Wrestling Sturbridge

by Rich Wallace

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Like hell you don’t. What am I, your cheerleader? I only get to come close when you want to feel like a hero?”

  “I don’t want to feel like a hero.”

  “No? What do you want, Ben? You don’t seem to want me.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Not bad enough.… Maybe as an ornament.”

  I look away. Two little kids are wrestling out on the mat, and several groups of adults are standing around talking. The guy from the newspaper is interviewing Al and the coach.

  “It was the worst wrestle-off of my life, Kim. The worst match I could imagine.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  She studies me a few seconds, probably wondering how she got hooked up with such a wimp. “Okay,” she finally says.

  I roll my tongue over my left molars and look at the floor. Then I look at Kim. She squints at me, and I touch her nose with one finger. My feet are cold and my head is hot. I feel like I’m going to throw up. One of her friends is standing by the door. She gives Kim a look like “Are you coming or not?”

  “You going home?” Kim asks me again.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I really do feel shitty. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She smiles and touches my mouth with two fingers. “You jerk. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” And she is gone.

  Questions I’m not ready to answer:

  was that my last match?

  is Kim going to give up on me?

  could I handle being little Daniel’s father?

  Answers I’m not very fond of:

  maybe.

  maybe.

  no way in hell.

  CHAPTER 15

  I wasn’t there, but I can envision it clearly. I know the procedure. I’ve been there before.

  Winter in northeastern Pennsylvania is cold. The temperature falls to the teens in January and hardly ever gets out for at least eight weeks. Most nights it hits single digits.

  The furnace generates a lot of heat every night, keeping the school warm for us students.

  Picture Al with a six-pack, a not-so-unusual occurrence. He’s driving around after practice with two other guys and two other six-packs. They get to talking about their English teacher, a prissy, balding guy in his thirties who still lives with his mother. They don’t like him much.

  The school’s open—adult education classes going on downstairs—so they park the car and slip inside and make their way up to the classroom. This was Tuesday, about 8 P.M.

  It was already down to 14 degrees.

  If you piss on a radiator that’s going full blast, then shut the classroom door tight, you’ll have a pretty healthy odor in there by the following morning. It bakes on good. You can even wait fifteen minutes or so for the first layer to get sticky, then add another coat. Leave in a hurry, and don’t make much noise on your way out.

  If you’re on the wasted side, you might get a little carried away. You might laugh uncontrollably, loud enough for somebody walking the halls to be alerted.

  If that guy happens to be the vice principal, you’re nailed.

  Now Mr. Frazier is a decent man. He’s a wrestling fan. He knows that the league meet starts on Friday, and he can take a joke as well as anybody.

  But there’s witnesses here. Can’t strike a deal, even for the good of the program. All three guys have to go down together. Damn lucky it didn’t happen next week. Next week is the districts. You miss the districts, your season is over. Missing the league meet is survivable.

  It’s a three-day suspension: Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. If you don’t wrestle in Friday’s qualifying round, you obviously can’t wrestle on Saturday.

  Coach tries to make a deal, but there’s no way out of this one. The official word is a violation of school rules. I’d love to see that rule in writing (“Students shall refrain from urinating on heating elements”).

  Al sits home, misses three days of school and practice. The entire town is alerted. If this was district week, there’d be a lynching.

  I get to wrestle in the league meet.

  KEYSTONE WRESTLING NEWS

  HIGH SCHOOL RANKINGS

  February 24

  1. STURBRIDGE (16–0). Last week’s ranking: 1. Won 58th consecutive dual match. Al Phillips (135) and Anthony Hatcher (140) remained unbeaten.

  2. CANONSBURG (14–1). Last week: 4. Upset then-No.2 Nazareth 30–25 on pin by unbeaten heavyweight Bill Lustig.

  3. NORTHAMPTON (12–0–1). Last week: 5. Won two dual matches, including 34–21 over No. 9 Reading Eastside.

  4. NAZARETH (16–1). Last week: 2. Lost first dual match in three seasons, 30–25 to Canonsburg.

  5. MECHANICSBURG (17–0). Last week: 7. Had five individual winners in taking Allegheny Conference tournament title.

  6. ALTOONA CENTRAL (12–2). Last week: Unranked. Routed then-No.3 Johnstown, 39–15. Once-beaten Lester DeBose pinned previously unbeaten Zach Elliott at 103.

