I didn't sleep much that night. Thoughts of being torn to shreds the next day spilled from my conscious to my unconscious thoughts. They burned the back of my eyes like fire the entire night until my alarm clock uncaringly buzzed at 6:30 the next morning.
Dragging myself through the daily routine of shower, teeth, comb, dress was agonizingly painful. "Let's just get it over with" was the one thought that pounded incessantly through my brain.
Sitting in English class that morning I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Wooly.
"You ok?" he asked.
Slogging through the inky fog of self pity back toward reality, I looked at him and said something like, "Yea, I'm fine."
But I wasn't. I knew I had no chance against Robert Linkous. Short of discovering a secret strength pill or a long lost cape on my back, nothing would save me from my impending misfortune.
Except for maybe one thing. Fear.
I wished for a reprieve that whole day, but sooner than I wanted, practice was upon me and I found myself putting on my practice singlet and helmet. Being only 112 pounds, I would be one of the first to take the mat. After Joe Miles whipped some other kid at the 105-pound class, Coach called Robert and me to the center of the mat.
Robert stared into my eyes with a look of equal parts disdain, anger and loathing as Coach instructed us to have a fair fight. I looked at my feet. Then, in an instant, the whistle blew and the match was on.
The excruciating fear I felt at that moment was stronger than any other emotion I'd ever felt. Not even telling Lisa Howell how I truly felt about her had made my knees shake so uncontrollably. I was terrified, and it was oddly empowering and strengthening.
Robert was the first to make a move. Sauntering confidently over to me, he smacked the left side of my helmet, just to get my attention. Then he smacked the right side a little harder, making my ear ring slightly. At that point, all of the noise from the gym funneled directly into oblivion and all I could hear was my own heart beating frantically.
As Robert tried to shoot in and grab my legs for a two-leg takedown, I instinctively put my hands under his arms in defense, sprawled as quickly as I could, and fell violently toward the blue and gold. This action alone drove Robert's head directly into the mat beneath me. Spinning quickly toward his back, I laid down on top of him and grabbed him around the waist.
"Two points Schetselaar!" bellowed Coach. I'd scored the first points on a takedown I hadn't even started, but I somehow felt that it wouldn't be enough.
Putting my full weight on Robert's back, I tried to grab his legs. Cradling him onto his back would spell the end of the match, but it would be much more difficult than I'd planned.
As I pushed my left arm under his head and tried to pull his right leg toward his chin with my right arm, he stiffened his back and legs and tried rolling away from me. I countered by sinking a half nelson from the opposite side and tried to use his momentum to carry him over onto his back. It didn't work.
Robert grabbed my left hand and pulled it out from behind his head, rolling his legs on top of mine and trying for a reversal. I didn't know much about wrestling technique at this point, but I'd wrestled enough with my dad on the living room carpet to know what didn't feel right...and this didn't feel right.
Pulling my legs quickly to the side, I stepped back over his legs and caught him on his side. I quickly sank the half nelson and pushed as hard as I could. Slowly, ever so slowly, I rolled him onto his back and put the entire weight of my body on his chest. I ground my chin into his right shoulder, hoping it would discourage him from trying to roll against me. It worked. I quickly grabbed his right leg and listened as Coach counted one, two, three. It was over, and I had pinned Robert Linkous!
Getting onto my knees, I pulled my weight back over my feet and stood, looking down at Robert's prostrate body. He stayed there for a second or two and then stood. Like a roaring wave, the sound in the room returned and I could hear nothing but the deafening silence. No one had given me a chance to win, including me. It was the most stunning upset anyone had ever seen.
Coach raised my hand as the victor and I walked quietly and meekly back to my place at the edge of the mat. No one spoke to me, but they all looked at me with mouths agape. No one had expected it and no one yet believed it.
Coming soon - Conclusion
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
58 Seconds - Part II
Unfortunately for Wooly, he didn't survive the first cuts. He was gone after the first day. He was always more of a baseball player, anyway, so he really didn't care. I, on the other hand, was still there for day two.
The next day, I felt the loogie hit the back of my t-shirt before I even knew they were behind me. "You'll never make the wrestling team," said a squeaky, yet raspy voice, which I knew instantly belonged to one of the Kylye brothers.
The Kylye's had just moved into our neighborhood, and had been causing trouble for me ever since. Neither was particularly large, but they both had bully in them like stink in a skunk. They were some of the biggest jerks in school and were toadies of the kingpin jerk himself - Tony Davis.
