by Terry Davis
“Come on, you Dougie!” Randy yells. “Put it on ’im! Gobble, gobble, gobble one time!”
Doug looks sheepishly to the bench where Coach Ratta and the assistant coach, Tom Morgan, sit with the JVs. Morgan laughs and speaks into the tape recorder.
L.C. has visions of a quick pin. He begins to ride Doug high, looking to sneak a half nelson on him and drive him to his back. Doug feels the guy’s weight shifting and lets him have the half nelson. Almost. The light of five pinning points shines in his eyes as L.C. starts to drive Doug over. Doug clamps down hard on the guy’s feeble half nelson, rolls to his back, then right over again. Our bleachers erupt in a chant of “Pin, pin, pin!” and the light in L.C.’s eyes turns to panic. He flops and strains and tries to bridge, but Doug has his shoulders controlled now with a half nelson of his own. Slap! The ref slaps the mat, and it’s all over. Our side cheers, the L.C. side sighs, and Doug bounces up and waits for the ref to raise his hand.
There it is: balance again. The most important quality a wrestler has. More important than strength, speed, smarts—even more important than endurance. You feel the guy’s weight. You feel where he’s going, what his body’s going to do. Then you take advantage. You use his strength, his speed, his smarts, even his endurance, against him.
I’m not terribly excited about the other JV matches, so I go sit with Kuch and Sausage. Kuch is trying to bolster Sausage’s confidence. Mash did a little psych job on him at the weigh-in. Mash knew he couldn’t make weight with his warm-up suit on, but he tried anyway. The ref read off 104.5. You could just see Sausage thinking, “He’s not gonna make weight! I won’t be killed!” Mash took off his warm-ups. In his tights and top he weighed 103.25. Sausage closed his eyes, undoubtedly calculating the weight of an L.C. wrestling uniform. Mash stripped to his jock. Sausage peeked around the ref and read the results for himself: 102.75. He turned a white shade of pale. Mash stood off by himself and put his stuff back on. With no larger person next to him to put his small stature in perspective, Mash looks like he could go about nine-feet-three and 690 pounds. Sausage shouldn’t have looked, but he did.
“You gotta go after him, Sausage,” Kuch says. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Go out there fierce and proud and there’s no way you’ll come back ashamed. No matter how bad ya get beat.”
Sausage is hunched up in a corner. He hangs his head between his legs and breathes heavily through his mouth.
Balldozer comes over, pats him on the knee, and says, “Shit to the thirteenth power, Sausage,” which is a French way of saying good luck.
Coach comes through the door smiling. The JVs pulled it out, 22–19. He tells us, like he always does, that we’ll have a minute of silence before we head out.
Schmoozler turns off his James Taylor tape. Jerry and Mike Konigi, who are Buddhists, pray. So do Seeley and Williamson and Smith and Raska, who are what they call “born-again” Christians.
I really like that none of the religious guys on the team evangelizes anymore. Coach, who is a Christian, gives a talk at the start of the season about peoples’ rights to their views of life. He had to start doing it in my sophomore year because there got to be so much conflict among born-agains and heads and guys who just wanted to be left alone to wrestle that it wasn’t hardly any fun to come to practice.
Once I asked Coach what he prayed about in our minute of silence and he said he thanked God for the gift of life and prayed that nobody got hurt too bad.
Sausage, I’m sure, usually spends his silent minute dreaming of at least a hand job after the match. I doubt his thoughts are on his cock this evening, though. He and Kuch are huddled in the corner and Kuch is whispering softly. I know exactly what he’s saying:
“Even if my people must eventually pass from the face of the earth, they will live on in whatever men are fierce and strong, so that when women see a man who is proud and brave and vengeful, even if he has a white face, they will cry: ‘That is a Human Being!’ ”
I never know what Balldozer is thinking. I really like him, but with his French and Brazilian backgrounds, we have some kind of cultural gap.
Schmooz is pillowed upon his warm-up jacket, singing softly, “In my mind I’m gone to Carolina. . . .” I can see his lips move.
Otto’s got his feet up on the wall and behind his closed eyes he’s watching films on the ceiling. He’s only thinking of the way to win. Before a wrestling match or a football game Otto becomes cybernetic. Name a move and he tells you the counter. Name a play and he tells you his assignment. “Guy goes for a single leg, I go for a whizzer. Thirty-four-trap: I pull and rip their tackle at the line, then look for the linebacker.”
