Maccabiah 1985: A story of perseverance

‘Maaruf, make sure I am always holding on to the stretcher!”

“Why Judah?”

“‘Cause if I am not, I am liable to be in some ditch somewhere.”

The delirium increased with every step of the march. I had snuck away from the army hospital with a 105 degree fever. No way was I going to miss the culmination of basic training, the march for the Red Beret, 60 miles over mountains in 17 hours carrying stretchers.

The surprised medic said, “I heard you were in the hospital.”

“Just let me drink extra water.”

The first time that happened Sergeant Shai’s bellowing reprimand made continuing to hallucinate the more practical response. After Red Beret ceremonies at THE WALL, I crept around a wall, officially collapsing. A parent noticed my spastic convulsions. She took me to a massage therapist friend who set me straight. Then, back to Tel Aviv to an army hospital bed. The nurse lifted my bed sheets alarmed by all the blood. The march in my tight civilian uniform had completely chafed my inner thighs. Also, stitches from surgery a week earlier, unraveled. Most disconcerting was my pumpkin-looking left ankle.

“Three weeks bed rest,” the doc ordered.

“But, doc, in two days the Maccabiah Village opens. I am on the wrestling team.”

“Forget it, soldier. Your Achilles is so strained you might never walk again.”

Every four years, Jews from every corner of the globe gather to see who reigns supreme. Having heard the games were about to happen, I showed up at the home of North Israel’s Olympic wrestling team, Ha Poel Tel Aviv.

I pronounced, “Ani Mitabek” “I am a wrestler.”

From the get go, I defeated every wrestler, including the heavyweights. No one scored a point against me. The coach welcomed me to the team. Defying my lieutenant, I made it to practices. Entering the wrestling room at the Maccabiah Village I faced a whole new team, Ha Poel Beersheba.

“You are not going to wrestle. You have no neck. The army will sue me,” their head coach said.

My thighs were wrapped in gauze. My left ankle secured by five Ace bandages.

“I’ll sit if you have anybody that can beat me. I am a Jew and an Israeli. I have every right to represent my country.”

From smaller than me, at 68 kilo (150 pounds), the Beersheba coach set his team upon me. One by one, one after the other, I laid his entire team down.

“I don’t care. You will not wrestle. I will see to that!”

This repeated itself for six days of training morning till night. Not a single wrestler ever scored a point against me. The day before the wrestling was to begin, the Olympic doc entered the wrestling room and disqualified me.

The next day I was barred from the weigh-in. I dragged in one ref to wink an eye at my weight. The other wrestlers piled into the cafeteria. I headed for the arena where six mats were set. Hundreds of spectators were already in the stands. I recalled my childhood where wrestling was king. Great teams like Maple, Columbus De Salles, Toledo St. Francis, whose warriors would unrobe in majestic fashion, and like dolphins and seals of the wide blue sea, would leap and flip in a stunning array. Alone, I flipped and flipped, till the teams of the world melded at my side.

I ran over to the American coach who happened to be from John Carroll University.

“You have only one wrestler my weight. I wrestled for Cleveland Heights, not far from you. I am an American. Let me wrestle for you.”

“Sorry. You did not train with us. You are not wrestling for us.”

I ran over to the refs table.

“If you don’t let me wrestle, I am going to make a scene and stop the whole show.”

As every weight class proceeded, I made my way to the refs table, always followed by the Israeli coach.

“You will wrestle,” they would tell me, till I realized there was no one left my size.

I sighed deep, and let them get on with it. For posterity, I approached the top three, challenging them to a match. We met the next day outside the arena, shook hands, and walked in. The mats were rolled up. We laughed, extended hands and said, “See you in four years.”