You remember a lot about your wrestling days – the pins, wins, and losses. Something else that stands out is the people who were in the stands. Parents, coaches, teachers, and fellow students watching and yelling to a wrestler on the mat who really doesn’t hear a word you say.

Even though he worked two jobs his whole life my father usually made home and away matches. He wasn’t a screamer of even a clapper; He observed. His comments were usually the same, “that guy looked a lot bigger than you,” or “he looked a lot older.” Until your senior year it’s mostly true. His most common comment, “I though you were going to lose that one.” “Me too,” I would reply.

One thing that stood out about my father was how he walked out in the middle of the meets. Walked out? That’s right. After you’d have wrestled, he would leave and the next weight class up person’s father would go too.

People would look and think, what kind of fan is that? Well, in the seventies things were definitely different. One factor was cigarettes. Everyone smoked, especially parents from that generation. So after my match, out my father would go. Did he root for a pin? You bet! The sooner the smoke. Off the parents would go, two by two, no coat required. Like teenagers huddling, they would stand outside the door. They’d come back and two or more would march out mindful of the score from the next group.

Things really were different though. Cigarettes were just beginning to get the rap they deserved. The drinking age was 18. Even a member of the wrestling team worked past 10:00 cleaning a bar! You worked where you could earn money. Jobs were tight. Summer tournaments required a car and a driver. My father would take a day off and pack us in. We brought our lunch, shared shoes and scraped together the fee.

On one Saturday we were off to Rochester to an AAU tournament. We had to come up with those stupid card costs. After a day of, what is this freestyle, or Greco, or whatever? And what is this black point system we finished. The rain started on the way out of the door. It was pouring and guess what? The wipers quit working. So, from Rochester to Syracuse each guy took a turn head out of the window in the rain manually moving the wiper. Good times.

The seventies are gone, but Milt Kramer is still around, all the wiser, and occasionally still catching a match. He doesn’t have to walk out any more, not because I’m not there wrestling, but because he wised up enough to drop that rotten habit.

This father’s day I’d like to thank him and all dads for getting us through the tough, but exciting times in our lives.

Remember, it’s not a game – it’s father’s day! Happy father’s day to you and all!