by Chris Lynch
It was only then that it occurred to me, because I was thinking about me like I always do. Mikie towed me up that hill. And I outweighed him by twenty-five pounds.
After a struggle, I got to my feet. He still had his head down when I got to him.
“You going to barf?” I asked.
“Noooo,” he drawled, then stood up too quickly, to prove it. I saw him waver for a second; then he was all right. Then he wasn’t again. “Jesus,” he said, and walked past me.
The place we’d landed was the party place where we’d been with Frankie and all his new buddies the night before. There were a lot of smashed bottles around, making the ground like a jagged gravel driveway. At the far end of the campfire circle three trees were covered, their trunks plastered with pages and pages from nudie magazines. But not the magazines I knew of, with round-faced blond ladies who could just be the local Dairy Queen queen if it wasn’t for the enormous gold breasts and the eight miles of hair they could pull down their backs and thread between their legs. No, these magazines here had lots of people in the pictures, being all kinds of busy in ways I had never even thought of in the longest sleepless summer night. And the pictures were angrier than the ones I remembered from Playboy.
There was a stench of burned rubber still hanging there in the middle of the dead campfire, and it wasn’t too hard for Mikie and me to guess whose size-ten basketball shoes were sitting there charred and black in the ashes.
Nice shoes too, they were, before. Frank’s stuff was always nice. It was important to him, more important than to anyone else I knew, to have nice things. And to look good. Must have hurt like sticking his actual feet in that fire, to burn his shoes. I wondered if he laughed that one off too.
Mike shook his head and walked, two and three and four times circling the ring of stones framing the fire pit. “They’ll probably stop soon, don’t you think?” he asked, as if I knew. “They’ll just treat him jerky for a little while, then that’ll be his initiation, then he can just be in their dopey club, right?”
I circled with him once, the rope still tethering us, but then I sat down to get something back in my legs. I started to answer, then looked at Mike looking up into the sky. I realized he wasn’t asking me the question, he was asking himself.
“It stinks here,” I said.
“Ya, it really stinks,” he repeated.
“We should be getting back,” I said, wanting to get him away from what was only going to piss him off. “And,” I added brightly, standing and stretching a little, “since you did all that work on the way up, this one’s on me. Down is my specialty, you know.”
“What?” he said, but we didn’t have time for that. I took off, barreling out of that camp and assaulting the downside of that trail like there was a bear on my back. Mike made hysterical cackling noises, trying to stay up through the first couple hundred yards when I was so possessed that I barely kept my feet myself. The breeze was back in my face; gravity was now, for a change, my friend; and though I was weak in the knees and afraid of what every new step was going to bring, I kept on wheeling madly, watching my legs spin like the paddles of a big steamboat.
I bounced off a soft bending birch tree but kept going. I stepped ankle deep into a brook I hadn’t found the first time. I heard myself wheeze, but it was half from laughing, so instead of slowing, which my body was now screaming at me to do, I pressed. I saw the bottom of the hill coming up, and I pressed harder.
Into the ground was where I pressed. Just as the ride was about to flatten out, my legs just quit. My hands were too slow to get out in front when my leg refused to extend that one more time, and I hit the earth facefirst. All my weight, and gravity, and Mikie, who I didn’t realize was right up my back, came slamming down on top of me as I hit, flipped, flopped heels over head, finally landing on my back in the path. Mike bounced off me and caromed off the slope of the road, momentarily out of view. All I could see when I turned my head that way was the rope, still connecting us, as it dipped down and over.
He was laughing spastically as he climbed the rope, using me as an anchor. I almost choked myself as I joined him, laughing as I lay on my back removing a big lump of pine bark from my cheek and pine needles from my gums.
“Do you think you can you get up?” he asked, though he didn’t look too concerned about it.
“Do I want to is the question,” I answered. But I did, both. I wanted to, and I got up, slowly. “Maybe we should walk it in from here, huh, Mike?”
