by Sam Polk
The San Marino wrestlers arrived. Each team lined up in their underwear according to weight. One by one opponents stepped on the scale, and the ref released the metal finger. If it moved, even by a little, the wrestler made weight. My opponent looked tiny. I couldn’t believe I was trying to weigh what he weighed.
When it was my turn, I stepped on the scale. The ref removed his finger. The metal finger didn’t move. I was still too heavy.
I pulled off my underwear and stepped bare assed onto the scale. I was dizzy. I watched the metal finger as the referee dropped his hand.
It moved. Just barely, but it moved.
Before I was even conscious of it, I’d drained a Gatorade in one swoop. It wasn’t pleasurable or enjoyable; it was simply gone, and I was suddenly freezing. I was gulping water, but I still felt as thirsty as before. Soon I was shivering. I put my sweats back on but was still cold. I started to munch on whole wheat bread, and after a while I was full and I knew I was in trouble. The match was in an hour.
The stands were pretty full for a wrestling match, maybe fifty people. Dad was standing at the side of the mat, talking on his cell phone. He’d recently started a public relations business, Polk Communications, and he worked incessantly. It was just him alone in an office, but he’d started to talk about how one day he’d sell the company for millions of dollars. As we warmed up, liquid sloshed inside my stomach. I kept looking at Dad to see if he was watching me, but he was engrossed in his call. The ref blew the whistle, beginning the 103-pound match. I felt nauseous, already exhausted.
Before I knew it I was up next. I took my warm-ups off and walked slowly to the center of the mat.
My opponent was soft and pudgy, a fish. Novice wrestlers are called fish because of how they flop around when you put them on their backs. I towered over him. The whistle blew and he shot. The shot is the most common offensive move in wrestling, sort of a controlled tackle. I saw it coming and scooted away easily. We circled each other again, and then I shot, got ahold of the back of his legs, and lifted him easily into the air. I carried him on my shoulder while he wriggled like a live tuna. The crowd screamed. I heard my dad cheering. I strutted around the mat, then slammed him down, holding him on his back to earn points. I was up 5-0.
I could have kept him on his back, maybe pinned him right then. But the screams from the crowd filled me with pride; I didn’t want it to be over yet. So I let him turn to his stomach. Then I just stood up. Letting someone up in wrestling is like slapping them in the face. You give them a point, because you know you can earn it back. He stood up uncertainly, unwilling to believe I had so startlingly disrespected him. I walked back to the center of the mat. He started toward me.
We circled each other, and then I shot again, and again lifted him into the air. I heard Dad yell, “Twice!” and I felt proud. But the fish seemed heavier now, and this time I didn’t slam him but just dropped him. I could only keep him on his back for a second. I was up 9-1, and there were just a few seconds left in the first period. I was grateful that the fish didn’t struggle much as time ran out.
The next round started with the fish on bottom. I formed a diamond shape with my hands, my palms facing out. That was a signal to the referee that I was intentionally letting the fish stand up, giving him another free point. The referee signaled to the fish that he was being let up, and I saw him stiffen at the blatant disrespect. I put my hands on his back and waited for the ref to blow the whistle. When he did, the fish started to stand up. But I wasn’t satisfied with just letting him up. I wanted to embarrass him. As he got to his feet I shoved him. He lost his balance, stumbled forward. The crowd laughed. The score was 9-2. The fish came at me with a frantic energy that I recognized. I knew how it felt to be publicly humiliated.
All of a sudden, my body felt hot, like sunburn. The fish shot and I sprawled away but just barely. Then I tried a shot and this time didn’t even touch his legs. There was a lot of time left on the clock, but I was out of gas.
I hoped the fish wouldn’t sense how weak I’d become, but he did and came at me. I backed up on my heels and the crowd was silent as he pushed me out of bounds. We returned to the center, the ref blew his whistle, and again the fish pushed me out of bounds, this time making a frustrated gesture to the referee, who hit me with a warning for stalling. The next time would cost me a point. I was grateful when I heard the bell end the second round. I put my hands atop my head and sucked in gulps of air but couldn’t catch my breath.
