Body Slammed! (8 page)

Jesse glanced around the room. Dozens of wine bottles hung from the ceiling. A large mural of a Tuscany vineyard was painted on the back wall. A number of black-and-white photos, including one of boxing champ Rocky Marciano fighting Archie Moore, covered the wall behind them.

“I know, I know,” TJ said, as if he could tell what Jesse was thinking. “This place is a rat's nest. But they've got the best pizza in town. Coldest beer, too. Want one?”

His question took Jesse by surprise. “TJ, I'm not old enough to drink.”

TJ sat his menu down. “I didn't ask if you were old enough, Jesse. I asked if you wanted a beer.”

“I . . . I'd better not,” Jesse said, hoping he hadn't offended TJ by his refusal. Jesse had a birthday coming up in December, but he would only be turning seventeen, far from the legal drinking age. Besides, he didn't think the restaurant would sell him a beer without checking his ID. The Romos weren't going to risk losing their business by selling alcohol to a minor. Jesse had a feeling TJ was testing him to see how he would react.

“Have you ever had a beer before?” TJ asked, again catching him off-guard.

Jesse wasn't sure if he could trust TJ with his secrets, but he didn't appear to be the snitching type. Bending his head toward him, Jesse said softly, “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell my father?”

TJ raised three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“Okay . . . once.”

TJ sat his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his fist. “Well, don't just sit there, Jesse. Give me the details.”

Jesse looked around, wondering if anyone could hear him. Then he cleared his throat. “My uncle Larry had a birthday party at his house one night. There was an ice chest full of beer in the kitchen, so my cousin Monty and I . . . ”

“Y'all ready to order?”

Jesse gasped. The waitress' voice almost jolted him out of his seat. She smiled, realizing she had startled him.

TJ gave the menu a quick read. “Pepperoni sound good to you, Jesse?”

“Sure. And I'll have a Coke.”

TJ ordered a large pizza, a Coke and a beer.

After the waitress left, Jesse finished telling TJ the story of his first drinking experience.

“A man should be able to have a beer if he wants,” TJ said. “As long as he drinks responsibly.”

Jesse agreed, except that legally, the State of Texas didn't recognize him as a “man.” Their conversation soon turned to football.

“That doesn't make any sense,” TJ said when Jesse explained why Coach Blaylock wouldn't let him play. “You aren't gonna get better by standing on the sidelines. Look, Jesse, I play a jobber on ACW, right? But at least I get to wrestle. I can't learn my craft by standing at ringside, with my hands in my pockets. I've gotta step inside the ropes, even if I have to go up against guys like Solomon Grimm, who like to wrestle stiff.” TJ rubbed his chest, as if he could still feel the effects of Grimm's brutal chops.

The waitress returned with their drinks.

TJ took a sip of his beer and continued. “The problem with your team, Jesse, is that it has no sense of unity. There's no discipline. First of all, you've got the screamer, who's allowed to pitch his little tantrums. Second, you've got a coach who doesn't know how to rotate his players. Sure, you've got an okay record, but if your team is serious about winning a state title, it's gotta fix those things.”

Jesse nodded. There was nothing TJ told him that he didn't already know. “It doesn't matter, TJ, because I'm not planning to play football next year.”

Jesse ripped the paper off his straw and wadded it up. If he had been with the guys, he might have pulled the paper down from the straw like an accordion. Then he would have sat the paper on the table, poured a couple of drops of Coke on it and watched it expand. Jesse's father had shown him that trick. He called it the “worm.” But at the moment, it seemed like a dumb, childish thing to do.

TJ took another drink. “Don't be so quick to give up on football, Jesse. Lots of things can
happen between now and next season. I mean, look at you. You're still growing. How much do you bench press?”

“I don't know. About one eighty-five, one ninety.”

“Not bad. Does your school have a pretty good workout facility?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jesse said. “Nothing fancy, but it's all right.”

TJ downed the last of his beer. He lifted his glass and motioned for the waitress to bring him another one. “The Brookstone Apartments where I live has a great gym with state-of-the-art equipment,” he said. “After we finish eating, I'll take you there to show it to you.”

