When Jesse told his mother about his father’s new gimmick, she laughed at the thought that her ex-husband, who seldom went to church, would portray a preacher—even a phony one.
“Dad’s really steamed about it, Mom,” Jesse said. “He says that if the ACW doesn’t care enough to listen to what he wants, he’ll just retire.”
His mother chuckled. “Oh, Jesse, are you still falling for that line? Your father will never give up wrestling. It’s too deep in his blood. His career means more to him than anything in the world . . . including his family.”
“Mom, that’s not true,” Jesse said. “I know Dad cares about me. And I know that he still cares about you.”
“Really? Then perhaps you can explain why I’m living in Dallas. No, kiddo, your father made a choice, and unfortunately, I came in second.”
You made a choice, too, Mom, Jesse thought. That’s why you live in Dallas.
His mother was the one who had asked for the divorce. She could have stayed in the marriage and made it work. Jesse’s father had been a professional wrestler for almost twenty years. It was what he did for a living. That’s how he paid the bills. What was he supposed to do? Give up his career and go work as a shoe salesman in a department store? Jesse didn’t like it that his father was on the road so much, but he was doing his best to cope with it. Why couldn’t his mother?
Almost certain that he knew the answer, Jesse asked, “Mom, let’s say that Dad absolutely hates being Elijah Nightshade, and he decides to retire. Is there any chance that the two of you could get together again?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Jesse, your father will continue to wrestle no matter what ridiculous gimmick the ACW pins on him,” his mother said. “He’ll be one of those wrestlers who stays in the business long past his prime. Look at what happened to Bruce Brannigan. Bruce used to be the ACW heavyweight champion. He was on top of the world. But he couldn’t bring himself to retire after his star faded and the ACW released him. Now Bruce wrestles for pennies in bingo halls and school gymnasiums. That’s what your father will eventually end up doing. He’ll be an old man, working in the independent circuit, jobbing matches to help put over the young talent. Don’t believe what he says, kiddo. Mark my word. Ten years from now, he’ll still be wrestling.” She paused. “Besides, I’m seeing someone right now.”
“You’re dating?” Jesse said, flabbergasted. A knot cramped up in the pit of his stomach.
“It’s nothing serious. We’re just friends.”
“You’re dating?” Jesse repeated. The thought of his mother with another man sickened him. What was she doing dating? The ink on the divorce papers was barely dry.
“It’s not what you think,” his mother said. “Homer’s a nice man who works at my school, and we’ve gone out a few times.”
“Homer?”
“That’s his name. Homer Mondragón. He teaches algebra here at North Oak Cliff High School.”
An image of Homer Simpson from The Simpsons popped in Jesse’s mind. Great. My mom’s dating Homer Simpson.
“What does he look like?” Jesse imagined a fat, bald, yellow-skinned man, wearing a short-sleeve, white shirt and blue pants.
“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” his mother said. “Listen, I hate to cut this call short, but I have a ton of essays to grade. Don’t worry about Homer, Jesse. Like I said, we’re just good friends.”
Good friends now. But what about later? Jesse’s mother and that Homer guy were both teachers. They had that in common. They worked the same hours. They also had the same days off and the same vacation time.
Jesse had spent the summer in Dallas with his mother. She had taken him to Dealey Plaza, where President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated, and to the Sixth Floor Museum across the street, where Jesse studied numerous exhibits that described the events surrounding the assassination. They had also taken a tour of Cowboys Stadium in Arlington and had spent a day at Six Flags over Texas. One evening, they attended a rodeo show at the Stockyards in Forth Worth. On another night, they sat on the grass outside the Dallas Museum of Art to listen to a jazz concert.
