3
Nobody really cared about the consolation finals.
These matches were on the order of undercard. The main event—the finals—were a couple of hours off. Still, the bleachers were more than half full now. What had felt more like intermission, really, as if those who’d hung back didn’t have the confidence or determination to leave their seats, had now built into an anticipatory energy. The gym’s high windows were shading from purple to black. The change in brightness was theatrical, a luminosity less diffuse, with several of the ceiling’s tube lights cut and the pendant high bays turned on so that the mats shined like billiard tables.
My name was called over the PA; it was a lonely, empty, ringing sound. Applause from the Boyd bleacher. From the Ferren bleacher when Goldburn was announced. Kepplemen, who’d just finished coaching a match, signaled to me to stay where I was. I could tell by his very pace, by the slowness of his tilted gait and the additional time he took to join me, that he too was nervous. He palmed my cheek and pressed his temple to mine, waiting to find his words.
“You can’t be passive,” Kepplemen said. His palm slid up my elbow to curl around my biceps as we walked. “Do you understand?”
He escorted me toward the mat, carrying enough of my weight that my shoulders were uneven. Goldburn awaited me, explosively jumping, bringing his knees to his chest.
My mouth was cottony, but Kepplemen’s was worse. Each time his tongue detached from the roof of his mouth, it made a click. It was at these moments that I was aware of how much he cared for me.
“If you’re reacting, you’re conceding initiative. If he’s got the initiative, you’re not dictating.”
“Yes.”
“To dictate you’ve got to move.”
“I understand.”
“Move out there,” he said. He took me by the shoulders and turned me so that I faced him. Then he slapped me once. “Move,” he shouted. And then he slapped me a second time, so hard my eyes watered. It made me livid, and when I ran onto the mat and faced Goldburn, when I shook his hand and took my ready position, he noticed that I was vibrating with fury. He glanced at his coach in what was something like confusion, and in that second, I believed I could win.
Goldburn was not as strong as he looked.
One of wrestling’s physiological mysteries is that sometimes those with the most statuesque physiques, who from pure optics looked like they emerged from the inked corners of a comic book’s panels, in fact lack fight and determination.
They have a capacity to collapse, to tank; like Thanksgiving floats, their bodies, in spite of their size, feel air-filled, light.
And conversely (at times) the most powerful just as often appeared otherwise: their thin arms hide bones fashioned of rebar, the soles of their feet are tethered to the earth’s core, and the force they generate, exponent to your base, seems to come from a place that is spiritual rather than physical, elemental as opposed to gym-built—ocean deep or jungle dark.
That Goldburn wasn’t as ferocious or overwhelming as he appeared bolstered and emboldened me. It increased my resolve and resistance, which translated in turn to desperation on his part and immediately caused him to expend even greater effort to try to bring our match to a quick conclusion. Which he couldn’t.
This didn’t mean I wasn’t losing.
Like Voelker, Goldburn tried early on to steamroll me, building an advantage in the first period before fading.
The score was 6– in his favor, it was the third and final period, and there was a little over a minute left.
He was on top but so gassed I took the risk of playing to his strength.
Against the advice of Santoro, who was assistant coaching me now, and to the horror of Kepplemen, who shouted, “No!” I attempted a stand-up escape.
Hopping to my feet, pressing the belt that Goldburn’s arms formed at my waist toward my hip bone, I tried to use its point and my own pressure to unclasp his grip.
In response to this, Goldburn lifted me off the mat—what crowd there was gasped—and flung me over his shoulder.
When I landed headfirst, when I heard my neck crunch, I saw a sudden spray of light, a fountain of sparklers that briefly dotted my vision.
Fortunately, Goldburn had thrown me out of bounds; he’d neither scored points nor gained a positional advantage; we were back to neutral.
But the blow was tremendous; my inner gyroscope had cracked.
I could not get my equilibrium.
I began, in my confusion, to walk off the mat.
I was concussed, I now know, but the ref mistook my injury for dizziness; he figured the throw had merely disoriented me and guided me back to the mat’s center.
And at this moment I saw, sitting on the lowest seat of the nearest bleacher, my parents.
Beside them: Sam Shah.
Beside him: Naomi.
My father was so wrapped up in his conversation with Sam that my match seemed incidental—that is, the pair of them paid next to no attention to the proceedings.
But out of fear Mom now took Dad’s wrist, and when Naomi lowered her hand from her mouth I knew that something was seriously amiss.
She was gripping the bleacher’s riser so fiercely her knuckles were visibly blanched.
And in that short and vivid walk from the mat’s outer ring to its inner one, I not only registered her fear but also realized that she had begun making plans for this visit the moment I told her the tournament’s location.
She had wanted to see me, to be here, if for nothing else than to let me know she’d tried.
And for those several stretched-out seconds, I felt the full force of her care, and was grateful.
The ref indicated that I should take the down position; once I was on my hands and knees, he directed Goldburn to take the top.
Somehow it was as if the entire match had reset; I was suddenly, utterly awake.
From the scorer’s table Cliff shouted, “Twenty-eight seconds!” Goldburn’s grip touched my elbow and his other hand palmed my stomach.
