Willie Burton: The Dash

There are two numbers that are believed to define an athlete.  The first, the amount of wins – times their hand was raised, the number of games their points amassed their opponents'.  The second number, the defeats.  But what truly defines the athlete is neither the first nor the second number, but the dash in between.  The dash represents the unseen obstacles, the inner triumphs, the work when no one was watching, the good days and the bad.  For Willie Burton, it meant surviving brain hemorrhages in the womb, being born two months premature, an adoption, and a limited life in a wheelchair with cerebral palsy.  Although Willie Burton, wrestler from Louisville, Kentucky, lost over one hundred matches during high school and won just one, his legacy – his dash – emulates that of an undefeated career.

Born two months premature to a seventeen year-old mother, Larry and Brenda Burton adopted Willie after his mother contacted a local church’s pastor. Brain hemorrhaging resulted in a diagnosis of cerebral palsy – Willie would have limited mobility of his right arm and little to none in his legs.  Growing up, he was unsatisfied with the competition his disabled leagues offered and knew he encompassed the potential to compete at higher level.  With a strong upper body, Willie found his new home on the mat.  

          Fast forward to 2010, Willie’s freshman year at Fairdale High School in Louisville, Kentucky.  Winter rolled around and Willie saw the opportunity to join the school’s wrestling team, but not everyone was on board.  His parents and coaches feared for not only his safety, but also his ability to succeed in such a physically demanding sport.  Willie ignored the boo’s and was on the mat that winter, wrestling in the 106lb weight class.  He competed in over twenty matches in 2010, not winning a single bout.  Then came 2011, and yet another winless season.  2012 was all too familiar, resulting in not a single win.  By the end of 2012, Willie had competed in nearly 100 matches – nearly triple digits on the right side of his dash, and a zero on the left.  

          The winter season of 2013 hit and Willie Burton was now a senior wrestler at Fairdale High School, with a new dedication to leaving a winner’s legacy both off, and now on, the mat.  Whether it was wheeling his chair two miles around the track as his teammates lapped him on foot, or shoulder pressing dumbbells from it in the weight room, Willie left no doubt that he would not be denied a number on the left side of his dash.  

          February 11^th, 2014 – senior night at Fairdale High School.  Willie weighed in with the help of his teammates, and squeezed into his singlet.  After being rolled to the edge of the mat, Willie then crawled to the center to meet his opponent.  The two grapplers shook hands and the whistle blew.  Dan Gable notoriously said that, “The first period is won by the best technician.  The second period is won by the kid in the best shape.  The third period is won by the kid with the biggest heart.”  The score was tied 4-4 in the third period with little time on the clock, and Willie locked up a cradle.  He tilted his Pleasure Ridge Park challenger, as the referee motioned for two near fall points.  The gymnasium score clock buzzed, and the crowd erupted.  By a decision of 6-4, Willie Burton was the victor.  A few weeks later, he wrestled his last match as a Bulldog after falling to his opponent in the regional tournament.  

          Although he only felt the sensation of having his hand raised at center mat once in his career, his champion mentality rivals that of even the most successful wrestlers.  Though his record on paper shows one triumph and triple-digit losses, his legacy isn’t defined by either.  Willie Burton’s legacy is defined by his dash – where he overcame adversity from the moment he was born, never rested on his laurels, and inspired every athlete, abled and disabled, to “view life’s hard times as an opportunity to better yourself."

TBT: Getting Tattooed By A 300lb Woman In Atlantic City

   

          At the beginning of this past summer, I was lucky enough to be asked to stay 100% sober and drive my brothers and their girlfriends to Atlantic City for a Florida Georgia Line concert.  Being the lone bachelor in the Farrar brother trio, I sat this one out.  After dropping the couples off near Boardwalk Hall, I parked at a nearby shopping plaza and admired the sundressed blondes and wannabe belles that came out of the South Jersey woodworks for the show.