I'm not absolutely sure why they liked picking on me. Most likely, it was because I let them do just about whatever they wanted without fear of recrimination. They spit on me, pushed me around, bumped into me, and said whatever they wanted to me, and I didn't do a doggone thing. I now wish I had, but as a skinny, pimply teenager, I simply didn't want to fight.
The oldest, David, was a year younger than me, but was just about as tall, and had a nose that looked like a dog's hind leg. I'd heard he'd taken a baseball bat to the face in Little League, but it wasn't something I was going to ask him about. The youngest, Mike, was a year younger than him, but just as mean. Together, they were about as unpleasant as two pre-pubescent toughs could be.
I continued to walk across the gym floor toward the front of the line, ignoring them as much as possible. We were doing layup drills in gym class and it was my turn to rebound.
"Hey, stupid," one of the brothers said when we got to the end of the shooting line. I didn't know which one it was, though I had looked him in the eye. They were interchangeably evil, so it really didn't matter. "You hear me, stupid? You'll never make the wrestling team. You're not tough enough, ya little girl. Give it up now before the whole school sees what a big sissy you are."
"Come on, ladies!" erupted Coach Griffith as we did monkey rolls on the wrestling mats that afternoon. "Pick it up! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"
Coach was actually a relatively likable guy when he wasn't in a gym. Once he stepped across that threshold, however, all bets were off. He'd played middle linebacker on his college football team and had been on the practice team for the Chicago Bears. He'd also been a drill instructor in the US Army, and he treated his students like they were plebes.
We did monkey rolls until our clothes were soaking with perspiration, after which Coach divided us up into the same weight classes we'd been in the day before. Robert Linkous, his cousin Donald, Ray Hepner and I were all in the 112 class.
"Here's how we're going to whittle this down, gentlemen," Coach bellowed as we all sat down around him. "I'm going to divide you all into pairs. Each pair will wrestle and the winner will move on. The loser will go home."
Every boy in the gym glared at the others sitting next to him, as if his whole future depended on this victory. I, on the other hand, looked at Robert like my very life depended on it.
When the names were read off, however, I was paired with Donald Linkous. He'd been in my class since my family and I had moved to Virginia three years earlier. Like everyone in Mrs. Pollet's 7th grade class, we felt a certain kinship, almost an "all for one and one for all" type of thing. Today, though, it was every man for himself.
I put Donald on the mat with a single-leg take down, shot around to the back and rolled him over onto his back like he was a piece of bacon. Three seconds later I was climbing off with my head held high and a smile on my face. The whole affair had taken less than a minute and a half. Donald shook my hand and raised it in the air. I patted him on the back as we walked off the mat and he headed for the showers.
The heavyweights came next. Tim Franklin pinned Tom Bissinger in about five seconds. Then Evan Helms beat The Bald Eagle, Randy George, on points. Finally, Robert Linkous and Ray stepped onto the blue and gold.
Closing my eyes, I silently prayed that Robert would lose. My hands shook violently as he shot into Ray's legs. I closed my eyes and grimaced when he got the chicken wing and grabbed a leg. And I hung my head in desperation when he cradled him and rolled him onto his shoulders. I ached to help Ray, but I was helpless to assist him. One, two, three and the match was over.
Robert shot to his feet and ran toward me. Sticking his unctuous finger in my face, he bellowed, "You're next, chump!"
Coming soon - Part III
The next day, I felt the loogie hit the back of my t-shirt before I even knew they were behind me. "You'll never make the wrestling team," said a squeaky, yet raspy voice, which I knew instantly belonged to one of the Kylye brothers.
The Kylye's had just moved into our neighborhood, and had been causing trouble for me ever since. Neither was particularly large, but they both had bully in them like stink in a skunk. They were some of the biggest jerks in school and were toadies of the kingpin jerk himself - Tony Davis.
I'm not absolutely sure why they liked picking on me. Most likely, it was because I let them do just about whatever they wanted without fear of recrimination. They spit on me, pushed me around, bumped into me, and said whatever they wanted to me, and I didn't do a doggone thing. I now wish I had, but as a skinny, pimply teenager, I simply didn't want to fight.
The oldest, David, was a year younger than me, but was just about as tall, and had a nose that looked like a dog's hind leg. I'd heard he'd taken a baseball bat to the face in Little League, but it wasn't something I was going to ask him about. The youngest, Mike, was a year younger than him, but just as mean. Together, they were about as unpleasant as two pre-pubescent toughs could be.
I continued to walk across the gym floor toward the front of the line, ignoring them as much as possible. We were doing layup drills in gym class and it was my turn to rebound.