I’m not thinking much of anything.
* * *
Lewis and Clark is about finished with their exercises. They’re the only team that doesn’t run out on the mat. They walk out real slow, swaying druidically in their black hooded warm-up suits. Their hoods come down so far you can’t see their faces. Mash leads the way. They look like mean lumps of coal, except for Romaine Lewis. He’s tall and slim and his hood won’t fit over his hair. He wears it in dreadlocks and looks like a mean black male Medusa. And L.C. doesn’t shout out their exercises. They just grunt and moan a little at each other. Opposing schools’ fans get very offended. There’s something of the air of professional wrestling in their histrionics. They do it to psych out their opponents and it works about half the time. It sure works on me. I love it so much I just want to applaud. It takes me until my second round before I even feel like serious wrestling. Roman Polanski would love the L.C. warm-ups.
We’re all bunched up behind the locker-room door. Coach has left us and gone out to the bench to chuckle at L.C. Sausage is on tiptoes, peering through the little window in the door to see when they finish. He’s all set to lead us out on the mat and take us through our exercises.
“Okay,” Sausage says. He turns back to face us. He takes a big breath. The captain is always supposed to give a big battle cry as we charge out.
“Dog style!” yells Sausage as we burst through the door to heavy cheers and thread our way between the bleachers to the mat. We’re all sprinting, legs high, and whooping hard and laughing a little, too, at Sausage’s chilling call to arms. I’d say he’s in the right frame of mind.
We’re fairly loose and sweating just a bead or two by the end of the exercises. Sausage leads us a couple times around the big gold circle as we whoop and holler, then to the bench.
In a minute we’re out on the mat again for the introductions. The two teams line up, facing each other. The announcer gives the weight class, then introduces the wrestlers. Sausage has only a black apparition with which to shake hands. But we know Mash is in there. He moves like a small but mighty thunderhead back to the L.C. bench to take off his warm-up suit and do a few more twists and bends. Coach takes Konigi and Sausage back behind our bench and kneads their shoulders in turn and talks steadily to them. Romaine gives me a couple fists to bang. I do it twice.
“Brother man,” he says and bangs back once.
“Good luck, Romaine,” I reply. I sure like him. As long as we’ve been acquainted I’ve always wanted to get to know him better. Go camping or to some shows or something. Otto knows him pretty well. Romaine is a wide receiver and defensive halfback.
Little Konigi decisions his man in a crummy match characterized by mutual stalling. He got two takedown points and then wrestled defensively the rest of the match. His older brother yells at him by the drinking fountain. They’re a funny pair. Little Konig is a hell-raiser everywhere but on the mat, where he’s technically good enough but wrestles like he’s signed a nonaggression pact. Big Konig is shy everywhere but on the mat, where he goes for broke every second. His matches never go beyond two rounds. It’s pin or get pinned for the Big Konig at 123.
The ref signals for Mash and Sausage. Sausage trots out like a little pony. Mash takes his time. They meet in the inner gold circle, shake hands, and turn to face each other. The ref blows his whistle.
Down goes Sausage after a single leg. Mash counters with a cross-face that bends Sausage’s nose about 180 degrees, then shoves him away. Sausage’s headgear is pushed over his eyes, so the ref calls time.
Down goes Sausage to sweep a leg. Mash is too fast and Sausage sweeps air.
Sausage locks up like the pro wrestlers on TV. He stands forehead to forehead with Mash and tries to muscle. Each has a hand behind the other’s neck and a hand on the other’s elbow. Our bench goes wild. “You can’t muscle him, turd head!” Schmoozler yells. Coach Morgan talks into the tape recorder.
Sausage is pushing Mash around the mat. Mash, of course, is letting him, inviting Sausage to precipitate his own demise. Balance again. Our crowd loves Sausage’s aggressiveness and cheers like crazy.
Kuch taps my knee. “Look,” he says. I was watching Mr. and Mrs. Mashamura. They sit as calm as can be. Smiling intently is the furthest they seem to go emotionally. Mash has hooked both of Sausage’s arms. Sausage is hopelessly off balance but pumps his legs hard and drives his head into Mash’s navel just the same. Mash suddenly kicks out both legs. Sausage is smashed flat. His nose is taking quite a beating.
