Takedown (6 page)

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Authors: Rich Wallace

BOOK: Takedown
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Would he ever win a match? Twice he’d had the lead now, and twice he’d managed to lose. It was enough to make a guy want to quit. Even Mario and Jesse had won their matches today.
Maybe this
isn’t
my sport,
Donald thought as he stared out the bus window on the way back to Hudson City.
Maybe I’m not as tough as I thought I was.
10
Jealousy
“Y
ou heading home?” Kendrick asked after “they’d returned to Hudson City.
“Where else would I go?” Donald said.
“I mean, you want to head out together?”
Donald yanked his jacket out of his backpack and shrugged. “Sure.”
Kendrick had lost again, too, so they wouldn’t be joking around like other days. Donald just wanted to get off the bus in a hurry. He was mad at everybody—at the guy who had beat him, at Tavo for trying to help, even at Mario for winning his own match.
They stepped outside. The air was still and cool.
“The thing that makes me maddest is that I would have beat the guy Mario wrestled,” he said.
“So?”
“So now Mario looks like a better wrestler than I am. He won.”
“That ain’t Mario’s fault.”
“No. It’s mine.”
“You might not have beat that other guy.”
“I can beat Mario. I would have clobbered his opponent.”
“That’s not the point. You wrestle who you wrestle. One on one.”
They walked along the Boulevard in silence for a few minutes. When they reached the YMCA, Donald stopped. “I’m gonna go in here for a little while,” he said.
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Just to chill out.”
“All right.” Kendrick turned and looked up the street. “I need to get home.”
“See you tomorrow then. And listen, don’t say nothing to Mario. I’m not mad at him. Just jealous, I guess. And mad at myself.”
“Sure. I hear you.”
The Y was quiet this early in the evening. Donald had spent a lot of time here, but mostly on rowdy Saturdays when he was younger, participating in indoor soccer and floor hockey and basketball leagues. He’d always done all right. Never a star, but usually a pretty good player.
He wasn’t sure why he’d come here tonight. Probably because this was one of the few places where he’d ever had much success as an athlete. He needed to be reminded of that.
He walked into the empty gym and set his backpack on the first row of the bleachers. A basketball was lying on the side of the court, and he picked it up and dribbled it a few times.
He spent a few minutes shooting baskets, missing the first several but then getting into a groove and making four in a row. There’d been one game a couple of years ago—a tournament semifinal— when he’d tossed in a three-pointer in the final minute, then stole a pass and went the length of the court for a game-winning layup.
There hadn’t been many moments like that in his sports career, but there’d been one or two others. A fumble recovery that he returned for a touchdown. A bases-clearing triple.
He rolled the basketball to the far end of the court and went downstairs to the weight room.
Three high-school guys were in one corner working on the bench press, and a woman was running on a treadmill. Donald had passed through the weight room a few times, but he’d never lifted weights. Other guys on the wrestling team lifted, and Coach had said that the seventh-graders ought to start doing so in the off-season.
He climbed onto an exercise bike and pedaled slowly for a few minutes, watching the high-school guys lift. They were laughing and busting each other. Loud rock music was blaring from the radio.
How could I lose like that again?
he wondered. He’d felt so ready, so psyched up, so certain that he’d win. Now he felt just the opposite, unsure if he would ever hold on and win one.
His parents were both working tonight, so there was no rush to get home. He had no appetite anyway. He pedaled the bike for ten more minutes, then grabbed his stuff and headed out.
There was still a lot of traffic on the Boulevard, and the restaurants and small grocery stores were open. Donald trudged past, suddenly eager to get home and out of the cold.
After a couple of blocks he heard a horn beeping. He turned and saw his father’s car.
“What are you doing out so late?” Dad said as Donald got in.
“Just getting home from the match.”
“Must have been a long one.”
“It was away. Over in Bayonne.”
“You win?”
Donald shook his head. “I should have. I had the guy beat the whole match. I just couldn’t finish. Couldn’t hold on at the end.”
