by Rob Rufus
“You might be a fuckin’ genius,” Hana said.
“Yeah,” Lewis smiled hopefully, “and if it works, can you do it for me?”
“If it works, I’ll do it for every guy that lets me.”
Lewis stood up, and wrapped his massive arm around Milo’s shoulders.
“You are a fucking genius,” he proclaimed, “no might-be’s about it!”
“If it doesn’t work, I’ll get drafted,” I mumbled, “and if it works too well, I’ll go deaf.”
“That’s about the gist of it,” Milo shrugged. “But it will work, Ronnie. It has to. You’ve just gotta be brave.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed, “or a goddamn psycho.”
“Be brave or be crazy,” Hana said. “Be whatever you have to be to get to the edge of the cliff. It doesn’t matter how you get there, what matters is you jump.”
eight
Swimming with Sharks
“Sharks pride! Sharks pride! You can’t run! You can’t hide!”
“Sharks pride! Sharks pride! You can’t run! You can’t hide!”
The cheer went on and on, conjuring school spirit like a bubbly séance. The majorettes had already warmed up the pep rally, and now the cheerleaders were out there keeping everyone on their feet. I stood in the hallway with the other wrestlers and waited to be announced. The whole shebang was in our honor, so we were expected to make a hell of an entrance.
They ended their cheer with a flourish, and I could hear muffled claps from the crowd. There was a squeal of feedback, and then Principal Yonker’s voice flooded the hallway in an amplified echo. “Now, let’s give a big Sharks welcome to your very own soon-to-be county champions . . . the Cordelia High Wrestling Team!”
The doors to the gymnasium opened as the marching band started a wobbly rendition of “Louie Louie” inside.
“Let’s go!” Ramrod yelled, running into the gym.
He waved at the bleachers like a pro, and the crowd went wild. We followed his lead, jogging and waving blindly. The cheerleading squad hopped up and down, flapping their pompoms like epileptics. I wondered how they could jump in those long wool skirts. The majorettes twirled their batons and smiled. Lena, my New Year’s kiss, blew me another and I tried not to blush.
The bleachers were made up of any student who didn’t use the assembly as an excuse to ditch. I was surprised to see Hana among them, sitting in the third row, clapping for us. Principal Yonker stood center court, at a rollaway podium that faced the bleachers. Behind him were rows of folding chairs meant for us. I took a seat beside Milo.
My eyes drifted back to Hana. She was laughing, mimicking the cheerleaders and waving wildly at Milo and me. She blew me an exaggerated smackaroo. I blushed double-time and looked down. The bleachers erupted in applause again.
“Check it out,” Milo said, “your old man’s as famous as Cary Grant!”
I looked up as Dad strutted into the gym. His back was straight and his jaw was high. He moved as if we’d already won. He wore a suit, which he rarely did. My teammates gave him a standing ovation. Milo and I did the same. When Dad smiled at us, he didn’t look like Cary Grant. He looked like Bruce.
He shook hands with Principal Yonker, and took a seat with the rest of the faculty on the front row of the bleachers. He nodded at us, and we sat down. The marching band finished playing, and then loitered against the wall.
“Now,” Principal Yonker said into the microphone, “what can I say about our wrestlers here that you don’t already know? They’re the pride of Cordelia Island, one of the greatest groups of athletes in the history of this school!”
The crowd cheered.
“I know it, you know it, and by the end of the week the entire county will know better than to go swimming with Sharks!”
The crowd kept cheering. They loved it.
“Before we give them a proper send-off, I’d like to introduce you to one of Cordelia High’s former champions, Marine Sergeant Jeffrey Adams!”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I mumbled.
Sergeant Adams, our school recruiter, stood up from the bleachers and waved to the crowd. He looked like a movie star in his dress blues. The kids clapped dutifully—everyone but Hana, who glared at him with white-hot disgust.
Sergeant Adams marched to the center of the gym. His shoes were as blinding as the glare in a rearview mirror. He shook hands with Principal Yonker, who then handed him the microphone.
“Go Sharks!” Sergeant Adams yelled.
The cheerleaders went Beatlemania on him.
“I’m Sergeant Jeffery Adams, a proud marine, and a proud graduate of Cordelia High. I wrestled back in my day, too, but I was nowhere as talented as these boys. They truly are the pride of this town!”
Cue the applause button.
“Principal Yonker was gracious enough to invite me here to offer you a very special opportunity, the opportunity to become the pride of the entire nation! I’m talking about joining a team that’s never lost a match, never lost a war, never known defeat . . . the United States Military!”
Sergeant Adams took a dramatic pause as some faculty members cheered.
“Now,” he went on, “when I was your age, I had to be eighteen to prove I had the guts to be a marine. But you boys are different—I can feel it—and your Uncle Sam feels it, too! That’s why I’ve been instructed to offer you a chance to join the military today! Every single one of you boys can join right here, right now!”
My eyes cut to Hana. She was squirming in her seat.
“Even you freshmen can enlist!”
Hana was bobbing up and down. She was about to blow her top.
