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