Takedown

by Laura Shovan

  A couple of days ago, Dalia tried to skip out on the first night of Hanukkah. I was like, “Dalia, presents,” and she told me to grow up.

  She wanted to go to a movie with some girls from her club team. When Abba said no, we were celebrating Hanukkah as a family, Dalia threw a fit.

  “Latkes are disgusting,” she said. “My hair reeks of oil and onions for days.”

  Now, as she turns the car out of our neighborhood, I ask, “Do you like field hockey more than you like us?”

  She keeps her eyes on the road. “What are you talking about?”

  The other night, when I lit the menorah with Mom and Abba, Dalia sat at the table with her arms crossed and her lips in a tight line. Her eyes looked like she wanted to shoot lasers into the empty air.

  “It was weird saying the Shehecheyanu without you,” I tell her. “We always say the first-night prayer together.”

  “You’re too young to understand,” she says. It’s one of her favorite sayings, but this time, maybe because we’re alone in the car, she explains. “When I started high school, being on the field hockey team made everything better. I had friends before classes started. Upperclassmen from the team looked out for me.” She slows the car at a red light and turns to look at me. “You’ll see when you wrestle in high school.”

  “What if I decide not to?”

  It’s the first time I’m saying the thought out loud. Right away, I want to take it back. I’m a wrestler. I’ve been a wrestler since I was seven years old.

  “Why would you quit?” Dalia asks. “Evan says you’re really good.”

  “He does?”

  “All the summer camps you’ve done, moving up to the travel team. It’s all prep for high school. That’s when the real competition starts.”

  “Coach Billy says that too.”

  The light changes. The car is quiet and I think Dalia’s done talking to me until she asks, “Don’t you like wrestling anymore?”

  “I like practice—drilling with my friends. I like the kids on the team.” I like Mickey. She’s a good partner, even if she is a noob. But ever since Josh and I knocked into each other at practice, live wrestling isn’t fun.

  “It’s not that kid from the Eagles, is it?” she asks. “Don’t let him mess with you. Evan says he’s still giving Mickey a hard time.”

  In all the tournaments we’ve gone to this season, if Nick’s there, he finds a way to avoid wrestling Mickey. Sometimes I sit in the stands and watch her matches. The way kids and parents talk about her is changing. Since the first couple of competitions, she’s been getting better, winning more close matches. People are impressed. Strangers cheer for her, because she’s a girl and she’s good. Coach says Mickey’s going to place at a tournament any day now.

  A tow truck passes. Its flashing yellow lights make Dalia’s face look almost soft.

  “I thought you wanted to make States,” she says.

  “What if I don’t qualify again this year? How am I going to be a state champ like Evan?”

  Maybe she doesn’t know what it’s like, being a boy in middle school, always trying to measure up to the other guys who brag about football and lacrosse, who’d rather get the girls to flirt with them than get good grades.

  “Careful what you wish for,” Dalia says. Does she try to sound like a parent, or does it just come naturally for older sisters?

  “What do you mean?”

  “Evan made state champ in eighth grade, and he’s been trying to live up to himself ever since, trying to prove he’s still the best. I think it makes him unhappy.”

  I don’t get it. How could being state champ make anyone unhappy?

  “You’re eleven, Lev. You’ve got plenty of time to make it to the state tournament. If you don’t earn a spot this year, you’ll keep trying.”

  Dalia pulls up to the back door of the school where we practice. Instead of driving away, she rolls down the window. “Stop worrying so much. Have fun. Wrestle hard.” She smiles. It’s the second time this week my sister has smiled at me.

  Too soon, winter break is over and we’re back at school. The first weekend in January is Fight Night, our big Delgado UFC party. There’s a Beginning Champions tournament in New Jersey that same Saturday. I want to stay home and help get ready for the party, but Coach Billy says this tournament is perfect for me. Only first- and second-year travel wrestlers can compete.

  “You’re going to clean up, Delgado,” he says, putting out his hand for a fist bump. “I want to see you there on Saturday.”

