Wrestling Sturbridge (8 page)

I get a pass to the library on Monday out of study hall and pull out the yearbooks from the past few years. I finally find her in the graduating class of two years ago: Jody Mullins. I think I remember her vaguely, but not the way I see her now.

In the yearbook photo she looks different, repressed. Her hair is short, not flowing and full like it is now, and her face is rigid and squinty. Under Activities she’s got Band 1, 2; Tennis 1; Distributive Education 4. There’s no nickname listed.

I flip to the section of candid photos and search in vain for another shot of her. I think I see the side of her head in a picture from the senior awards luncheon, but that doesn’t tell me much except that she might have been there.

I’d hoped to discover that she was a wrestling groupie all grown-up, who still held some secret unfulfilled desires that maybe I could help with. But I haven’t seen her anywhere except the Mobil station, and I don’t know if she’s ever even been to a wrestling match.

I take the long way back to study hall so I can pass Kim’s history class. I hang outside the door until I catch her eye, and she looks a little tentative but gives a smile and a tiny, hesitant wave.

I get back to study hall and sit next to Digit, who’s reading
Sports Illustrated
.

“We going to Hatcher’s tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah, I guess.” We watch Monday night football there most weeks. “Run yesterday?” he says.

“About four miles.”

“Me and Al did three.” He closes the magazine and yawns. “Where’d you go after the match Saturday?”

“Home. Where’d you go?”

“Just hung around,” he says.

“You do anything?”

“Drove around.”

He’s not saying much. So I get more direct. “You put any moves on her?”

Digit raises his eyebrows and sits up straighter. He says “No” with no emphasis at all.

“Oh.”

“Why would I?” he asks, a little sharper.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He laughs. “Who do you think she was looking for all night?”

I shrug, but that means I know.

“She thought I was trying to help her find you, but I knew where you were the whole time. I kept telling her where to turn so we’d be sure to miss you.”

“How come?”

“You obviously didn’t want to get found.”

I nod my head. “So what’d she say?”

“She said she doesn’t mind a chase if there’s some chance of catching up. But she doesn’t know what you’re running from.” He starts picking at a scab on his jaw where he cut off a zit
shaving. He doesn’t have much experience with a razor. “I don’t know, either,” he says.

I cross my arms and look at the ceiling a minute. Then I look back at Digit. “I’m too distracted, man.” He looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I think he does. It’s because of wrestling. “My whole life has built up to this season, and it might not ever happen,” I say. “This is our year. My year. There’s no more chances after this one.”

He stares right at me. “Yeah. So?”

“I can’t think about anything else right now. If I’m ever going to be anybody, it has to start this season.” Digit knows this. We used to talk about it constantly. All four of us did. We’d imagine what it would be like to win the states, to be the best in Pennsylvania. Now it’s staring us in the face and it’s scary. And it’s worse for me because I might not even get the chance. “I’ve never done anything worth a damn yet, Digit.”

He keeps staring at me a few seconds. Then he grins. “You won that spelling bee in fourth grade.”

I laugh, so he does, too. “You guys at least have the chance,” I say, getting serious again. “If none of us ever does anything worth a shit, at least you guys will have something to hold on to.”

“True.”

I’m generally not a bitcher. Digit’s the only one I’ve said this to; I haven’t even been facing it myself. But I guess I’m more desperate than I realized.

He says one more thing. “Don’t blame Coach. This is about being the best, right? Al and Hatch are best where they
are. If you want your chance, you have to take it. You have to beat one of us to get it.”

The bell rings to change classes, and we start walking toward the hall. “So you ain’t gonna move on her?” I ask again.

“Only if you ain’t gonna,” he says.

On Saturday night the pep band debuts a song in Al’s honor (“You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon). They break into it as soon as Digit’s match ends and strike it up again the second Al executes his pin. This is the third match of the season and nobody’s lasted a full minute with him yet.

Al does a kind of Michael Jackson moonwalk back to the bench, playing to the crowd and the band. The kid from Preston barely knew what hit him; Al had him on his back within three seconds and could have pinned him in less than ten. But Al likes to play with his food, so he pushed the guy around for forty seconds before flattening him. The crowd was on its feet the whole time, yelling for blood, or at least pain.

I take a deep breath and snap my headgear under my chin. Hatcher’s moved up to 145 to get a better workout, so I’m finally out there for real at 140. I don’t know when I’ll get another opportunity, so I’m going to make this count.

The guy I’m wrestling outweighs me by five pounds and has longer arms and legs. He’s dark, and hairier than most high school kids, and looks like he’s got some anger. But I’m from Sturbridge, and second-string Sturbridge is better
than most first teams.
Keystone Wrestling News
has us ranked fourth in the state. I’ll kill this guy.

I have no quarrel with the smell of perspiration if it’s clean: fresh and salty. But this guy stinks. He shoots in immediately, and I dodge him easily and spring away. He shoots again, and this time I slip on the spot where Al just pinned his guy. So I’m down and he’s got me, and I’m two points behind and in some trouble.

He’s got leverage, but not much, and I inch my way toward the edge of the mat. I’m not going to force my way out of this hold, so I need to get out of bounds. I’m used to this; Al gets me locked up uncountable times a day in practice, and I can usually keep myself from getting pinned, if not embarrassed.

It takes most of the period, but I get to the edge of the mat and let him roll me to my back, out of bounds. The ref blows his whistle and my opponent says “Shit.” He gets up and walks swiftly back to the center circle. I straighten my headgear and get down on all fours below him.

I’m on my feet the instant the whistle blows, trying to force his hands apart where they’re gripped around my waist. He lifts me to my feet and tries to throw me down, but I shift at just the right second and get free for an escape point. I pivot to face him, and he’s already attacking. No letting up by this guy.

We’ve got each other by the shoulders, circling around like grizzly bears in combat, and he’s slippery and exhaling in short, angry bursts. He lunges at me a couple of times, but I get out of the way.

Between periods the coach tells me to get my ass in gear and attack this guy instead of waiting for him to make all the moves. Al puts his arm on my shoulder and says, “This guy sucks. You should be killing him.”

I start the second period up, but the guy is strong and I can’t just muscle him to the mat. It takes me a while to finally take him down, and he escapes right away and gets to his feet. So it’s 3–3, and we’re back in our dancing bear routine. The second period ends that way.

The crowd is getting impatient—we won the first six weight classes by pin—and I hear some frustration as I walk back to the bench. Coach tells me to attack this guy, to get more aggressive and stop playing around. Al puts both hands on my shoulders this time and says, “This guy really sucks. You should be killing him.”

I start the third period down, and if I let him exploit that, he’ll just ride me the rest of the match. He already has more than a minute of riding time on me, and if we end in a draw the riding-time edge would break the tie. The guy has one move, and I should be kicking his butt. But I think I’ve forgotten how to win. All this time I’ve been learning not to lose—or at least not to get pinned—and my offense has gone to hell.

I rocket to my feet and break away pretty easily, and I can tell this guy is getting exhausted. I shoot in and take him down hard, and I hear the wind go out of him as he hits the mat.

He’s the one in trouble now, and he lets out an “nnn-nnn-nnn” sound as I force his shoulders toward the mat. He’ll
either get pinned or his arm will break, and after a few seconds of struggle I feel him let go.

The ref slams the mat with his palm and I get to my knees. I let out my breath and the ref lifts my arm, and I walk off the mat and slap hands with Digit.

Coach shows me his fist and shakes it approvingly. Al pats my head and says, “That guy sucked. What took you so long?”