"Hey, stupid," one of the brothers said when we got to the end of the shooting line. I didn't know which one it was, though I had looked him in the eye. They were interchangeably evil, so it really didn't matter. "You hear me, stupid? You'll never make the wrestling team. You're not tough enough, ya little girl. Give it up now before the whole school sees what a big sissy you are."
"Come on, ladies!" erupted Coach Griffith as we did monkey rolls on the wrestling mats that afternoon. "Pick it up! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"
Coach was actually a relatively likable guy when he wasn't in a gym. Once he stepped across that threshold, however, all bets were off. He'd played middle linebacker on his college football team and had been on the practice team for the Chicago Bears. He'd also been a drill instructor in the US Army, and he treated his students like they were plebes.
We did monkey rolls until our clothes were soaking with perspiration, after which Coach divided us up into the same weight classes we'd been in the day before. Robert Linkous, his cousin Donald, Ray Hepner and I were all in the 112 class.
"Here's how we're going to whittle this down, gentlemen," Coach bellowed as we all sat down around him. "I'm going to divide you all into pairs. Each pair will wrestle and the winner will move on. The loser will go home."
Every boy in the gym glared at the others sitting next to him, as if his whole future depended on this victory. I, on the other hand, looked at Robert like my very life depended on it.
When the names were read off, however, I was paired with Donald Linkous. He'd been in my class since my family and I had moved to Virginia three years earlier. Like everyone in Mrs. Pollet's 7th grade class, we felt a certain kinship, almost an "all for one and one for all" type of thing. Today, though, it was every man for himself.
I put Donald on the mat with a single-leg take down, shot around to the back and rolled him over onto his back like he was a piece of bacon. Three seconds later I was climbing off with my head held high and a smile on my face. The whole affair had taken less than a minute and a half. Donald shook my hand and raised it in the air. I patted him on the back as we walked off the mat and he headed for the showers.
The heavyweights came next. Tim Franklin pinned Tom Bissinger in about five seconds. Then Evan Helms beat The Bald Eagle, Randy George, on points. Finally, Robert Linkous and Ray stepped onto the blue and gold.
Closing my eyes, I silently prayed that Robert would lose. My hands shook violently as he shot into Ray's legs. I closed my eyes and grimaced when he got the chicken wing and grabbed a leg. And I hung my head in desperation when he cradled him and rolled him onto his shoulders. I ached to help Ray, but I was helpless to assist him. One, two, three and the match was over.
Robert shot to his feet and ran toward me. Sticking his unctuous finger in my face, he bellowed, "You're next, chump!"
Coming soon - Part III
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
58 Seconds - Part I
Robert Linkous was as mean as a striped snake.
And twice as tough.
I was so afraid of him that I'd wait until I got home from school to use the bathroom. I didn't want to get caught by him in the men's room at school because I knew it would mean a powerful beating. So, on more than one occasion, I nearly floated home on the bus.
Christiansburg High School had never had a wrestling team before the fall of 1974. Early that spring, the School Board had hired a former drill sergeant as the school's first coach. He started teaching Math when school was back in session, finally starting up the wrestling team just after Columbus Day.
I'd seen the fliers about the team taped to the school walls near the gym. They piqued my interest. Having never been a particularly tall or large boy, I figured basketball and football were out. Wrestling, I thought, just might be my ticket to jock-dom.
"I want to go out for the wrestling team," I said that night at dinner.
My mom almost choked on her macaroni casserole. "Wrestling team? At school?"
Dad beamed. "You know," he said, "I was on the wrestling team when I was in high school, too."
"Really?" I said, between bites. "How did you do?" This was virgin timber to me. I didn't know much of anything about my dad's high school days beyond a Vitalis-laced crew cut staring out from the 1947 yearbook.
"I was pretty good," he crowed. "I had to beat a guy named Dan Jackman to get onto the team. He was the meanest kid in school."
I took another bite in anticipation.
Protesting ever so slightly, Mom said, "But what if he gets hurt?"
Dad shook his head and swallowed and said, "He'll be fine. It's not football. Wrestlers don't get hurt very often and when they do it's just muscular stuff. He'll do great."
Wiping his mouth with the paper napkin, he asked, "When are tryouts?"
"Tomorrow after school," I replied before spitting out the next, most important question. "So, can I try out?"
Mom readjusted herself in her chair while Dad stood to take his plate to the sink. "I don't see why not," he declared. "I think it will be good for you."
Mom pursed her lips and nervously acquiesced. "I'll pick you up when you're done."
