Takedown Page 2

  She paused for a few seconds to catch her breath, and I wondered if she was thinking about my father. According to her, he used to get into fights, too. But maybe, like me, he’d had his reasons.

  “Let’s forget it for now and be thankful that neither of you got hurt,” she said, her voice calmer. “Shake hands. Remember, you’re brothers.”

  We did as we were told. Carl’s grip was as limp as a dead fish.

  Then Mom pushed us toward the hallway. “Get out of those clothes, and take a shower,” she ordered. “And forget all this foolishness.”

  Carl looked back at her. “You going to tell Dad?”

  “In my own way, in my own time,” she answered. “Go. Get changed and showered.”

  “You first,” I said to Carl.

  A half an hour later I was lying on my bed with only my shorts on, staring at the white ceiling. Crazy thoughts rambled through my mind. Carl had done it again. He had socked the whole blame for the fight on me. He was a coward.

  I wondered how I would have turned out if I’d gone to live with my real father instead of with my mother. I’d still be a shorty, but at least I wouldn’t have a brother like Carl who’d put me down almost every time he spoke to me.

  I got to thinking about my real father, imagining what he looked like, what kind of guy he was. Did he have brown hair and brown eyes like mine? Was he short, tall, or just medium-sized? Did he like the outdoors? Was he a sportsman? Or was he a couch potato? Mom had told me little about him, and that little wasn’t good. He had a tendency to get drunk and lose his temper. Once he’d been cut by a beer bottle in a barroom fight.

  “That’s the reason for our divorce,” she’d said one day. “And why I have you and he doesn’t.”

  Then she’d quickly gotten up and gone into the next room, wiping her eyes. I’d decided then that I wouldn’t ask her questions about my natural father again.

  But I couldn’t help thinking about him every once in a while. Maybe, I thought, if I were with him he wouldn’t drink as much. Maybe he would have cut it out altogether if a judge had ordered him to. Then again, if he was an alcoholic…

  I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow. My throat ached. At least Mom cared about me. That much I was sure of. Dad was okay, but he wasn’t the hugging kind like Mom. Now and then he’d smile and rub my head when something pleased or amused him, but that was as much as he ever showed his emotions.

  He was friendlier toward Carl. I rationalized that Carl was his natural son, but I often wished that he’d show more affection toward me, too.

  A voice interrupted my thoughts. Mom was calling me.

  I rolled off the bed and opened the door. “Yes?”

  “You’re wanted on the phone,” she said, looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs. “I think it’s Adam. And you’d better put on some clothes!”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there,” I said.

  I pulled on my pants and shirt and ran barefoot down the carpeted stairs.

  “Hi, Bull. What’s up?” His name was Adam Cornish, but everybody called him Bull. One look at him and you’d know why.

  “I… ah… Look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone, okay? Can you come over?” He sounded nervous.

  I frowned. Seldom had I seen Bull bothered by anything. “Yeah, I’ll come over. Soon as I put on my socks and shoes.”

  3

  I biked over to Bull’s house and found him sitting on the front porch, petting Nick, his cocker spaniel. The minute Nick saw me coming he scrambled down the short flight of steps and started to bark.

  “Pipe down, will you?” I grunted as I rode into Bull’s driveway. “Don’t you know me yet, for crying out loud? I’m your old buddy, Sean.”

  He stopped barking, sniffed at my bike and my shoes, then followed me to the steps, his tail wagging like crazy.

  “So what’s wrong?” I said to Bull. He was sitting against a post, his stomach in three rolls underneath a red T-shirt. He had taken up wrestling two years ago, but seemed to have gained fat instead of muscles.

  “Had a fight with the Octopus,” he said.

  “What? You, too?”

  He looked at me. “You had a fight with him, too?”

  “Yes. Less than three hours ago.” I explained what happened.

  “Well, he took my skateboard,” Bull said. “That is, he and the monkeys that were with him took it. He wouldn’t have done it alone.”