He agreed, and we took it slow for the rest of the way, walking still tied up along the road.
People were just starting to roll out in my Cluster when I slogged through, showered, and dressed my mole quickly, then left again. Frankie was not yet up.
Taking Mikie’s advice, I grabbed an apple, a nectarine, and a carton of cran-grape juice and beat it out of the dining hall before I went after real food. They had those coffee crumb cakes this morning, the kind in the two-packs with the little balls of brown whatever-it-is on top that make me insane. I had to run.
I stopped running, of course, as soon as possible. On the porch of the dining hall. From there, on top of everything, I could scan, and pick a spot far away from the maddening food smells inside. There, at the far corner of the valley in the middle of the complex, was the loneliest building in the place. The library.
“Go for it,” I thought. Why not find something on wrestling? There were books on everything else, so maybe I could uncover a few tricks that could give me an advantage. It was a long shot, but I needed something. Besides, I was sure nobody else in wrestling was reading his way to the top.
It was fun to walk into the dark empty library. The lights were off, the sun barely seeped in, dust had gathered on all the mahogany paneling. And it was even cool. The place hadn’t been warmed by the heat of a single body since the summer started. It was a temptation to let loose a scream, the stillness was so inviting, and the place was so totally mine.
I did not, as I have always not, resist the temptation.
I hid in a stack of books as I waited for my echo to die and the No Excessive Pleasure Police to come and haul me off. But since the Knights could probably hear gunplay and not respond if it was only the library getting shot up, I was safe.
One of the reasons nobody used the place, I realized, was that it was ninety percent filled with religion books. Old, old religion books. Also a smattering of psychology books, dealing mostly with religion. They had a small science section that was so exciting, it made me lonely for the religion books; a Great Works of Literature section all full of English textbooks—that kind of great literature—and a Latin section. Art, music, and theater were lumped together on a three-shelf stack, on top of which rested the world’s first copying machine.
And then there was the sports section.
If any of the guys came here looking for Rare Air, by Michael Jordan, I believe they would have been put on a waiting list of about seven thousand years. The Greatest Stars of Today series of baseball books included a volume on Duke Snider. There was a book on Wimbledon with pictures of women players who wore longer skirts than the nuns did in my old school.
Then there was the Creative Sports Series of the Physical Fitness Program published by the Creative Educational Society of Mankato, Minnesota. This series must have been the core of the seminary’s stellar and rigorous athletic program, because they had all the books in the series, all nineteen of them, from Archery to Badminton to Table Tennis to Waterskiing. All the big ones.
And right there, beaming out at me from position fourteen, its uncracked plain red spine gleaming, was Wrestling.
I sat down with it and cozied up with my new main man. Rummy Macias, Wrestling Coach, Mankato State College, Mankato, Minnesota.
First I was hooked on the name. If the guy’s name was Rummy, must he not be one tough mother? Then he had the endorsements in the front of the book, from the wrestling coaches at both Oklahoma State and Iowa State. Universities. Universities. One of t
he coaches even called Rummy the “Mr. Wrestling” of the state of Minnesota. I had heard of those colleges. Much tougher than this small-time high school Knights stuff. I could learn something that would get me there, beyond my competition, even if Rummy and his black-and-white crew cut were a tiny bit, well, dated.
And one of the demonstrator wrestlers in the pictures had the hairiest arms and back I’d ever seen. I was checking this book out. I signed myself a card and stamped it before leaving.
I passed Mikie and a tired-looking Frank on my way back through the dining-hall door.
“Morning, Buck,” I said to Frankie. I was feeling the power and improvement already as I carried the book, all the great grappling secrets tucked under my arm—though not yet tucked into my head.
He looked at me through droopy lids. “Missed a fun time, boy.”
“I’m an athlete, Francis. I need to be in bed early.”
Frankie just laughed at me. Mike took the book from me and checked it out. “Good,” he said. “You’re going to apply yourself.”
