Foxcatcher Read online

  Even looking toward the next year, I knew that my main competition on the OU roster was Israel Sheppard, a chiseled 158-pounder who was tougher than nails. (Isreal’s name was often misspelled as “Israel.” I spelled his name wrong a bunch of times until the wrestling coach’s secretary corrected me, and then I made sure I wrote it correctly every time.)

  When I met Isreal, he was confident and brash and didn’t mind attracting the attention of the coaches. Coach Abel seemed really pleased with Isreal at my weight. I knew my only option, as one of my mottos stated, was “kill or be killed.”

  Workouts with Isreal were superintense. The OU wrestling room wasn’t as nice as would be expected of such an established program. There were three padded pillars in the center of the room, but one of the pillars was partially unpadded, leaving a small spot of bare wood exposed. Once, I tried to slam Isreal’s head into that unpadded area but missed.

  Isreal wore his hair in cornrows that felt like steel wool. When we wrestled, his cornrows would rub my face. Sometimes his hair would rub against my face so much that I’d flinch in the shower when water hit the raw spots. One day I noticed that the foam on top of the left side of my headgear was wearing away and the aluminum metal underneath the pad was barely poking through. That piece of aluminum was almost like a blade. The next time Isreal shot for my legs, I blocked him with my head and noticed that the bare aluminum had slightly cut him. I had found my answer to his cornrows. He didn’t seem to braid his hair in cornrows as frequently after that.

  I held an interesting view toward Isreal at the time. I cared nothing about him, because he was an enemy, yet he was one of the most valuable people in my life, because I could practice brutal moves against him without a shred of remorse. Going up against Isreal in practice as much as I did clearly helped me develop into a better wrestler.

  Sometimes in our workouts, the team would work only on takedowns. I made up my mind that no matter who I was wrestling, I would never be the first one to say “I’m done.” I also determined that regardless of who got the takedown, I would be first back to the center of the mat ready to start the next round. When I could get two or three guys to say “I’m done” in one day, I knew my strategies were working.

  A constant part of Coach Abel’s conditioning drills was running the stadium stairs at Owen Field, the football stadium. One day after we had run to the top, just to prove to the other wrestlers—and myself—that I wasn’t scared of anything, I climbed over the edge of the top of the stadium with one arm dangling over the wall. When I knew that everyone else on the team had seen me, I climbed back over. Then, of course, some of the others had to prove they could do it, too.

  Practices were so intense that afterward, we looked as if we were competitors in some strange, clothed water sport. We’d be drenched head to toe in sweat as if we had jumped into a pool. We could see big wet spots on all the mats when we were done, and invariably a fog floated above the room. When we left, our shoes squished as we walked.

  But I wanted more. Well, I didn’t really want more, but I needed more. After practice, I would do pushups, V-ups, body lifts, wall sits, and frog hops. I’d secretly get in one extra workout every day. I assumed my opponents, who were actually my teammates, wouldn’t understand why I didn’t get as tired during practice as they did, and that would destroy their confidence when they faced me.

  Each of my days was divided into two parts: before and after practice. Before practice, I was all serious, dreading practice. I probably looked as if I were headed to the gallows. After practice, I was happy and relaxed, relieved practice was over.

  One huge advantage I knew I held over Isreal that season was that he was having to cut weight and under the pressure of competition. I wasn’t. I worked that, especially not having to endure cutting, as much as I could. When I felt as if I was gaining a slight edge on Isreal, I would use that edge to try to knock him down a little further and pick up another slight edge on him. I had a year before I’d have to earn a spot over him, and I was willing to persistently gain on him inch by inch.

  As the season progressed, I felt that I was beginning to get the upper hand against Isreal, and from the way Coach Abel treated me, I believed he was taking notice.

  Isreal placed third in the NCAA championships at 158. Fortunately, Coach Abel had plans other than pitting Isreal and me against each other at the same weight.

  CHAPTER 6

  National Champion!