I chose neutral position to start the next round. I felt like I was underwater. He shot and I thought I’d blocked him, but then I felt his hands grab my legs and I was suddenly toppling backwards.
“Two points,” yelled the ref, a little too happily.
Now I was on my stomach, the fish on top. The score was 9-4. I tried to get up, and he hit me with a vicious cross-face—almost a punch, but legal as long as he used his forearm. Someone yelled, “Oh, that hurt,” and I felt a surge of rage but was too weak to do anything about it. I spread my arms and legs flat so he couldn’t turn me to my back. I wasn’t even trying to escape. It was blatant stalling. But there was nothing else I could do. He hit me with another vicious cross-face, his forearm against my teeth, and I knew this was purely retributive. Now he was playing to the crowd, and if I hadn’t been so exhausted I would have been livid, but instead I was terrified. The ref blew the whistle and docked me another stalling point. I was gasping for breath and thought I might faint. Then I had the worst feeling I’ve ever had. I felt like I was going to shit myself in front of everyone. I desperately tried to maintain control of my sphincter, as I imagined the horrible silence that would come when the crowd saw poop sliding down my leg.
The ref hit me for stalling again, but there were just thirty seconds left, and I knew he wouldn’t hit me with four more stall points. I was going to win the match. I was fighting tears on one end, my bowels on the other. I stayed on my stomach while the fish grunted above me, cross-facing at will, my face purple. The bell rang; the match ended.
The crowd was silent as I slowly made my way to my knees, then stood up. I reached across and shook the hand of the sneering fish, and then the ref held my hand in the air. I was supposed to shake hands with the opposing coach, but instead I beelined to the door. Outside, I spied a clump of bushes where I could hide and collapsed into it. I was dry heaving and convulsing, and I felt like my bowels would let go at any second. But they didn’t, and I lay there, alone, until Ben came to find me.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He left,” Ben said.
Neither Ben nor I made state that year. We both lost in sectionals. On the day of the state tournament, we filled a cooler with beer and drove five hours to watch. We sat in an empty corner of the stands and got drunk, watching the other wrestlers live the fantasy we had chased but failed to realize.
• • •
Ever since I’d accompanied Dad on a business trip to New York, I’d dreamed about going to Columbia University. Ben dreamed of Princeton. We both applied for early decision. A coach I had trained with at Schurr High, the tough program in East LA, knew the coach at Columbia, and even though I hadn’t placed at state, the Columbia coach added me to the roster without ever seeing me wrestle. I had great SAT scores but hadn’t been the kind of straight-A student that usually got into Columbia.
The day I received my fat envelope from Columbia, Ben received a thin one from Princeton. Devastated, he applied to every other Ivy League university. They all rejected him, except for Cornell. Crushed, he accepted.
The next year, three college wrestlers—Billy Saylor (Campbell University), Joseph LaRosa (University of Wisconsin), and Jeff Reese (University of Michigan)—died cutting weight. Reese was cutting the most. He was trying to shed 17 pounds in a day, to make the 150-pound weight class.
CHAPTER 7
There’s a Bomb in My Stomach
¤
; I arrived in New York on a red-eye flight with a suitcase, a laptop computer, a hundred bucks in my pocket, and a warning from Dad that no more money would be forthcoming. He’d taken out loans to pay for tuition and room and board and said I’d need to find a job to cover living expenses. My room was barren, except for the wall I covered with Absolut Vodka ads.
I was desperate to carve out a place for myself at Columbia, to belong. In high school, the noon bell would ring and I’d join the stream of students headed to the parking lot, keeping a hopeful eye out as students merged into groups of threes and fours and drove to a fast-food lunch. Sometimes, I’d catch an invite, but usually the crowd would thin, and at the last possible moment I’d turn purposefully off toward the locker rooms. I’d circle back and head toward the empty halls of the school building where I would find a quiet corner, pull out a book, and read until lunch was over. If I heard footsteps coming, I leapt to my feet and walked purposefully down the hall, as if I had somewhere to be.
But at Columbia, I figured, the students would be nerdier, so on a relative basis I might actually be cool.