I nodded forcefully, and he did the same in return. I took my book and marched inside.
All I had time for before getting to business was a quick shot of inspiration from Rummy. I cracked the book open to the introduction and was rewarded immediately.
It is normal for every boy to want to wrestle. From early childhood one of his greatest pleasures is a good tussle. It is the coaches’ responsibility to direct and train this desire for satisfying activity in such a way that it will culminate in superior fitness.
I felt like such an animal. It surged in me, this beastly thing, this desire for satisfying activity. I had that desire.
I wanted a good tussle. Right now.
I came thumping out of the dressing kitchen anxious to get to work. Eugene was already giving a mighty lesson to the unteachable Bellows. I went directly to the weight chart to see who was on the menu today. I was free-falling now, tumbling down through the weight divisions, as the coach searched for somebody I might be competitive with.
Today I drew Victor the welterweight, a mere thirty pounds below me. Too bad for Victor—it wasn’t his fault. The fall would stop with him, and then I’d reverse field to take my revenge on those who had wronged me earlier. Like in Carrie.
Victor and I shook hands before the match. Good grip there, Vic. Vic was one of those confirmed wrestlers.
Within five seconds, he had a lock on my leg and was working feverishly to lift me off balance. I pushed down on his shoulders; he jerked me back up. Finally, I fooled him. As soon as I had him pushed halfway down again, I dropped.
Victor went flat as a spatula. I spread myself as wide and bulky dead as possible, praying he couldn’t get me off. He pushed, lifted himself off the floor like a push-up with me on top. I was lost. He actually crawled several steps with me up there helplessly along for the ride like a parade float, bringing a few laughs. I honestly didn’t know what to do. Anything I’d ever done before, that was all just weight. I dropped on a guy, I grabbed, pulled, rolled on him. But I hadn’t really done one bona-fide wrestling maneuver in the five days I’d been in wrestling. It was time to quit that.
I reached down and put a lock on Victor’s arm just as he was about to roll me. As hard as I could, I yanked, tripping him.
Just like something that would happen to me, Victor fell straight over, onto his face. On his back I rode him into the floor. One of his shoulders was down, and it was staying down, dammit, as I put everything I had into the effort of keeping my welterweight stuck to the floor in whatever position he was in when I got him there. I wouldn’t even consider trying to turn him over and get a full pin. I was a lot of things, but I was not stupid. And I wasn’t giving this back. He pushed, thrashed, reached up behind him with his good hand to try and get some piece of some part of me, but I had that one shoulder nailed, the arm tucked under him.
“Predicament,” Coach called out, and I almost started trying to kick out until I remembered I was the top guy.
The whistle blew, and Coach came out. Eugene stopped what he was doing and came too. I rolled off Victor and punched the mat with both fists, I was so charged.
When Victor got up, Coach had to pull him away, because he couldn’t wait to get back to round two. Coach had to jam the white towel up under Victor’s nose, then pull it out to show him the blood hosing out. He’d landed squarely on the nose, but it didn’t seem to bother him much. He was tough, and must have landed on that nose plenty of times before, only not with two and a half times his weight behind it.
“You did all right,” Eugene said as Victor walked himself off to the nurse’s station with his nose bundled. “You held him; that’s the job. Good.” He helped me to my feet, and I wobbled. The adrenaline splashing through me now was making me woozier than the morning run up the mountain had.
“That was—it was a good move, Elvin,” Coach Wolfe said. “It only kinda makes me wish we coulda seen what woulda happened in round two and three.”
I didn’t want to think about that. I wished he hadn’t said it. But he was right to. It was only one move, and a half-belly-flop move at that. Victor was good. Victor knew how to do stuff, and given more time, he would have figured me out. I had to know more.
“Can I go some more, Coach?” I asked.
“That’s the spirit, son,” he answered brightly. Coach motioned for the other welterweight to come on over, and back we were.