  It was as though a beam of light came down out of heaven, shined upon me, and revealed to me the secrets of wrestling.

  I can only call the experience a revelation.

  My and Dave’s second year at Oklahoma marked the first season during which we could compete and the first time I weighed more than him. Coach had decided to redshirt Isreal for one season to wrestle at 158 and have me bulk up to 167.

  My first tournament was the Great Plains Open in Nebraska, the same tournament at which Dave had defeated the two-time NCAA champion as a high school senior. I reached the 167 finals against Iowa’s Mike DeAnna, the NCAA runner-up in 1979. I was ahead 3–1 or 4–1, and Mike and I were on our feet when the beam of light “appeared.”

  I stood straight up and, instead of shooting on me, Mike also stood straight up and just sort of stood there, as though he were wondering if he’d missed something like time running out or the ref stopping the match. I remember looking at Mike in that magical moment and thinking, There is no way he can take me down.

  From that point on, everything I did in the match worked perfectly and I beat him 8–1 for my first win in a major open tournament. I was ready for everything coming my way in wrestling—except for Dave’s secret move.

  One time during practice, I was wrestling Dave. I shot in and he put me in a front headlock. I kept hold of his hands, waiting for him to spin behind. Then I would stand up and escape the takedown. But Dave didn’t spin behind. Instead, he just kept me in the front headlock. The next thing I knew, I was dreaming that I was standing with cows in a pasture and looking skyward at birds and clouds. When I woke up, Dave was standing over me, his sweat dripping onto my face.

  “You’re pinned,” he said with a huge gotcha smile.

  I got up from the mat, ripped off my shirt, grabbed Dave by his ears, and head-butted him.

  For months afterward, I would ask Dave to get me in that headlock again. Then I’d tell him I wanted to try it. We’d go back and forth, over and over, for months, until one day I knocked him out during a live practice. It was like my birthday, Christmas, and New Year’s rolled into one.

  Thus was born what I later called “the Schultz front headlock.” In our move, we would put the opponent’s head under his armpit and squeeze the jugular vein to cut off the air and blood flow to his brain. That would knock him out. Then we would pin him and move him around to make it look as if he was conscious until he did come to again. Like me that day, our opponent wouldn’t even know he had been pinned. The move gave us such a dominant advantage that wrestling’s international governing body created a rule banning it.

  —

  Perry Hummel of Iowa State, the 1980 NCAA runner-up, was one of the toughest guys I ever faced. He was a sophomore like me, and over the next three years we squared off six times. We each won three times, and all six were tightly contested.

  Our first meeting was in a dual at Iowa State. That was one of the craziest environments I wrestled in during college. All the close calls that day seemed to be going against our team, and the arena was filled with obnoxiously loud fans who called us every name in the book and then a few others. I’ve never heard more profanity from fans than in that dual.

  Hummel and I were going at each other real good, with a lot of head-butts between us. He beat me 7–4, with the refs giving him four penalty points for me stalling. I thought I was getting hosed, and after the last two-point stalling call against me, I head-butted Hummel as hard as I could. I did
n’t care if I got thrown out of the match. I was pissed, knew at that point I was going to lose, and wanted to give Hummel something to think about for future matches.

  I met up with Hummel again in the finals of the Big 8 Conference championships at Gallagher Hall on Oklahoma State’s campus. I lost to him 6–4. We narrowly beat Iowa State for the conference team championship, but leaving the arena, I pulled my silver medal out of my bag and threw it onto the top of the arena. Later, I threw away the brand-new shoes I had worn in the conference tournament and went back to my old workout shoes.

  I entered the NCAA championships at Princeton University ranked third at 167 pounds but drew a tough spot in the bracket. I beat Mike Sheets, a freshman from rival Oklahoma State, in the first round, but I could tell he was going to be very good very soon.