With the lousy year Jesse had been having, he had considered moving to Dallas when the semester was over. But now with a man in his mother’s life, where did that leave him? He had been looking forward to spending Thanksgiving break with her, but how much time would she give him if Homer Simpson was hanging around? What if she got serious about him? What if she decided she wanted to marry Homer Simpson? D’oh!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday afternoon, Jesse’s last class of the day, Spanish, ended at two-fifteen, and he made his way out of the building. Football players were allowed to leave school early because practice began at three, and they had to get to the field house. Some of the newer schools in San Antonio had field houses on their campuses, but Jesse’s was a few blocks away, across from an elementary school. Bucky was in his class, so they walked out together. Wendell and Goose waited for them at the bottom of the steps.
“Quiero tres tazas de té, por favor,” Bucky told the guys.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Goose asked.
“It means, I’d like three cups of tea, please,” Bucky explained.
“I know what it means,” Goose said, “but why did you say it?”
“It’s a phrase we learned in Spanish class today. We’ve been learning how to say restaurant phrases.” Bucky held up two fingers. “¿Tiene una mesa para dos personas? That means do you have a table for two people.”
“I can speak Spanish, you know,” Goose said irately.
“La cuenta, por favor,” Bucky continued. “That means . . . ”
“You guys ready to go?” Wendell interrupted.
“Yeah.” Goose grabbed his backpack from the concrete railing and hurried off before Bucky could babble on with his Spanish lesson.
Bucky was picking up Spanish quickly—much faster than Jesse. Being Latino, Jesse felt stupid taking Spanish. He should have learned the language at home. It wasn’t his fault that his parents didn’t bother to teach it to him. At first, some of the kids in his class assumed Jesse spoke Spanish and was taking the course for an easy A. It didn’t take long before they discovered that his Spanish was just as poor as theirs.
Jesse had continued to maintain a B average in Spanish class because of the song he had performed. But he hadn’t written Tragedia de Julia Hernández; his father had. If it hadn’t been for his father’s poem, Jesse would be bombing out in that class.
Riley King drove his car out of the parking lot and headed toward them. Mitch Maloof rode with him. Goose tried flagging him down for a ride, but Riley ignored him and kept driving.
“Hey, Riley!” Goose shouted. “There’s no ‘I’ in TEAM, remember?”
“Maybe there’s no ‘I’ in TEAM,” Jesse said, “but there’s an ‘M’ and an ‘E,’ and that jerk thinks the team’s all about him.”
On their way to the field house, Goose told the guys about a Halloween party he was hosting. “I wanna invite the whole team,” he said. Glancing down the street, he clarified, “Well, most of the team.”
Wendell pulled a plastic baggie filled with celery sticks and baby carrots from his insulated lunch container. “Want some?” he asked the guys.
Goose stared at the baggie. “Ugh, I hate celery. It tastes like crunchy, soapy water. But I’ll have some of your carrots.” He opened the baggie and grabbed a handful of baby carrots.
“Hey, don’t take them all,” Wendell complained. “They’re my afternoon snack.”
Goose started to put some of the carrots back, but Wendell yanked the baggie away from him. “Keep them. I don’t want those carrots, now that you’ve gotten your dirty hands all over them.”
Wendell had been working hard to lose weight, and it amazed Jesse how disciplined he was about his diet. When he first met him, Wendell weighed well over three hundred pounds. Now he was probably two-seventy, two seventy-five tops.
The guys arrived at the field house and changed into their pads.
At three o’clock, Coach Blaylock blew his whistle and all the players lined up in rows. Riley and Mitch, two of the team captains, led them in stretches. After that, they performed a series of jumping jacks. They finished the last jumps, chanting, “S-M-I-T-H Sidewinders! Hoo-ah!”
Next, they ran laps around the track. Bucky caught up to Jesse, breathing heavily. “Quiero . . . tres . . . tazas . . . de té . . . por favor,” he said between gasps.
The players rested a bit and then split into groups, according to their playing positions. Coach Lawson, an assistant coach, called Sam and Jesse to the two-man blocking sled.
“Remember, stay low. Don’t stand up straight to block,” Coach Lawson reminded them. He climbed up on the sled. “You need to have a good stance and good balance. Always be ready for the lineman who’s gonna try to run you over.”
