Takedown (8 page)

Mom sighed. “I just don’t know what to do about this.”

Why was she making such a big deal out of my seeing Clint?
Maybe it was because she knew more about him than I did. Maybe she knew who he really was, but she didn’t want me to find
out that he was the man she divorced.

Well, I wasn’t going to let her keep us apart now that I’d found him. “I tell you what, Mom.
As punishment for going against your orders, why don’t we say no TV for a week?” I was hoping to impress her with my maturity.
And, actually, the fishing trip with Clint had been well worth even worse punishment. But I didn’t tell her that.

She rolled her tongue against her cheek as she thought it over. Then she said, “I suppose that’s fair. But I don’t want you
pestering this Clint Wagner person. He’s probably a very busy man.”

And you wouldn’t want the truth to come out, right, Mom?
I thought. But I said, “Okay, I won’t.”

That night I asked Carl if he’d like to wrestle.

“I don’t know if I should associate with you,” he replied. “You’re a troublemaker.”

At first I was stunned by his words. Then he flashed that elfish grin of his and said, “Sure, if you’re in the mood to lose.”

I just smiled.

We put our mats together on the living room floor, stripped to the waist, and went at it. As always, we started from a standing
position, just as any dual wrestling match starts.

Carl made the first move, grasping my hands, pulling me against him, then swinging his right arm around my neck in a headlock.
But this time I twisted out of his hold, ducked my head, and grabbed his legs. I soon had a double leg hold on him and went
all the way with it, catching him by surprise.

In seconds I had his shoulders against the mat.

“I think this is called a pin. Don’t you?” I said. I couldn’t help gloating and silently thanking Clint Wagner for teaching
me the moves and the hold.

Carl was speechless, for once. You won’t have to fight my battles for me any more, brother, I wanted to tell him. I can fight
them myself from now on.

At practice on Monday I learned from Coach Collins that some of the schedules for the upcoming wrestling matches with Gardner
Junior High had been changed. The kid I was supposed to wrestle couldn’t make it, so my new opponent was a kid named Eddie
Lucas.

“He’s lighter than you are,” Coach Collins
said, “but he hasn’t lost a match yet this year. They say he moves like a hummingbird. His nickname is Swifty.” He grinned.

“I’ll handle him,” I said. I was sure I could. Clint had taught me enough good holds to give me a strong advantage, and I
had practiced them enough to feel confident about pulling them off.

We did the usual warm-up exercises — motion drills with a partner, push-ups, weight lifting, and so on. Afterwards I asked
Coach Collins if I could work out with Bull.

“Mmmmm… okay,” he finally agreed. “But first, I want to work with you on those two holds we went through last week, the half
nelson and the shoulder roll. The half nelson first.”

We got into the down position on the mat, and he started the move. In a wink of an eye he had the half nelson on me, and I
couldn’t budge.

“Let’s try it again,” he said.

This time I moved quicker and managed to get the hold on
him.
I had a hunch, though, that he hadn’t used very much effort to stop me. He wanted to make sure I knew the moves.

We worked on the shoulder rolls a few times. Then, satisfied that I had learned the technique at least, he left to help another
couple of guys and let Bull and me go at it.

“Just make sure you don’t hurt that guy,” the coach said to Bull with a wry grin. “We need him.”

“I won’t,” Bull assured him, and smiled at me.

If you want to discover what wrestling is really like, take on somebody fifty pounds heavier than you are. Most coaches wouldn’t
permit this one-sided kind of weight match in their schools, and Coach Collins wouldn’t have either, if Bull and I hadn’t
been close friends. But ever since our first match, when we promised not to pull off any crazy stunts that would hurt either
of us — me, especially — Coach Collins agreed that our wrestling each other once in a while was okay.

I tried the single leg on Bull first, knowing that trying the double leg would be like trying to grapple Goliath. I got him
down and almost twisted him around far enough to get a near fall, but he wiggled himself free — bulled himself
free is more like it — and would’ve pinned me if I hadn’t squirmed out of his grasp and jumped to my feet.

We worked on a few other holds together before Coach Collins had us switch with other guys. I was half bushed. If anybody
could tire a guy, it was Bull.