Jesse could tell that TJ spent a lot of time working out. TJ stood six-three and weighed two-hundred forty pounds, but he was all muscle. He had a thick chest and huge biceps that stretched out his black golf shirt.

In order to stay in top physical shape, wrestlers spend long hours exercising. When Jesse's father was on the road, he generally worked out in the hotel gym, if it had one. If not, he would go to a local facility, like Gold's Gym or Bally's. When he was home, he worked out at Ox Mulligan's Pro Wrestling Factory, a wrestling school in San Antonio.

Their pizza was brought out. While they ate, TJ talked about vitamins, body-building supplements and the importance of maintaining a proper diet. He laughed when Jesse asked him if pepperoni pizza and beer were on his list of nutritional foods.

“Most foods are okay as long as you eat them in moderation,” TJ said. “Moderation and a balanced diet, along with a good exercise program are vital to every athlete.”

TJ sounded like a real expert, and Jesse appreciated his advice.

“Listen, are you doing anything Saturday night?” TJ asked.

“I don't think so. Why?”

“UFC's coming to town, and I've got two tickets for it,” TJ said. “This gal I've sort of been seeing doesn't wanna go. You interested?”

Jesse wasn't a fan of mixed martial arts. In pro wrestling, wrestlers only pretend to beat each other up, but in MMA, they beat each other up for real. MMA matches were too violent for his taste. Still, he wasn't about to turn down TJ's offer. “Yeah, sure,” Jesse said. “Sounds like fun.”

TJ finished his beer. “Come on, let's get out of here. I wanna show you my place before I take you home.”

CHAPTER TEN

I
t was eleven-thirty by the time they left Romo's. Jesse called home to let his grandmother know where he was. She wasn't happy about Jesse staying out so late, especially since it was a school night. She told him to tell TJ to take him home as soon as possible.

Again, TJ let him drive his car.

The Brookstone Apartments was a gated complex, so TJ had to give Jesse the code for the electronic gates. After Jesse punched in the numbers, the metal doors swung open, and TJ guided him to the gym.

Treadmills, exercise bikes, dumbbells, benches, weight machines and elliptical cross trainers filled the gym. The room had floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Compared to TJ's gym, the Sidewinders' workout room looked like a dump.

Jesse walked around the room, wide-eyed, touching all the equipment, like a little kid in a toy store. “This is so cool, TJ,” he said.

“Thanks. It's one of the perks of living here.” TJ stood next to a weight machine. “Come here. Let's see what you can lift.”

Jesse's workout room had weight machines but nothing like the ones in TJ's gym. He sat on the bench and tucked his knees under the padded bar. Gripping the overhead bar, he pulled it down. The weight was heavier than he had expected, and he struggled to bring the bar to his chest.

“Woo!” TJ said. “We're gonna have to work on building your muscles.”

Jesse released the bar. “How much weight was that?”

“I'm not gonna embarrass you by telling you how much you pulled,” TJ said. “Let's just say that you could use some weight training.”

Jesse rose from the bench without checking to see how many pounds were on the machine. TJ saying that he didn't want to embarrass him, embarrassed him.

Afterwards, TJ took him to his apartment. To Jesse's surprise, the apartment was clean and neat. In the living room was a black leather couch with a matching ottoman. A large, flat-screen TV hung on the wall across the room. A long bookcase sat below the TV. TJ had a few Stephen King novels, as well as books on martial arts. He also had stacks of comic books and graphic novels.

A countertop with two barstools separated the kitchen from the dining room. In place of a table, the dining room had a set of drums. Behind the drums, the wall was covered with wrestling masks.

TJ opened the refrigerator door and took out two beer bottles. “Ready for one now?”

“No, thanks,” Jesse said. He'd had a great evening, but something didn't feel right about drinking a beer with TJ.

TJ shrugged and put one of the bottles back.

“I didn't know you play the drums,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, but not like I used to.” TJ sat on a barstool and sipped his beer. “When I was in high school, I was a band nerd. I played the drums for the Mackenzie Mustangs Marching Band in Amarillo.”

