This River

by James Brown

  This is his first year in competition, and he’s excited, wanting to follow in his brother’s footsteps and win his own shelf full of medals and trophies. I’m confident that he will. The youngest in the brood is often the toughest, having on a daily basis to fight off the tortures and teasing of his older brothers.

  By five that morning we’re in the car, starting out for El Monte High School in East Los Angeles, and every time I’m headed in this direction, toward L.A., it triggers a certain anxiety, both a longing and fear. I always think of my brother. I always think of my sister, and I’m reminded, vividly, that they are no longer among the living. But today is not about them. Today is not about me and the loss of my brother and sister, and I push back against the memories. I return them, to the best of my abilities, to the darker, less accessible recesses of the mind.

  It’s a good seventy-mile drive, and we need to be there between six and seven for weigh-ins. Miss those and you don’t wrestle. Nate is snuggled up in the back with a blanket and a pillow. Logan sits shotgun but with the seat reclined, huddled under his Levi jacket, so that he can sleep too. I sip coffee from my wife’s Starbucks travel mug and try to keep my eyes open. It’s not light yet, the road is empty, and as we weave our way down the mountain the shadows of the pines give way to the glow of the street lights of San Bernardino. The windows of the cheap apartments and run-down houses are still dark. Mostly it’s only truckers out at this hour on a Sunday morning, and we make good time. Shortly after sunrise, we pull off the freeway, drive a few more miles, and then turn into the parking lot of the high school. Already it’s beginning to fill up.

  The registration tables are situated outside the main entrance to the gym. I get in line behind the other fathers and mothers and wait my turn with Nate. Logan, meanwhile, takes this opportunity to run around the gym, hoping to shed those last ounces. A few minutes later I step up to the table and show the woman in charge my kids’ USA Wrestling cards.

  “What team are they on?”

  “We’re independent.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We don’t have a team,” I say. “It’s just me and my two sons.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “They have to be on a registered USA team or they can’t wrestle.”

  We used to have a team but it disbanded a couple of years back when the coach’s three boys graduated from USA Junior Wrestling to high school wrestling. Now, from time to time, especially when the people working the registration tables are new to their job, I have problems. But I’m prepared. I know the USA Junior Wrestling bylaws by heart, down to the page and section article number which states that independents are allowed to compete so long as they’re accompanied by a registered Copper Coach with a current Copper Coach card. And that person would be me. I’m about to rattle all this off to the woman when the man working the table beside her, a man who’s registered us several times in the past, speaks up.

  “No, we take independents. We don’t get many but we take them. I know this guy,” he says. “You’re from the mountains, right?”

  “Lake Arrowhead.”

  He whistles.

  “Long drive,” he says.

  Once I’ve signed them in and paid the entry fees, I search out Logan, catching him as he rounds the corner of the gym at an even jog. He’s worked up a sweat, though he’s not breathing heavily, a good sign for an athlete in shape.

  “Did you use the bathroom?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I barely had to go.”

  I look at my watch.

  “Better quit running,” I say. “There’s only twenty minutes left for weigh-ins.”

  “I don’t think I’ll make it.”

  “So you wrestle up a division. It’s no big deal,” I say. “You’re tough.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Except that kid from Norwalk goes one-tens.”

  He’s referring to the boy who beat him for first place at an earlier tournament. It was a close match; Logan leading by two points going into the last round when he took a chance, made an error, and the other kid capitalized on it.

  I try to be upbeat. I try to turn his self-doubt around on him.

  “That’s good,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need the competition. You learn more from your losses, not your wins. Besides,” I say, “you’ll get him this time.”

  Gang graffiti mars the walls outside of the boys locker room, and the lockers themselves are mostly busted and broken. This is where weigh-ins take place, and it’s packed inside with kids from the competing teams. The Outkasts. The Terminators. The Fontana Boyz and the Scorpions. All have team warm-up suits while my sons are simply dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Obviously we stand out, and not solely for lack of uniforms. We are one of the few white families in an overwhelmingly Mexican-American community. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, if I invite it somehow, or if it’s just part and parcel to the nature of wrestling, but we occasionally get that dirty, lingering look that suggests we’re not welcome here.