  Mom drives me to New Jersey for the tournament because Dad needs to clean the house and make food for the party. I hope Evan and Cody are helping him. There are wrestling shoes, old socks, and sweaty headgear strewn all over our house.

  At the tournament, I pin my first kid right away. My second bout is against a boy who, I can tell, is weirded out about wrestling me. His holds are so loose, I get some easy escapes and rack up points on him.

  Two wins and a small bracket means I’m already in the championship round, against a kid from the Timberwolves, Trent Wheeler. This could be it. My first chance all season to get a first-place win.

  Before the match, Coach Billy calls me over.

  “You ever wrestled a blind kid before?” he asks.

  I haven’t, but I’ve seen Evan and Cody compete against all kinds of wrestlers.

  “There’s not much difference, especially when you’re down on the mat,” Coach says. “The only rule is to maintain contact. The ref will show you what to do.”

  I kneel down and put on the red cuff. Two Timberwolves kids step onto the mat. One’s got his headgear on, ready to wrestle. His teammate holds his elbow and walks him to the center, then helps him put the green cuff on. When we’re set across from each other, the boy puts out his hands, one palm up and one palm down.

  “Touch up,” the ref says. I grasp the Timberwolf’s hands, palm to palm. “If you break contact, I’ll stop the match and we reset. Understand?”

  We both say yes.

  It’s a close match. We grapple all through first period, with no one getting the advantage. My mind is so focused on wrestling, I let go a couple of times by accident. The ref blows his whistle, walks my opponent back to the center of the mat, and starts us again.

  There’s still no score at the start of the third period. It’s my turn to be in the down position. This kid is tough, but somehow I’m able to get out, spin behind him, and get a reversal. Those are the only two points scored in the whole match.

  We meet in the center one more time to shake hands. “Good match!” I say, as I lead him back to his coach.

  “The other kids I wrestled today? They didn’t take me seriously.” He grins. “I made ’em regret it. This was a good match. Thanks, man.”

  “You know I’m a girl, right?”

  “Yeah, I figured that out.” His smile makes me laugh.

  I clap him on the back. “See ya!”

  When I head back to the stands, Mom gives me a gigantic squeeze. Then Mrs. Oliver hugs me. “We’re very proud of you, Mickey!” she says. Isaiah’s mom is so nice. I’m glad we have a huggy, sweet team mom like her to balance out Coach Billy.

  Other Gladiators parents give me high fives or pat me on the back and say, “Great match, Mickey.” They all know me. How did that happen? Even Devin comes running over. He leaps up and I catch him in a hug.

  Mom and I blast music on the drive home. I rock out, waving my first-place trophy.

  “I’m trying to drive, here.” Mom laughs.

  I stick my trophy between the seats and tap Mom’s arm with it. In a deep voice, I say, “Trophy Boy wants a donut.” I’m not sure she knows about Dad’s donut tradition with Evan and Cody. It started when Evan joined the Eagles. If a Delgado earns third place or better at a tournament, there will be donuts. No questions ask
ed.

  Mom doesn’t complain that donuts are a Dad thing. She smiles and says, “You earned it.”

  I run in the store and look for the gooiest, most icing-covered donuts on the shelf. I’m going to eat at least one in the car. I pick out a blueberry cake donut for Mom, plus a box of Munchkins for the party.

  There’s no way I’m waiting until tonight to tell Lev my news. I text him a picture of my trophy as we drive home. He’s at a tournament in Pennsylvania with the more experienced Gladiators.

  No Trophy Girl? 1st Place ! he texts back.

  Not complaining, I type. Help me paint his toes later.

  * * *

  It’s late, almost nine o’clock, when people start coming over. Cody’s friends from St. Matt’s arrive first. Then a couple of fathers from the Gladiators. When Coach Billy comes in, he says, “There’s the champ!” He pretends to put a hand out for me to shake, then catches me in a tie-up. “Big win today, Delgado. I talked to the Timberwolves coach. That kid Trent? Coach says he’s tough as nails.”

  I just nod. It’s bizarre seeing my wrestling coach in my house. I keep expecting him to shout, Drop and give me twenty!

