Wrestling Sturbridge (16 page)

They’ve moved the wrestle-offs to the main gym, and they’ve had to let the bleachers down on both sides of the court because of the crowd. In my four years here I’ve never seen more than fifteen spectators at the wrestle-offs. Today there must be seven hundred.

Al’s already out there warming up, but we won’t be wrestling for about twenty minutes. I’m sitting in front of my locker with my sweatshirt hood pulled up, just staring at my hands and exhaling pretty hard. I’ve got a scar on the back of my left hand, barely visible unless you know where to look, from when I ripped it open playing kickball on the playground in third grade. Fell face-first heading for second, but the only injury I remember is my hand. You could see bone at the knuckles.

I lie flat on the bench, clenching my fists.

The ceiling in this locker room is high, and we get big clouds of steam bouncing around up there after practice when all the showers are going. Somebody, years ago, must have climbed on top of the lockers, took a pen, and wrote STURBRIDGE SUCKS on the ceiling in the corner. Maybe it was my father.

There are people who’ve asked me to concede this match, to not even wrestle. Why stand in Al’s way, they want to know. Why risk getting him hurt?

There are a few people who want me to win, though. Some guys on the team, maybe even Digit; I haven’t asked. I’ve
been waiting a long time to walk out there in a match that means everything—my whole career. Al’s, too. I earned it and I want it.

There are people out there watching who don’t know who they’ll be pulling for. They won’t know until we’re out there, when the first move gets made, and they’ll wince or revel without even knowing it and then they’ll find out who they’re for.

If I was watching, that’s how I’d be. But I won’t be watching. So I’m pulling for me.

Tommy Austin beat Anthony Terranova pretty good in the first match, and Larry Drummond pinned his guy at 119. There are no challenges at 125 or 130, so me and Al are up.

Al is staring at me from across the mat, and Coach is waving us out there. Al is pissed. He’s 22–0 and nothing should be standing between him and the states.

But somebody is. And I’m pissed, too.

I got down 2–0 almost before I had time to react. Al shot in and got me up in the air, flipping me onto my back so I was in immediate trouble. I twisted and tried to get out of bounds because he already had the leverage he needed, but he yanked me back toward the center of the mat and started forcing me down. He wanted to get this over with, and he was being more aggressive than even he’d ever been.

He got near-fall points, but I managed to squirm out of it and get back to my knees. Five–nothing, and he was still riding me. It took most of the period for me to work my way free, but I finally got to my feet and escaped just in time. Five–one, I was behind.

Al didn’t even leave the mat between periods. He just squatted with his hands on his knees and stared at the big blue S in the center circle, breathing hard. I walked off and grabbed a squirt bottle from Digit. Coach didn’t look at me.

I started the second period down, but escaped pretty quickly. Al does that. He’ll give up an escape point to get two in return with a takedown. Usually when he lets a guy go, he gets an evil smirk, kind of half-circles the guy, then goes in for the kill. But he came right back at me and threw me to the mat without any nonsense, and suddenly I was down 7–2 with his nails digging into my skin.

For the next minute and a half he rode me, trying to get me cradled, to bring my shoulders to the mat. But he couldn’t do it this time. Coach even started to warn us for stalling, since
we were barely moving, but my effort was maximum, and Al’s was, too. We just seemed to be on neutral ground all of a sudden, deadlocked. The second period ended and I was down by only five points.

Al was still mad, but it wasn’t just at me anymore. He was pissed at himself, I know, because this was going far too long and there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. It’d been a long time since he got tested like this. And now my confidence was escalating, too. I was seething. Seething in a good way, a way I knew what to do with.

I scanned the bleachers, looking for Kim and half expecting one of those movie-type breakthroughs where I’d catch her eye and feel a lightning bolt of energy and desire that would carry me to victory.

Instead, I saw my father, and the impact was different but the same. He was standing about three-quarters of the way up, arms folded, looking kind of dazed. I didn’t try to catch his eye. I tried to share his dignity.