Jesse and Sam got in their stance, about two yards away. At Coach Lawson’s signal, they attacked the sled, first with their right shoulders, then with their left, while the coach rode on it.
Next, the coach had them practice angle blocks. “Always get a good block, either on the player across from you or on the one angled to you,” Coach Lawson told them. “A good center must be able to not only snap the ball, but to block as well.”
He had Jesse and Sam face each other. When they were ready, Coach Lawson blew his whistle. Jesse’s foot got caught in a clump of grass, and as soon as he came out of his stance, he slipped and fell on his face.
Sam laughed. “So you think you’re ready to take my place, Baron?”
Jesse’s face burned red, but he didn’t say anything. He rose to his feet and retook his position.
“Okay, let’s try it again,” Coach Lawson said, ignoring Jesse’s blunder. “Remember, push underneath your opponent’s shoulder pads, back straight and feet apart. Keep driving forward until I signal for you to stop.”
He blew his whistle. Jesse and Sam charged at each other like two angry rams. Jesse dug his feet into the ground and pushed with all his might. But Sam, who was twenty-five pounds heavier, shoved him back, back, back, until Jesse lost his balance and fell on his butt.
Sam laughed again. He reached a hand to pull Jesse up, but Jesse slapped it away and got up on his own.
He hated being on the field. What did it matter if he practiced? Coach Blaylock wasn’t going to let him play. Jesse was ready to quit the team. But they only had two games left on their schedule, and he knew it would look bad if he gave up now. He would finish out the season, but there was no way he would return to the team next year.
After practice, they stripped off their uniforms and showered. While they got dressed, Wendell asked the guys, “Y’all still coming over tonight?”
“It depends, Wendy,” Goose said. He brushed gel into his hair with his fingers. “You gonna have anything to eat other than carrots and celery sticks?”
“I was just getting ready to say that, Goose,” Bucky said. “Are you going to have anything to eat other than carrots and celery sticks?”
“I’m not inviting you guys over for supper,” Wendell said. “Just to watch wrestling.”
“Well, how do you expect me to sit through two hours of Monday Night Mayhem without eating anything?” Goose asked. He checked his reflection in the mirror and smiled at what he saw.
“Then stay home,” Wendell said. “I don’t care.”
“Who’s wrestling tonight, anyway?” Bucky asked.
Wendell sat on a bench and tied his tennis shoes. “They announced last week that Ice Man Jacob Sloane will be defending the ACW heavyweight belt against Lance Redwine.”
“Redwine?” Goose said. “Why are they giving him a title shot? He’s not championship material.”
“Yeah, he’s not championship material,” Bucky echoed.
Goose threw a wet towel at Bucky’s face. “Quit repeating everything I say, man. It’s irritating.”
Bucky removed the towel and gave him a goofy grin.
“Is your dad fighting tonight, Jesse?” Wendell asked. “I don’t remember them mentioning anything about him on last week’s show.”
“Yeah, he’s wrestling John Henry Sykes,” Jesse said without giving any details.
“Your dad should be fighting the Ice Man for the title,” Goose said. “The Angel of Death is the best champion the ACW’s ever had.”
“Yeah, the Angel of Death is . . . ” Bucky started, then stopped.
Jesse usually kept the guys informed about what took place behind the scenes at American Championship Wrestling. They knew how matches were set up and how it was determined ahead of time who would win each match. They even knew about “blading,” in which wrestlers bleed by cutting their foreheads with tiny, hidden razor blades to make their matches look more realistic. But Jesse couldn’t bring himself to tell them that in a few weeks, the Angel of Death would no longer exist.
When his father began his wrestling career, he was known as Mark “the Mangler” Baron. Later, he wore a black and silver mask and called himself the Annihilator. But his career didn’t take off until he joined the ACW and became the Angel of Death. Now, it appeared that he was about to lose that character forever.
The plan was for Jesse’s father to become Elijah Nightshade, a false prophet. He would quote lines that sounded like Bible Scriptures, except that he would twist the words to justify his heel or “bad guy” actions.