Sausage barks and wheezes a little and tries to get up, but Mash has spun behind him for two points. Sausage is right to his knees like a shot, crawling around the mat in a burst of energy. Mash can’t find anything to grab. The buzzer sounds and the Sausage Man has survived round one.
Sausage gets his choice of positions and chooses top. The ref is down on one knee looking Mash in the eye. Sausage sights along Mash’s spine and stares into the barrel of the ref’s whistle. It blows.
Mash kicks into a beautiful long sitout. Sausage grabs for him, but he’s long gone with his escape point.
Mash is more aggressive on his feet this round. He acts like he wants to lock up, but when Sausage reaches for him, Mash drops to one knee and takes Sausage to his back with a fireman’s carry. Immediately he gets the half nelson, then the crotch. Sausage has had it. Mash lifts a little on the crotch and the leverage pushes both Sausage’s shoulders deep into the mat. He’s pinned. We don’t even have time to yell for him to bridge before the ref slaps the mat. The L.C. fans jump up cheering.
All of a sudden Sausage’s dad is out of the bleachers and onto the mat, yelling at the ref. Coach is off the bench and between them fast. Mr. Thuringer is pointing at the ref and trying to get at him, yelling that the whistle was too fast. Sausage is up and between Coach and his dad, trying to shove his dad off the mat. Both benches are paralyzed, but the L.C. fans hoot and jeer. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen very often.
Mr. Thuringer realizes right away what an ass he is—you can see it come over his face. He says something to Sausage and Sausage pats him on the back. Instead of just going back and sitting down, he apologizes to Coach and the ref and then to Mash right there on the mat. I can’t hear what he’s saying because the L.C. fans are yelling so loud. But it’s obvious he’s apologizing.
The ref raises Mash’s hand and then Mash goes over and puts his arm around Sausage and talks to him and his dad for a few seconds. Then he sprints back to his bench and they mob him joyfully.
We all get up and meet Sausage, who is crying and smiling both. Coach Morgan puts his arm around him and takes him behind the bench to fix his nose.
Raska and Mike Konigi win, Seeley gets beat by a point in a great match, Schmoozler tears his guy a couple new assholes but can’t pin him, Williamson loses bad, and Kuch is up 5–0 in the first round when I get up and walk behind the bench to loosen up for my match.
Carla got here in time to see Schmooz dig a few furrows across the mat with Steve Munker’s head. Schmooz would drive him to his back and almost have him pinned; then Munkers would bridge way up on the back of his head and scoot off the mat. They’d go back to the referee’s position and the same thing would happen. Schmooz would drive hard at the whistle and Munkers would go to his back. Then he’d bridge and Schmooz would drive and off the mat they’d go. It was like a ritual. The crowd loved it. I’d hate to have to trade scalps with Munkers. The back of his head will be all scabs tomorrow.
Carla trots over, pats my arm, smiles big, and tells me good luck. Then she goes back to her seat beside Belle. Belle saves her a seat when Carla comes late from work.
A couple maladjusted creeps in the L.C. section yell out how cute it is that I have a girlfriend. They really love it when I begin my rope-skipping. A few of the older men hoot and yell out, “Hey, Sugar Ray!” I hear it all.
Kuch is about to pin Rance Prokoff, so I whip the rope faster. I reverse the rope a few times and start to blow the air out hard. If they were not so concerned about their guy being smothered by Kuch’s braid, the L.C. crowd would be on my ass for sure. They’re screaming at the ref, whose only concern is Rance’s shoulders. Kuch is coiled around Rance like a vine, stretching him out with a hold called a “guillotine.” It’s hard to tell who’s the one in trouble unless you know the hold. They’re both on their backs, wrapped head to toe, but Kuch’s arm is woven under Rance’s neck, around his shoulder, and under his back, where Kuch’s hands are locked. The higher Rance bridges, the more Kuch stretches him and the closer Rance’s free shoulder is drawn to the mat. Rance is straining hard to pull away and wagging his head back and forth, trying to shake off Kuch’s thick braid, which is probably annoying but definitely not overwhelming. Coach Morgan runs out and flips it off. Our fans boo and their fans yell at our fans.