“Trust me,” Sergeant Adams grinned, “there’s no surer way to make your parents, your country, and, most importantly, your God proud—”
“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM!”
A hush went over the gym.
Sergeant Adams stopped talking. Heads and eyes moved frantically, trying to figure out where the cry of protest came from.
I, of course, already knew.
“Don’t listen to him!” Hana yelled again. She bolted up from her seat and turned to face the other students. “They’ll ship you to Vietnam as soon as you graduate! You’ll be in the jungle while this fraud creeps on innocent high schoolers!”
Students and teachers alike gasped. Milo let out a shocked chuckle.
Sergeant Adams looked unflustered.
“Young lady,” he said into the mic, “I’ll have you know I proudly served in—”
“Don’t run your lines on me,” she screamed, turning back to him. “There’s nothing proud about you, you’re a used car salesman of death! You’re a-a-a predator! You’re a shark! You’re the only fuckin’ shark here, man!”
That was it. The cussword did it.
The teachers started to move on her, pushing aggressively past the second row of students. But Hana maneuvered away from their grasp, making her way to the very top row of the bleachers. She pumped her clenched fist into the sky.
Then she started to chant.
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
The pure thrill of hearing the word “fuck” sent a jolt through the kids in the bleachers. Tomorrow our classmates would shun her, of course. They’d call her a hippie, a communist, and worse. But the entire student body was mesmerized at her ability to curse in the face of authority; in that moment she was every teenager’s hero, politics be damned.
A few of the bolder kids even joined in for fun.
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
“Shut her up!” Principal Yonker yelled.
But Hana was too fast. She weaved up and down the
bleachers, in and out of students, chanting louder and louder.
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
“We’re not eight-teen! Stop the fucking war machine!”
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Stink Wilson stand up.
I felt my stomach drop.
“Shut up, gook!” Stink screamed. “You’re fucking dead!”
Then the gymnasium turned into a riot scene. The cheerleaders and majorettes screamed back at the chanting kids. Lena threw her baton at Hana, but overshot and hit Benji in the side of the head, turning his laughter into a shrill howl.
Stink sprinted toward the bleachers, shrieking death threats that were convincing enough to scare every adult in the gym, Sergeant Adams included. Marty, Bill, and a few of his cronies followed suit. Principal Yonker held his hands out at the charging wrestlers in a lame attempt to reassert his authority.
Stink pushed him out of the way like he was a foursquare ball, but when Principal Yonker hit the court it was with a hollow thud. Dad reluctantly jumped into action, tackling Stink just as his foot reached the bottom bleacher.
Dad held him there in a bear hug, and even Stink Wilson knew better than to fight back. His friends, however, were still determined. They scaled the bleachers after Hana, who’d made it to the far end of the gym.
Lewis stood up and marched toward them.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Don’t make me go up there after you!”
The assailants paused, looked at Lewis, thought it over, and gave up the chase. I was thankful their self-preservation still outweighed the sum of their hate. Lewis helped Principal Yonker up, and for a moment I thought things were mellowing out.
Then, suddenly, Milo stood up on his chair.
“Milo,” I hissed, “what are you doing? Sit down, man!”
He ignored me completely. He was focused on Hana.
“We’re not eight-teen!” he screamed. “Stop the fuckin’ war machine!”
I put my head in my hands as cheers erupted from the back of the gym.
I groaned. I looked up to see that Mrs. Holstein, the school’s sturdiest, meanest matron, had wrestled Hana into a violent embrace. Hana struggled to keep her chant going until Mrs. Holstein’s meaty palm finally covered Hana’s mouth. But Hana didn’t need her mouth to tell me how she felt about the chaos. All I had to do was look into her eyes.
They were smiling.
nine
War Against War
The Shark Bus, we called it, with a carsick sort of affection; our nickname for the ʼ59 F-5 the school chauffeured athletes in. The only thing up-to-date about that four-wheeled deathtrap was the paintjob—blue against white, with a shark capping the hood like a World War II bomber. There were holes in the seats, and a crack down the windshield. Worst of all was the suspension, which was totally blown.
That drive to county finals was an even rougher ride than usual.
Six of our wrestlers were suspended after the pep rally, which barred them from competing in the tournament. Milo, bless his heart, was the worst wrestler on the team, so no one exactly mourned his loss. But Stink, Bill, Franklin, and Marty were the best of the bunch, and their absence was definitely felt. The last-minute shakeup elicited plenty of emotions, but confidence wasn’t one of them.
Dad was especially crestfallen. He sat by himself on the front bench, staring at the manicured lawns that lined the road. I sat with Ramrod near the back. He’d helped Dad and Principal Yonker corral those involved in Hana’s protest to the front office, and managed to hang around like a fly on the wall for the aftermath.
“Principal Yonker wanted to expel her outright,” he was saying, filling me in, “but Stink’s dad asked him to go easy on her.”
“No way,” I scoffed.
“They’re all scared of Hana’s dad. They don’t wanna ruffle his feathers until things at the mill go back to normal.”
“So, what’d he do?”
“Gave her two weeks suspension, same as the others.”