  In the last ten years or so, wrestling has also become more popular with girls, which is terrific, but because of their presence in the locker room, and they’re only a few here this morning, it’s mandatory that the boys weigh-in wearing their singlets. For Logan, that means forsaking another couple of ounces, and sure enough, when he strips down to his singlet and steps on the scale, he’s over the mark.

  The man working the scale jots down Logan’s weight on a clipboard. Then he writes “110 1/2” on my son’s arm with a black felt-pen. Next in line is Nate, and he’s been observing his brother. He knows to wait until the man signals him to step forward, and I admire this about him, that at six he’s already well mannered and mindful of his surroundings. He weighs in at thirty-four pounds, meaning he’ll wrestle 30s. The divisions are separated by five-pound increments.

  As my boys are putting their clothes back on, I notice Logan staring at something, his eyes narrowed. I look in the same direction. The kid from Norwalk is staring back at him, just as meanly, from the other end of the locker room. I put my hand on Logan’s shoulder, which seems to break the spell.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “He’s trying to psyche me out.”

  “Don’t go there with him,” I say. “Don’t let him rattle you.”

  “I’ll kick his ass.”

  “You’re here to wrestle,” I tell him, “not fight. That’s exactly what he wants you to do—lose your temper and screw up.”

  But I can see he’s not listening. I know my son well. We’re very much alike in temperament, quick to anger, and when he gets like this it’s impossible to reach him. For better or worse, and I suspect it’s for the worse, this ugly thing will just have to run its course.

  The younger children, between the ages of five and eleven, wrestle in the morning. The older ones, twelve to fifteen, compete in the afternoon. In Nate’s first match he goes up against a tough little kid from the city of Fontana, birthplace of that fun-loving fraternity known as the Hells Angels. Because I am a card-carrying Copper Coach who’s paid all the necessary fees and dues, and attended all the mandatory seminars, I’m allowed in my son’s corner on the mat. The other fathers and mothers have to stand on the sidelines, which are cordoned off with yellow caution tape, and watch the team coach instruct their sons and daughters. I hand the bout sheet to the score keepers and then take Nate aside. He’s nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I kneel down so we’re looking eye-to-eye.

  “What’s the game plan?”

  “Go for points,” he says. “Don’t worry about the pin.”

  Those are my exact words.

  “What else?”

  “Just relax,” he says, “and do my best.”

  “Good.”

  The teenage referee, likely a volunteer from the high school wrestling team here, calls Nate out to the mat. I give him a pat on the back, a gentle nudge to get him moving. The other kid is already waiting for him
. He’s crouched over, his knees slightly bent, hands out to his sides. It’s the proper stance. Nate assumes the same position. They shake hands and then the ref blows the whistle.

  It’s hard to imagine brutality among six-year-olds. It’s hard to imagine how a coach, or a father, could in good conscience teach a child to inflict pain on another child in a fair and clean sport. But in the first round, the Fontana boy tries to bend Nate’s arm, and when he can’t do it, because Nate is holding strong, he strikes him in the crook of the elbow. Once. Twice. Three times. The ref is slow to respond, and when he finally does, when he blows his whistle, it’s not even with a penalty. Then, in the second round, the kid grabs him from behind, locking his arms around Nate’s waist. Leaning back, lifting him into the air, he slams my boy’s face down into the mat.

  I see him squint in pain.