There must have been 60 boys sitting in the old, wooden bleachers after school the next day waiting for Coach Griffith to come out of the locker room. Wooly and I sat near the top, hitting each other’s knuckles with the teeth of a black, plastic comb, each drawing a small amount of crimson on the other's hand.
"Listen up!" said a booming voice from the gym door. The comb flashed back into my pocket.
From behind his clipboard, Coach Griffith thundered. "I assume all of you are here to try out for the wrestling team." We all nodded.
"That's great," he continued. "But let me give you the plain, hard facts. There are 14 weight classes in high school wrestling. We'll need a couple of backups who can fill in from time to time. That brings the number to a maximum of about 20 boys who will make this team. That means that more than half of you are going to go home after this week's tryouts and will not come back."
Wooly and I looked at each other with mouths agape. I guess we thought it was more like the track team, where everybody got to run. Never did we think the attrition rate would be that bad.
"Does anyone want to leave now?"
Nobody did.
"All right then, let's get to work."
Coach started by dividing us into groups according to our weights and sizes. Wooly, being much stockier than me, was put in the 126 pound class. I was 112.
Standing barefoot on the large, blue and gold wrestling mat in the center of the gym, I looked around me to see what other losers were in my class. Nearly choking on my own anxiety, I saw Robert Linkous standing right next to me. He was 112 as well.
Coming soon - Part II
And twice as tough.
I was so afraid of him that I'd wait until I got home from school to use the bathroom. I didn't want to get caught by him in the men's room at school because I knew it would mean a powerful beating. So, on more than one occasion, I nearly floated home on the bus.
Christiansburg High School had never had a wrestling team before the fall of 1974. Early that spring, the School Board had hired a former drill sergeant as the school's first coach. He started teaching Math when school was back in session, finally starting up the wrestling team just after Columbus Day.
I'd seen the fliers about the team taped to the school walls near the gym. They piqued my interest. Having never been a particularly tall or large boy, I figured basketball and football were out. Wrestling, I thought, just might be my ticket to jock-dom.
"I want to go out for the wrestling team," I said that night at dinner.
My mom almost choked on her macaroni casserole. "Wrestling team? At school?"
Dad beamed. "You know," he said, "I was on the wrestling team when I was in high school, too."
"Really?" I said, between bites. "How did you do?" This was virgin timber to me. I didn't know much of anything about my dad's high school days beyond a Vitalis-laced crew cut staring out from the 1947 yearbook.
"I was pretty good," he crowed. "I had to beat a guy named Dan Jackman to get onto the team. He was the meanest kid in school."
I took another bite in anticipation.
Protesting ever so slightly, Mom said, "But what if he gets hurt?"
Dad shook his head and swallowed and said, "He'll be fine. It's not football. Wrestlers don't get hurt very often and when they do it's just muscular stuff. He'll do great."
Wiping his mouth with the paper napkin, he asked, "When are tryouts?"
"Tomorrow after school," I replied before spitting out the next, most important question. "So, can I try out?"
Mom readjusted herself in her chair while Dad stood to take his plate to the sink. "I don't see why not," he declared. "I think it will be good for you."
Mom pursed her lips and nervously acquiesced. "I'll pick you up when you're done."
There must have been 60 boys sitting in the old, wooden bleachers after school the next day waiting for Coach Griffith to come out of the locker room. Wooly and I sat near the top, hitting each other’s knuckles with the teeth of a black, plastic comb, each drawing a small amount of crimson on the other's hand.
"Listen up!" said a booming voice from the gym door. The comb flashed back into my pocket.
From behind his clipboard, Coach Griffith thundered. "I assume all of you are here to try out for the wrestling team." We all nodded.
"That's great," he continued. "But let me give you the plain, hard facts. There are 14 weight classes in high school wrestling. We'll need a couple of backups who can fill in from time to time. That brings the number to a maximum of about 20 boys who will make this team. That means that more than half of you are going to go home after this week's tryouts and will not come back."
Wooly and I looked at each other with mouths agape. I guess we thought it was more like the track team, where everybody got to run. Never did we think the attrition rate would be that bad.
"Does anyone want to leave now?"
Nobody did.
"All right then, let's get to work."
Coach started by dividing us into groups according to our weights and sizes. Wooly, being much stockier than me, was put in the 126 pound class. I was 112.
Standing barefoot on the large, blue and gold wrestling mat in the center of the gym, I looked around me to see what other losers were in my class. Nearly choking on my own anxiety, I saw Robert Linkous standing right next to me. He was 112 as well.
Coming soon - Part II
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