The instant the ref blew his whistle, I faked the Granby, Goldburn dropped his weight, and then I stood.
Goldburn, having nearly exhausted himself with the previous throw, countered by letting me up in order to attempt the same throw again.
And in that lag I’d created, that half second I’d anticipated before he secured his grip on my waist and shifted his own hips beneath mine; in that loose, interstitial pause in which there was space and contested leverage between us; with nearly the same force Goldburn had previously thrown me, I hit a standing switch.
I clasped his right elbow with my left hand, cat-pawed the inside of his right leg, and then spun behind him, so that he was slung toward the ground.
The mat must have seemed like a wave rising toward him.
His face hit the foam with a great, wet slap.
The score was now 5–6.
I scurried to Goldburn’s side, perpendicular to him, and secured a cradle—a pinning combination—one arm laced over his neck and the other threaded between his legs; as I gripped my hands by his belly, I drove my head into his ribs and bowbent his body to further collapse it.
I confess I was surprised by where I’d found myself.
Kepplemen, in astonishment, leaped to his feet and threw his arms out, grabbing Santoro, who had also stood as if to steady himself.
“There it is!” Kepplemen screamed.
All I had to do to win was tip Goldburn toward his back to get the points.
Again I drove the top of my head into his ribs and he began to tilt; he mustered everything he had left to resist.
The match had garnered the entire gym’s attention.
Shouting erupted stereophonically, from the Ferren side, from the Boyd side, from everywhere.
I heard my mother scream, “You can do it, Griff!” I heard Oren cry, “Go!” I needed only to tip Goldburn’s shoulders only one degree past ninety and hold him there.
The ref slid to the floor near my face to better observe the angle.
I have him, I thought. I smiled to myself. I gathered all my remaining strength for a final effort, but next made a terrible miscalculation. Because when I shoved him, I pushed us out of bounds.
And then the horn sounded and the ref blew his whistle.
I had run out of time.
—
It was decided that I would leave the tournament with my parents.
I’d skip dinner with the team and miss the finals.
But there is an aftermath to a closely contested match.
It occurs in the period when neither participant has yet composed himself, the shaking of the opposing coaches’ hands is discombobulated, and with face buried in the crook of an elbow the loser stumbles off somewhere private while the victor breathes a sigh of relief.
I shambled to the nearest doors marked Exit .
I found myself in a darkened school hallway, posters on the dim walls, signs on the windows of classrooms, and, drenched in sweat, I slid down the lockers to the floor and covered my eyes.
I’d yet to catch my wind.
I heard another crash of the doors.
It was Oren.
It was my brother.
He slid to his knees and, the moment we collided, threw his arms around me; he was the one who was sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “they said I couldn’t cheer for you, they said if I rooted for you I’d be betraying the team,” and the pain this had caused him eclipsed mine.
I hugged him while he shook, his tears mixed with my sweat, and then he staggered off.
Before I departed, Kepplemen pulled me aside.
He led me to a set of far bleachers and indicated I sit; the gym was emptying out ahead of the day’s last chapter—the teams off to dinner ahead of the finals.
I still held my headgear in my hands.
“This,” Kepplemen said.
Then he gestured toward the entire gym.
“Today.
You really showed me something out there.
You competed.
You compete, and you learn where you are.
Learn where you are,” he continued, “and you know where you have to go.” He was considering me, contemplating me, with an entirely different level of seriousness.
And whereas he often used our losses as an opportunity for consolation, to touch us, now he neither palmed my neck nor pulled my forehead to his.
“You won’t forget it.”
I took the back seat in Naomi’s car.
She rode shotgun so that Dad could drive.
Mom was in the Bentley with Sam, since she hadn’t had the chance at Elliott and Lynn’s anniversary to test it out.
I sat low in my seat.
The streetlights rose and fell in long arcs, shining along the highway and among the trees, as if keeping time with my heartbeat.
The night was black and starless.
The car was warm and the seat comfortable.
I thought I might fall asleep.
My father was talking; Naomi, pretending to listen, occasionally glanced at me between the seats.
Unaware that she’d interrupted my father, she said to me, “I thought we’d order some Chinese.” It traversed the distance between us like a question and ignored my father’s monologue, which I appreciated.
“That would be okay,” I said, at once forlorn and dreamy and open to Naomi’s imploring expression.
I marked the asphalt’s one-two rhythm thudding against the tires.
I was thinking about my match.
I was pressing my head into Goldburn’s ribs.
I’d taken a moment to laugh and then drove him out of bounds.
Seconds I couldn’t get back.
My failure to recognize our position.
Oh, that arena, where there was nowhere to hide, where all your weaknesses were exposed.
I thought: Know where you are on the mat.
Acting never gifted me with such language.
The Shahs had a three-car garage.
Sam’s Ferrari, I noted for Oren, was gunmetal gray.
The wine Sam served my parents was red; its label’s letters were fashioned of a calligraphy ornate and ancient.
My mother, who sat by the fireplace with Sam, said it was the best wine she’d ever had.
Tonight, my parents seemed to be playing a game: they were swapping partners to get each other’s attention.