I lived in a two-room suite with a shared bathroom, but the two a cappella singers who shared the other room were rarely there. I started spending time in the small lounge at the end of the hall. I’d sit there, folding laundry or reading a book, hoping to meet people.
“In the lounge again, eh Sam?” people would yell down the hall. They’d laugh, then go into their rooms. By the end of the first month, I hadn’t made a single friend and was lonelier than I’d ever been.
One day I was talking to a scrawny, quiet guy who lived down the hall from me, and I told him I was good at shooting pool. He said, “My roommate Edward plays pool; you should meet him.”
I was nervous but so desperate for a friend that I marched into the room they shared. Edward was standing at the window.
“I hear you play pool,” I said. “Any good?”
“Better than you,” he said.
The subway ride to Amsterdam Billiards was awkward, but at the pool table, after a few beers, we loosened up. Edward was sarcastic and hilarious, and I spent the evening doubled over with laughter.
Edward was a night owl, the kind only college schedules permit. It was not unusual for him to go to sleep at dawn and wake at four in the afternoon. Nights found us in my room, me sitting in bed, him with a chair pulled up, playing cards. Hours clipped by; we might play a hundred hands in a night.
For dinner Edward and I would go to JJ’s Place, the snack bar across campus where we could charge food to our parents’ bill. Edward was thin, but he was an eater. He’d order a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. I’d get something healthier—a turkey burger or a chicken sandwich. I was worried about making weight, even though wrestling season hadn’t started yet. I was trying to cut to 140 pounds, 5 pounds lighter than I had wrestled in high school. I figured that since I wasn’t really skilled enough to be a college wrestler, I should wrestle the smallest guys possible.
Sometimes I’d badger Edward into buying pitchers of Rolling Rock at The West End, a dive bar across the street from campus (“Where Columbia drinks its first beer!” their tee shirts read). We’d sit at the bar, and I’d show off for Edward by staring menacingly at other guys in the bar until they looked away. After three or four pitchers, we’d stumble home, laughing.
Soon we were drinking every night.
It’s tough to lose weight as a daily beer drinker. I’d wake up hungover, with a vague memory of having eaten cookies. After those nights I’d vow not to get drunk again. Then, after I was drunk again, I’d vow not to eat while drunk again. But I always would. So I tried something new. When I got home from the bars, I started sticking my finger down my throat.
By throwing up, I could drink and eat all I wanted—two pitchers of beer, then pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, and a milk shake from the diner on the way home—and feel fine the next day. I felt like I’d discovered a magic trick. As I started to do it more and more, I learned some things. Pizza is one of the hardest things to throw up because the dough is so dense. It’s like vomiting up rocks. Milk makes everything easier; throwing up ice cream actually feels sort of pleasant. I began to perfect my technique. I put toilet paper in the water so no one could hear the splash. I wiped down the bowl quickly and efficiently. I puked right before taking a shower, so the bathroom would smell soapy.
Now, at JJ’s Place, I ate more than Edward. I tried to be casual about it. Edward ordered a bacon cheeseburger; I ordered a double bacon cheeseburger. He got fries; I got cheese fries. I always bought some sort of dessert, a muffin or a cookie, and a large container of chocolate milk. Sometimes I got a full box of Entenmann’s cookies. “For us to split,” I’d tell Edward and then proceed to eat all but two. I was terrified Edward would suspect, but he never said anything.
The moment we left JJ’s Place I started counting the minutes. The longer it took from when I finished eating to when I booted, the more calories I absorbed. It was a race against the clock. To avoid suspicion, I’d hang out with Edward for a while. We’d go back to my room and play cards. “Just a few hands,” I’d say. “I need to study.”
He always fought me on it. He had the entire night looming and didn’t want to be alone. We were each other’s only real friends. He’d beg me to play another hand or two.
Things started to get dicey. One night, after barfing in the bathroom, I opened the door and ran smack into my suite mate, Sebastian, standing there with a toothbrush and a towel. I thought I had the suite to myself. He looked irritated.
“What took you so long, man?” he asked.