“Tough break.”
Mr. Jenkins had never been involved in sports as a kid, but he came to see Donald’s events when he had time. He was usually working when the games were scheduled, so it meant a lot to Donald when he got there.
“Are you still having fun with it?” Dad asked.
“I guess. It’s not exactly
fun
, you know, like being in Little League or something. It’s more like . . . I don’t know. It’s something I like to do because it makes me push myself.”
“I can see that.”
“Even when I get my butt kicked, I can feel that I’m getting somewhere. Like sooner or later, if I work hard enough, I’ll really start to enjoy it. Just not quite yet.”
“Makes sense.”
“Nah, it doesn’t,” Donald said, his temper starting to heat up again. “I mean, I’ve been working my butt off. I’m tired of being
patient.
I should be winning matches.”
They’d reached the house. Dad turned off the engine, and they sat in the car for a minute. “So, when’s the next one?” Dad asked.
“Tuesday. Five more days. We wrestle Palisades at home.”
“I’ll see if I can get there.”
“That would be great if you could.”
Donald stared through the windshield at the house. “It’s so frustrating,” he finally said.
“So why do it?”
“I don’t know. To prove something, I guess. That I
can
do it. That I can beat anybody out there. Anybody my size, at least.”
“Who do you have to prove that to?” Dad asked. “I mean, I know that’s a valuable thing, but you need to figure out why it’s important to you.”
Donald nodded. “Right. Maybe I don’t even know why I do it. I just know that I hate losing. And so far I’ve done nothing
but
lose.”
They both thought that over for a minute. Then Dad gave Donald a soft whack on the knee. “You all right?” he asked.
“I’ll get over it. Maybe by tomorrow. We’ll see.” He turned to his father and slowly shook his head. “I
will
start winning. I don’t know when, but I will.”
“No doubt about it,” Dad said. “You work hard enough, sooner or later you succeed.”
Donald just nodded, but right away he felt better.
“We’d better get in and feed the cat,” Dad said.
“Better feed me, too. I’m starving.”
11
Double Challenge
M
onday was wrestle-off day, when any junior varsity wrestler could challenge a varsity member for his spot in the starting lineup. Donald had made it clear that he was after Jesse’s berth at ninety-five pounds.
“We’ve got two challengers at that weight class,” Coach said as the wrestlers took seats in the bleachers. “So, they’ll wrestle first to determine who takes on Jesse.”
Donald looked around. Mario hadn’t said a word, but obviously he was the second challenger. Mario looked at Donald and nodded with a tight smile. Donald made a fist but smiled back.
“Mario and Donald, get out here. After your match, we’ll run through the challenges in the other weight classes, then whoever wins your match can go against Jesse.”
Donald stepped to the mat and reached for his toes, feeling the stretch in the backs of his legs. So one win wouldn’t be enough to get him a spot on varsity. He’d have to beat two guys in a row.
I can handle that
, he thought.
He’d spent the entire school day preparing mentally for this match, thinking he’d be going against Jesse. Now he needed to turn that energy toward Mario and keep it going after that.
Maybe he could just pin Mario in a hurry and forget that this match even happened. Then he could get right back to his preparation for Jesse.
But he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
Coach blew his whistle, and Donald and Mario darted about, lunging at each other and then backing away.
Donald managed a takedown halfway through the period, but Mario twisted out of it and escaped. Then he took Donald down, but Donald made a reversal and retook the lead.
The wrestlers in the bleachers were yelling encouragement as the furious action continued. By the end of the period, Mario had escaped again and Donald had scored another takedown. He had a 6-4 lead, but he was tired.
This is right where he’d been in his previous matches—slightly ahead against a tough opponent.
If I waste this chance, I’m nothing
.
The second period went back and forth, but Donald maintained the lead. Mario escaped; Donald took him down. Mario escaped again. Donald couldn’t pin him and couldn’t control him for very long, but his quickness was working to his advantage.