Mom hung on Sam’s every word, sitting in that coiled way of hers, legs crossed, elbow on her knee, her other elbow clasped in her hand, her chin at rest atop her palm.
His enthusiasm was nearly uncontrollable as he leaned toward her; he took his eyes off her only to toss a log into the blaze.
Naomi was seated between my father and me on the couch.
He was making a Very Important Point, but Naomi remained inert and quiet, her hip pressed to mine, and if she was listening to anything it seemed it was the sound of our breathing.
Danny and Jackie made an appearance; Danny and Jackie presented themselves to my mother; Danny and Jackie disappeared.
We were sitting in the Shahs’ living room.
Ceiling-high windows faced onto their backyard, black but for the water feature outside, a koi pond that reflected the light from the interior.
The white sofas were as plush as the leather in Naomi’s Mercedes.
Before opening the next bottle of wine, Sam held it away from his body, with his arms fully extended, as if he were farsighted.
He handed it to my father, who mimicked the gesture, and spoke the vintage in a French accent so heavy it verged on parody.
The Chinese food cartons were arrayed atop the coffee table like tents in an army camp.
The smell was heady.
I was hungry but could not bring myself to eat; I had a plate in my lap and chopsticks I could not manage.
My knee pressed lightly and secretly against Naomi’s.
At one point, amid all the hubbub—the record Sam was playing and the music my father commented on and my mother’s crying laugh—during a second or two when I felt most decoupled and disengaged and seemed so disembodied it was as if I were watching myself slump quietly within this bustling scene, Naomi, sensing my need, leaned toward me and, as if we were alone in her car, touched her shoulder to mine and said, “You doing all right?” to which I replied, “Would it be okay if I took a shower?”
I hadn’t bathed, after all, hadn’t tended to the mat burn above my eyes and cheeks, hadn’t rinsed the soreness from my shoulders or the dullness across both my forearms that weakened my grip.
To the adults Naomi announced, “Griffin says he wants to bathe,” and after this was barely acknowledged, she got up from the sofa and bid me follow her.
The moment we were out of sight she directed me by touching the small of my back.
I was certain she might put her arm around me.
I followed her up a wide set of stairs.
I paused midflight, out of wooziness.
I held the banister until the dizziness stopped, and then she joined me and took my elbow with the lightest pressure, directing me to the top of the landing and down a long hallway whose light she didn’t bother to turn on.
“You must be so beat up,” she said.
“A shower will do you good.” We padded through the master bedroom; I could feel how plush the carpet was even through my wrestling shoes.
Naomi did not bother to turn on the light here either.
“Almost there,” she said.
A huge bed faced another set of windows.
She snapped on the light in the master bath, and I shut my eyes, wincing from the brightness.
She leaned me against the wall as if to acknowledge I was unsteady. She rubbed my shoulders and said, “Don’t fall over.”
And after sliding open the shower door, she seated herself on the tub’s edge, reaching behind her to turn on the faucets, mixing the hot and cold and letting the water run over her fingers, until she turned to me and smiled and said, “Just right.” She pulled the diverter. There was a pause in the pressure, the shower began to run, and then she got up and walked past me to the bathroom door, which she closed and locked.
The room was filling with steam.
I was taken by the hiss, by the water’s great torrent, and stood facing Naomi, who leaned, now, against the sink, her palms pressed to the countertop, her elbows locked, and one leg extended so that she pressed her foot to the wall between the exit and me.
I could appreciate what she was wearing now: the long skirt and high-heeled boots, which made her my height; a silk blouse with a metallic sheen to it.
She removed her glasses; the lenses had begun to fog, as had the mirror, which she sat before and reflected her back, which soon reflected nothing.
I knew what she was waiting for me to do.
I unzipped the top of my warm-ups and pulled my arms from its sleeves with some effort, with some pain.
I bent to unlace my wrestling shoes, toeing off each at the heel.
I removed my socks and stepped out of my pants, and then thumbed my singlet’s shoulder straps, pushing it down at the waist along with the elastic band of my jock.
By now the room was so fogged that the sink’s mirror was completely clouded in mist, the opaque vapor floating between us and blotting the background.
I stood before her, freed from my clothing’s compression that had somehow isolated each pain point’s radiation and, like unpinioned wings, spread across my entire back.
Naomi pushed away from the countertop and reached out to embrace me.
She ran her hands along my dewy shoulders, down my arms to my wrists, and up again to my scapulae, her fingernails tracing these contours to my lower back, and then she gently palmed my ass.
She pressed her cheek to mine.
Our skin was softened by the steam, the space between where we touched slick.
She remained there and then said, “My boy, my sweet, sweet boy.
It was hard to watch you out there tonight.” I pressed my forehead to her shoulder and leaned against her.
She gently rocked us side to side.
She pressed her mouth to my ear.
“It’s terrible not to talk to you sometimes,” she whispered, her words blending with the shower’s hiss. “To be so close, to be right there.” Did she want a reply? I had none. Not that it would have mattered. Before I could answer, before I could summon a response, she let go, disappearing even before she disappeared from the room, a void left in her wake, the steam furled and serpentine and quickly filling the space, as if it had been conjured to finally give me some privacy.