Wrestling Sturbridge (11 page)

The guy I had tonight was slow and soft; maybe a 125er with ten pounds of fat. I pinned him in forty-eight seconds. We won ten of the thirteen matches by pin, and the other three by decision. Sturbridge 69, West Pocono 0.

I sit in front of my locker for a long time, letting the music and the towel snapping and the yelling go on around me. I’m up to 3–0, but it’s hard to stay sharp when you’re only competing every other week. Plus, if the other team has anybody good at 135 or 140, then Al and Hatcher stay put. I only get out there against stiffs.

I wrestled off with Al two days ago, and he beat me 10–3. I fell behind early and lost my drive, but the difference between us isn’t as great as people think. I’m even starting to think I could take him.

But this season is slipping away. If I’m lucky, I’ll get three more dual meets, and that will be it. A career that never was, unless I can get past Al.

Digit’s already dressed; I haven’t even showered yet. “You coming?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and start taking off my uniform. “Yeah.”

We’re headed for McDonald’s—everybody who can afford to gain a pound or two—to celebrate our new ranking.
USA Today
has us up to eighth nationally, with no other Pennsylvania schools in the top ten.
Keystone Wrestling News
will be out in three days, and we expect to be number one in the state.

I shower in a hurry, and find Hatcher and Digit and Al waiting in Al’s car in the parking lot. I wasn’t sure they’d still be around; our foursome seems to be slowly dissolving.

I’ve spent so many nights with these guys in the past six years that I could tell you everything they dream about, every girl they’ve ever been interested in, every time their fathers smacked them around. But I’m not sure we even know each other this season. I’m not sure I even know myself.

Ever since junior high school we’ve talked about winning it all. Not just as a team, but as individuals, taking the state. Every time we’d lift weights we’d be pushing each other, busting on each other and making us work.

Or we’d stand on Main Street in the evening, watching the traffic, always with wrestling on the edge of our consciousness no matter what was going on. Being on top was a fantasy, but we were working our way into it, one workout at a time.

Even last year, when these three guys were solidly on the varsity, I still was a part of it. But now I’m like a leper, watching from the outside.

“Hey, man, we’re number one,” Hatcher says as I get into the car.

“Looks that way,” I say.

“I was pretty worried tonight, though,” Al says, not at all serious. “Especially after Coach gave that pep talk.”

Coach had warned us about getting big heads, about
letting down because the other team was winless. We know better than that.

“We should have lost,” Digit says with a laugh. “Let the town go home crying for once.”

Al giggles. “We should do that. Next week against Wharton.”

“Get out,” Hatcher says. “No way.”

“Not lose the whole match,” Digit says. “Just scare ’em. The three of us will get pinned. We’ll still win the match.”

“Coach would shit in his pants,” Al says. He laughs. “But screw him. I’d do it if there wasn’t so much at stake.”

“Number one ranking,” Hatcher says.

“Top ten nationally,” Digit offers.

“Immortality for the rest of our lives,” Al says. “And executive positions at the cinder block factory.”

“Can’t wait for that,” Digit says.

We pull into the McDonald’s lot, and it seems almost like old times. We used to bust on our town every chance we got—the cops who’ve got nothing better to do than clear us off the street corners; the men who labor every weekday at the plant and cap the workday at the bars, with us—a group of sweaty kids in leotards—providing their only source of pride; the ex-wrestlers who get fat and never grow up; the oppression of the churches and the schools and the parents.

For tonight we’re not part of that—we can stand back and laugh at it. But there’s that feeling we all share, a feeling we don’t quite give voice to. A feeling that grows stronger every day.

We won’t be high school wrestlers much longer. I guess we’d better enjoy it.

Sunday morning. Mom and Dad and me and Grandma slide into a pew about three-quarters of the way back, behind two old ladies in blue coats and the Stockman family: Five well-mannered blond kids, all younger than ten, and a mom and a dad who smile too much. This week’s message—I can’t wait—is entitled “Our Wayward Youth.”

There’s a blurb on the back of the bulletin labeled “The Philadelphia Story.” It tells how the youth group (“decidedly
not
wayward”) is planning a three-day “ministry” in Philadelphia during Easter week, under the leadership of Youth Pastor Paul Long. I see that I’m listed as one of seventeen active members of the youth group, each of whom “has a solid relationship with Jesus Christ. Praise the Lord!”

Now, I know at least half of us are far from being active, but Grandma nudges me and points to my name, beaming. She should know better than that. I just look away. The service hasn’t started yet. I look back and see the Reverend in the hallway, just about ready to glide into the sanctuary, so I shove the bulletin into my pocket.

I hurry to my feet as the organist starts the prelude, and I walk out past Fletcher and Long. Fletcher notices me and seems to flinch, a defensive reflex, no doubt. They can think I’m on my way to the bathroom, but I’m leaving for real.

