Wrestling Sturbridge (14 page)

I’m seeded second behind Arnie Kiefer of Laurelton, who’s ranked fourth in the state and is the only guy in the league Al didn’t pin this season. In fact, he gave Al the only close match he’s had all year, 8–5, at their place back in January. I wrestled him last year and he pinned me in the first period.

If I meet him at all, it won’t be until the final tomorrow. Tonight I’ve got a short guy with giant arms from Mount Ridge. Matches are going on on two mats, since they’ve got to get through four bouts in every weight class tonight.

Our stands are packed, but people have been noticeably quiet during the early matches. There are a lot of pissed-off adults who can’t believe what happened to Al, who’s like the second coming of … Jerry Franken, at least. Coach took some heat, but I think most people are convinced that he’s not at fault. They realize he stood with unflinching valor in Al’s defense but lost. I’m catching some cold looks as I warm up, as if I’m somehow to blame for not being Al.

Folks, I’m 6–0. I’m in the greatest shape of my life and I’m hungry. Forget Al for two days. He’ll survive.

I get out on the mat and we shake hands. This guy’s arms, I may have mentioned, are out of proportion, long and thick and heavy. So his thighs are skinny, and he’s got no butt. His hair is short and light.

The ref blows the whistle and I shoot really low, under those arms, and grab him about the knees. I put him down.
I twist him around and drive him toward the mat, and he is helpless and outclassed and in trouble.

Twenty-three seconds and he’s fried. I barely worked up a sweat. I unsnap my headgear, shake his hand again without looking at him, and retreat into the locker room.

I’ve got the guy from North in the semifinals tomorrow afternoon. I want no contact with anybody until then.

We advanced all thirteen weights into the semis; no other team moved more than eight. The team title looks like a lock. The crowd seems more relaxed today, looser and louder. The Al thing may be forgotten, for now.

Tommy Austin made the final at 103, and our guys also won semis at 112 and 125. Digit’s finishing up his semi right now. He’s got a big lead, but it doesn’t look like he’ll pin the guy.

Coach hasn’t said anything to me except to do the best I can. I just nodded. I stayed awake most of the night, listening to the radio, and finally fell asleep about three. But I’m not tired. Every muscle feels wide awake, energized. I’m up next.

Al is sitting on the bottom row of the stands, wearing his letterman’s jacket, which he almost never wears. He’s got his chin in his hand, watching intently but not saying much. He’s sitting with some football players, but I saw him come in alone. He brightens just a little when I catch his eye. He’s got his hair combed.

The guy from North is taller than I am, which is not in his favor. I’m compact—I’ve got a low center of gravity. Tall, thinner guys never do well against me. This guy is dead meat.

He’s got straight dark hair and eyes that are too close
together. His hands are big and sweaty; he can’t seem to get a grip on me. When I throw him to the mat, his air rushes out and his cheeks get red and blotchy. The ones who shut their eyes as you twist them never seem to recover. The end comes fifty-five seconds into the match.

Coach puts his arm around me as I walk off the mat. “Good one,” he says. “You can win it all, you know.”

I know. I grab my squirt bottle and take off the headgear. Hatcher pats my shoulder. Digit shakes my hand and won’t let go. “Al was supposed to give you three takedowns, then pin you, you know,” he says. “Think about it, Ben. He couldn’t do it.”

Kim intercepts me on the way to the locker room.

“Hey, stud,” she says.

I probably turn red. I smile. “Hey,” I say.

“You’re not wasting any time, are you?”

“No.” I reach to scratch myself, but stop. “Tonight’s a different story. These first two guys were lame.”

“See you after?”

“I’ll try.” I give her a weak smile and turn away. The only thing in my head for the next four hours should be Arnie Kiefer of Laurelton.

We have nine wrestlers in the finals. The pep band is in its finest form, unrolling all of its hits and debuting the theme from
Rocky
. Every seat is full, and lots of people are standing against the walls. I’m sitting next to Digit and we can barely hear each other talk. I’m not saying a whole lot anyway.

