attended, Powell wrestled Ben Brooks at the 189-pound spot. It was close, and Ben won.
I congratulated Ben immediately after. He looked up and smiled, “He gave it to me. He let me win.”
It was Powell leading the other coaches to push the pace, wrestling with some of the upper weights himself, demanding they keep trying for takedowns, keep sticking it out. At least one wrestler broke down in every practice, crying or fighting with another wrestler, but Powell told him to keep wrestling. And he would talk to them in his own code, “You dig?” he would ask; or “Legit,” meaning one of them did something that won his approval.
“You go through hell in that room,” one wrestler said. “He makes you want to do it. I work that hard, we all do, just so he could say to you, ‘Nice job.’” He added, “You keep sticking it out because you know you’re going to be a badass. No one on any other team has a warmup even close to us. They’re all gassed. It makes you feel so good about yourself.”
The first two and a half hours of practice were the workouts; the last hour and a half was Powell talking to them about life. They called them “Powell lessons,” and he told them about mistakes he made, how “he screwed up,” all in a way that the young men could hear. “He would give you a rib shot and then give you a dead serious talk,” one wrestler said. “He tries to be our friend and coach and mentor at the same time,” another said.
I remarked to one of Brendan’s teachers at the parent-teacher conference in his senior year how much Brendan liked and respected Powell.
“All those boys think Powell walks on water,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I am not so sure he doesn’t,” I said.
Before every match began, he embraced Ellis Coleman, a nationally ranked wrestler who eventually became an internationally ranked wrestler aiming for the US Olympic team, and kissed him on the top of his head. Ellis eventually made it to the Olympics—London 2012. Powell was there. Both Weldon and Colin were there in London to watch Ellis as well.
Powell drove Ellis’s older brother, Lillashawn, to college his freshman year and moved him into the dorm. He advised all the young men on the team on everything from strength training to nutrition to girlfriends.
“No fake sugar.” He said it so often, the wrestlers wanted T-shirts made with the slogan.
One summer night in 2008 Powell drove to Peoria—about 170 miles each way—to pick up Ellis and Lillashawn, both wrestling in an off-season tournament, after their grandfather had died suddenly. Their mother couldn’t make the trip to retrieve them.
Powell contacted all the team members and caravanned with the boys to the wake a few days later. When another wrestler’s father died from a long-endured brain tumor, Powell was there, rallying the boy’s teammates to his father’s wake and later funeral. Two boys who quit the team in their junior year came back to the team a year later.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Powell said Jake Venerable told him on the phone.
“What weight will you wrestle this year?” another coach asked Ellis about his varsity plans for his senior year.
“Whatever Coach Powell tells me,” was his answer.
In weekly e-mails to the team’s families, Powell saluted the boys by name for specific victories or struggles and signed each e-mail, “In relentless pursuit.” One e-mail read, “The coaches could not be more proud of our guys. The athletes have really dedicated themselves; working hard, sacrificing, displaying courage daily. What a great group of young men.”
“I was always defined as a wrestler,” Powell said. His nickname as a kid was Mikey Powerful.
As a kid, Powell said he was high-energy and tried karate as a way to deflect some of that nervous velocity, and also Boy Scouts, but neither outlet worked. His father, Bud, started him in youth wrestling when Powell was a forty-five-pound first grader; the next biggest wrestler
I congratulated Ben immediately after. He looked up and smiled, “He gave it to me. He let me win.”
It was Powell leading the other coaches to push the pace, wrestling with some of the upper weights himself, demanding they keep trying for takedowns, keep sticking it out. At least one wrestler broke down in every practice, crying or fighting with another wrestler, but Powell told him to keep wrestling. And he would talk to them in his own code, “You dig?” he would ask; or “Legit,” meaning one of them did something that won his approval.
“You go through hell in that room,” one wrestler said. “He makes you want to do it. I work that hard, we all do, just so he could say to you, ‘Nice job.’” He added, “You keep sticking it out because you know you’re going to be a badass. No one on any other team has a warmup even close to us. They’re all gassed. It makes you feel so good about yourself.”
The first two and a half hours of practice were the workouts; the last hour and a half was Powell talking to them about life. They called them “Powell lessons,” and he told them about mistakes he made, how “he screwed up,” all in a way that the young men could hear. “He would give you a rib shot and then give you a dead serious talk,” one wrestler said. “He tries to be our friend and coach and mentor at the same time,” another said.
I remarked to one of Brendan’s teachers at the parent-teacher conference in his senior year how much Brendan liked and respected Powell.
“All those boys think Powell walks on water,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I am not so sure he doesn’t,” I said.
Before every match began, he embraced Ellis Coleman, a nationally ranked wrestler who eventually became an internationally ranked wrestler aiming for the US Olympic team, and kissed him on the top of his head. Ellis eventually made it to the Olympics—London 2012. Powell was there. Both Weldon and Colin were there in London to watch Ellis as well.
Powell drove Ellis’s older brother, Lillashawn, to college his freshman year and moved him into the dorm. He advised all the young men on the team on everything from strength training to nutrition to girlfriends.
“No fake sugar.” He said it so often, the wrestlers wanted T-shirts made with the slogan.
One summer night in 2008 Powell drove to Peoria—about 170 miles each way—to pick up Ellis and Lillashawn, both wrestling in an off-season tournament, after their grandfather had died suddenly. Their mother couldn’t make the trip to retrieve them.
Powell contacted all the team members and caravanned with the boys to the wake a few days later. When another wrestler’s father died from a long-endured brain tumor, Powell was there, rallying the boy’s teammates to his father’s wake and later funeral. Two boys who quit the team in their junior year came back to the team a year later.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Powell said Jake Venerable told him on the phone.
“What weight will you wrestle this year?” another coach asked Ellis about his varsity plans for his senior year.
“Whatever Coach Powell tells me,” was his answer.
In weekly e-mails to the team’s families, Powell saluted the boys by name for specific victories or struggles and signed each e-mail, “In relentless pursuit.” One e-mail read, “The coaches could not be more proud of our guys. The athletes have really dedicated themselves; working hard, sacrificing, displaying courage daily. What a great group of young men.”
“I was always defined as a wrestler,” Powell said. His nickname as a kid was Mikey Powerful.
As a kid, Powell said he was high-energy and tried karate as a way to deflect some of that nervous velocity, and also Boy Scouts, but neither outlet worked. His father, Bud, started him in youth wrestling when Powell was a forty-five-pound first grader; the next biggest wrestler
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