Wrestling Sturbridge

by Rich Wallace

  I’d hoped to discover that she was a wrestling groupie all grown-up, who still held some secret unfulfilled desires that maybe I could help with. But I haven’t seen her anywhere except the Mobil station, and I don’t know if she’s ever even been to a wrestling match.

  I take the long way back to study hall so I can pass Kim’s history class. I hang outside the door until I catch her eye, and she looks a little tentative but gives a smile and a tiny, hesitant wave.

  I get back to study hall and sit next to Digit, who’s reading Sports Illustrated.

  “We going to Hatcher’s tonight?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I guess.” We watch Monday night football there most weeks. “Run yesterday?” he says.

  “About four miles.”

  “Me and Al did three.” He closes the magazine and yawns. “Where’d you go after the match Saturday?”

  “Home. Where’d you go?”

  “Just hung around,” he says.

  “You do anything?”

  “Drove around.”

  He’s not saying much. So I get more direct. “You put any moves on her?”

  Digit raises his eyebrows and sits up straighter. He says “No” with no emphasis at all.

  “Oh.”

  “Why would I?” he asks, a little sharper.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  He laughs. “Who do you think she was looking for all night?”

  I shrug, but that means I know.

  “She thought I was trying to help her find you, but I knew where you were the whole time. I kept telling her where to turn so we’d be sure to miss you.”

  “How come?”

  “You obviously didn’t want to get found.”

  I nod my head. “So what’d she say?”

  “She said she doesn’t mind a chase if there’s some chance of catching up. But she doesn’t know what you’re running from.” He starts picking at a scab on his jaw where he cut off a zit shaving. He doesn’t have much experience with a razor. “I don’t know, either,” he says.

  I cross my arms and look at the ceiling a minute. Then I look back at Digit. “I’m too distracted, man.” He looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I think he does. It’s because of wrestling. “My whole life has built up to this season, and it might not ever happen,” I say. “This is our year. My year. There’s no more chances after this one.”

  He stares right at me. “Yeah. So?”

  “I can’t think about anything else right now. If I’m ever going to be anybody, it has to start this season.” Digit knows this. We used to talk about it constantly. All four of us did. We’d imagine what it would be like to win the states, to be the best in Pennsylvania. Now it’s staring us in the face and it’s scary. And it’s worse for me because I might not even get the chance. “I’ve never done anything worth a damn yet, Digit.”

  He keeps staring at me a few seconds. Then he grins. “You won that spelling bee in fourth grade.”

  I laugh, so he does, too. “You guys at least have the chance,” I say, getting serious again. “If none of us ever does anything worth a shit, at least you guys will have something to hold on to.”

  “True.”

  I’m generally not a bitcher. Digit’s the only one I’ve said this to; I haven’t even been facing it myself. But I guess I’m more desperate than I realized.

  He says one more thing. “Don’t blame Coach. This is about being the best, right? Al and Hatch are best where they are. If you want your chance, you have to take it. You have to beat one of us to get it.”

  The bell rings to change classes, and we start walking toward the hall. “So you ain’t gonna move on her?” I ask again.

  “Only if you ain’t gonna,” he says.

  On Saturday night the pep band debuts a song in Al’s honor (“You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon). They break into it as soon as Digit’s match ends and strike it up again the second Al executes his pin. This is the third match of the season and nobody’s lasted a full minute with him yet.

  Al does a kind of Michael Jackson moonwalk back to the bench, playing to the crowd and the band. The kid from Preston barely knew what hit him; Al had him on his back within three seconds and could have pinned him in less than ten. But Al likes to play with his food, so he pushed the guy around for forty seconds before flattening him. The crowd was on its feet the whole time, yelling for blood, or at least pain.

  I take a deep breath and snap my headgear under my chin. Hatcher’s moved up to 145 to get a better workout, so I’m finally out there for real at 140. I don’t know when I’ll get another opportunity, so I’m going to make this count.

