Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [1]
My parents got me into every wrestling tournament they could because they wanted me to learn what it was like to compete. As far back as I can remember, weekends meant wrestling tournaments. I can picture myself in the back of the family station wagon for hours on end, watching the farm fields go by, and wondering where we would end up.
My mom did most of the driving to practices, matches, and tournaments, because my dad had to stay home and work the farm. They both made it whenever they could, but sometimes I had to hitch a ride with another family or my coach. However I got there, my job was to win.
My mom didn’t accept any excuses. If I lost, it was my fault. Period. I couldn’t blame a loss on the referee, and there were no teammates to let me down. It was just me and the other kid on the mat. One winner. One loser. The outcome was up to me, and me alone.
When I lost a match—as I did from time to time—it was “admit it, accept it, get in the car, and let’s go home.” My mom’s comments were always brief, and she always said the same thing. “There’s another match next weekend. If you don’t like the way you feel when you lose, then get in there and win. What do you want to be in life? The guy who feels good because he wins, or the guy who feels like you do now because he lost?”
My mom was pretty stiff, but it turned out to be the best thing for me. It may seem coldhearted, but she loved me enough to make me want to go out there and earn victories. Just like crying was not acceptable if I lost, there was no big celebration if I won. Instead, my mom would just say, “Good job, Brock, now let’s get in the car and go home. You won. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
My dad was no different. If I won a trophy, he would say “good job.” If I lost, he would tell me to try harder and win the next time. That was it. The expectations were clear. Losing was not an option.
Looking back from where I am now, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Wrestling is a competition. So is life. Even as a kid, I walked into every tournament for one reason—to win. My mom and dad expected no less, and they taught me to never settle for second best. I haven’t.
I will never forget how upset my mom was when I lost in the quarter finals of the National Junior College Wrestling Tournament. It was during my freshman year at Bismarck State College in North Dakota. She really wanted me to excel—to stand out. She wanted me not only to live up to my potential, but to do even more. She knew I had been blessed with certain gifts as an athlete, and that I had the ability to push myself harder than anyone else; so why wasn’t I number one? In her mind, there was no reason I shouldn’t be the best, and she wasn’t ever going to let me think second place was “okay.”
Sure, my mom pushed me hard to win. She saw a passion in me. She saw that I was a competitor. She wanted me to make the most of my natural instincts. I was her last son.
I was the third of four children, and I feel bad for my siblings because most of the time I was the center of attention. My two older brothers, Troy and Chad, were standout athletes in their own right, but chose not to pursue sports as a career. Over time, they became known as Brock’s brothers. My poor little sister, Brandy, was a very good athlete too, and she excelled at basketball, volleyball,