  7. EASTON (11–2–1). Last week: 8. Completed dual-meet season with two victories. Jordan Williams stayed unbeaten at 119.

  8. PENN HILLS (13–1). Last week: 10. Claimed third straight Greater Pittsburgh Interscholastic League tournament.

  9. READING EASTSIDE (9–3). Last week: 6. Defeated Tamaqua. Lost to Northampton.

  10. JOHNSTOWN (15–1). Last week: 3. Lost to No. 6 Altoona Central.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’m seeded second behind Arnie Kiefer of Laurelton, who’s ranked fourth in the state and is the only guy in the league Al didn’t pin this season. In fact, he gave Al the only close match he’s had all year, 8–5, at their place back in January. I wrestled him last year and he pinned me in the first period.

  If I meet him at all, it won’t be until the final tomorrow. Tonight I’ve got a short guy with giant arms from Mount Ridge. Matches are going on on two mats, since they’ve got to get through four bouts in every weight class tonight.

  Our stands are packed, but people have been noticeably quiet during the early matches. There are a lot of pissed-off adults who can’t believe what happened to Al, who’s like the second coming of … Jerry Franken, at least. Coach took some heat, but I think most people are convinced that he’s not at fault. They realize he stood with unflinching valor in Al’s defense but lost. I’m catching some cold looks as I warm up, as if I’m somehow to blame for not being Al.

  Folks, I’m 6–0. I’m in the greatest shape of my life and I’m hungry. Forget Al for two days. He’ll survive.

  I get out on the mat and we shake hands. This guy’s arms, I may have mentioned, are out of proportion, long and thick and heavy. So his thighs are skinny, and he’s got no butt. His hair is short and light.

  The ref blows the whistle and I shoot really low, under those arms, and grab him about the knees. I put him down. I twist him around and drive him toward the mat, and he is helpless and outclassed and in trouble.

  Twenty-three seconds and he’s fried. I barely worked up a sweat. I unsnap my headgear, shake his hand again without looking at him, and retreat into the locker room.

  I’ve got the guy from North in the semifinals tomorrow afternoon. I want no contact with anybody until then.

  We advanced all thirteen weights into the semis; no other team moved more than eight. The team title looks like a lock. The crowd seems more relaxed today, looser and louder. The Al thing may be forgotten, for now.

  Tommy Austin made the final at 103, and our guys also won semis at 112 and 125. Digit’s finishing up his semi right now. He’s got a big lead, but it doesn’t look like he’ll pin the guy.

  Coach hasn’t said anything to me except to do the best I can. I just nodded. I stayed awake most of the night, listening to the radio, and finally fell asleep about three. But I’m not tired. Every muscle feels wide awake, energized. I’m up next.

  Al is sitting on the bottom row of the stands, wearing
his letterman’s jacket, which he almost never wears. He’s got his chin in his hand, watching intently but not saying much. He’s sitting with some football players, but I saw him come in alone. He brightens just a little when I catch his eye. He’s got his hair combed.

  The guy from North is taller than I am, which is not in his favor. I’m compact—I’ve got a low center of gravity. Tall, thinner guys never do well against me. This guy is dead meat.

  He’s got straight dark hair and eyes that are too close together. His hands are big and sweaty; he can’t seem to get a grip on me. When I throw him to the mat, his air rushes out and his cheeks get red and blotchy. The ones who shut their eyes as you twist them never seem to recover. The end comes fifty-five seconds into the match.

  Coach puts his arm around me as I walk off the mat. “Good one,” he says. “You can win it all, you know.”

  I know. I grab my squirt bottle and take off the headgear. Hatcher pats my shoulder. Digit shakes my hand and won’t let go. “Al was supposed to give you three takedowns, then pin you, you know,” he says. “Think about it, Ben. He couldn’t do it.”