  I see him fight back the tears and I want it stopped. Right now. Intentionally hurting your opponent is not any way to win a match. This is not how I’ve taught my kids. Wrestling is about technique, speed, agility, strength, action and reaction, offense and defense, neutralizing your opponent’s moves and countering if he succeeds. That slamming can merit a penalty for unnecessary roughness, which the ref again fails to note, is beside the point. I’m a second away from calling the match when I see it, this glint in Nate’s eye, his face suddenly hardened with resolve. The boy is on top of him, and Nate locks the kid’s arm under his own and rolls him, perfectly, onto his back for a one-point reversal and three point near-fall. The round ends a moment later, and Nate returns to his corner.

  I drop to one knee, so he can hear me better.

  “You’re doing great. That kid’s a dirty wrestler but you’re smarter, you’re faster. This is the last round,” I say, “and you’re behind by two points. I want you to go for the take-downs. Don’t worry about anything else. He’s leading too far with the left leg and that’s what you want. That left leg. After you take him down, let him back up, okay?”

  “Let him back up?

  “Right.”

  “What for?

  “Because you’re going to take him down again. Only the second time,” I say, “I want you to hang on, just ride him out till it’s over. Escapes are only worth one point and take-downs are worth two, and you’re going to win this match by one point.”

  And that’s what he does.

  When it’s over, Nate walks off the mat victorious, smiling proudly. Unfortunately his next couple of bouts are even tougher, though by no means violent like the first. He loses two by narrow margins but wins his last by a pin and earns himself a fifth place ribbon out of the twelve in his division. Not bad for his first tournament. Logan wrestles later that afternoon, winning three in a row and qualifying for the final bout for first or second place in the 110 weight class. His opponent, of course, is the boy from Norwalk, who has also won three in a row, all pins.

  In Logan’s corner as I’m rubbing his arms, loosening him up, I tell him pretty much what I told his brother.

  “Go for the take-downs. Go for rolls and reversals. If the pin presents itself, great. But this kid is strong. Don’t butt heads with him.”

  “I’m stronger.”

  “You probably are,” I say, though I’m not so sure. “I want to see some good smart wrestling out there, not some wild brawl.”

  Unlike street fighting, there are rules here, but I’m worried that this could turn into a free-for-all. The ref hands him a strip of red Velcro, which Logan wraps around his ankle, identifying him for the score keepers. The kid from Norwalk hustles out, waving his arms, doing a kind of goose step. He’s cocky. He’s arrogant, and I want for Logan to knock that ego down a few notches. If nothing else, it will serve the kid well later in life.

  They shake hands.

  The ref blows the whistle, and Logan shoots in, not wasting a second, catching the boy off guard and taking him down for two quick points. I’m on the sidelines, excited now.

  “All right,” I shout. “Now turn him. Get him on his back.”

  In the heat of battle, and given the head gear that wrestlers wear to protect against cauliflower ears, I doubt he hears much of what I say. Of course that doesn’t stop me from trying, and I continue to shout instructions from the sidelines, as does the opposing coach, a stout, pot-bellied man with a shaved head and sporting a goatee. The kid escapes and gets to his feet, but not before Logan rocks him onto his back, scoring a near-fall for another three points. The first round ends with my boy leading five to one. Logan returns to his corner breathing hard.

  I hug him.

  “Good work,” I say. “Another take-down and that’ll put you ahead seven to one. Lock him up. Ride him through the second round. Got that?”

  Logan nods.

  “Keep that lead going into the third,” I say, “and it’s over.”

  The rest period ends. Logan returns to the mat, and about halfway through the second round he scores yet another take down. I suck in a deep breath. I let it out slowly. There’s no way, assuming he doesn’t get pinned, that the other kid can catch up. Logan’s done it. He’s won, and I’m proud of him.

  That he didn’t lose his cool. That he wrestled smart.

  Then something happens. Something bad.

  The kid works himself free. The kid scrambles to his feet, and I don’t believe that what happens next is an accident. I don’t believe that his hand catching in my son’s headgear is an innocent mistake, any more than I do his pulling the straps down across Logan’s eyes, blinding him, and why the ref doesn’t call it for what it is—a blatant foul—is beyond me. Logan takes it for granted, as any good wrestler might, that the ref will shout for time-out, and it costs him, this assumption, this belief that sport is fair. It’s a troubling but necessary lesson, and I blame myself for Logan having to learn it this way, for my not having taught him earlier that in wrestling, like a lot of things, you sometimes have to assume the worst in a person.