I hadn’t showered and was afraid it smelled.
“Nothing, man, nothing. Just a little sick. Sorry about that,” I said.
Another night, Edward was in my room playing cards and I couldn’t get him to leave. “Okay, last hand,” I said. “This is it. I gotta get to sleep.”
“Stop,” he said. “You don’t even have class tomorrow.”
I had in my belly a Philly cheesesteak, curly fries, a chocolate-chip scone, and a quart of chocolate milk. There was a ticking bomb in my stomach. I played another hand.
“Alright, bro, I’m tired,” I said. “Last one.”
“Stop,” he said. “You’re fine. Five more.” I was afraid if I pushed him, Edward would sense something amiss. I tried to appear calm while my mind broke into full-blown panic. You can’t afford this. You’ll gain two or three pounds. I couldn’t focus on the cards. Minutes flew by. We’d eaten over an hour ago. I didn’t even feel full anymore—the food was already digesting. Edward was giving me weird looks. Fuck.
The staccato thoughts reached a crescendo; it felt like my head might short out like an overstuffed electrical socket. I tried to will Edward to leave, but he just lit another cigarette and blew out perfect smoke rings, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
So I did the only thing I could do. I resigned myself to the situation. I decided I wasn’t going to hurl that night. It would build credibility, I told myself. I dealt another round of cards and settled in. I felt gross and resentful, but I knew I’d made the right decision. I was protecting my secret.
When wrestling practice started, I was clearly the worst wrestler on the team. But at least I was skinny. At the first tournament of the year, the Ivy League Invitational, my first match was against a Harvard wrestler ranked third in the nation. He pinned me in forty-five seconds. In my second match, the captain of Princeton’s team ripped my right shoulder out of its socket, and I was out for the season.
I told myself I didn’t need to throw up anymore, that my weight didn’t matter, but I couldn’t stop. I’d go to JJ’s Place determined to order a healthy meal, but I’d find myself grabbing a box of cookies, several baked goods, and, of course, milk. I’d eat hurriedly in the dark back booth. Once the food was inside me, I’d start imagining the calories becoming love hand
les. I’d feel an uncontrollable urge to purge and I’d rush back to my bathroom and lock the door. Soon I was upchucking at least once a day, sometimes two or three times. I knew it wasn’t sustainable, yet I felt powerless to stop it.
One day I was watching TV in the lounge with Edward, my neighbor Sabrina, and a vegan hippie named Jessica. Jessica and I started arguing about what channel to watch, and rather quickly it got heated. “You’re such a bitch,” I said.
“At least I don’t throw up every meal,” she retorted.
I couldn’t speak. All my defense mechanisms—my sarcasm, my stoicism, my ability to laugh things off—were neutralized. I gaped. I was ashamed. I stood and walked into my room.
Edward came in a few minutes later.
“Are you all right, man?”
I looked up at him with tears in my eyes.
“I don’t think so,” I said. I felt diseased. For the first time, I understood that something inside me was broken.
I was too embarrassed to stay around campus, so I called Ben and asked if I could come visit. He was having a tough freshman year, too—he’d already gotten in several fistfights—and was happy to hear I was coming up. That night Edward and I boarded the bus to Ithaca, a six-hour ride. Edward was excited to meet Ben—I’d often bragged about how smart and tough Ben was—and peppered me with questions. “Who is older? Can you read each other’s minds?” Two hours into the drive, he asked, “Have you ever hooked up with the same girl?”
I was quiet. Edward sensed a story. “What happened?” he pressed.
I knew I shouldn’t tell him. Emma and I had managed to keep our tryst under wraps for two years. But in truth, I was dying to tell someone. And I didn’t like the way Edward’s eyes lit up when I talked about how smart Ben was. I told him the whole story.
When Edward and I got off the bus, Ben was waiting. I introduced Edward, and Ben introduced his new girlfriend, Jen. Ben also introduced a skinny, fresh-faced girl from Rochester named Kirsten Thompson. She was all arms and legs, with frizzy hair that exploded out of her head like an Afro, and clearly shy. I liked her immediately.