  Kim intercepts me on the way to the locker room.

  “Hey, stud,” she says.

  I probably turn red. I smile. “Hey,” I say.

  “You’re not wasting any time, are you?”

  “No.” I reach to scratch myself, but stop. “Tonight’s a different story. These first two guys were lame.”

  “See you after?”

  “I’ll try.” I give her a weak smile and turn away. The only thing in my head for the next four hours should be Arnie Kiefer of Laurelton.

  We have nine wrestlers in the finals. The pep band is in its finest form, unrolling all of its hits and debuting the theme from Rocky. Every seat is full, and lots of people are standing against the walls. I’m sitting next to Digit and we can barely hear each other talk. I’m not saying a whole lot anyway.

  Tommy Austin wins at 103—the first freshman league champion in sixteen years. We get seconds at 112 and 125, and Digit pins his guy in the third period. He’s 24–1.

  It gets a little quiet now. People are remembering that 135 ought to be the biggest lock of the tournament. Unbeaten Al on his home mat for the last time in his career.

  Kiefer is one of these guys who looks bored and vicious at the same time. Like a junior Marine officer—cold, clear eyes, square jaw, tight mouth he never seems to open. He seems bigger, wider than a 135-pounder. The guy is 21–1 this season. Al just outsmarted him in January.

  Three images whip through my mind in the seconds before the start: Reverend Fletcher, pale and paunchy, telling me about the evils of wrestling (“Foolish,” he called it one Sunday last September. “Mean-spirited and aggressive”); this crowd, just minutes ago, rising to its feet and exulting in little Tommy Austin, the emerging hero, the man who’ll carry this town through the next three cold winters; and me, staring at the ceiling last night in the darkness, imagining what the coming few minutes would offer.

  I’m out there. The match starts. I hear Digit’s voice above the others.

  This man is strong. Stronger than Al, I’m certain, but not as quick, not as slippery. He’s harder to move, but easier to control when you do. He’s beatable.

  He pinned me a year ago, when I was still in awe about wrestling varsity, scared of this guy’s limited reputation, unable to let myself go. Tonight I let go. Tonight I let the crowd’s rising crescendo carry me. I take him down, and my energy level seems to triple as the crowd roars its approval. I feel excitement in my muscles, the power of a thousand screaming voices. I feel strength I’ve never had before, and I feel this guy wilting beneath me.

  Thirty-seven seconds and he is pinned. Wham. I raise both fists above my head. I shut my eyes and feel holy.

  Coach rushes out to meet me, and Digit and Hatcher embrace me. I look to the stands, zero in on Al. “You’re next, sucker,” I say, thrusting a finger in his direction. He looks stunned and then angry. He scowls and makes a slapping motion with his hand.

  Later they give me the Most Outstanding Wrestler trophy—three first-period pins. First minute, even. We won seven finals, including five straight from 130 to 152.

  The locker room is a madhouse. Hatcher is on top of the lockers, naked, throwing balls of wet toilet paper at people. The music is on full volume and Digit is dancing outside the shower. Coach comes up to me and says, “That was a great way to cap your career, Benny. Really nice.”

  “One more,” I say. “At least.”

  “Come on,” he says with a smile. “Don’t spoil it. You know better.”

  I shake my head, but I don’t push the issue. He can’t stop me from wrestling off with Al on Wednesday and he knows it. I’ll deal with that later. Right now I’m too up.

  Al comes in eventually and looks at my trophy. “What was that shit?” he says, meaning my action after the match.

  This won’t bring me down either. “Nothing,” I say, but I meet his eyes for once. “Nothing personal.”

  “I’ll kick your ass,” he says, leaning against my locker.

  “Might,” I say. “Might not.”

  “I’ll destroy you in front of everybody, pal,” he says. “Don’t even bother.”

  “Kiefer thought so, too.”

  “Kiefer sucks. He’s nothing. You won’t last thirty seconds with me, Ben.”

  I don’t like this much. Me and Al have been friends for six years. I’m as good as I am because I’ve been wrestling him every day. But that cuts the other way, too.