“I used to play the drums, too,” Jesse said. “We lived in St. Louis for a while, and I joined my school's band. I wanted to learn how to play the trumpet, but my band director stuck me in the percussion section.”

“Drumsticks are right there,” TJ said, pointing with his bottle. “Let's see what you can do.”

Jesse picked up the sticks and sat on a stool behind the drums. He banged on them, and then stopped when he realized how late it was. He didn't want to disturb the neighbors.

“Back in high school, a couple of my buddies and I formed a rock band,” TJ said. “We called ourselves Midnight Dreams. We even got a few gigs at school functions and stuff. We were gonna be famous rock stars and tour the world. Then reality set in. We graduated and went our separate ways.”

“My father used to have a band, too,” Jesse said. “But I don't know if they called themselves anything.”

“Hey, since you play the guitar, maybe you can bring it over sometime and we can jam together.”

Jesse told TJ he'd take him up on his offer. They pulled out their cell phones and exchanged numbers.

“Where did you get all the masks?” Jesse asked, staring at the dining room wall.

“I bought most of them at a little shop near the Alamo. But some of the better quality masks I got from the wrestlers who wore them.” TJ pointed to a red and white mask. “Solomon Grimm gave me that one. It's one of the masks he wore when he wrestled as Kronos. Carlos Montoya gave me one of his Azteca Dorado masks. I guess he won't need his masks anymore once he becomes Brother Jeremiah. Of course, you recognize that one.” TJ pointed to Jesse's father's old Annihilator mask. “Now over here are masks of famous Mexican
luchadores
who were around long before your time. That one is . . . ”

“I know who they are,” Jesse said. “That one is Blue Demon. This other one is Mil Máscaras. And of course, everyone knows El Santo.”

TJ smiled. “I'm impressed.”

“My father told me about them,” Jesse said. “He's a huge fan of
lucha libre
. When we were in Mexico City on vacation, he introduced me to the Mexican wrestling promotion, Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre,
and we went to the Arena México to watch the matches.” Jesse marveled at all the masks. “You've got an awesome collection, TJ.”

“Thanks. Glad you like them. Tell you what. Pick any mask you want and it's yours.”

Jesse had dozens of wrestling action figures but no masks, except for his father's Annihilator ones. He scrutinized each one. He liked Don Jardine's mask that he wore when he wrestled as the Spoiler. The Rey Misterio mask was pretty awesome-looking, too. But there was one that especially caught his eye. “Can I have the Mil Máscaras mask?”

“Sure.” TJ pulled out the push pin that held the mask and took it down.

Mil Máscaras, the man of a thousand masks, supposedly wore a different mask each time he wrestled. The one TJ gave Jesse was a metallic-silver color with black, jagged trim around the eyes, nose and mouth, and black triangular lines on the top. The mask had a red M in the middle, above the eye slits.

TJ directed Jesse's attention to the photographs on the wall behind the couch. “I snapped those when I took a photography class in high school. I wanted to be a photographer when I grew up, but instead I decided to become a wrestler, something my pops has never let me forget.” TJ stuck his nose up in the air. “My pops is too hoity-toity to watch wrestling. Know what I mean?” He sat on the couch and took another swig of his beer.

Jesse sat on the ottoman in front of him. “How did you get into wrestling, anyway? Did you play sports in high school?”

“No, Jesse. Like I said, I was a band nerd. But I was also a huge ACW mark. I watched it all the time. Who knew that I'd be wrestling for them one day?” TJ sat his beer bottle on an end table and leaned back on the couch with his hands clasped behind his head. “Some of my buddies and I were into backyard wrestling. One of the guys, Pete Zagarenski, used to have a professional wrestling ring that his pops found on ebay. We formed a federation called Ultimate Backyard Wrestling. We tried to imitate the kinds of things we saw wrestlers do on TV. I mean, we hit each other with chairs and threw each other through tables. We'd climb up Pete's roof and jump off onto each other.” TJ shook his head and laughed. “Man, we did some crazy stuff back then.”