  Finally, Lev, his sister, and Mr. Sofer are here. Even in his jeans and Gladiators Dad polo shirt, Mr. Sofer looks dressed up. He wears loafers instead of sneakers, and his hair is gelled back. Lev said he works for the government. The way he stands, back straight and shoulders high, I wonder if he’s ex-military, like my dad.

  “Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Delgado,” Lev says.

  I’ve only ever seen Lev in wrestling gear. He’s dressed up for our party too, khakis and a green-and-blue-striped sweater. He’s got a lumpy grocery bag under his arm.

  Dalia comes in behind him. Lev says they don’t get along, but I think she looks friendly. When Evan whisks her away to meet Mom, Lev follows me down the hall.

  “I’ve never met your sister before. She’s pretty.”

  “She doesn’t usually look that nice. She’s more sporty.”

  “You do not look alike.” Dalia doesn’t have Lev’s freckles, his sticking-out ears, or his round face. Her hair is dark brown, long, and straight, not wavy like his.

  “Thanks a lot, noob.” Lev shoves my arm.

  When we get to the kitchen, Cody and his friends are devouring Dad’s chili and wings. The boys put Doritos into paper bowls, ladle scoops of chili on top, and smother it with shredded cheese.

  “I can’t watch,” Mom says. Two seconds later she’s yelling at Cody, “Spoons! We have spoons. Chili is not finger food, you animals.” Cody licks his fingers at Mom, but he grabs a handful of plastic spoons to pass around. Mom and Dalia look at each other and roll their eyes.

  I watch Lev and Evan together as they move extra chairs into the family room, near the TV. I can tell they’re good friends. Evan catches Lev in a headlock and knuckles his skull until they’re both smiling. He doesn’t wrestle like that with Cody. Cody gets angry and stalks out of the room when he can’t beat Evan. And Evan never, ever lets Cody win.

  Lev and I sit cross-legged on the family room floor. The dads, my brothers, and their friends, including Dalia, took all the good seats.

  Lev asks, “Do guys have to do mixed martial arts if they want to wrestle after college? I don’t want somebody elbowing my head.”

  “Wrestlers do well in mixed martial arts,” Evan says. “Of course, you’ve got to learn how to box.” I notice him sneaking a sideways glance at Dad. “There’s a gym not far from here. I’m thinking about checking it out.”

  The happy look on Dad’s face snaps shut. “Forget it, Evan. Focus on school and wrestling. You still have to get into college. You don’t have time for MMA.”

  Evan frowns at the plate of pizza on his lap. “I’m almost eighteen. It’s not up to you.”

  “Guess you’re planning on working your own way through college, then.”

  The room gets quiet. Why do they have to argue when we have people over?

  Evan stands. His shoulders are scooped forward like he wants to reach out and grab Dad, wrestle him to the ground. Dalia puts a hand on his back and he sits.

  Mom stands on the step between the kitchen and the family room. “I don’t want you boys doing MMA,” she says. “At least in wrestling, the point is submission, not injury.”

  Evan shakes his head. “That’s not true. When you’ve got an arm bar on a guy, you’re trying to hurt him, to break his will so he wants to give up and get the match over with.”

  Lev stares at Evan. I need to get us out of here before Dad and Evan start arguing for real. I scoot across the carpet, closer to him.

  “Let’s get the trophy.”

  “It’s with my coat.”

  We find the pile of jackets in Mom’s bedroom and dig out Lev’s grocery bag. When we texted each other this afternoon, Lev said I shouldn’t mess with my Beginning Champions trophy, since it’s from my first tournament win as a Gladiator. He offered to bring one of his old trophies for our project. It’s about ten inches tall, with a gold wrestler on top.

  “It’s from rec league,” he says. “When I was nine.”

  “Third place. Not bad!”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Pink shoes, for sure. Maybe the singlet too. I’ve got nail polish.”

  “What about his hair?”

  “Her hair?”

  “We could add a ponytail. Do you have hair-colored nail polish?”

  “Let’s use a Sharpie. Put on your coat.”

