Takedown

by Rich Wallace

  No panic, Donald thought. You’ll figure this guy out.

  He got to his knees, but the guy had one arm around his waist and the other had a tight grip on his shoulder. It took him nearly a minute to wiggle out of the hold, getting to his feet and jumping free.

  The period was winding down, but Donald was not about to stand around and wait. The Palisades wrestler was finally standing straight, so Donald made the big penetrating step and shot in low, wrapping both hands around his opponent’s knee. He lifted and turned, bringing the guy down flat on the mat and coming up behind him.

  Instinctively Donald hooked his left arm under his opponent’s arm and reached up behind his head. He drove hard with his legs to turn the guy toward his back.

  “Half nelson!” shouted Tavo. “You got him.”

  Donald could tell that he had him now. He’d been on the wrong side of this move enough times to recognize when the outcome was certain. The Palisades wrestler was straining, pushing with everything he had, but Donald had a lock-tight grip and all of the momentum. He was slowly forcing the guy’s shoulders toward the mat.

  And within seconds Donald felt the momentum stop, felt the hard resistance of the mat pressing up against those shoulders. This guy was pinned.

  The referee slapped the mat.

  It was the best sound Donald had ever heard.

  He leaped to his feet and pumped his fist. He shook hands with the Palisades wrestler. The referee raised Donald’s arm as the victor.

  Coach got him in a quick headlock and said, “Beautiful job. You’re on your way, kid.”

  Tavo smacked his arm, and Freddy met Donald’s fist with his own. Donald pulled off his headgear and looked around the gym.

  Here came his dad, stepping down from the bleachers. He reached over and shook Donald’s hand. “Way to go, Darnald. That was fun.”

  “Sure was,” Donald said. “It’s great that you got here.”

  “It was worth the hassle.” Dad looked at his watch. “Wish I could stay for the rest, but I’m due back at work for a couple more hours.”

  “I know. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Donald walked to the locker room, way too excited to take a seat with the others yet. Incredibly, he had even more energy now than he’d had before the match.

  He bounced up and down in front of his locker, throwing out his fists like a boxer. What a difference a win made. He felt like he could wrestle five more matches and still have energy to burn.

  Kendrick and Mario also won their prelims, and Hudson City dominated the varsity match. So there were a lot of happy, rowdy wrestlers in the locker room afterward.

  “Pizza,” Kendrick said with a big smile. “We earned it.”

  “Villa Roma,” Donald replied. “I told Manny we’d meet him at seven.”

  “Good deal. I gotta run home and get some money.”

  Donald looked around at the other wrestlers. This felt more like a team now, more than just eighth-graders ruling over seventh-graders. They’d come a long way in less than a month. He was glad to be a part of it.

  Wrestling was hard, but it was worth it. He had no doubts about that now.

  Donald stepped out of the gym with his head held high, walking across the dark pavement. Since he’d started wrestling he hadn’t seen much daylight except on the weekends. School until three, then practice or matches until well after dark. It was six o’clock already.

  He was hungry, but he had at least an hour to kill before Manny or Kendrick or anyone else would show up at Villa Roma. So he headed toward the Boulevard and turned right. There was a store down there that he wanted to check out: Lindo Música Internacional.

  He’d been in here a few times, so he knew they had what he wanted. He nodded to the man behind the counter and walked past racks of CDs toward the back, where a few guitars hung from the wall.

  “Help you?” asked the salesman, who had followed him down the aisle. The man was thin with a neatly trimmed dark mustache.

  “Maybe.” Donald pointed toward the ceiling, though he wasn’t sure where the music was coming from. “What’s this playing?” The song was fast and guitar heavy, and the singing was in Spanish.

  “El Torito. They’re Dominican.”

  “Cool. I wanted to look at the guitars.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Not yet.”

  The man took an acoustic guitar from the wall and handed it to Donald, who plucked one of the strings and listened to it resonate. “Could a person teach himself how to play?” he asked.

