Greco-Roman Wrestling Program May Be a Factory Without a Future
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Version 0 of 1. MARQUETTE, Mich. — When he heard the news last Tuesday, Barrett Stanghill retreated to his dormitory room on the third floor of Meyland Hall at Northern Michigan University and reconsidered his future. The executive board of the International Olympic Committee had voted to eliminate wrestling from the Summer Games, starting in 2020, and Stanghill found it almost impossible to process. “I was pretty upset,” he said, measuring his words. Stanghill, 18, is part of a cadre of elite wrestlers who train and study at Northern Michigan, the home of the United States Olympic Education Center for Greco-Roman wrestling — the only facility of its kind in the country. Unlike other college programs, which operate under the umbrella of the N.C.A.A. and compete in the more mainstream freestyle wrestling, the Greco-Roman specialists here train in virtual anonymity. There are no dual meets against top programs like Iowa or Penn State. There are no N.C.A.A. titles to be won. The Northern Michigan wrestlers are preparing, quite simply, to become Olympians. That became problematic last week, when the I.O.C. voted to drop wrestling from the Games. Freestyle and Greco-Roman wrestling will be contested at the 2016 Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, but both disciplines will be excluded from the 2020 Games unless the sport wins an appeal. There is a chance that the I.O.C. could reverse its decision at a board meeting in May. A final decision will be made in September. For the athletes and coaches at Northern Michigan, the stakes are especially high. If Olympic wrestling dies, then their program probably will, too. “I’ve got wrestlers who are like, ‘What do we do now?’ ” said Rob Hermann, the program’s coach. “It was a shock. No one saw this coming.” The university is in a remote area of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, hard by the icy banks of Lake Superior and about 300 miles north of Milwaukee. It is a credit to Hermann’s skills as a pitchman that he has seven wrestlers from Florida and three from Hawaii on his 35-man roster. “It’s different up here, that’s for sure,” said Isaiah Varona, a freshman from Miami. For years, top-tier Division I programs have operated as the developmental system for Olympic hopefuls in freestyle wrestling. Yet for college-age athletes who want to pursue Greco-Roman wrestling, a style that prohibits holds below the waist, there is only one option: Northern Michigan. The program here was part of a federal initiative begun by Bart Stupak, a former congressman from Michigan, to establish training programs for Olympic hopefuls in nonscholarship sports. Northern Michigan, located in Stupak’s district, became home to the Greco-Roman program in 1999, and it has played a vital role in developing world-class talent. Five of its products competed last summer at the London Olympics, including Chas Betts, a 2010 graduate who placed ninth in the 84-kilogram weight class. Betts’s young brother, Parker, is a sophomore. “You’re pretty far away from everything up there,” Chas Betts said in a telephone interview. “It was a special, unique time in my life.” The I.O.C.’s decision, however, has left the program vulnerable. Brian Gaudreau, the program’s interim director, said he was at a dental appointment when he learned of the vote from his hygienist. It seemed appropriate. Hermann, a two-time Olympic coach, said: “We just have to be optimistic. We’re not in this alone. We’ve got partners and brothers out there in the wrestling community. I really feel like this decision is going to be overturned.” Obstacles are nothing new to these wrestlers, who stick to a daily routine that borders on monastic. They train every morning from 6:30 to 8:30 and then again in the afternoon from 3:30 to 5:30. In between, they bundle up in parkas and head to class. Aghasi Manukyan, Hermann’s lone assistant and a former world champion from Armenia, takes a hands-on approach. At 46, he grapples with athletes half his age and usually gives them all they can handle. He is also there to provide perspective. In Soviet-era Russia, he likes to tell the wrestlers, coaches forbade the consumption of water after practice. The thinking was that it made athletes bloated and weak. So can things really be that bad? “Aghasi will stay on the mat with you until 10 o’clock at night if he knows you want to get better,” Hermann said. After losing its federal funding last year, the program relies on USA Wrestling and the university for financial support. Hermann has 16 scholarships that cover room and board — many of the athletes receive additional money from organizations like the New York Athletic Club — and his one clear advantage is that he is not bound by N.C.A.A. rules. Hermann can contact recruits as often as he likes, whenever he likes. Team members travel to Panama, Thailand, Finland and Cuba to compete in meets organized by FILA, wrestling’s world governing body, while vying for spots on various national teams. (All of their competitions in the United States are national events, because there are no other college programs.) Max Nowry, a 22-year-old junior who placed second last year at the United States Olympic trials in the 55-kilogram class, was preparing last week for the Golden Grand Prix in Hungary. “Being here is all about jumping directly into international competition,” Nowry said. “Why waste time?” Hermann always has recruits visit the campus during the summer, which he acknowledges is a bit of subterfuge. When they arrive as freshmen, just as the cold winds are beginning to blow, Hermann instructs their parents to wait in the parking lot for a few minutes. “I’ve actually had recruits turn around and go back home the same day,” he said. Hermann understands their concerns. After taking over the program in 2010, Hermann relocated to this snowy hinterland from Pensacola, Fla., where he was coaching a Navy team. Because his wife and two college-age children stayed behind, Hermann had a clause included in his contract that allowed for him to fly home to Florida once a month. Last week, he was anticipating one such trip. “Boy, do I need it,” he said. If being here is isolating — all the wrestlers live together in close quarters at Meyland Hall — that is kind of the point. Without distractions, they can focus on their studies and their wrestling, though not necessarily in that order. “They know why they’re here,” Hermann said. “If they don’t know why they’re here, they usually leave.” Kendrick Sanders, a sophomore from Homestead, Fla., went the traditional route out of high school, accepting a scholarship to Purdue. But after a year and a half, he realized that he wanted to focus on Greco-Roman, which he said suited his explosive style. And the only way to do that, he said, was to enroll at Northern Michigan. Continuing as a collegiate wrestler at Purdue would have delayed his progress. “I had to decide whether I wanted to be the best in the world or just the best in the U.S.,” said Sanders, who became something of a sensation in the sport last year when he lifted an Italian opponent off the mat and unleashed a move known as the Powerbomb, the final phase of which had the Italian slammed shoulders-first to the mat from what must have felt like a third-story ledge. Hermann considers Sanders the country’s top wrestler at 66 kilograms, and he cuts an imposing figure, with a body that looks like an anatomical sketch. Sanders narrowly missed qualifying for the London Olympics, placing third at the United States trials. He said his goal remained unaffected by the I.O.C.’s decision: he intends to compete at the 2016 Games. For many of his classmates, the future is murkier. “The problem is that 2016 is only realistic for a handful of us,” Sanders said. “A lot of these guys were really looking at 2020.” That includes Stanghill, a two-time state high school champion from Montana who left home after his junior year. He is completing his senior year of high school online and attending Northern Michigan as a dual-enrolled student. The I.O.C.’s vote crushed his dream of competing at the 2020 Games. He recalled asking Hermann whether he should transfer to a Division I program so he could at least wrestle in college. “And then I kind of settled down,” Stanghill said. “I have three years to train for 2016, so maybe that’s realistic. The Olympics are still my ultimate goal, even if I do only have one chance.” Late last week, as an afternoon practice wrapped up, Hermann gathered his wrestlers around him. He wanted to remind them that officiating at international meets tended to be a vague, imperfect science, subject to political winds. He wanted them to keep their composure. “This is not a fair sport,” Hermann told them. “Never was, never will be. You’re going to have some bad calls. You’re going to think, Why am I down? I’m doing everything I was taught to do. Just play the game. Maybe just be good. Be the best.” It was a pep talk that he hoped would resonate, now more than ever. |