  He starts to walk away, looking straight ahead and jabbing his hands in his pockets. “I’ll kick your ass,” he says.

  It comes to me now: Al is scared. He may be the best high school wrestler in this state—everybody who knows seems to think so.

  I think so, too. But there’s one guy left who can take him. One guy who really believes he can do it.

  And that guy used to be Al’s best friend.

  I get dressed in a hurry and go looking for Kim. She’s waiting in the hallway. This time I’m glad to see her.

  Things that won’t happen in the wrestle-off:

  he won’t embarrass me

  I won’t get pinned

  we won’t both be happy when it’s over

  Things that could:

  I could get slaughtered

  I could get my arm busted

  I could be the best in the state

  CHAPTER 17

  FOR THE ANGEL OF THE LORD DESCENDED FROM HEAVEN AND ROLLED BACK THE STONE FROM THE DOOR AND SAT UPON IT.

  HIS COUNTENANCE WAS LIKE LIGHTNING AND HIS RAIMENT WHITE AS SNOW.

  That’s what it says on the stone above Giles Greene (Nov 9 1823–Aug 14 1892). I’m reading it while Kim tightens her shoe. She’s got on black running tights and a light-blue sweatshirt with the hood down. And big gray mittens. It’s the first day above freezing in at least a month. There’s been hardly any snow this winter, so the ground is firm and bare.

  She stands up and starts running again. Most of my friends won’t run in the cemetery because of some general dread of death. I think it’s the most peaceful place in town, a great place to work out or just walk through and think. It’s in the wooded hills on the far side of the river, with blue spruce and hemlocks and some giant white pines.

  We run on dirt paths between the graves, surrounded by names of families that died out a century ago—Penwarden, Farnham, Tibbetts—and names of families I see every day—Tryon, Kimble, McFarland.

  Last night me and Kim and Digit just hung out on Main Street after the match, talking about little things, like TV shows or where we might get jobs this summer. And the whole time my mind was trying to figure out how to do it, how to beat Al in the wrestle-off. And I went to sleep last night knowing I would do it, and I woke up this morning knowing that I wouldn’t.

  We curve around past an old family plot with a low metal fence—just foot-high posts with a railing—and run uphill toward the Civil War area. There’s a
ring of gravestones there, maybe two dozen. Sometimes in the summer we’d take Pabst Blue Ribbon from Al’s refrigerator and sit among those stones at night, looking up at the stars. Those were always good times; we’d never get rowdy in the cemetery. We’d just sit there and talk about our fathers, why we love them and why we hate them. Why we’d do anything in our power to avoid being like them, and somehow knowing that we already are.

  Kim stops to read one of the stones. “ ‘John Baker, Co. C,’ ” she says. “Company C, I guess …”

  She bends over to look at another, and I’m taken by the view of her slender thighs under spandex. “This one was a corporal,” she says. “ ‘Jas. Northcott.’ ”

  There’s lichen on all these stones; some are cracked and chipped. We head down the hill, not saying much, just taking it in, the peace.

  She runs faster down the gentle slope, opening her stride and moving away from me. I can never run that gracefully, that effortlessly. Even sprinting now she looks so smooth, like a doe pulling away from me, or a dancer, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders.

  She circles back to me after a minute, panting but smiling. “Sorry,” she says. “I just felt so good. I had to take off.”

  “No problem,” I say, falling back in step with her. “You look strong.”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” she says. “I love to run fast. Just to let everything go. I can’t wait to start racing this spring.”

  We keep running, sticking to the older section, making half-mile loops on the paths. The newer section is flatter and less wooded, less interesting. I found my grandfather’s stone in there last summer: my father’s father. He died when I was little and nobody ever took me to the grave. It says he fell asleep in the arms of Jesus, but that isn’t the way I heard it.

  My mother says she never saw the guy without a drink in his hand. I guess that’s an exaggeration, but I see her point.

  Kim drives a little harder up a hill, but jogs in place at the top to wait for me. “I love it in here,” she says quietly, almost at a whisper. “I feel so connected with the past. It makes me feel so alive.”