Finally Coach Doran blew the whistle. It was 6:30, quitting time.

“Oh, man! About time!” exclaimed Tony, the skinny kid I’d been working out with. He looked as if he’d been drenched with oil.
I did, too.

“You can say that again,” I said.

We grinned at each other, slapped palms, sighed with relief, and headed for the locker room.

Okay, Eddie Lucas, I thought, I’m ready.

When match time came around Thursday evening I wasn’t so sure I was ready. There was no wrestling practice on days we had
meets, but I felt as if I’d been pulled through a wringer. I blamed it on the restless night I’d had, and a nightmare that
was worse than any
Friday the 13th
movie I’d ever seen. A giant octopus grabbed me with its tentacles and brought me toward its wide-open mouth…

But I don’t want to go into that.

As Coach Collins had said, Eddie Lucas was skinny, but fast. He started off the match with a bang, surprising me with a single
leg that ended in a near fall, earning him two points right off the bat.

I evened it up with a reversal, but he came back with a half nelson and another near fall. Two more points.

From a stand-up position he tried a double leg on me. But I jumped out of his way, whirled and got an arm around his neck.

“Shoot the half! Shoot the half!” I heard Coach Collins yell.

He was telling me to use the half nelson. But before I could get in position to do so, Lucas twisted out of my hold like a
snake for a one-point escape, then tried a single leg on me that drew a whistle from the ref when we both landed off the mat.

From the corner of my eye I saw Clint Wagner standing off to the side in his black-and-white jersey and dark pants. He was
eyeing me with concern, as if he wanted to advise me.

Only a father could take such interest in a kid,
I thought.
He must be my father. Why don’t I ask him? Why doesn’t he tell me?

I wished he
could
advise me. But Coach Collins was doing his best, and so was I. By now I had discovered that Lucas was not only as quick as
a hummingbird, he was also tough.

The first period ended. Since Lucas had won the coin-toss at the beginning of the match, he chose the top position to start
the second period.

I got down on the mat. Lucas knelt down beside me, grabbed my left arm, and put his right arm across my back. He was in control
— so far. I had to pull a surprise on him — a sudden surprise — or the “hummingbird” might roll me in to a near fall, or even
a pin. The thought was scary.

The whistle shrilled. I moved the instant I heard it, shot up on my feet, and whirled. At the same time I grabbed something
firm, thinking it was Lucas’s arm, and I spun in time to see the ref’s arm — the one with the red band on it — shoot up. Two
fingers jabbed the air.

“Darn!” I said.

I had grabbed Lucas’s headgear instead!

The Gardner fans roared. “Way to go, Eddie!” they cried.

The penalty bothered me, but only for a second. Lucas was already on the move, rolling over onto my back, grabbing my left
wrist, driving with his legs to power me over onto my
back. I could feel his strength and knew that if he succeeded he’d get a near fall for sure. Already he had earned a lot of
points and was ahead of me by seven or eight. If he won by eight points — eight to eleven — it would mean a major decision
for him and four points for his team. A spread of twelve or more points meant five team points.

I couldn’t let that happen. I
wouldn’t
let that happen!

Feeling the sweat rolling down my face and into my mouth, I gritted my teeth, gathered all the strength I could, and scored
an escape. Then, remembering the double leg tackle that Clint had taught me, I tried it. It worked!

I scored a few more points in the third and last period by reversals and escapes, and when it was over it was
my
hand that the referee raised up.

I’d won by a skimpy margin. But I’d won. I had beaten Swifty, the hummingbird.

I looked up into the stands and saw Mom standing up with other Jefferson Davis fans, smiling and applauding like crazy. Carl
wasn’t
standing, but he was smiling and clapping, too. He may not have been as enthusiastic as Mom, but at least Carl was there.
Unlike Dad, who had stayed home again.

I turned and saw Clint looking at me. He smiled, and I smiled back. I hoped he could read the message in my eyes:
Thanks for teaching me some of those holds, Clint. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have won.

Just then someone called, “Sean!”

I whirled.

“That double leg is a good hold, but I don’t remember teaching it to you,” Coach Collins said as he came toward me. “You must
be doing a lot of homework.”

