two bedroom in Yonkers. I don't want to mud wrestle. Please don't make me mud wrestle.