I have just returned home from your camp and I can not help myself but to think of some of our greatest leaders who wrestled as a boy. I think of autobiographies of men who left their names and legacies on world history, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant, Abe Lincoln.
I listen to the passion rise in your voice during your camp as you speak of taking it to the next level: dedication, do more!!! Grunts and noise of flipping bodies slapping down on the mat echo and fill the room thick with the smell of sweat.
Your boys tuck, pivot, twist and flip around each other to your command as silent fathers look on intently. You grow more insistent each time you require of each boy to grip his partner tricep precisely correctly. Not like that! Like this!!!
Your shirt is soaked. Your voice is stretched. I watch your boys firemans carry another on their back, pumping their legs up a fifty foot slope. You lead them as they run two miles immediately before the boys drill for an intense hour. Some might fall down, a few might fight back sobs, they get up when they hear your voice.
Some of the boys I write of are six/seven/eight to ten years old. I watch in a prideful silence as you stand over the finish line and congratulate and encourage each boy by name. Their red faces and soaked hair rise as they look up to you and nod before they nearly collapse to the ground they sit on.
Each of your boys finish.
At the top of the work-out hill I look over the pond reflecting magnificent oak and maple trees and a line of boys, tall and small athletes, jogging around a track set on the border of a large pond amidst expansive emerald green grounds and underneath an immense country-blue Ohio sky.
Early morning cool air fills my lungs. I observe the work ethic in your older boys, Jed, Tucker, Brocky, Coltin and Chas. I look at pictures of some of your boys, recent national and state champions. I watch camaraderie form between the youngest and oldest boys, often from states across our great country. The boys swim, fish, or watch a movie together. I contemplate your own world recognized wrestling accomplishments and the spirit which drove you to those achievements. I think of those struggles you overcame.
You talk of your club as a family. I enjoy talking to the parents of the boys I am growing to admire. The boys laugh and nod and demonstrate technique amongst each other. Before we all leave, the boys and their fathers, some of us strangers to each other a few days ago, exchange e-mails. We talk about Miron I come home and tell my wife our boy is taking it to the next level (He turned a kid or two this time he has not turned before). She smiles at the pride she sees in me. She replies. We try to teach our children to always do their best. I will always read of great accomplishments, the stuff our heroes and world leaders create. I will not be surprised if someday I learn, more than one of those men trained as a boy with Coach Miron. My heartfelt thanks for all you do for my boy. I will see you at your next camp. Warmest regards to Bret and Elaine. My best, Tony
I listen to the passion rise in your voice during your camp as you speak of taking it to the next level: dedication, do more!!! Grunts and noise of flipping bodies slapping down on the mat echo and fill the room thick with the smell of sweat.
Your boys tuck, pivot, twist and flip around each other to your command as silent fathers look on intently. You grow more insistent each time you require of each boy to grip his partner tricep precisely correctly. Not like that! Like this!!!
Your shirt is soaked. Your voice is stretched. I watch your boys firemans carry another on their back, pumping their legs up a fifty foot slope. You lead them as they run two miles immediately before the boys drill for an intense hour. Some might fall down, a few might fight back sobs, they get up when they hear your voice.
Some of the boys I write of are six/seven/eight to ten years old. I watch in a prideful silence as you stand over the finish line and congratulate and encourage each boy by name. Their red faces and soaked hair rise as they look up to you and nod before they nearly collapse to the ground they sit on.
Each of your boys finish.
At the top of the work-out hill I look over the pond reflecting magnificent oak and maple trees and a line of boys, tall and small athletes, jogging around a track set on the border of a large pond amidst expansive emerald green grounds and underneath an immense country-blue Ohio sky.
Early morning cool air fills my lungs. I observe the work ethic in your older boys, Jed, Tucker, Brocky, Coltin and Chas. I look at pictures of some of your boys, recent national and state champions. I watch camaraderie form between the youngest and oldest boys, often from states across our great country. The boys swim, fish, or watch a movie together. I contemplate your own world recognized wrestling accomplishments and the spirit which drove you to those achievements. I think of those struggles you overcame.
You talk of your club as a family. I enjoy talking to the parents of the boys I am growing to admire. The boys laugh and nod and demonstrate technique amongst each other. Before we all leave, the boys and their fathers, some of us strangers to each other a few days ago, exchange e-mails. We talk about Miron I come home and tell my wife our boy is taking it to the next level (He turned a kid or two this time he has not turned before). She smiles at the pride she sees in me. She replies. We try to teach our children to always do their best. I will always read of great accomplishments, the stuff our heroes and world leaders create. I will not be surprised if someday I learn, more than one of those men trained as a boy with Coach Miron. My heartfelt thanks for all you do for my boy. I will see you at your next camp. Warmest regards to Bret and Elaine. My best, Tony