I started the third period up, and Al was tensed below me, ready to explode to his feet the instant Coach blew the whistle. Maybe it’s a cliché, but my life had come down to a two-minute summary: the third period of this match. There was life on the other side: Kim, an escape from this town, my pride. But there was too much value in what had gone before to let it fade away without a defining moment. That moment had arrived.

Al is pale, like sweaty marble coiled beneath me. The whistle blows, and instead of forcing up, he drops to the mat on his belly. My grip slips away. He rolls, and I grab the back of his thigh, jabbing my other arm over his shoulder. He gets to his knees. Coach gives him an escape point, but I swing up behind him and regain control. I’ve got him in a half nelson and I’m pushing with everything I have. Now he’s down.

I’m behind 8–4, but there’s a chance here. Al is on the mat, facedown, and every muscle in his back is flexed and extended. His right shoulder is coming up, it has no choice, because at this crucial moment I’m stronger than he is. I have to lift him and turn him, and I give back an inch for every two that I gain. But I’m gaining, and he’s groaning, and suddenly he’s perpendicular—his left shoulder is digging into the mat, his right is at a 90-degree angle toward the ceiling.

That angle is growing shorter as I force him toward the mat. One hand is gripping my chest, but he has no leverage at all, no power. Time is getting short. Coach is kneeling beside us, palm flat, watching for that moment when both of Al’s shoulders are planted firmly against the mat.

The crowd sounds frantic, but maybe they’re enjoying this. I am up on my toes, pushing hard, using my knees and my gut and my thighs and my shoulders. I taste his sweat; he is pulling at my jersey and his headgear is slipping to one
side. I don’t know what’s holding him up. It’s my desperation versus his.

“Thirty seconds,” somebody yells; Digit it was. Is he telling Al to hold on or urging me to find something more, to finish this thing? I give one mighty surge, everything I’ve got left. He moves closer to the mat, but not close enough.

I surge again and get nowhere, but I’m three inches from ending this thing, from pinning Al and walking away and moving on to where he’ll never go. By sheer gravity I should win this now, all other things being equal.

But he’s defying gravity. He’s defying me, too. “Ten seconds,” I hear, but ten minutes wouldn’t be enough. I give one final surge. Coach blows his whistle. “Three,” he says. It’s over. Al lets go, lies flat on his back. I shut my eyes and get to my knees.

Eight–seven. Digit pulls me up. The bleachers are nearly full, and everyone is standing. Al shakes my hand, I clasp his arm and we walk off the mat. Coach calls the next wrestlers onto the floor.

It’s over.

My father’s shaking my hand, too choked up to say anything, then handing me a twenty-dollar bill and telling me to take Kim out for dinner; I can take his car and he’ll walk home. “No, really,” he says. “Go. Get a shower and take this pretty girl out on me. You were great.”

She’s got tears in her eyes and the next match hasn’t started yet; everybody’s standing, cheering for Al and some for me, too. Coach is shaking his head and he’s got a big grin, talking to the guy from the newspaper. Al and his father are hugging each other over by the water fountain. Digit’s standing next to me, patting my back.

The pep band starts in with “You Can Call Me Al,” brassy and off-key just a little. Al raises his fist in the air; there’s a crowd around him now. My father musses my hair and mumbles “See ya at home,” then turns to leave. Digit says “Gotta see Al,” and he goes, so I hug Kim and kiss her on the forehead. Coach blows his whistle and the 145-pounders attack each other. The band shuts up.

Kim waits in the stands and I go to the locker room. Nobody’s in there. I shower a long time, letting the heat soak into my chest and through my head and down to my feet. My season’s over, but I’ve got shampoo left. I’ll have to go out for track.

I’m thinking Chinese food would be good; fried rice and snow peas, maybe with shrimp. My father doesn’t have any decent tapes in his car. I’ll borrow one from somebody. I love
Kim. Digit has some good tapes in his locker. Al will win the states, no question.