“Whew,” I shook my head, “I’m sure Stink took that well.”
“Oh, he was real cool about it . . . all he did was cuss out the principal and his daddy, throw a chair across the room, and storm out in a tantrum.”
“Stink’s tantrums are makin’ me nervous.”
“Everything about him is making me nervous,” Lewis sighed. “I always knew he was a hateful son of a bitch; you can talk to him once and know it. But talk is just talk . . . or, like, I thought it was. But when I saw him get up from that seat, when I saw the others follow him . . . I couldn’t believe it. I mean damn, Ronnie, I’ve known Bill and Marty since we were little.”
“Not as well as ya thought, maybe.”
“Guess not,” Lewis muttered, and then peered out the window.
“Ronnie!” Dad hollered over the noise of the road.
Everyone turned to gawk at me as if I was in some sort of trouble. I rolled my eyes, and wobbled my way to the empty seat beside him. When Dad looked at me, his face was stained with the sallow expectation of defeat.
“I’m gonna ask Lewis to wrestle today,” Dad said.
“But won’t the other teams get mad?”
“Most likely. But I’d moved Marty up to heavyweight, and now that he’s benched I need Lewis to take his place.”
“Well”—I shrugged—“then let Ramrod wipe the floor with all of ʼem.”
“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “not that it’ll do much good.”
“Well just so ya know, I’m gonna kick some butt for you.”
Dad smiled a painfully forced smile. He patted my leg.
“I mean it,” I said, and I did. Dad was angry so much I’d grown used to it. Disappointed. Frustrated. Harsh. Cold. But this defeatist shit was too much for me to handle. I was determined to do my best, or some version of it, at the tournament.
“I’m proud of you, Ronnie,” he said. “I know you’ll leave it all on the mat, and that’s all that matters to me. Win, lose, or draw, I’m proud of you.”
“Jeeze,” I mumbled, “thanks, Dad.”
He smiled and patted my leg again.
“But, son,” he added.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll be prouder if ya win.”
―
I lost.
But not, like, right away. I won my first three matches, then lost the fourth by a stupid point. That put me in third place, which didn’t help our overall points too much. But I was getting a medal! I’d never won a medal in anything, so bronze was as good as gold to me.
The team did better than expected, too. Ramrod’s triumphant return supplied us with a much-needed boost of confidence; we had teammates place in the 126, 138, 160, and 195 weight classes.
Lewis won first place in the heavyweight division, after an epic final match against a hulking, two-hundred-thirty-pound Adonis from Fernandina’s colored school. Finals were the only chance for segregated teams to compete with each other, and the entire auditorium crowded that mat for the clash of teen titans. It was the first time I’d seen Lewis go head-to-head with an equally talented opponent, and when Ramrod finally pinned him in the third period the cheers and jeers were loud enough to rival Madison Square Garden.
But now that the matches were over, the municipal auditorium was uncomfortably quiet. Sore, stinky gladiators sat waiting for the trophy ceremony to start. I was loafing in the bleachers with Lewis, as he wrapped his knee in medical tape. He winced every time he put pressure on it.
“How bad does it hurt?” I asked.
“It feels like the bone’s all twisted. I’m just lucky it didn’t snap off. I thought he had me for a minute.”
“Me too, man. He was really somethin’ else.”
I looked at the court below us. The coaches from Yulee and Glenmore were arranging the podiums
for the awards ceremony. The third place podium only looked about half-an-inch high, but I couldn’t wait for Dad to see me on it.
Then I spotted the kid who beat me for silver, a bony redhead I shoulda been able to whip easily. He looked up at me and grinned. It was enough to take the wind from my sails.
“I can’t believe I lost to that carrot-head,” I grumbled, “Bruce woulda creamed that kid, easy.”
“So you’re not as good as Bruce on the mat,” Lewis said. “So what? You’re stronger than him in a lot of ways, ways that count way more than this.”
“Right,” I sneered.
Lewis groaned in pain as he stood up. He looked down at me.
“Let’s go outside for a minute,” he said.
“You think we have time?”
“What are they gonna do, start without us? Who would they give them medals to?”
“Glad you’ve stayed humble in your old age,” I laughed.
Then I stood from the bleachers and followed him out.
Lewis and I loitered outside the auditorium. COPALL COUNTY WRESTLING CHAMPIONSHIP was written on the marquee in crooked plastic letters. The sky was dark orange, rimmed in thin hues of pink. A few others stood near us, puffing cigarettes and admiring the horizon.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Just wanna make sure you’re still goin’ through with it on Friday.”
“Of course, man. What better way to spend a birthday than blowing up my ears?”
“Good,” he said, without the hint of a smile.
“Why?”
He squinted into the sunset. He didn’t say a thing.
“Lewis, what’s goin’ on?”
“I feel like I should tell you somethin’ that I don’t wanna tell ya.”
“Well you’ve gotta tell me now, man.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “all right. Bruce and I worried about the draft all the time, just like you and Milo. We even cooked up schemes to get out of it. We weren’t smart enough to think up a permanent solution like Milo did, but still.”
I nodded. He cleared his throat.