  Lev looks confused. Clearly, he is not used to doing non-parent-approved crafts. “We’ll do it in the garage. No one will notice. They’re too busy watching the fights. Also, if we work out there, the nail polish smell won’t give us away.”

  Lev grins. “I had no idea you were an evil mastermind.”

  I give him a low bow.

  We take the Sharpie and some hot-pink polish and head out to the garage. It’s so cold, my teeth chatter.

  “Would it bother you if Evan did MMA?” Lev asks. He watches me paint polish over the trophy’s gold singlet and feet. I brush on pink knee socks too, because that’s how Trophy Girl rolls.

  “Evan likes to do his own thing,” I say. “That’s why he doesn’t live with us anymore.” It’s hard to explain. I bet all Lev sees is Evan’s good side, the friendly, funny part of my brother that everyone loves.

  I hand him the Sharpie. Lev covers Trophy Girl’s hair with black marker and draws a ponytail down her back. I add a dab of pink polish for her hair tie.

  “She looks like a man in a pink singlet,” Lev says.

  I’m about to put a touch of pink on Trophy Girl’s lips when the door bangs open.

  We both turn. Lev tucks the trophy behind his back as Evan strides into the garage. The argument must have gotten worse, fast. In a second, Dalia bursts out of the house, following Evan to his truck.

  “I’m not going to chase after you,” Dalia says, but she gets in the truck anyway.

  “Don’t leave now. You’re going to miss the fight,” I call. Evan doesn’t answer. The garage door ratchets open. The silver truck zooms out of the driveway and speeds away. My mouth is frozen shut.

  Lev hands me the trophy. “You got pink stuff on your hand. The polish must be wet. Can you put this somewhere to dry until tomorrow?”

  I nod. Tomorrow is the first state qualifier. Our parents are only letting us stay up for the fight tonight because our age group has a late start at the tournament, one p.m.

  I shiver. “I hope I’m not like Evan when I’m a teenager.”

  Lev nods. He gets it. So I go on.

  “Whenever my parents tell him what to do, Evan takes off.”

  “My mom says teenagers are supposed to do stuff like that. If they fight with their parents, it’s easier to leave home after high school,” Lev says.

>   “It’s more than that with Evan. He can’t stand to lose. Even if it’s an argument.”

  Lev blows on his hands. His breath makes a cloud. “Let’s go inside,” he says.

  I hide Trophy Girl behind some old paint cans before we go in.

  “Where were you two?” Mom says, narrowing her eyes. I shake my head because it’s not like that. Lev is my best wrestling friend. That’s it.

  As we wait for the big match, I curl up next to Dad, fighting to stay awake. Lev sits on the floor, leaning against his father’s legs.

  “Scooch over,” Mom says to Cody, squeezing onto the couch.

  “Mom, you said UFC’s too violent,” Cody says.

  “I can’t miss a historic match. Women are the main event. That’s what women’s lib is all about.”

  Coach Billy nods. He’s not exactly a feminist, but he does say the boys I beat shouldn’t be upset that they lost to a girl. They should be upset that they lost to a better wrestler.

  At last, the TV announcer says, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event.” Everyone claps. “Touch your gloves. Step back. Good luck to both of you.”

  When the two female fighters square off, they glare and act like they hate each other. Within seconds, blood is flying. The kicks and punches are fast. I can’t keep track. The challenger hits the champ with a punch so hard, I see her jaw shift. Dad, Cody, and some of the others cheer. A roundhouse kick to the ribs and the champ is down. The challenger starts pummeling her head. That’s when the ref stops the match.

  “It’s over?” Cody asks. “It’s only round two.”

  “All that buildup for nothing,” Dad says.

  Coach Billy complains about how unprepared the champ looked. “The challenger wanted it more. Sometimes drive beats training.”

  Then Mr. Sofer is saying good night. Lev yawns as he pulls on his coat. “See you tomorrow,” he says. His smile has extra mischief in it. Tomorrow, we’re bringing Trophy Girl to a wrestling tournament.

  The morning after the UFC fight, Abba shakes me awake. “Time to get up. First qualifier today.”