  In the third round, I faced sixth-seeded John Reich from the US Naval Academy. Before the match, I kept hearing how great a rider Reich was. Because of that, I gave him too much credit. After a scoreless first period, he started the second period on top. I didn’t escape from him. He rode me for about a minute before we went out of bounds next to my corner. Coach Abel grabbed me and yelled right into my face, “You get the hell out of there right now!” With just that one order, Coach shook me out of my sissy mentality.

  That’s it, I told myself. I’m getting out.

  I took the down position and as soon as the ref blew his whistle, I exploded and had escaped in less than a second. At that moment, I realized that despite what I had been told about Reich, his ability to ride was nothing compared to my ability to escape. I beat him 15–9 and even got riding time on him despite the early advantage he had. That was the last time I put too much stock in what anyone told me about an opponent.

  Defeating Reich advanced me to the semifinals against Perry Hummel. We went at each other real tough again, battling to a 4–4 tie in regulation. Then I beat him in overtime.

  After that match, we all cut weight and went to Subway as a team for dinner. We had already clinched enough points for second place as a team, and Coach Abel was being congratulated. He pointed to me in line and said I was the one whose match had clinched second. It felt good to hear him say that, but frankly, I didn’t care too much about the team score. Nothing mattered to me except the finals the next day, when I’d be facing Mike DeAnna for the third time that season.

  The next morning, I told Coach I was going to stay at the hotel and rest while the others went to the arena for the early matches. Coach said he’d come get me and take me to the arena. About an hour and a half before the finals, I hadn’t heard from Coach. I ran the twenty blocks to the arena and found Coach sitting in the corner of Roger Frizzell, who was wrestling for third place at 150.

  “You left me at the hotel,” I said to Coach. “I had to run here.”

  “Good job,” he told me. “Get ready to wrestle.”

  The run served as a good warm-up for me, but I wondered at what point Coach would have remembered to come get me if I hadn’t shown up.

  Right before the finals began, there was a ceremonial parade of champions in which the wrestlers who would be meeting for the championships had to stand next to each other. Talk about uncomfortable. I didn’t say a word to DeAnna.

  Andre Metzger was the first from our team to wrestle for a championship, at 142, and he won his match. Dave’s match was next.

  I was warming up behind the bleachers while Dave wrestled Oklahoma State’s Ricky Stewart, whom Dave had beaten pretty soundly in their two earlier meetings that season. I took a peek at the scoreboard to see that Dave had taken a 3–0 lead, then soon thereafter I heard the crowd roar and I knew that Dave had pinned Ricky for the title. I walked around from behind the seats to make my way to the mat and spotted Ricky running around the mat, arms raised. He had pinned Dave. I was stunned, because that had to be the upset of the year. I told myself I couldn’t let the shock of Dave’s loss get to me.

  I took a 4–1 lead in the second period before the ref called me three times for stalling (one warning and two penalty points), slicing my lead to 4–3. I couldn’t believe I was doing all the scoring and the ref was calling me for stalling. We had a full period and half of another to go, and the next stalling call would give Mike two points. The calls in that tournament had seemed to be going Iowa’s way, and the ref was practically in my face while I wrestled. Sure enough, he raised his arm looking for confirmation from the mat judges to award a two-point stalling call against me. I immediately called timeout before the confirmation could come, went over to my corner, and lay down. Ron Tripp, one of our assistants, asked what was wrong. The ref was standing right there looking down at me, extremely interested in my answer.

  “My knee,” I said.

  I had been wrestling with an injured left knee. Tripp started rubbing my right knee.

  “Wrong knee,” I told him.

  “You turkey.” Tripp replied, wrongly thinking I was faking an injury and it wouldn’t have mattered which knee he was rubbing.

  The stalling confirmation didn’t come.

  After the injury timeout, I walked back out to the mat and rode Mike for the duration of the period.

  I started the third period down and escaped within seconds and took Mike down. He escaped and I took him down again. I won 10–4, with half of his points on stalling calls. I had three minutes and thirty seconds of riding time. To celebrate my first NCAA championship, I performed my customary backflip.