I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

“You got away with it this time,” he went on, “but you were lucky. It’s a clever move, but I don’t think you’re ready for
it. Just stick to the moves I’ve taught you. Okay?”

He sounded a little perturbed, and I guess he had a right to be. Maybe I’d been listening to Clint more than I should have.
Then again, the hold
had
worked…

I nodded half-heartedly.

“Congrats, anyway,” he said, and walked away.

I was still thinking about what he’d said when a hand grabbed mine and a voice cried in my ear: “Congratulations, Sean! You
came through like a champion!”

It was Gail. I looked for her ever-present shadow but didn’t see her. Instead, a different girl was with her.

Gail grinned. “You looking for Barbara? She couldn’t make it tonight. This is Kate Morris.”

“Hi, Kate,” I said to the short, chubby girl next to her.

“Hi,” she said. Her eyes shifted away from mine, out of shyness, I guessed.

“Thanks for coming,” I said to Gail.

But I couldn’t help thinking of her as being Max’s sister, and just the thought of Max made me sick. In recent weeks no one
had gotten me into more trouble than he. Maybe the less I saw of Gail the better.

The overhead lights danced in her eyes. “Well, I admit I was worried for a while. But you came through great.”

“Thanks,” I said again, turning away. “Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

“So soon?” she exclaimed.

“Yeah,” I said over my shoulder.

Just then a trio of guys came up behind Gail and Kate. Speak of the devil! I thought.

“I got to admit you looked okay, Short Fry,” Max the Octopus said, one side of his mouth curled in a wry smile. “I can’t wait
till we get on the mat together. I’ll show you some holds that’ll make you wish you took up Ping-Pong instead of wrestling.”

I matched his cold stare. “I can’t wait, either,” I said.

“Max! You’re a jerk, you know that?” Gail said irritably. “You don’t care
what
you say! You don’t care about anyone else’s feelings! I think you’re… despicable!” Her small fists were clenched. She was
furious enough to belt him.

So was I. But her reaction didn’t exactly please me, either.

It seemed like
everybody
was trying to fight my battles for me. And I didn’t like it one bit.

When we got home the front door was locked. But there was a light on in the living room, so we were sure Dad was there.

Mom knocked and he opened the door for us. He was in shirtsleeves and wearing his reading glasses.

“Well,” he said, studying us, “from your pleased expressions I don’t need to ask you who won. But to make sure, I will, anyway.
Who won?”

“Sean did, of course,” Mom said elatedly, removing her coat and handing it over to him. “You missed a good match, Troy. It
was nip and tuck most of the time.”

“Mostly nip,” Carl chipped in.

“Sorry,” Dad said, shaking his head. “I guess I’m a poor fan. But you know how I feel about wrestling. It just doesn’t…” He
shrugged, searching for a reason.

“That’s okay, Dad,” I said. “A lot of guys don’t care for wrestling. Our principal, Mr. McClure, doesn’t. He’s never been
to a wrestling meet. But he admits it’s a good sport. Good, clean exercise, he calls it.”

“That I can admit, too,” Dad said, nodding.

Just the same, I wished Dad had been at the meet. I was proud of the win. It was a nip and tucker, all right. It would’ve
been nice to have seen him up there in the stands cheering for me.

But maybe his not being my natural father had something to do with it. If he were, he probably would’ve been there, whether
he cared for wrestling or not. A lot of other fathers came, and I bet they weren’t all wrestling nuts, either. They came because
their sons were there, giving it their best, putting every bit of their heart in it, in a one-on-one competition.

Then I thought of Clint Wagner, of the pleased, proud expression on his face after my match with Lucas was over. Only a father
could look that way.
Oh, Clint! Please tell me you’re my father! Please!

The next evening — Friday — after I returned home from wrestling practice, I waited for a call from Clint. I was hoping he’d
ask me to go fishing with him again. Maybe this time I’d finally break the ice. Maybe I’d have the nerve to ask him:
Clint, are you my father?

But eight o’clock came and he didn’t call. And then eight-thirty, and nine o’clock rolled by, and he still didn’t call.

I was disappointed. Well, maybe he had a commitment. Or maybe a date.
Would he still date women at his age?
Maybe. There were a lot of
maybes
when it came to Clint.