Romaine is behind their bench, stretching his groin and looking over at me. I dance a little and reverse the rope some more. I turn a little circle while I skip. The rope whacks the warm-up mat steadily.
Kuch almost has him, but the whistle blows, ending the round. That gives me more time.
I’m bridging on my neck, working it around and around, when the pinning chant begins. I can’t make it to my feet before I hear the ref slap the mat. Kuch has Rance stacked up in a beautiful chicken wing just like Coach demonstrated on Balldozer in practice. It take them a few seconds to get untangled. I put my jump rope under my chair and walk with the guys to the edge of the mat to congratulate Kuch. He’s smiling and not even breathing hard.
“Way t’ go,” I say.
“See ya soon,” he replies.
You can barely hear the announcer through all the noise. Cheers and boos and stomping feet. I’m the least popular wrestler in Spokane. Also, along with Shute, I’m the most popular. It depends on who you talk to. Some people don’t like it that I dance and skip rope.
Romaine and I cross, shake hands, and turn to face each other. Romaine glares. He’s into being tough on the mat. Only a real cretin is psyched out by that kind of shit. The ref’s whistle chirps. I hear Kuch yip and howl like a coyote.
I stand straight and bounce a little on my toes. Romaine is crouched and moving slowly forward. I seem heavier, but he outweighs me by seven pounds. His arms are so long he’s hard to lock up with. And he’s so tall it’s hard to take him down with leg dives.
He taps my forehead and I bounce away. He’s after me, trying to lock up or maybe work an arm drag—catch one of my arms and pull me forward off balance so he can slip inside and get a leg. His hand whips out and slaps the side of my head. Part of the tough-guy routine. Our fans boo and theirs cheer. I bounce away and dance a little and stand straight.
His hand whips out again, but I duck, drop to one knee, and sweep his leg, hoisting it high as I move behind him. I trip the other leg and he goes down. I get the two points and our crowd cheers.
Because he’s tall, I work on controlling his crotch. Most of his strength is in his legs, so I ride him low, my arm locked back around his hips and through his crotch rather than around his waist, my leg hooked through his at the knee. Romaine is really a tough guy. I never liked playing against him in football and I’d run away from him in a street fight. But for a wrestler he has poor balance. You ride his hips tight and you know right where he’s going. He doesn’t try much except to get back to his feet
. I ride him out to the whistle.
Romaine chooses top. I get down on my hands and knees in the referee’s position and Romaine gets down beside me and grabs hold. The ref checks our position and my nose begins to bleed. Just a couple drops at first. But it’s a steady stream by the time he moves back and sticks his whistle in his mouth. He calls time and motions to our bench. Tommy Reilly, our manager, runs out with the wet towel to wipe the blood off the mat. I pass him on my way to the bench to meet Coach.
“I didn’t even get hit,” I say apologetically.
Coach wipes my nose and mouth. “Better go all out this round, Louden,” he says as he stuffs the little gauze stoppers in.
I nod. I can taste the blood. I breathe through my mouth and the blood bubbles. I swallow it.
“Come on, you Swain, take him now!” yells Otto.
I sit out at the whistle. Romaine can’t stay with me and I escape for a point. I go right after him. He reaches to lock up and I drag his arm. I take him to his knees and get control for two points. The ref calls time. Romaine’s back is covered with my blood.
I pass Tommy again walking to the bench. I get one more time-out before I’m disqualified.
“Have to do it pretty soon, son,” Coach says. He lays me down on my back and presses both thumbs along the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Things go a little black. He stuffs my nose full of stoppers and pats me on the back.
I drive hard at the whistle, but Romaine stays steady on his hands and knees. I go for the half nelson and he counters by going to his feet. I lift him up with an arm through the crotch and bring him back to the mat hard. Too hard. The ref blows his whistle and gives Romaine a penalty point. The L.C. fans cheer and jeer at me. Some people also think I’m mean. But I’m not. Our fans boo. I apologize and Romaine taps my fists with his.
We’re both on our feet now. My nose is dripping when the whistle blows. I fake a lockup and dive for a leg. Romaine is ready. I don’t get much of a hold and he comes with a cross-face that bends my head back and makes me release the leg and go back to my feet. Blood’s all down my top and onto my tights. Romaine hesitates and looks at the ref. He blows his whistle and motions to our bench.