Time ran out with Mario desperately trying for a takedown. Donald raised his arms and shut his eyes in triumph.
He’d made the first step. One more to go.
“Nice job,” Mario said as they walked off the mat together.
“You, too,” Donald said, breathing hard.
They sat together in the bleachers as two other JV guys lost their challenge matches. Next up was Donald against Jesse.
“You can do this,” Mario said.
“You didn’t help me much.” But Donald grinned. “Maybe you did. I’m tired, but I’m good and warmed up. The nerves are gone, too.”
“Glad to be of service,” Mario said. “By the way, I’m not done yet. You can expect another challenge next week.”
“Yeah, but maybe it’ll be Jesse and you in the first match next time, vying to try to knock me off. It’s like playing King of the Hill.”
“Go out there and beat the king then. He’s waiting.”
Jesse glared at Donald from across the mat. Nobody liked to be challenged, and it was even worse for an eighth-grader to be challenged by someone in seventh. Donald was aware of that, and he did have respect for Jesse. But this was the way wrestling went. The best guy had to prove it every time.
The match was similar to the one against Mario, as both wrestlers were quick and agile but not very skilled at pinning. Jesse scored the first takedown, but Donald quickly reversed him and Jesse quickly escaped.
As Donald expected, he was pretty evenly matched with Jesse. The outcome could go either way. But Donald was getting worn out as the second period wound down. It was his fourth period of wrestling—Jesse had more fuel left.
So it was no surprise that Jesse hung on for a 7-5 win. He gripped Donald’s shoulder as they walked off the mat. “Nice match,” he said, obviously relieved to have survived.
“Thanks. Way to go.”
This loss didn’t sting like the others. Donald had wrestled a good match, but his fatigue might have cost him the win. Making varsity probably wasn’t too far off. He definitely had his confidence back. And tomorrow he’d be competing again. Another chance to win.
“That’s it for today,” Coach said. “Get a good meal tonight and a good rest. Palisades is a very talented team. Let’s be miserable hosts and beat them.”
 
 
Donald’s parents were still at work when he got home, and he didn’t feel like being alone. Too much to think about, with the match tomorrow and all. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Manny.”
“Yeah?”
“You want to come over? Watch TV or something?”
“Let me check.”
Donald stroked the cat’s back as he waited. His mom had left him a plate of ham and pasta to heat up, but he hadn’t eaten it yet. It didn’t look very appealing.
“I can stay till nine,” Manny said.
“See you in a few minutes then.”
The dinner looked dried out—it was left over from two days before. Donald scanned the refrigerator for something to make it more appetizing.
He spread some mustard on the ham and poured Italian dressing on the spaghetti and mixed it around. Then he put it in the microwave and cut up an orange.
“Good to go,” he said to the cat.
He was still eating when Manny arrived.
“Want to watch TV?” Donald asked.
“Nah. I was thinking we should play Monopoly. We haven’t done that in at least a year.”
So Donald climbed the stairs to his room and got the game. He also unplugged his radio and brought that down.
“What the heck is this?” Manny asked as a gruff, heavy voice on the radio started singing about a ring of fire.
“Sounds like Johnny Cash.”
Manny winced. “What are we, sixty years old? Put on a good station.”
“This
is
good. I listen to this station every night.”
“You got weird tastes, man.” Manny rolled the dice and moved his little metal boot to Vermont Avenue. “I’ll buy that,” he said.
Donald also rolled an eight and sighed. First move of the game and he already owed Manny six dollars. “Great start,” he said.
“This might be a rout.”
“No way,” Donald said. “Monopoly is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“What do you know about marathons?”
“I know I wouldn’t want to run one.”
Donald shoveled the last forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and got up to put the plate in the dishwasher.
“What do we have to drink?” Manny asked.
“Apple juice.” Donald opened the refrigerator and looked in. “Chocolate milk.”
“Could I have some juice?”
“Sure. Oh, and there’s half a pot of cold, stale coffee from this morning if you want that.”

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