Wrestling always came naturally to me. When I was out on the mat I
forgot all pain, all distractions, all emotions. I never left anything
on the mat. Right before a match my fears would subside and my nerves
would tense. I'd feel naked in my singlet, in front of a large crowd.
But these were the times when I felt most proud.
Coach James wrestled all through High School and some in College.
At the beginning of the season, when I was still on Junior Varsity for
the 160 weight class, Coach had little faith in my ability to perform
on the mat. He held me in even less esteem on a personal level out of
season. If I'd seen him around the School halls (he teaches Science),
he'd often scoff at me.
Our Coach, James Russell, wrestled all throughout High School and
had a short career in College. During the beginning of our season (when
I was still on Junior Varsity for the 160-pound weight class), Coach
had little faith in my abilities on the mat. He held me in even less
esteem when we had chance encounters in the School halls. He took up
teaching science only to find interest in once again emerging himself
in Wrestling, by becoming our coach. But whenever I would pass by him,
it seemed like I'd catch him scoffing at me.
But one day during practice he called me over while we were drilling technique.
"Bobby," he said, "do you want to challenge Arthur for the Varsity spot?"
"Yes Sir," I answered.
As practice drew to an end Arthur and I stepped into our own
circle, the whole team watching us in amusement. He briefly shook my
hand, displaying a great sense of faith in his facial expressions. Not
long after we shook hands, he found himself pinned flat on his back.
Although our match was short and unexpected Arthur carried a great deal
of shame in consequence of that match. Our teammates talked a lot of
trash about him afterwards. If I didn't feel so deserving of the
Varsity singlet, I might have been mildly sympathetic for him. But I
wasn't.
Before long I gained our Coach's respect and he was treating me
more like a friend, rather than a stranger. Coach James's philosophy
was one he carried over from his College Coach, who visited us during
practices periodically, clearly impressed at our adaption of
Greco-Roman techniques.
During the night of our first meet I had a gut feeling that
things were going to start changing soon. My focus was set on jogging
up and down a hallway, trying to shed a couple pounds so I could make
weight. Once it was time for weigh-ins I stripped down to my briefs and
found myself to be .5 lbs under 160. 'Thank God,' I thought, impressed
that I could lose a couple pounds in such a short time.
As we warmed up, I noticed a crowd building in the bleachers. It
grew louder and more diverse by the minute. 'Definitely not the same as
Middle School Wrestling,' I thought. Speakers that hung up above the
main mat played Red Rider's "Lunatic Fringe" which our team, The Red
Riders, had adapted from the Wrestling film "Vision Quest."
My friend Jeremy was helping me with our partner warmup. Jeremy
had light brown hair like mine and an indigent smile. He wrestled in
the 145 lbs weight class. Pressing my stomach against his back, I spun
around in circles holding my hands behind my back, straining my feet to
spin me one way then the other, repeating the process for nearly a
minute before we switched places. He was two years my senior, one year
above me in grade. His stomach felt heavy on my back and I could barely
hold his weight, curled up almost into a ball, my Varsity warmup zipper
irritating my unshaven chin. Jeremy finished, heaving in an inhale,
fighting for breath.
"To-night is the night," said Jeremy.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
He looked at me cross.
"It means that to-night's the night that you've got to prove
yourself," he explained. "If you win your match, consider this your
cordial invitation to one hell of an after party. That is, if we win
the meet."
I found myself in the middle of a weight line in our schools
auxiliary gym listening to an announcer in the main auditorium.
Everyone in our room was quiet except for a couple Freshmen kids who'd
find a lot to complain about in the next day's practice. The auditorium
door swung open with a hefty muscled man behind it. He waved us forward
and we walked single file behind the "home" set of bleachers. The room
was very dark. Then a spotlight switched on, obscured from our view by
the bleachers. Everyone seemed to be on their feet and the matches were
announced. "For the 160-pound class we have Bobby Engels wrestling for
Birch Wood High, and his opponent, Tony Blair, from Eastside High
School." My stomach stiffened and the hair on my armed seemed as if it
were standing on end inside my warmup suit. With some nerve, I jogged
out into the middle of the mat, stood in what I considered to be an
intimidating stance, and shook hands with my opponent.