  The man smiled. “You could. But you’d save a lot of time by taking lessons. There are several people around the neighborhood who give them.”

  He pointed to a bulletin board on the wall that had small posters announcing where local bands would be performing, a few business cards for DJ services for weddings and parties, and announcements of bands looking for musicians or singers. The word LESSONS caught Donald’s eye. He counted four cards with phone numbers of guitar teachers.

  Donald carefully handed the guitar back to the salesman, admiring the smooth grain of the wood and the tautness of the strings. “Christmas is a couple of weeks away. I’ll send my dad in.”

  He’d noticed the price tag on the guitar, though. It was steep. “Do you ever sell used guitars?” he asked.

  “Sure. Sometimes.” The man put the instrument back in its place. “We have songbooks and picks and anything else you’d need, too.”

  Donald guessed that even a used guitar of that quality would be expensive. Maybe he could go with a lesser model for now. They probably had some at Kmart. His mother got an employee discount.

  “Thanks,” Donald said. “I’ll definitely be back.”

  “Anytime,” said the man. “We’re open late.”

  The Boulevard was all lit up—Christmas lights overhead and trees and decorations in most of the store windows. People were walking quickly, carrying packages and shopping bags and take-out food from the Mexican and Asian restaurants.

  He still had a lot of time. His mouth watered when he walked past La Isla Café and smelled the food. Villa Roma’s pizza would be a very welcome gift to his stomach.

  Donald felt warm in his hooded sweatshirt and windbreaker, relaxed and happy from the visit to the music store, and confident and excited about his success on the wrestling mat. Things were looking good. And he knew they’d continue to get better.

  He walked past the Y and turned up Ninth Street past St. Joseph’s Church toward the high-school athletic fields, then back along Central Avenue, just wandering.

  He had time to kill. He was in no hurry, just enjoying some freedom and his own company. There’d be plenty of noise and joking around at the pizza place. This quiet walk was another time to savor, like lying in bed at night with the radio.

  For the next little while, Donald had no particular destination. But one thing he knew for certain: He was headed in the right direction.

  1

  Eddie Ventura scanned the infield, then dug his toe into the dirt near first base. His right hand was sweating inside his glove despite the cool afternoon breeze.

  Everyone in the dugout and the bleachers was standing, waiting for Ramiro Velez to deliver the crucial pitch.

  Eddie took a deep breath and went into a crouch, ready to dart toward any ball that was hit or thrown his way. The Hudson City Hornets had to get this next hitter out.

  “Let’s go, Ramiro!” Eddie called. “No batter!”

  Ramiro turned his head slightly toward Eddie, and a faint smile crossed his lips. Eddie hardly ever said anything.

  Hoboken had runners at second and third with two outs in the top of the final inning. Hudson City would get one more at-bat, but the Hornets were already two runs behind.

  Ramiro leaned back, kicked up his leg, and hurled the ball toward the plate. The batter swung hard, but the ball smacked into catcher Jared Owen’s mitt for strike three.

  Ramiro shook his fist.

  “Yes!” said Eddie as they
raced off the field.

  “Big rally now,” Spencer Lewis said to Eddie as they grabbed their bats from the rack. “We need some base runners.”

  Spencer was the team’s best hitter and biggest talker, but the Hornets needed to get at least two men on base or Spencer wouldn’t even bat.

  And things didn’t look good as Willie Shaw popped the first pitch lazily toward second base. Eddie groaned with the rest of the Hornets as the fielder easily caught the ball.

  Lamont Wilkins struck out, and just like that the Hornets were down to their last out.

  Jared stepped up to the plate. Eddie shut his eyes quickly, then moved to the on-deck circle.

  Relax, Eddie told himself. Time to do something big here.

  Eddie was a fair hitter—a lefty—but no way was he one of the stars. He’d had three singles in the first six games and had drawn a couple of walks. But he’d never been one to really come through in the clutch the way Spencer or Jared always seemed to.

