The Art of Sports Writing, Part II

My favorite beat as a sports writer? Probably not what you think.

Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash

NOTE: This is the second in a four-part series of essays on the beauty and importance of sports writing. I got my start covering sports, and even though I’ve moved on, I care deeply about the medium and wish sports journalism would get back to what it once was. Each installment will post on Thursday. Read part 1 here.

Sports writing, perhaps more than any other form of journalism, thrives on the human element. Sports writers have to uncover the how and the why, not just the what and the who.

Covering high school sports is not financially lucrative. It wasn’t when newspapers were healthy, and it’s certainly not now (in fact, aside from a select few high rollers at ESPN and Fox Sports, those covering sports are often not paid all that well). But being a high school sports reporter is where some of the best stories I’ve ever written came from.

For one thing, there isn’t nearly the pressure at that level. Sure, there are those seemingly destined for high-level college sports and then the pros, but for the most part, high school sports are just kids playing the games they love because they love them. Most of the players and coaches I dealt with were more than happy to be interviewed, thrilled that the local paper cared enough to send someone to cover their game. Things weren’t life-and-death at that level, like they sometimes can be when the lights are brighter and there’s money involved.

My favorite sport to cover? High school wrestling.

Not because I’m a wrestling guru. In fact, when my editor first put me on the beat, I knew nothing about the sport. Still, this was money I couldn’t turn down, and I’d already shown a willingness to cover sports other writers wouldn’t (everyone clamors for football and basketball, but not many seem to stick around for volleyball or cross country).

I had two things in my favor: a willingness to learn, and a friend from college who was a wrestling guru. Once I learned the basics of the sport, scoring and the like, I discovered the one thing that carried me through the entire time I was on that beat:

There’s a passion, an intensity, in high school wrestling no other sport can match.

Short of Olympic glory, the athletes who compete in this sport aren’t in it for the eventual riches of the professional ranks. Even those who become champions at the college level often don’t compete again once those years are over. They either find another way to stay involved in the sport, or they find another path for their lives.

Wrestlers wrestle for nothing more than the pure love of the sport. The fans are as rabid and supportive as any fanbase I’ve ever encountered—strangely, without any of the venom or hate that plague so many other sports.

To wit:

There was the one wrestler I covered who placed in the top five at the state meet, despite dealing with a bout of food poisoning so bad, any moment not spent on the mat was spent hugging a trash can.

There was another, from a nearby town in Virginia called Gloucester, who was one of (I think) 15 children. All the girls played field hockey and all the boys wrestled, and he was the latest in line (and probably the best of them all).

There was the wrestler who took up the sport as a way to stay in shape after football season wrapped up, only to become a state champion at the heavyweight class.

There was one winter tournament where the local school I was covering had a girl on the team. I vividly remember watching her win her opening match, in part because her opponent spent much time trying to make sure his hands didn’t touch certain body parts (let me tell you right now, there is no way to be a successful wrestler without your hands—and sometimes even your face—ending up places that would get you smacked or arrested in polite society). The story was a win for gender equity, sure, but the humor of the boy not knowing how to handle this brand-new situation was too good to ignore.

But my favorite story from the wrestling beat—and to this day, probably the best sports story I’ve ever written—was borne from tragedy.

One week before the Peninsula District championship meet, which would determine who advanced to the regional meet and, later, states, Hampton High School suffered a tragic loss when Ronnie Thacker Sr., father to one of the team’s wrestlers, a youth wrestling coach, and a pillar of the local wrestling community died unexpectedly. Along with Menchville, Hampton was a co-favorite for the meet, and the younger Ronnie Thacker was one of the strongest wrestlers in the tournament.

What was originally a meet preview focusing on Hampton and Menchville potentially meeting for the district crown turned into a much different story, and I want to credit the head coach, Ron McRae, and the wrestlers I spoke with. They all could’ve told me to pound sand, and I would’ve completely understood. It was a tough week, and I felt like I was walking on eggshells. But they were talkative and forthright and seemed to appreciate the chance to talk about the older Ronnie.

The meet itself unfolded as expected, and come that Saturday, Hampton and Menchville were in the final. There were 14 weight classes at the time, and which weight class started the dual meet was always chosen at random. I don’t remember what weight class started the match; what I do remember is the meet was as evenly matched as possible; in fact, the district title came down to the final weight class.

112 pounds.

Ronnie Thacker Jr.’s weight class.

One week after losing his father, this kid had a chance to win the Peninsula District championship for his team.

You can probably guess what happened next. Ronnie Thacker Jr. won his match.

By pinning his opponent.

To win the district championship.

I hate the phrase “that story writes itself.” It’s cliche’ and reductive. But if there’s ever a story I wrote where that phrase comes closest to being true, this story was it. From the depths of personal loss to the height of athletic glory, in the span of a week, and even in the tears and the grief and the gut-wrenching loss, there was a celebration.

They celebrated Ronnie Thacker Sr. What he meant as a father, as a coach, as a wrestler. That championship was as much his as it was the team’s, and in hindsight, I should’ve known, even when I wrote the preview piece, this was how the meet would go.

Because sometimes, the story really does write itself.

Continued in Part 3: Just because you haven’t yet, doesn’t mean you can’t.