Tapping Out

Recently, I was sent to Des Moines, Iowa on business. I say "sent" because, after visiting Des Moines, I am fairly certain that no one who resides in sunny Southern California VOLUNTARILY flies to Iowa in the middle of February. It just doesn't happen.

Please do not take this as regional elitism, but there is absolutely NOTHING to do in Des Moines, aside from eating steak, farming, working in the insurance industry, watching television, and participating in and/or supporting high school athletics. In other words, I was completely happy to shut myself up in my hotel for two nights, and catch up on some emails, rather than immerse myself in the "culture" of Des Moines, Iowa.



Well, not everything went according to planned. Despite my best efforts to stay removed from all that is Iowa, I could not hold Iowa at bay. I did not come to Iowa. Iowa came to me. As it turns out, I happened to be in Des Moines at exactly the same time as the Iowa State High School Wrestling Championships. To make matters more interesting, the wrestlers and their "supportive" families were all staying at my hotel.

Now, in Los Angeles, you could have an NCAA Title Game, a television awards show, the X-Games, a marathon, an air show, and a Presidential visit all occuring in the same afternoon, and no one would bat an eyelash. This is not the case in Iowa. In Iowa, the State High School Wrestling Championship is the Super Bowl, Academy Awards, Olympics, and moon landing all wrapped into one.

The state of Iowa is typified by family gatherings, the celebration of shared values, and the folkloric hero worship of local athletes. Nothing reflects this stark reality more than the State High School Wrestling Championships.

Let's put it this way. If you want to really understand Los Angeles, spend a lazy tuesday afternoon at a West Hollywood cafe, drinking a soy latte with your overpaid stylist, discussing whether the $300 bandana you just purchased accentuates your new tribal tattoo, all while having an argument with your agent on your Blackberry. If you want to understand Des Moines, just buy a ticket to the wrestling championships.

To describe my experience at the Embassy Suites in Des Moines, Iowa as absolute bedlam would be a profound understatement. It was more like an epic hybrid of a three ring circus, Roman gladiator competition, frat party, and Fourth of July backyard barbecue. It was the type of controlled, communal anarchy that can only occur in places where everyone thinks and acts alike; where the celebration of common experiences and beliefs is its own form of rebellion. If you asked the state of Iowa what it was rebelling against, it would probably say "everyone not from Iowa."

(side note: I noticed a very interesting phenomenon in Iowa --- the number of people who wear items of clothing with the word "IOWA" emblazoned on them is staggering. Hats, jackets, sweatpants.....a sea of IOWANS more concerned with geographical identification than brand names. I found this both unsettling and admirable, for all the obvious reasons.)

My hotel was abuzz with acne-covered grapplers, their coaches, enthusiastic cheerleaders, and hundreds of other parents, siblings, and friends simply content to comprise the rooting section. Homemade signs were posted on the hallway bannisters and throughout the atrium, offering words of encouragement such as "Take Home the Trophy Trevor!" and "Show No Mercy Billy!" Cheerleaders roamed the hallways in packs of 5 or 6, pretending not to notice the wrestlers, and yet giving themselves away instantly with hushed giggles, and awkward smiles.


The younger brothers and sisters of the wrestlers, hopeful to one day be the object of their parents' pride and attention, stalked the hallways like ferral creatures, hijacking the elevators, and racing through the lobby as part of an elaborate game of intra-hotel hide-and-go-seek. It was Like "Mad Max: Beyond Des Moines" ..... there was no oversight, no rules, just the pageantry and spectacle of high school wrestling.

This was no ordinary weekend. This was State Championship weekend. Or so I was reminded at 2 am, when a team of wrestlers began screaming some type of tribal warrior chant in front of my hotel room.

The wrestlers were not alone. Their families hung from the rafters of the hotel, equipped with ice chests and bullhorns, thrilled to be a part of it all. It was a frenzy of Coors Light and Lee Jeans. Two parts rodeo, one part family reunion, and one part religious service. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. I didn't know whether to call the front desk, or shout "Hallelujah!"

That's when it occurred to me. In the middle of a sleepless night, isolated and alone, seeking deliverance from Red America, I was being taught a lesson. A lesson about fanship. About community.

I've crowded into a luxury box at Staples Center and clapped my hands in appreciation for Kobe Bryant's remarkable abilities. I've sat at Dodger Stadium and watched Eric Gagne pitch a dominant 9th inning (or rather, listened from my car after leaving in the 7th inning), but I've never in my life known what it means to be a true sports "fanatic." There is a large segment of this country, predominantly in the midwest and south, in which professional sports (NFL, MLB, NBA, NHL) are the minor leagues . . . the afternoon matinee preceding the main event. And that main event is high school sports.

I sat in my hotel room thinking that, while these people might not remember who won the AFC championship this year, or what player was taken first in the NBA draft lottery, they will ALWAYS remember the name of the kid who won the 145 pound weight class at the state championships in 2006. The outcome of the World Series, the results of the Indy 500, the drama of the Super Bowl ... all paled in comparison to whether Kennedy High School beat Hudson High School on a friday night in a dimly lit high school gymnasium.

Awake in the middle of the night, I was awfully close to dismissing these Iowans as bad parents. Underage drinking. Kids running through the halls. Teenagers treating the Embassy Suites like their personal jungle gym. But then it occurred to me ... the very fact that these parents were there, at this hotel, offering uncompromising support for their sons, was admirable. They took time off work, saved money, cancelled plans, fundraised, and made the journey to Des Moines to attend this once-a-year event. This was their Super Bowl. Their World Series.

I put in earplugs and went back to sleep, feeling almost guilty that I had spent an hour online emailing my friends about how unbearable the hotel patrons had become. The Wrestling Championships were the biggest show in town, and I was the ONLY one not excited about it. I was in the minority. No time for west coast pretention.

Make no mistake, in the end I was quite happy to return home to Venice Beach, CA. But I returned with a new perspective on what it means to be a fan. For Iowans, sports heroes don't make eight-figure salaries, and they don't sign endorsement deals. If you didn't make your name in an Iowa High School, then Iowa has no use for you.

Iowa certainly has no use for me.