This one, Lute, was not as strong as Victor, but he was less inclined to stay still for me. He first faked the same leg grab Vic used; then when I went for it, he scooted around behind me. Also just like Victor, Lute put a hold on me that people seemed to find funny.
Why do people think it’s so funny when a fat kid tries hard?
He wrapped his arms around my middle and squeezed, as if he was trying to get a chicken wing out of my throat. I walked, dragging him, then tried awkwardly to reach from one side and then the other around my back. I could not get him and he would not let go. I bent way forward to try and flip him over, but he dug in.
For a moment I stood motionless and clueless. I suddenly got so embarrassed, with Lute squeezing me from behind and me helpless to stop him, that I almost just said, “Okay, stop. That’s it, just get off and leave me alone.”
But I didn’t have to. Even that would have been better than what did happen.
Quick as a snake, and suddenly strong in just the same way, Lute hopped up and coiled his legs up around my thighs and his arms in around my arms. He leaned backward, catching me by complete surprise, and pulled.
We both went over backward, slamming to the floor. But he wouldn’t let me stop moving. By inching his body down, pulling my top and kicking my bottom at the same time, Lute pulled me down, rolled me up onto my back, then all the way up onto my shoulders. In one of the most painful, precarious moments of my life, he had me with my legs up in the air, my head bent sideways, all my weight resting on my neck. Lute was still draped over me, only now he had me all curled in and staring straight at my own navel. And with both shoulders welded to the floor.
Coach Wolfe blew the whistle as soon as Lute had the position locked. Then he let me go and I fell in a heap.
“No,” I insisted. “I don’t want to go to the nurse. I’m fine.” I couldn’t even turn my head to face the coach without shifting my whole body.
“Just have it looked at—you shouldn’t mess with vertebrae.” He motioned for Eugene to take me out. “Everybody knows now you’re a gamer, Elvin. Nobody’s going to think any less.”
“I don’t want to be a gamer,” I thought as I went meekly. “I want to be good at this.”
When I got to the bay, Victor was just pushing the ice away, saying, “Enough,” to the nurse’s assistant.
“Good move back there, man,” he commended me as they laid me down in his old spot. “So what happened, you put a move on yourself this time?”
“You could say that,” I said.
“Well, come back soo
n,” Victor said as he headed back to the trenches, “’cause I can’t wait to kick your ass.” He laughed, because that was his idea of fun. Victor loved his work.
Maybe it was the vicious pinning I took from Lute. Or maybe it was fighting two real matches in one day. Or maybe it was the no real breakfast, or the early run. Probably it was all of it, and all of it being so far from any way I’d ever been before. Whatever the reason, when the nurse gave me two anti-inflammatories and told me I had to lie there for a while, I didn’t mind. Even though I really didn’t want to be there. The ward was half empty by this stage in the game; all the real needies were out of vouchers by now and slogging through the Sectors half dismembered. So it was quiet. And cool. And undemanding of me.
I fell asleep, and I stayed asleep until they figured they should wake me for Nightmeal.
When I walked all bleary back into the dining hall, it was a dining hall again. It was beginning to feel like a weird funny movie where I just kept walking back and forth between two or three locations, I’d get mugged, and while I was out somebody’d quickly switch around all the decor to drive me insane until I didn’t know who or where I was.
It was working beautifully.
I waved to the Indian on the Massachusetts flag as I passed under. He waved back.
“What are you doing with my book?” I said as I walked up to Mikie at our table. “Give me that.” I swiped it back.
He shrugged. “It was here on the table when I got here. It must have been in here since you brought it this morning. I think it’s a good idea, Elvin, to study up, but keep it in perspective.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it’s kind of an old book. And meaning no book is going to make you great overnight. You may have to consider that you might never be great at this. Or that maybe it’ll take a fair amount of time.”
“I know that,” I said snottily, turning my head—that is, my head and neck and shoulders and upper back as one rigid unit—for emphasis.