I got a glimpse of America's future on Saturday. Believe it or not, I got that glimpse at a youth wrestling tournament in a high school gymnasium in Brookwood, AL.

If you are like me, then you cannot help but spend some time worrying about the future of our Nation. Every morning I read the newspaper stories about and hear media accounts of our young people being involved with drugs, violence, and succumbing to even more dangerous temptations. There are shocking stories about elementary kids bringing firearms to school, about pre-teen mothers, about AIDS, about riots, about vandals, and about the decay of society in general. These stories give me great concern as I strive to bring up my two children; bring them up properly - what my Mother calls "being raised right." I often lose sleep over what their world will look like and how my kids will be able to blend into society wielding the moral values and work ethic my wife and I try to instill in them.

I spent my Saturday working at a youth wrestling tournament in Brookwood, AL. My six-year old is in his second year of wrestling in Brookwood's youth program. He wins some and loses more as he strives to put into practice the moves his coaches work to help him understand and master. Generally he seems to enjoy playing with the other young children before and after practice as much, if not more than he enjoys the hard work that is wrestling practice. But that is just fine with me at this age; it is not until he reaches high school that we will start worrying about his win-loss record.

When I "reported to duty" at 6:30 AM on Saturday I started taking notice of the people who show up at these youth wrestling tournaments. There were people of means - doctors, lawyers, bankers, etc. There were also people who, shall I say, "seemed to have to work harder with less to show for it." There were families whose kids had brand new fancy clothes. There were families whose children were wearing coats from older siblings - probably handed down twice. There were people with a good deal of education - and those who likely did not finish high school. There were sophisticated people; there were some "country folks." There were people of color, and those who were not. There were local people and those who "weren't from around here." There were white-collar workers, blue-collar workers, and there were people who did not have jobs. There were Republicans and Democrats, and people who could care less about politics at all. Basically, the crowd was America.

Although it was interesting to contemplate the members of the crowd and their stories, it was absolutely fascinating to see the events on the mat at Brookwood. Wrestling is a tough sport - demanding absolutely everything that the competitors have to give. You see, even though each wrestler is on a team, wrestling is very much an individual sport. When you are out there on the mat there is really not much a teammate can do for you. It is you against the opponent with only the shouts of encouragement to spur you along. And, when that opponent is faster and stronger than you are, when that opponent is better skilled or more aggressive than you, then all of the encouragement in the world can't do a whole lot for you. And when that "opponent" is in fact more than the kid on the mat with you, it can become completely overwhelming.

There were over a hundred competitors in this particular tournament. These competitors, these children, walked out on the mat and into an arena in which they were forced to deal with themselves, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their fears. It had to have been pretty daunting for some of those kids to get out there and struggle with another wrestler. It was amazing to see little six, seven, eight, and twelve year old muscles strained to their absolute limit; to see the little tendons and ligaments bent into unorthodox predicaments when a wrestler was caught in a half-nelson or the dreaded "Guillotine." These kids could move - they were agile, mobile, and some were even hostile. I am sure that my high school English teacher would take heart to know that I thought of Hemmingway's Old Man in the Sea as I watched some of the matches. Some of the kids were facing the same sort of titanic physical struggle as the famous fisherman. But oh how bravely they faced their opponents.

Seeing these kids get out there and struggle so hard with one another was no doubt intriguing. But it was their struggle with themselves that is the true point of my morning's writing. I saw little kids struggling with themselves, with their fears, and with their inner selves. I saw kids struggling to discover what they were willing to give, with who they are, with what they want to become. I saw the future of America on a wrestling mat. I saw the future, our future, trying to build a new generation of pride, of effort, of courage, of moral character, and of a willingness to face down our fears and do what is necessary to "get the job done." I saw kids not unlike those of my grandfather's generation who fought World War II or those of my father's generation who put a man on the moon.

On several occasions I saw America's children on the mat against an opponent with no one to help them but themselves. Many times a child walked out on the mat completely overmatched by his opponent. Usually in such cases some occasion arose in which the kid could have quit with some semblance of their dignity still in tact, to quit with a little bit of pride still in place, but to quit with the job unfinished. Most often it was during an injury time-out when the child had turned an ankle, or strained a muscle, or had a bloody nose, or had the wind knocked out of them. Almost universally in these cases a coach or trainer made an offer to the wrestler to "just call this one quits - you don't have to finish this." You could see the wheels in the child's mind turning: "gosh, I sure would like to be over their with my buddies playing under the bleachers, or having a cold drink, or getting a hug from my Mom, or really being anywhere but here enduring this beating." But amazingly to me, in every one of these instances - every single one - the kid absolutely refused to quit or to give into his fears. Every time they chose to get back on the mat and finish what they had started. In fact, the only time I saw a match not finished was when a coach had to finally say, "I don't care what you say, I absolutely refuse to let you go back out there - we take an injury default." Dang, it was heroic; it was inspiring; it was down right glorious! I saw kids building the guts and drive in their souls and beings - our kids - America!

I saw blood, sweat, and tears on the mats in Brookwood's gym. Wrestling is a tough sport; as one coal miner proudly put it to me: "it's a man's sport." Forget the macho nature of that comment, for me it made my two-times-per week drive up to Brookwood every week for wrestling practice, and the hours working with my son on his moves all worth it - worth every second of it. I saw little kids developing themselves, their character, their futures. On several occasions I saw these things with tears welling up in my eyes (tears that I did my dangdest to hide from the coal miner).

On the way home I became contemplative as I often do when I am absolutely worn out - I guess I am just getting too old for the kind of work one of these tournaments demands of its time-keepers. I thought about how what I saw really wasn't a "wrestling thing." Rather the same sort of character and pride was being built all across our nation on baseball fields, in gymnastics facilities, on basketball courts, and in arenas all across this country. I believe that what I saw on Brookwood's wrestling mats on Saturday is the future of America. And I can tell you this: I slept well on Saturday night. America, we are going to be just fine.

As for my son, well he finished fifth in his age and weight class. He was wrestling for fourth place (fourth place gets a medal - fifth gets nothing) and was ahead the entire match. Right at the end of the match the kid he was wrestling reversed him, scoring two points, and beat my son. It was difficult explaining to my child that he missed a medal by a single point. But that effort of me was nothing compared to the difficulties he faced head-on during his long day out on the mats. I was most proud.