  The guy I’m wrestling outweighs me by five pounds and has longer arms and legs. He’s dark, and hairier than most high school kids, and looks like he’s got some anger. But I’m from Sturbridge, and second-string Sturbridge is better than most first teams. Keystone Wrestling News has us ranked fourth in the state. I’ll kill this guy.

  I have no quarrel with the smell of perspiration if it’s clean: fresh and salty. But this guy stinks. He shoots in immediately, and I dodge him easily and spring away. He shoots again, and this time I slip on the spot where Al just pinned his guy. So I’m down and he’s got me, and I’m two points behind and in some trouble.

  He’s got leverage, but not much, and I inch my way toward the edge of the mat. I’m not going to force my way out of this hold, so I need to get out of bounds. I’m used to this; Al gets me locked up uncountable times a day in practice, and I can usually keep myself from getting pinned, if not embarrassed.

  It takes most of the period, but I get to the edge of the mat and let him roll me to my back, out of bounds. The ref blows his whistle and my opponent says “Shit.” He gets up and walks swiftly back to the center circle. I straighten my headgear and get down on all fours below him.

  I’m on my feet the instant the whistle blows, trying to force his hands apart where they’re gripped around my waist. He lifts me to my feet and tries to throw me down, but I shift at just the right second and get free for an escape point. I pivot to face him, and he’s already attacking. No letting up by this guy.

  We’ve got each other by the shoulders, circling around like grizzly bears in combat, and he’s slippery and exhaling in short, angry bursts. He lunges at me a couple of times, but I get out of the way.

  Between periods the coach tells me to get my ass in gear and attack this guy instead of waiting for him to make all the moves. Al puts his arm on my shoulder and says, “This guy sucks. You should be killing him.”

  I start the second period up, but the guy is strong and I can’t just muscle him to the mat. It takes me a while to finally take him down, and he escapes right away and gets to his feet. So it’s 3–3, and we’re back in our dancing bear routine. The second period ends that way.

  The crowd is getting impatient—we won the first six weight classes by pin—and I hear some frustration as I walk back to the bench. Coach tells me to attack this guy, to get more aggressive and stop playing around. Al puts both hands on my shoulders this time and says, “This guy really sucks. You should be killing him.”

  I start the third period down, and if I let him exploit that, he’ll just ride me the rest of the match. He already has more than a minute of riding time on me, and if we end in a draw the riding-time edge would break the tie. The guy has one move, and I should be kicking his butt. But I think I’ve forgotten how to win. All this time I’ve been learning not to lose—or at least not to get pinned—and my offense has gone to hell.

  I rocket to my feet and break away pretty easily, and I can tell this guy is getting exhausted. I shoot in and take him down hard, and I hear the wind go out of him as he hits the mat.

  He’s the one in trouble now, and he lets out an “nnn-nnn-nnn” sound as I force his shoulders toward the mat. He’ll either get pinned or his arm will break, and after a few seconds of struggle I feel him let go.

  The ref slams the mat with his palm and I get to my
knees. I let out my breath and the ref lifts my arm, and I walk off the mat and slap hands with Digit.

  Coach shows me his fist and shakes it approvingly. Al pats my head and says, “That guy sucked. What took you so long?”

  Things I’ve done twice:

  pinned Al (seventh grade)

  told my father to go to hell

  read Conditioning for Wrestling, The Iowa Way

  Things I haven’t:

  left home for four days

  been suspended from school for telling a teacher to kiss my ass

  had sex

  CHAPTER 8

  Our program doesn’t have the type of budget some of these top-ranked schools have, sending their teams to tournaments in Las Vegas and Chicago and Iowa. The biggest deal we get is an overnight trip to Allentown for the Lehigh Valley Holiday Invitational. Of the eight teams there, three of us are ranked nationally.

  Coach lets me go along, even though I’m not wrestling, and we win the title by two points over Phillipsburg, New Jersey, which USA Today has at number six. Digit loses his first match of the season in the final to a kid from Maryland, but Al stays unbeaten by pinning a guy from Bethlehem on the day before Christmas. Hatcher wins, too.