Tommy Austin wins at 103—the first freshman league
champion in sixteen years. We get seconds at 112 and 125, and Digit pins his guy in the third period. He’s 24–1.

It gets a little quiet now. People are remembering that 135 ought to be the biggest lock of the tournament. Unbeaten Al on his home mat for the last time in his career.

Kiefer is one of these guys who looks bored and vicious at the same time. Like a junior Marine officer—cold, clear eyes, square jaw, tight mouth he never seems to open. He seems bigger, wider than a 135-pounder. The guy is 21–1 this season. Al just outsmarted him in January.

Three images whip through my mind in the seconds before the start: Reverend Fletcher, pale and paunchy, telling me about the evils of wrestling (“Foolish,” he called it one Sunday last September. “Mean-spirited and aggressive”); this crowd, just minutes ago, rising to its feet and exulting in little Tommy Austin, the emerging hero, the man who’ll carry this town through the next three cold winters; and me, staring at the ceiling last night in the darkness, imagining what the coming few minutes would offer.

I’m out there. The match starts. I hear Digit’s voice above the others.

This man is strong. Stronger than Al, I’m certain, but not as quick, not as slippery. He’s harder to move, but easier to control when you do. He’s beatable.

He pinned me a year ago, when I was still in awe about wrestling varsity, scared of this guy’s limited reputation, unable to let myself go. Tonight I let go. Tonight I let the crowd’s rising crescendo carry me. I take him down, and my
energy level seems to triple as the crowd roars its approval. I feel excitement in my muscles, the power of a thousand screaming voices. I feel strength I’ve never had before, and I feel this guy wilting beneath me.

Thirty-seven seconds and he is pinned.
Wham
. I raise both fists above my head. I shut my eyes and feel holy.

Coach rushes out to meet me, and Digit and Hatcher embrace me. I look to the stands, zero in on Al. “You’re next, sucker,” I say, thrusting a finger in his direction. He looks stunned and then angry. He scowls and makes a slapping motion with his hand.

Later they give me the Most Outstanding Wrestler trophy—three first-period pins. First minute, even. We won seven finals, including five straight from 130 to 152.

The locker room is a madhouse. Hatcher is on top of the lockers, naked, throwing balls of wet toilet paper at people. The music is on full volume and Digit is dancing outside the shower. Coach comes up to me and says, “That was a great way to cap your career, Benny. Really nice.”

“One more,” I say. “At least.”

“Come on,” he says with a smile. “Don’t spoil it. You know better.”

I shake my head, but I don’t push the issue. He can’t stop me from wrestling off with Al on Wednesday and he knows it. I’ll deal with that later. Right now I’m too up.

Al comes in eventually and looks at my trophy. “What was that shit?” he says, meaning my action after the match.

This won’t bring me down either. “Nothing,” I say, but I meet his eyes for once. “Nothing personal.”

“I’ll kick your ass,” he says, leaning against my locker.

“Might,” I say. “Might not.”

“I’ll destroy you in front of everybody, pal,” he says. “Don’t even bother.”

“Kiefer thought so, too.”

“Kiefer sucks. He’s nothing. You won’t last thirty seconds with me, Ben.”

I don’t like this much. Me and Al have been friends for six years. I’m as good as I am because I’ve been wrestling him every day. But that cuts the other way, too.

He starts to walk away, looking straight ahead and jabbing his hands in his pockets. “I’ll kick your ass,” he says.

It comes to me now: Al is scared. He may be the best high school wrestler in this state—everybody who knows seems to think so.

I think so, too. But there’s one guy left who can take him. One guy who really believes he can do it.

And that guy used to be Al’s best friend.

I get dressed in a hurry and go looking for Kim. She’s waiting in the hallway. This time I’m glad to see her.