Carlos Montoya, who had wrestled as a masked man called El Azteca Dorado, was also going to be stripped of his gimmick. He would appear without his mask and be known as Brother Jeremiah. He would form part of Elijah Nightshade’s Assembly. So would Marv “Demented Devlin Dredd” Snider, whose new ring name would be Brother Ezekiel. Cassandra Richardson, who had once worked as the Angel of Death’s valet, Spirit, would be paired with him again. This time, she would be called Sister Ruth.
Jesse’s father said that other wrestling promotions had done the evil preacher gimmick without success, so he didn’t have any hope that it would work now. And without the Angel of Death character to fall back on, what would happen to his career? He had been home for the weekend because the ACW was slowly removing the Angel of Death from house-show appearances.
Jesse used to look forward to seeing him, but the way his father was acting stirred bad memories of the night of his parents’ big fight. Jesse wished his father would make a decision about his career—either retire or accept his new gimmick, because he was getting tired of his nonstop griping. Although he would never admit it to anyone, Jesse was glad when his father left for his match in Atlanta.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At a little after eight, Jesse arrived at Wendell’s house. He knocked, but no one came to the door. He could hear a dull, whirring sound coming from inside. He knocked harder until his knuckle hurt. The whirring stopped. A moment later, Wendell’s mother opened the door. Her face was rosy and covered with perspiration. Her gray T-shirt was also sweaty.
“Hello, Jesse, come in,” she said, trying to catch her breath. She removed a towel from her neck and wiped her face. “Please excuse my appearance; I was exercising.”
Her bedroom door was open, and Jesse could see a treadmill in there. She led him to the den where the guys were watching Monday Night Mayhem. Wendell’s mother returned to her bedroom and shut the door. The whirring sound started again.
“Hi, guys. Have I missed much?”
“Not really,” Wendell said. “The show opened with Lance Redwine talking about how he was going to beat the Ice Man for the title tonight.”
“He’s not, is he?” Goose asked. He and Bucky sat on the couch sharing a bag of Fritos. Wendell was seated on the recliner next to them, nibbling on a rice cake.
Jesse pulled up a wooden rocking chair and joined them. “I don’t think so,” he said. “According to
my father, the ACW likes Sloane as their champion, so they’re planning to let him have a long title run.”
The guys appreciated any information Jesse gave them about the wrestling industry. They saw themselves as “smarks.” A smark is a fan who knows that pro wrestling is scripted but can enjoy it for what it is, unlike a “mark” who believes that wrestling is real.
“Now they’ve got this jobber, TJ Masters, getting killed by Solomon Grimm,” Goose said.
“Yeah, he’s getting killed by Solomon Grimm,” Bucky said.
Grimm worked TJ over with hard chops to the chest. Then he swung him to the ropes with an Irish whip and whacked him with a clothesline when TJ sprang back. Grimm picked him up by his hair and took TJ back down with a belly-to-belly suplex. Jesse knew TJ was okay, but like the guys said, it sure looked as if Solomon Grimm was killing him. Grimm lifted TJ to his feet, clamped on a full nelson, and slammed him face first onto the mat. It was Solomon Grimm’s finisher, the Grimm Reality. He rolled TJ over and made the pin. The referee slapped his hand on the mat three times and the match was over.
Solomon Grimm’s arm was raised in victory while the crowd booed. But Grimm wasn’t finished. He jerked away from the referee, stomped on TJ’s chest and kicked him out of the ring. The referee scolded Grimm, but he just laughed savagely as the audience continued to boo.
The show went to a commercial break.
Goose wadded his empty Fritos bag and threw it at the TV. “Man, I don’t know why the ACW puts on these squash matches. Nobody likes to watch them.”
“I was just getting ready to say that, Goose,” Bucky said. “Nobody likes to watch them.”
Where did the ACW find that jobber, anyway?” Goose asked. “Sacking groceries at Walmart?”
“Hey, don’t knock TJ,” Jesse said. “He’s cool.”
Goose took out a package of Oreo cookies from a plastic grocery bag. “You know him?”
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