  We also finish ahead of Northampton, which according to Keystone Wrestling News was the best team in Pennsylvania. Not any longer.

  We sneak a few beers in the back of the bus on the way home from the tournament. Coach sits up front and brags to the bus driver about what a great team we have. It’s only his fourth season here, and he figures he’s got a lot to live up to.

  Digit spends most of the time staring out the window. He led going into the final period, but got taken down twice in the last minute. He says he learned something. I think he’s the most likely of us all to win a state title this year, because he’s so intense. We still hang out most nights, but he heads home by nine. Me and Al and Hatcher usually sit on Main Street at least until Rite Aid closes. But Digit’s drifting off. Even after a match he doesn’t quite let go—he keeps running it over in his mind. So he’s even more distant today, since he lost. He’s not mooning anybody like Al and Hatcher and some of the others are.

  When our heavyweight, Billy Avery, presses his bare butt against the glass, it covers the whole window. We all crack up at that. Digit opens another beer. Hatcher takes a red pixie football out of his gym bag and tosses it at Billy, but it misses by two feet and hits Anthony Terranova in the head. Anthony throws the football back at Hatcher, who grabs it and whips it back. This time it hits Billy, who starts pulling up his pants in a hurry.

  By the time we turn off the turnpike by Scranton, there’s one cracked window, a pool of beer on the floor, and a couple of ripped seat cushions. Coach yells back at us to shut up for a while. Al starts singing “Downtown Train,” and Digit joins in.

  I go with Mom and Dad and Grandma to the 5:00 P.M. service on Christmas day. I stopped at Kim’s house for a few minutes just before. She gave me a tape of her psych-up music. I got her a ceramic whale.

  So we’re driving to the church and Mom asks me about her. “I guess you two really like each other?” she says.

  “I guess.” I’m not exactly sure. I mean I like her fine, but nothing seems to be happening.

  “Seems like a nice girl,” says Dad, who met her after the last home match.

  Grandma snorts. “I hope she knows how to keep her legs crossed,” she says, just oozing with Christmas spirit.

  Me and Mom and Dad just look at each other and roll our eyes. We’ve reached the church. Jerry Franken and his wife are the greeters. His wife winks at me and smiles a big toothy smile. Jerry gives me a light punch on the arm. “We knocked off some big boys yesterday, huh?”

  “We’re number one,” I say, kind of ironically, I think. It’s hard to be bothered by this guy.

  “See you Tuesday?” he asks.

  “Sure.” School’s closed this week. We’re putting on a clinic at the Y for little kids.

  We sit in a pew and wait. I check my watch and it says 5:06, and I can see we’re in for high comedy again. Reverend Fletcher and the wimpy youth minister, Paul Long, will show up in about three minutes, bursting through the doors singing “Joy to the World” at the top of their lungs. They’ll be just so surprised to see the church full of people, having completely forgotten that they’d scheduled a service for this afternoon. “We were out caroling,” Fletcher will say, removing a red-and-white striped scarf.

  “Did we schedule a service?” Paul will say, looking at a little girl in the front row. She’ll laugh and say yes. He’ll turn to the Reverend in surprise, and they’ll say in spontaneous unison, “Well, then let’s have a service.”

  Maybe you can sense that they’ve done this before.

  I hear them coming up the steps. They’re singing “Hark the Herald Angels …”

  Get me out of here.

  Things that I’ve mastered:

  talking to myself

  staring down an opponent

  not getting pinned

  Things I can’t even do:

  fly a kite

  read music

  figure out what girls are thinking

  CHAPTER 9

  I walk down the hill to Al’s house late Tuesday morning, crossing the footbridge over the river. The clinic’s at noon. Al’s father answers the door and I step into the living room. I haven’t been here in about a month; there’s too much unspoken tension between me and Al. If Digit’s around, it’s easy to avoid, but one-on-one it’s almost impossible to ignore. Al has something I have to get, and there’s no way to share it even if we would.