  The Hornets had lost their first four games this season, but they were presently riding a modest two-game winning streak. A third straight victory today would be an enormous boost, but a loss would put them back in a deep hole.

  Eddie’s tall, thin build didn’t provide much power, except in his imagination. On deck for the Hudson City Hornets—EDDIEEE Ven-TUR-a, he thought, sounding to himself like one of the broadcasters for the New York Yankees. If Jared can get on base here, the hard-hitting Ventura will surely make something happen.

  A burst of cheers broke Eddie from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Jared sprinting toward first base. Eddie gripped the bat tighter.

  Jared rounded first and kept on going, sliding safely into second with a double.

  Spencer stepped out of the dugout and gave Eddie a firm punch on the shoulder. “Grind time, Mr. Ventura,” Spencer said. “It’s up to you now, boss.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. He walked to the plate and took a practice swing. He heard that imaginary radio voice again: Ventura could homer and tie this game with one swing of the bat. But then again, he’d never hit a home run in his life.

  The pitcher took the throw from the second baseman and turned to face Eddie. He squinted and glared. Eddie glared back, trying to look tougher than he felt.

  This guy had struck Eddie out twice today. He had a wicked fastball and a decent curve. But he had to be tiring by now.

  Jared took a short lead off second base. Eddie drew back his bat and waited. The first pitch was low and outside. Ball one.

  “Good eye, Eddie!” came a cry.

  The second pitch was high and outside. Eddie stepped out of the batter’s box and glanced toward the Hornets’ dugout.

  “A walk’s as good as a hit,” Coach Wimmer called.

  Eddie let out his breath. It was true. He didn’t need a home run. He didn’t even need a single. All he had to do was get on base and keep this inning alive.

  Eddie crouched a little lower and inched closer to the plate, trying to shrink his strike zone. The third pitch looked good, maybe a little low, but right down the center of the plate.

  Eddie didn’t flinch. The umpire called, “Ball three!” and the pitcher shook his head in frustration.

  The Hoboken catcher turned to the umpire.

  “It was low,” the umpire said.

  The catcher called time and jogged to the mound to talk to the pitcher. Eddie’s teammates were rattling the fence in front of their dugout. Spencer was grinning confidently at Eddie from the on-deck circle. “Gut check!” Spencer said. “Be the man.”

  Eddie wiped his sweaty palms on his uniform pants. A hundred things crossed his mind at once. Nobody swung on a 3-0 count, so the pitcher would be playing it safe. He’d groove one right down the middle. Eddie could bunt it, then run like mad toward first base.

  Or, he thought, This kid Ventura has the ability to hit away, driving the ball deep into the outfield and bringing Jared home.

  Or he could play it safe, too, like he knew he was supposed to. Take the pitch even if it was a strike.

  And here it came, waist-high but inside. Eddie leaned back as the ball whizzed by.

  “Ball four,” called the umpire. “Take your base.”

  Eddie couldn’t help but smile as he jogged toward first. The dugout fence was shaking and rattling again; Miguel and Lamont and the others were yelling his name.

  The Hoboken coach walked to the mound and chatted with the pitcher, but he left him in the game.

  Eddie stepped off first base, tensed and ready to sprint all the way home if he needed to.

  Here came the pitch, here came the smack as Spencer connected, the Oooh from the spectators, and the roar from the Hudson City dugout as the ball shot deep into right field. Eddie ran hard, but he turned slightly to watch as the ball sailed over the fence and into the parking lot.

  That’s gone! said the announcer in his mind.

  Eddie threw his arms straight over his head and laughed as he stepped on second base. He watched Jared leap onto home plate, then rounded third and raced home to do the same. And with all of his teammates, he waited for Spencer and his enormous, triumphant grin.

  They mobbed him. Three straight wins. The Hornets were definitely back in business.