It took me all of ten minutes to realize that my night would absolutely suck unless I found a way to make a story out of it.  Naturally, I enlisted in the help of my four friends and our groupchat for advice on how to make the most of an unpromising situation.  There was no shortage of clever ideas, and we narrowed it down to a top five:

1.  Find love on the boardwalk

2.  Pay two homeless-person-drawn-carriage pushers double their rates to race 1/4 mile

3.  Order pizza and drink 40's with the "34 year-old Vietnam War veteran" under the boardwalk

4.  Pan handle with said veteran and gamble the earnings at Caesar's

5.  Get a tattoo at "Pain and Pleasure"

I was under the drinking age, too young to gamble, and love is surprisingly harder to find on the AC boardwalk than you think, so that left me with three options.  Unfortunately, I had already paid two homeless men to drag race down the boardwalk back in 2011, and I didn't think I'd have success bumming while wearing a $130 vest, so I began my trek five blocks offshore to Pain and Pleasure.  

By this time, it's 10:30pm and I'm the only person in Atlantic City stupid enough to walk alone outdoors with a combover.  I walked into the shop, only to come face-to-face with a man (I'll ballpark it at 9X my size) leaving his session.  After an awkward "sup" nod, I walked up to the front counter, told the 300lb receptionist what was on my mind, then sat on a furry purple waiting room chair like a white Flavor Flav.  After fifteen minutes of waiting, and less than thirty seconds total of consulting, I was shirtless on a leather dental chair with 300lbs of South Jersey woman straddling me, holding a green razor to my size and shaving my rib cage.  A defibrillator would've been nice, but the gun started buzzing and the rest became a blur.

The entire ordeal was done in a matter of thirty-five minutes, costing a whopping $50 plus a $6 tip.  If you know anything about tattoo etiquette, that tip sucks, but I don't plan on ever being within 100ft of that shop anyway.  I thanked the staff and hiked a mile or so back to the plaza parking lot, giving the same homeless person money twice.  Why?  Because I felt the need to empty my pockets before someone convinced me to do something even dumber, plus the guy ran a block ahead of me after the first time I gave him money - gotta respect the hustle.  With another hour to kill, I found refuge inside a nearby Rite Aid and fell asleep on a blood pressure reading chair while charging my phone.  After being woken up by a toothless employee, I went back to my car and waited out the rest of the night until my brothers came knocking on the windows.

Maybe my night wasn't as good as the floor level seats to FGL, and no, I didn't find love on the Atlantic City boardwalk.  I do, however, have a hell of a story to tell and a permanent reminder as to what boredom mixed with asinine ideas from your friends can leave you with.

I won't disclose exactly what I got tattooed, but I will say that it needed to be touched up.  Twice.

Ode To The Try Hard Neighbor

          

     I get it.  You saw that Tim Allen movie from the mid 2000's, where he spends day and night making the most badass Christmas display ever, and got inspired.  If your goal was to turn your yard into an inconsiderately loud and bright fire hazard to all of Birch Avenue, job well done.

          I've noticed a trend.  People with the loudest lights are also the only ones on the block with snowblowers, and damnit they're gonna let you know it.  It usually presents itself as a 7:00am wake up to take a leak, only to look out the window to see a few flurries on your driveway.  Directly across the street, the man you've only known as "Ed From Across The Street" is wailing his snowblower at 4000 RPM's with one hand, while waving to you (yep, he somehow saw you) with the other, as if to let you know he's digging escape tunnels for the apocalypse.  Take it easy, Ed - it's practically dust. 

          I respect Christmas spirit, I really do.  You're talking to the guy who recorded every single episode of A Christmas Story that ABC Family aired on Christmas last year.  Yeah, it took up a shit load of DVR space, but commercials are the second best part of Christmas television.  Shout out to Hallmark for the tearjerkers.  

          Anyway, I draw the line at try-hards.  Play Silent Night and The First Noel until kingdom come - that's relaxing.  But if your yard is screaming "Feliz Navidad!" like a damn Trans Siberian Orchestra concert, we might have a problem.  Lucky for you, I decided that I was too old to unplug people's decorations myself when I turned 18, so this year I'm enlisting in the help of the baddest 7-year-old Edgewood Estates has to offer, and it'll only cost me some old baseball cards and a sack of marbles.  

          I can appreciate an inflatable snowman or snow globe, and if you really want to get on my good side, set up a nativity scene.  Feel free to throw some reindeer out there, but expect my recruits to position Rudolph to look like he's getting dry humped by Dasher and Dancer at least once.  Oldest trick in the book.
          It's 2014 - wake up, people.  Christmas lights are no longer cosmetic expressions of spirit, they're establishments of neighborhood dominance.  Nail the display and go down in history as one of the neighborhood best to ever do it and hold celeb status for the next 364 days.

Evan Farrar