  I’d seen Bull on his skateboard. You’d think it would bend under his heavy weight, but it doesn’t. Still, taking it out from under him would not be an easy feat.

  “He’s asking for trouble,” I said.

  “And gets it without trouble,” Bull replied.

  I socked Bull on the arm, and smiled. “Don’t worry. One of these days he’ll meet his match.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  I put my forefinger against my chest.

  “You?” Bull laughed. “You must be kidding.”

  “Just wait and see.”

  “I’ll be an old man by then.”

  I laughed.

  “Maybe we can gang up on him and those two monkeys,” Bull suggested. “We can pick up five or six guys and fight them, can’t we?”

  “Have a gang fight?” I shook my head. “The next thing you know someone will start carrying a knife. Or even a gun. No, there’s got to be another way.”

  Bull shrugged. “I hope you’re right. Want some iced tea?”

  “Eenie meenie minie mo. Okay,” I said.

  He went into the house and came back out with two glasses of iced tea. He handed me one and I took a couple of swallows. The tea was unsweetened and tasted rotten. But I didn’t tell him that.

  “Did you see who you’re wrestling this Thursday?” Bull asked after he took a swallow of his.

  “Yeah. Bud Luckman.”

  Bull shook his head. “Wrong. I had to take Dad’s lunch to him, ‘cause he’s working tonight, and I saw the new schedule,” he explained. Bull’s father was the custodian at our school. “You’re wrestling the Squasher and I’m tangling with Jim Byers.”

  “Nyles? The Octopus’s right-hand man?”

  “Right.”

  I frowned. “Why the change?”

  Bull shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Bud’s got the flu. It’s going around, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I thought back to that afternoon’s incident. Apparently Nyles hadn’t known about the change either, or I’m sure he would have said something — a complimentary remark like, “Can’t wait to get you on the mat, Shorty.”

  I got up. “Don’t worry about Max, Bull,” I said. “We’ll take care of him and his friends when we meet on the mat. See you Monday.” I petted Nick awhile, then left.

  Even though our wrestling teams worked out from 3:30 to 6:30 every day after school, I still exercised at home all the next week. I was determined to build up my body — all five-feet-two of it — as much as I possibly could.

  Dad had bought Carl and me a couple of exercise mats, and two seven-pound barbells each. That way we didn’t have to worry about conflicts.

  “You think all that extra exercise is going to do you any good against the Octopus?” Carl said to me Tuesday when I had finished working out and was ready to shower. “You’d better figure out a way to grow four or five more inches, pal. That would be your only chance. Your only chance,” he repeated.

  “Thanks for the compliment, pal,” I said. You stinkpot, I wanted to add.

  I’m glad I didn’t. Things were rough enough between us. It would be stupid to make it worse.

  I could’ve reminded him that Coach Collins had taken a particular interest in me, too. The head coach, Joe Doran, was devoting most of his time to the varsity wrestling squad, letting his assistant, Chad Collins, handle the junior varsity.

  “You’re wrestling Hunter Nyles this Thursday, you know,” Coach Collins had reminded me that afternoon as he started to show me a new hold. I
was in my wrestling uniform — full-length tights with outside short trunks, wrestling shoes, and headgear. He was wearing just a sweatshirt with JEFFERSON DAVIS J. H. on it. “The Squasher,” he added, grinning. “But you could change that name if you learn a couple of new holds and pull them on him.”

  “Have you seen him?” I said. “He’s almost a foot taller than I am.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen him. But, so what? He’s thin, and he only tops you by about three or four pounds. You could beat him. I know you could. But you’ve got to believe that, too.”

  I smiled. “I know. I’ve heard that before.”

  He smiled back, and I noticed a deep wrinkle form above his left eyebrow. He was about four or five inches taller than me, but not as muscular as most wrestling coaches I’ve seen.

  “Okay, let’s go to work,” he said. “Let’s get into starting position. I’ll get on the bottom.”