Tony Blair had a very strong grip which I knew would work to his
advantage. His eyes fell right underneath his eyebrows and he had his
mouth closed for the duration of our meeting, but I assumed that he had
bad teeth because of his rough lips. He nodded delicately to me and I
returned the gesture. It felt good to feel respected. As I ran back to
my team, Coach patted me on the back and shook my hand tightly. Our
assistant Coaches stood out of the way.
After every upcoming match met in the center of the circle, the
lights flashed on and the national anthem was sung by a lone
cheerleader who was there with a rather large cheerleader friend,
trying to support the Wrestling team. The former was pure eye candy.
The audience's veracity and sharp tone receded to a subtle growl
as the first match began. A 103 lbs Tony Larson (of Birch Wood High
School) successfully pinned his guy twenty seconds into the match. We
all congratulated him with cheesy smiles. I didn't pay much attention
to the other matches until the 145 weight class. When that match began,
I stepped back behind our fold-out chairs and began jump roping. I
shifted from my right to my left foot, pulling the jump rope around me
over and over. After winning his match, Jeremy took seat in a chair and
sat coolly, waiting to watch mine. My turn was almost up. I undressed
quickly, leaving me in a singlet; leaving little to the imagination to
the crowd. It had been a full year since I had competitively wrestled
in front of an audience. Abruptly the 152 match ended. I was unsure of
who the victor was when I made my way to the check in tables. I was
much too focused on all sorts of moves I had planned to use the night
before. Then I proceeded to the center of the mat. I was told by a very
young British looking referee to wrap a red velcro marker around my
right ankle.
Blair assumed his green ankle-decoration without direction. He
held his hands on his hips, exposing the muscle which protruded from
his forearms. It looked as if he was of great strength. I tried to rid
myself of the idea that he was the stronger man, but I knew that
Wrestling was always 50% technique, and 50% physical. "The smarter guy
almost always wins," Coach once said to me. I nodded over to Coach
James, got into Neutral position and at the sound of the Referee's
whistle went shooting down first to my right knee, then followed
through with my left, dragging it in tight and fast. I had successfully
ducked underneath his arms and as he tried to sprawl, I quickly made to
the left and got behind him, riding his legs on the ground. "Takedown.
Two, Red!" announced the referee.
Once I got a lifted hold on his ankle I drove my knee
right into his backside. He grunted forward and with little effort I
had him on his side, moaning in agony, his arm interlocked with my own,
a half nelson slung around his neck. Before even I came to the
realization of my opportunity, I had already gotten the guy flat on his
back. Within seconds the whistle re-sounded and I thought we were being
called up to Neutral. At first I considered that I had probably fouled
Blair, or maybe I had been stalling, but as the Referee raised my hand,
a swelling prideful gasp of victory accidently emitted from my lips,
almost like I was thanking the then ecstatic crowd. I shook hands with
Eastside's Coach, who I didn't look in the face, then made my way back
to be congratulated by my team.
We had won the meet thirty-nine to thirty-seven. If I hadn't won my
match we would have lost. That gave me a great feeling of dignity as I
met with Jeremy after we rolled up the mat. We were both on an energy
high. After the team split up I got in his car and he drove me to his
house despite my bickering and ordering that he take me to mine, or I'd
walk home. Of course I wouldn't do so. It would have been a five mile
walk. We entered his house and it was then that I had realized that his
parents weren't home. Then I found many of our High School peers
entering his door way, many with alcohol. At first I was scared to
death. I had never drank anything in my life. Then Jeremy told me to
relax, said he understood if I didn't drink, and proceeded to hand me a
bottle of Bud Light. This feeling of friendly safety and reliability
inspired me to drink. I got through five bottles easily and felt way
too bloated afterwards. The whole varsity squad of the Wrestling team
was there. There was no Arthur anywhere to be seen and here I was, a
Freshmen, a beer in my hand, chatting up the cheerleader who I'd just
been admiring at the meet. I certainly was reaping the rewards of our
Team victory; my Vision Quest.