The 189ers are wrestling by the time I get up there, and there’s almost nobody left in the stands. I sit next to Digit, who’s sitting next to Kim, and she and I hold hands behind his back until the last wrestle-off is over. We give him a ride home and then head to the Chinese Kitchen in Weston.

Digit’s tape sounds good, even with the cheap speakers in this vehicle. Kim has her hair in a ponytail. She is looking happy. This is a day I will never forget.

I get home late. My father is asleep on the couch, and the TV is on, but it’s turned so soft you can barely hear it. Mom’s still at work.

I climb the stairs quietly—I’ll let her be the one to wake him—and shut my door before turning on the light. It’s just cold enough outside, so I take off my jacket and put on two sweatshirts, as much for comfort as for warmth.

I can taste Kim’s mouth and her skin. I smell her soft hair and feel her sweet, moist breath on my neck. And I feel Al’s muscles, hard as steel and flexible as good strong rope, and I feel his breath on my skin, too, cursing, straining, finally wanting it as much as I did.

I sit on my bed to change from my running shoes to hiking boots, and then I see it there on the wall. The Elvis and Jesus thing from that house by the lake, with “You give me strength” scrawled on the cardboard matting.

I stand and take a step toward it and stop, not sure whether to laugh or to shudder or feel honored.

I shut the light and stand in the hallway in silence, with my hands in the big pouch pocket of the sweatshirt. Then I walk down the stairs to my father. I touch him lightly on the shoulder and he rolls, opening his eyes and looking surprised. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

“Oh … yeah,” he says, sitting up and rubbing one eye with his hand. “Just, you know … I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.” We stare at the TV for a few seconds, then I turn to the door. “I’m just going for a walk,” I finally say. I haven’t been alone yet, to absorb this day, to make it permanent.

The woods are quiet, but my vision is good. The moon is out and shining. This was a day. This can be the day Al begins reliving his father’s life, or the day he breaks free. I think of Hatcher—too dumb to be a doctor like his dad, but just dumb enough to relive everything else about him. Only Digit is sure to break the pattern. Me, I don’t know.

I can see the lights of the town far below me, and a dog is barking in the distance. My father is asleep again by now, snoring on the couch with the TV on softly. He’ll be punching in at the plant in eight hours.

I look at the moon, and it’s right where it should be, a quarter million miles away. I stop walking and shut my eyes in the cool, clear breeze, lifting my arms above my head and inhaling. The air smells piney, with just a hint of cows and of midnight.

Life is good. I have Kim.

I am tired and warm and alive.

Here’s what they can list under my mug in the yearbook:

If I make the team, they can add varsity basketball, but I know the odds are against me. I’m a decent player, but I don’t quite fit the system. I don’t quite fit anywhere, so I live alone above a bar and work part-time in the kitchen to pay the rent. My father’s gone to California to straighten himself out, so I’m left to bounce my life off Spit, a punk-rock genius who has bigger problems—but bigger potential—than I have.

I could join my father in L.A. if I wanted to, but I’m not ready to leave yet. I’ve got chances here—with girls, with basketball. And if those don’t work out, I just might step from the shadows, join Spit on stage, and see if I can cut it as a singer
.

You never know
.

Half a block from the Turkey Hill convenience store, there’s a town bench. And lately, if I’m not in school or at soccer practice, chances are I’m sitting there, thinking, for a lot of reasons
.

For one thing, my best friend, Joey—the jerk—has a girlfriend now, the girl he knew I was after. And then there’s soccer. Me and Joey are the backbone of the first strong soccer team our school’s ever had, and we’ve got a chance to win the league this season. But that’ll take teamwork, and that’s the one thing we’re missing
.

Joey hogs the ball
and
gets the girls. But he’s always been there for me—until now. Or maybe I’m just tired of being there for him. I suppose we ought to grow up. Maybe we’d win more soccer games
.

“An excellent choice for all those boys who want only sports books, this is also a good read for any teen, male or female.”