  He got down on his hands and knees and I got down beside him, putting my right arm across his back and bringing it around to his stomach. Then I gripped his left arm with my right hand.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just imagine you’re the Squasher and I’m you. The referee says ‘Ready! Go!’ “

  In a wink of an eye he rolled over, pulling me with him. Before I knew it my back was on the floor and his back was on my chest. He had my right leg caught up in a hold I couldn’t get out of. He turned, his face only inches from mine, and grinned.

  “Got it?” he said.

  He was pressing me hard enough to stifle my breathing a little.

  “Yeah,” I said, almost inaudibly.

  He let go of my leg. “That’s called the shoulder roll,” he said. “It’s nothing new, but if done right it works. Okay. You get down this time.”

  I did, and we went through the roll. I managed to roll him over almost as easily as he had rolled me, and I felt good — until the fourth time we did it. That time he stopped me cold before I could even grab his left leg, and I realized then that he had been letting me go through the entire hold without any strong opposition so that I could learn its execution.

  The next day he taught me the hammerlock hold and the legal and the illegal ways of applying it. I had learned how to perform it last year, but not well enough to use it successfully during matches. As he showed me how to do it properly and effectively, I felt as if I were learning it for the first time.

  “How you apply it makes a difference,” he said. “It’s easy to pull it off illegally and lose a point or two. You can put pressure on the upper arm, but putting pressure on the elbow is a no-no. Get it?”

  I nodded. “I think so,” I said.

  “Okay. I want you to work on those two holds, plus the ones you already know,” he suggested. “Work out with Bull. I know you two are close friends, so be sure neither of you does anything to hurt yourselves. Work out with your brother, too. Carl’s got both height and weight over you, so practicing those holds on him would be pretty beneficial. For both of you.” He smiled again. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”

  He glanced around the gym, where groups of guys were doing exercises on the equipment and other groups were practicing wrestling on the mats. Coach Doran was doing his bit with the varsity heavyweights.

  “Bull!” Coach Collins yelled out. “Drop that barbell and come here!”

  Bull came over, glistening with sweat. Coach Collins explained that he wanted us to work out together, and briefed him on the two holds he had taught me. “I could’ve let you be surprised,” he said, “but I think that your being prepared for the holds might be better practice for Sean. Okay, go to it.”

  Bull and I went at it, me going down first with Bull on top of me, and I almost got a takedown first thing. But not quite. Bull rolled over onto me, tried to put a headlock on me, and I squirmed and twisted and bounced to my feet before he could get a good hold.

  We grinned at each other. I think I surprised him. As a matter of fact, I surprised myself! Bull’s a big kid!

  “Let’s try it again,” Coach Collins said.

  We did, and I felt strong and in control as I rolled and tumbled with Bull, using the new moves and holds. Bull was good, but I was faster. There were even moments when I thought I was even better.

  And maybe I was right! I finally got a takedown!

  “Sure, you would,” Bull said, breathing hard as he rose to his feet, sweat rolling down his cheeks. “I’m bushed!”

  I laughed. “I figured,” I said.

  4

  I hardly slept a wink Wednesday night — squirming and turning and sweating like a pig about to be butchered — and by Thursday night I was ready more for a good night’s sleep than for a wrestling match with one of Franklin Junior High’s best.

  Hunter Nyles didn’t get his nickname, the Squasher, by squashing melons or oranges. He got it from squashing his opponents. He was bigger than me and had wrestled since he was ten years old. Everything was in his favor.

  I was in the 125-pound weight class. I weighed in at 122 and Nyles at 125.

  I tried to ignore the crowd that filled the seats of the gym. Somewhere among the spectators sat Mom and Carl. It was funny — Mom was behind me all the way when it came to wrestling, even though my real father had been a wrestler. I guess she thought it was a good way for me to get out my frustrations — and stay out of trouble. Dad didn’t attend the matches. Tallying up the week’s receipts absorbed his time Thursday nights. I wondered why he couldn’t do them some other time, but I’d never asked him.