  I can see him in the kitchen, on the phone. His father points to the couch and tells me to sit down. He’s wearing old stained work pants and a sleeveless white T-shirt.

  “He’s talking to Joe,” he says. Al’s brother. I think he’s stationed in Texas.

  “You off today?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He stretches out his left arm and yawns. “I always take a day or two after Christmas. Coke or something? Orange juice?”

  “I just ate. But thanks.”

  He straightens out some newspapers on the coffee table. He’s got a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the table, too, but it looks like he forgot about it. The ash is about two inches long.

  “Dad.” Al’s standing in the doorway with the phone. His father comes over and takes it, and goes into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Al says to me.

  “Hey. You ready?”

  “Need my jacket.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. His old man is laughing into the phone. “Never a dull moment,” he’s saying. Al points to the kitchen table, where there’s a package of salami and some crackers. “You hungry?” he asks me.

  “No thanks.”

  Al grabs his father’s shoulder and says he’ll be back for dinner. “Tell Joe I’ll talk to him again soon.”

  We head down the walk and Al pulls his gloves out of his pocket and puts them on. He looks over his shoulder at the house as we cross Court Street. “My mom died two years ago,” he says.

  “Two years today?”

  “Yeah. It’s real hard on him. But he’s doing okay.”

  “He seemed okay. That’s why your brother called?”

  “Pretty much. We try to stay close.”

  “Yeah.”

  We walk in silence for a few blocks. We have to cross back over the river to get to the Y, which is down the other end of town.

  “Lot of kids signed up?” Al says.

  “I heard about fifty.” That’s a lot of kids for the Y’s small gym, but we’ll squeeze them in. It’s first, second, and third graders today. The older kids get their turn on Thursday.

  The gym is old—it used to be an armory, and if you’re playing basketball you can’t shoot from past the top of the key without hitting a girder. But there isn’t a kid in town who hasn’t spent a lot of hours in there, playing hoops or indoor soccer or floor hockey.

  The Y i
s in the far corner of town, where the river makes its right angle. We enter the gym and about twenty little kids come running over to see Al, slapping five with him or just looking at him in awe. They don’t ignore me either, but Al gets most of the attention. They even want autographs.

  Jerry Franken blows his whistle and tells everybody to sit in the bleachers. They hustle over, laughing and shoving, and Jerry goes over the agenda. Mostly we want them to have fun, to get a feel for the sport. Mostly they want to try and annihilate each other.

  We break into groups more or less by size. I’ve got mostly second graders, and we go over some basic moves for about forty-five minutes. One really skinny kid named Cody keeps asking if they can do tag team matches, but I tell him that’s just on TV. After a while I let him and three others wrestle me at once. I let them pin me after a couple of minutes.

  I roll to my stomach and they sit on my back. I reach around and tickle the skinny kid, sticking my thumb in his armpit. Then I tell them to go get a drink, and they all race to the water fountain. I look up and Kim’s standing by the entrance to the gym.

  I wave and go over. She’s got a big smile.

  “They like you,” she says.

  “I like them. What are you up to?”

  “I was lifting.” She makes a muscle. I touch it with two fingers.

  “Nice crowd,” she says.

  Two of the kids from my group come over. “That your girlfriend?” one of them asks.

  “Your lover girl?” says the other one.

  I laugh. “Go do a hundred push-ups,” I say.

  “Yeah, right.”

  They both laugh and walk back into the gym. Most of the kids from my group are out there wrestling in groups of four or five. I turn to Kim and say bye. “Take it easy out there!” I yell to the kids, running over to the mats.

  I look back and Kim’s still standing in the doorway. Al’s group goes running for the water fountain next, and he’s carrying two first graders piggyback. The kids are laughing their heads off. He gets over there and yells “Help!” to Kim. “Peel these knuckleheads off me!”