Just Wrestling

Trigger Warning: SA, Pedophilia

Names changed in order to protect the innocent, Tommy and I. I doubt my cousin “Babs” was in play.

In the 1980s, childhood was a chaotic blend of freedom and ignorance. Political correctness hadn’t yet found its footing, and cruelty often wore the mask of humor. Slurs flew unchecked. Racism was ambient. Homophobia was a punchline. We were kids absorbing the world around us, not yet equipped to question it.

I was a good kid. Curious, energetic, mischievous. My cousin Tommy and I were inseparable when we would visit mom's sister shooting BBs at each other, terrorizing the neighborhood, getting into all kinds of tomfoolery. We idolized my uncle “Bruce,” who had a CJ-6 Jeep and took us dune-riding in northern Michigan. Those trips were wild, exhilarating. Every outing ended in wrestling matches, laughter, and bruises that felt like trophies.

But some bruises don’t fade.

I buried the memories for decades. It wasn’t until my anger began to surface—unprovoked, unmanageable—that I was forced to confront what I’d locked away. What I found wasn’t just mischief and adrenaline. It was something darker. Something I had never fully named.

Uncle Bruce didn’t just wrestle us in the sand. He wrestled me on the bed in the basement of my grandparents’ house. We were in our underwear. He said that’s how the professionals did it. I didn’t understand then. I didn’t have the language. I only knew that something felt off. But I told myself: at least it wasn’t incest.

That phrase became a twisted consolation. A way to minimize the harm. A way to survive.

The truth is, boys aren’t taught to recognize abuse—especially when it comes from a man they admire. Society paints male survivors into a corner: if you were abused by a man, were you weak? Were you complicit? Were you gay? These questions aren’t just cruel—they’re silencing. They turn trauma into shame. They make boys feel like they have to choose between their dignity and their truth.

And when the abuse is wrapped in play—wrestling, roughhousing, “just messing around”—it becomes even harder to name. The line between affection and violation blurs. The body remembers, but the mind rationalizes. Especially when the abuser is family. Especially when you’re told to respect your elders. Especially when you’re a boy, and boys are supposed to be tough.

I’ve spent years trying to reconcile the good kid I was with the things that happened to me. Trying to understand how joy and trauma can coexist in the same memory. How someone you trusted could cross a line you didn’t even know existed.

This isn’t just about Uncle Bruce. It’s about the silence that surrounded him. The culture that let things slide. The adults who didn’t ask questions. The kids who didn’t know how to speak up.

I’m speaking now.

Not for pity. Not for revenge. But because truth matters. Because healing begins with honesty. Because the good kid I was deserves to be seen—not just for his mischief and curiosity, but for his resilience.

And because boys who survive deserve to grow into men who no longer carry the weight of someone else’s shame.

I had written a haiku previously about these huge feelings that still bubble up about what had happened..

game

in the black basement

it was only wrestling

age just a number