Just a lost, wayward youth checking out.

I will never, ever return. Not in a million, trillion years. Praise the Lord, I’m finished
.

On Wisconsin
.

We’ve only just begun
.

I am out of here
.

Kim’s taking me out tonight—she asked and she paid. She picked me up in her mom’s car after practice and we ate at McDonald’s. Now she wants to play pool over at The Fun Zone.

It’s never crowded in here this early in the evening—just some little kids with their parents burning off dinner at Skee-Ball or video games. We get a table and rack up the balls, and I break but don’t sink anything. Kim walks completely around the table twice, looking for a shot, and I hold my cue kind of perpendicular to the floor and lean on it. You get to see girls from interesting angles when they’re lining up a pool shot, and Kim is among the most interesting I’ve seen. She’s got on a soft black polo shirt, slightly oversized, with PASSAIC TRACK stitched in red on the left chest.

She finally shoots, easing the three ball into a side pocket from a pretty tough line. She’s got her tongue between her teeth as she lowers her head to table level, searching for her next shot. Then she comes to my side and stretches out across the table, and I’m starting to get some ideas that have nothing to do with pool.

She misses, and I chalk up my cue and make a real solid stroke that sends about ten of the balls flying but doesn’t sink any.

Kim squeezes past me and she smells sweet. “Scuse me,” she says. I’ve got my eyes fixed on her, but I guess they stray because I look up and notice the girl—Jody, the one from the
Mobil station—sitting over to the side with another girl about her age. They’ve got a little kid with them, probably not even two years old, and he’s playing on the floor at their feet. Jody keeps looking over at the entrance.

After a few minutes three guys come in and she stands up. The one guy, who looks vaguely familiar, is maybe three years older than me and has longish hair and a cap that says Marlboro on it. He’s about my size and has a thin, fuzzy mustache.

He sees them and walks over and nods with a trace of a scowl. The other two guys leave. The Mobil girl hands the guy the baby, and says, maybe to both of them, “Long time no see.”

The guy holds the kid up and says “Hey, buddy,” sort of wiggling him while the kid’s legs dangle. The baby looks back at Jody, reaching for her.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, taking the kid’s finger. “That’s your daddy.”

I’m trying not to watch too closely, glancing around, looking at the pool table, but I’m hanging on every word. Jody is keeping an even tone, but there’s enough of an edge to her voice that you could imagine her tacking “you son of a bitch” onto the end of every sentence.

“I left a message on your machine last night,” she says. “Why didn’t you call?”

He just says, “I was out,” not looking at her.

“Daniel and I are leaving at eight,” she says. “You said you’d be here at six.”

“So what is it now, ten after?” he says.

“It’s quarter to seven,” she says. “We’re leaving at eight.”

She turns to her girlfriend and they start out the door. Then she stops and comes back to kiss the baby, who’s starting to whine. “It’s okay. You spend a little time with your daddy.” She shoots a look at the guy. “We’ll be over there in the pizza place. Watching.”

The guy puts the kid down and takes his hand, and they walk over to the side where they’ve got rides for little kids. He lifts him into a rocket ship and feeds it a quarter, and it rocks back and forth while the kid spins the steering wheel.

Kim pokes me on the arm with her cue. “You know those people?” I shake my head and look at the table. I’ve got stripes, and all seven of them are still sitting there. There’s only one solid ball left, and Kim is smirking at me.

But I run the table, then sink the eight ball with a long clean stroke. Between every shot I look over at the guy with the baby. The kid is happy now, on his third ride, and the guy just looks lost and bewildered.

Kim looks beautiful, and a big part of me wants to take her down on this pool table and wrestle until we’re sweaty and exhausted.

Another part of me—the part I can’t quite measure—wants to pick up that baby and find the Mobil girl, take both their hands, and help them.

The other part of me—the one that wins—makes me retreat inside, makes me shrivel. Makes me wonder if I’ll ever do anything that matters.

Kim squeezes my arm and looks up at me (not many people can look up at me, but she’s short enough), and says “Rack ’em up?”

I start to say “No, I’m tired,” but I know that isn’t true. So I say “Yeah, I’ll play another game.” It’s healthier than playing games in my head.

Kim deposits a quarter to release the balls, then spends about two minutes racking them up, rearranging them about fifteen times.

I can see the guy sitting outside now with a cigarette, staring straight ahead, holding the baby on his knee. The kid is playing with the buttons on the guy’s shirt, and the guy doesn’t seem to realize that he’s blowing smoke in the kid’s hair.

Kim sinks one on the break, but doesn’t leave herself much of a second shot. I sink five in a row before she shoots again, and I win on my next turn. I haven’t said a word in ten minutes.

“You’re good,” Kim says.

I nod. “Sometimes.” I force a smile on her, too, and start digging in my pocket for another quarter.