  As for Carl, he’d cheer quicker for Bull than he would for me.

  We stood outside of the mat, Hunter Nyles on one side and I on the other. Bob Townsend, the ref, a tall, balding guy with a barrel chest, stepped onto the mat. The red and green armbands on his wrists made it easier for the scorekeeper to see which wrestler had scored when the ref raised his hand to indicate a point. In this match the green, on his right wrist, represented Jefferson Davis Junior High, since the meet was being held at our school.

  The assistant referee, Clint Wagner, a muscular guy who had a trim mustache and was only a couple of inches taller than me, stood on the opposite side of the mat, watching. He, too, wore armbands.

  “Okay, Jefferson. On the mat,” Referee Townsend said.

  I got on the mat. Then Nyles. We stood apart, facing each other, waiting for the ref to blow his whistle. I was scared. Nyles looked even bigger in his tights than he did in his everyday clothes. He might be thin, like Coach Collins said, but he wasn’t that thin.

  Shreeeek!

  The whistle blew and we went at it, grabbing each other’s hands and releasing them. Suddenly Nyles grabbed my hands again, rushed at me, and dived at my legs, pulling me toward him as he did so. I could hear him grunt as I went down, falling on my back. He pressed his head against my stomach, fighting for a quick takedown, and I squirmed and twisted to keep him from doing so.

  It did no good. From the corner of my eye I saw the ref raise two fingers. I winced. Two points already for the Squasher!

  I gritted my teeth, rolled over, and got an arm around Nyles’s neck. He squirmed out of it as if he were greased. I was positive then that there was more to this skinny kid than I had originally thought.

  I twisted around to face him. I was down, with my left leg straight out and my right curved under me, when he got his arms around my waist and locked his hands against my chest. I could feel the tight pressure of his skinny arms. They felt like ropes cutting into my body. I could hear and feel him breathing hard against my neck. I thought I was a goner for sure when, suddenly, I saw the ref lean forward and tap Nyles’s arm.

  The Squasher released me instantly, and the ref straightened up and made the locked-hands violation sign over his head for the scorekeeper to see. Then a finger flashed.

  A point for me!

  In a moment we were in tight combat again, the Squasher diving at my legs as I stood up. I grabbed his head and rolled over onto the mat, pulling him with me. He squirmed out of m
y control and wrapped his hand over my neck in a half nelson. It was a takedown. Two more points for him.

  A second later I twisted out of his grasp and tried the shoulder roll on him, as Coach Collins had taught me. A cheer exploded from the Jefferson Davis gallery, and I knew I’d scored two points for a reversal. But, like a slippery eel, Nyles twisted out of my grasp and got an armlock around my leg. Another point for him.

  A whistle shrilled, ending the first period. We broke apart and stood up, breathing hard and sweating like crazy. I glanced at the scorer.

  “Five points for Nyles! Three points for Bailor!” he announced.

  In spite of the Squasher’s leading by only two points, I was nervous and tight. Sweat rolled down my face, arms, and legs in rivers. I was afraid that the next time we got into a clinch he’d pull some quick, secret move and pin me. I could picture him gloating down at me. Next time have your coach pick out a guy your size, Halfpint.

  I couldn’t let him think like that. I had to show him that just because I was smaller I was no pushover. If he was going to best me, he’d really have to earn the win, and maybe the next time the tide would change.

  The second period started and we went at it. It didn’t start off well — the Squasher got a single-leg hold on me almost before I was ready. Then he was penalized again for putting an illegal chicken wing hold on me. Seconds later he clasped a hand over my mouth and started to twist my head, a no-no, just as a handover-nose or -throat would be, and he lost another point.

  His breaking the rules made me realize how desperate he was. He had found out that I was tougher than he’d thought, and that he had to play dirty to score. I just hoped the ref wouldn’t miss any of it.

  I tried the shoulder roll again. This time I pulled it off. I felt better. I almost grinned in his face. Some of the tension left. If I could do it once I could do it again, I thought.