  I went to a silk-screening store before we left for home and had a T-shirt printed that read NCAA CHAMP on the back. I wore the shirt on the plane ride home. No matter what would happen the rest of my career, at least my name would forever be on the list of national champions.

  —

  I went back to Palo Alto after the NCAAs, and Chris Horpel invited me to go to Newport Beach and relax with him and work out with some guys in that area. Things were different between us during that visit. Chris didn’t seem to like me as much as before. I got this uncomfortable feeling that he considered himself superior to me, perhaps intellectually superior because he was a Stanford grad.

  For some reason, Chris targeted my table manners. I had bad manners. Back at OU, I ate pretty much like a slob, tearing meat away from chicken and steak with my teeth as though I could be using those same teeth to tear away at my opponent’s arms and legs. Forget manners at the table, I had an image to project, and that included making those around me aware that to me, food was fuel to be consumed, not something to be enjoyed.

  Chris tried to teach me the fine art of dining. I could not have cared less about table manners at that point in my life. (I do now, I would like to add.) Plus, I felt that was Chris’s way of trying to gain an advantage on me, to beat me. I didn’t know why he would want to do that, but I was having none of it. The more he tried to teach me, the worse I made my manners. Chris gave up. I was satisfied that I had made my point.

  After the Newport Beach trip, I went to Ashland for a while to relax and work out with Southern Oregon wrestlers. It just so happened that Iowa assistant coach J. Robinson was running one of his summer camps at the college and Ed Banach was there with him. I couldn’t believe Ed was in my backyard!

  I had grown to almost the same size as Ed. I worked out with him a few times and did pretty well against him, and that gave me a boost of confidence going into my junior year.

  One day during the camp, I went into the Southern Oregon wrestling room and the entire team was working out. Everyone knew who I was. I had lived there and now I was back as the first NCAA Division I champ from Ashland.

  Of course, they all wanted a shot at me. I gave it to them. All of them. At once.

  I walked to the center of the mat and one by one the entire roster at every weight took turns trying to take me down. Thanks to that summer of poundings Dave had heaped on me, I had developed an almost impenetrable defense. With all due respect, there’s a gap
between NCAA Division I and NAIA wrestlers, and not one of those guys could have taken me down. I felt as if I could have stayed there all day and never been taken to the mat.

  Southern Oregon coach Bob Rheim walked in sometime during all this and watched as wrestler after wrestler of his failed to conquer me. Apparently he had seen enough, because Rheim walked onto the mat waving his arms and yelled at me, “Get the hell out of here,” then kicked me out of his wrestling room. It wasn’t the first time.

  Rheim had been one of the coaches who heard Dave call me a pot smoker when Dave was being recruited. After I had stopped smoking pot and started wrestling, I showed up at Southern Oregon’s wrestling room to work out and Rheim called me a pot smoker in front of his team and told me to leave, saying, “We don’t allow pot smokers in here.”

  I could only shake my head as I left under his orders for a second time.

  “You’re destroying my team’s confidence!” he yelled as I was on my way out. I never returned to that room again, although years later, after Rheim had retired, we became friends.

  —

  I weighed in at 177 to start my junior year. Isreal Sheppard was back with us after his redshirt year, and to make the team stronger, Coach Abel put Isreal in the 158 slot, slid Dave up to 167, and placed me at 177.

  That meant I wouldn’t have to cut weight much and could focus instead on running workouts for conditioning.

  Wrestling is a combination of technique, conditioning, and luck. Luck you can’t do anything about. But technique and conditioning are all up to the wrestlers. Dave caused everyone in the sport to step up their commitment to technique, but conditioning remained the name of the game. Explosions require a huge amount of conditioning. A wrestler has to possess incredible conditioning to hit moves harder than, faster than, more often than, and before his opponent. Wrestling is not an easy sport, but the key to excelling is simple: Learn moves and condition like crazy. To acquire the conditioning required to win at the world-class level, I had to push myself to the absolute limits of my ability and endure pain day after day after day. Life had to become hell for me to be conditioned like I needed to be.