  Dazed, confused, he stands up straight, and the other kid rushes him, like a lineman taking out a quarterback. He rams him in the stomach. As his back strikes the mat, I actually hear the swell of air forced from his lungs, and inside of five seconds the referee blows the whistle. Logan’s been pinned. He gets to his feet and rips off the red Velcro strip from around his ankle and throws it in the ref’s face. That’s when I snap, when the other coach, the guy with the goatee, starts screaming at my son.

  “You apologize,” he says.

  “Go to hell,” Logan says.

  He steps toward my son, but I’m there now, between them.

  “You discipline your kid,” I say. “I’ll discipline mine.”

  “Your boy’s a sore loser.”

  “Your boy’s a dirty cheater.”

  For a few seconds we just stare each other down. I know I’ve crossed a line I should never cross, especially in front of my children. He turns away, and it’s good, because I wasn’t about to.

  On the ride home later that afternoon I ask my sons what they’d like for dinner. This is tradition. This is my offer after every tournament, win or lose, as a reward to us all for a day well spent together. Typically, from Logan anyway, it invites a single word—steak, say, or shrimp. He loves both. The only restriction on this offer is that it not be fast food, and it’s not necessarily because I’m against it, diet-wise, because I’m not. I just like to cook for my boys. I just feel it’s worth more than peeling off a few bucks to a kid in a paper hat.

  Today, however, when I pop the question, I receive no answer. I look at Nate in the rearview mirror. Already a welt is forming above his left eye—the result, I imagine, of a wellplaced elbow or knee to the face, a blow I hadn’t noticed. His arm, where the first kid struck him, is also bruised and sore. I watch him rub it. I watch him bend it up and down, slowly, like it must hurt.

  “How about you?” I say. “Want anything special for dinner?”

  All I get is a shrug.

  For a while I let it go. For a while we drive in silence. Logan is
pretty beat up, too, with bruised ribs where that kid speared him, and, from another bout, scratches on his neck and down one side of his face. I wonder if it’s worth it, this wrestling, if maybe it’s time we thought about hanging it up. I don’t want to ask the question, because it’s always been my favorite sport, because I used to wrestle. And because I liked it and was good at it, I want the same for my boys—for them to excel as wrestlers, to enjoy what I enjoyed. But if today is any indication of what’s to come, I worry that they might get seriously hurt, and that concern supersedes all others.

  “Maybe we should try something else,” I say. “Like soccer. Or baseball.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Logan says.

  “We don’t have to wrestle, you know. There are other sports. Andy gave it up around your age.” Andy is their older brother and they both look up to him. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “No way,” he says. “I’m nailing that fucking Mexican next time.”

  Half my childhood was spent in Los Angeles, the other half in East San Jose. My stepmother is Mexican. My stepbrother and stepsister are Mexican, and two of my lifelong best friends are Mexican, one so close to the family the boys call him Uncle Orlando. The other, Manuel, was my Best Man. But having attended schools made up mostly of Latinos, I also know what it’s like to be hated because of the color of my skin. Pinche gabacho. Fucking white boy. I know what it’s like to be picked on, to fight, to be beaten and to beat others, and to beat them good so they would remember me. At the same time, I’ve experienced through family and friends the sort of acceptance and love that transcends the illness of bigotry and violence. My son, I think, ought to know better. I raise my voice.

  “What’d you just say?”

  He bows his head.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “I don’t want to hear you talk like that. You understand me. No more cussing, either. I’ve had it.” He’s quiet. I shake my head. I look at him again, hard. “You’re mad because he cheated. That’s it. That’s all. Don’t get it mixed up. Mexican has nothing to do with it.”