Takedown (3 page)

“Okay, let’s go to work,” he said. “Let’s get into starting position. I’ll get on the bottom.”

He got down on his hands and knees and I got down beside him, putting my right arm across his back and bringing it around
to his stomach. Then I gripped his left arm with my right hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Just imagine you’re the Squasher and I’m you. The referee says ‘Ready! Go!’ “

In a wink of an eye he rolled over, pulling
me with him. Before I knew it my back was on the floor and his back was on my chest. He had my right leg caught up in a hold
I couldn’t get out of. He turned, his face only inches from mine, and grinned.

“Got it?” he said.

He was pressing me hard enough to stifle my breathing a little.

“Yeah,” I said, almost inaudibly.

He let go of my leg. “That’s called the shoulder roll,” he said. “It’s nothing new, but if done right it works. Okay. You
get down this time.”

I did, and we went through the roll. I managed to roll him over almost as easily as he had rolled me, and I felt good — until
the fourth time we did it. That time he stopped me cold before I could even grab his left leg, and I realized then that he
had been letting me go through the entire hold without any strong opposition so that I could learn its execution.

The next day he taught me the hammerlock hold and the legal and the illegal ways of applying it. I had learned how to perform
it last year, but not well enough to use it successfully
during matches. As he showed me how to do it properly and effectively, I felt as if I were learning it for the first time.

“How you apply it makes a difference,” he said. “It’s easy to pull it off illegally and lose a point or two. You can put pressure
on the upper arm, but putting pressure on the elbow is a no-no. Get it?”

I nodded. “I think so,” I said.

“Okay. I want you to work on those two holds, plus the ones you already know,” he suggested. “Work out with Bull. I know you
two are close friends, so be sure neither of you does anything to hurt yourselves. Work out with your brother, too. Carl’s
got both height and weight over you, so practicing those holds on him would be pretty beneficial. For both of you.” He smiled
again. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”

He glanced around the gym, where groups of guys were doing exercises on the equipment and other groups were practicing wrestling
on the mats. Coach Doran was doing his bit with the varsity heavyweights.

“Bull!” Coach Collins yelled out. “Drop that barbell and come here!”

Bull came over, glistening with sweat. Coach Collins explained that he wanted us to work out together, and briefed him on
the two holds he had taught me. “I could’ve let you be surprised,” he said, “but I think that your being prepared for the
holds might be better practice for Sean. Okay, go to it.”

Bull and I went at it, me going down first with Bull on top of me, and I almost got a takedown first thing. But not quite.
Bull rolled over onto me, tried to put a headlock on me, and I squirmed and twisted and bounced to my feet before he could
get a good hold.

We grinned at each other. I think I surprised him. As a matter of fact, I surprised myself! Bull’s a big kid!

“Let’s try it again,” Coach Collins said.

We did, and I felt strong and in control as I rolled and tumbled with Bull, using the new moves and holds. Bull was good,
but I was faster. There were even moments when I thought I was even
better.

And maybe I was right! I finally got a takedown!

“Sure, you would,” Bull said, breathing hard as he rose to his feet, sweat rolling down his cheeks. “I’m bushed!”

I laughed. “I figured,” I said.

I hardly slept a wink Wednesday night — squirming and turning and sweating like a pig about to be butchered — and by Thursday
night I was ready more for a good night’s sleep than for a wrestling match with one of Franklin Junior High’s best.

Hunter Nyles didn’t get his nickname, the Squasher, by squashing melons or oranges. He got it from squashing his opponents.
He was bigger than me and had wrestled since he was ten years old. Everything was in his favor.

I was in the 125-pound weight class. I weighed in at 122 and Nyles at 125.

I tried to ignore the crowd that filled the seats of the gym. Somewhere among the spectators
sat Mom and Carl. It was funny — Mom was behind me all the way when it came to wrestling, even though my real father had been
a wrestler. I guess she thought it was a good way for me to get out my frustrations — and stay out of trouble. Dad didn’t
attend the matches. Tallying up the week’s receipts absorbed his time Thursday nights. I wondered why he couldn’t do them
some other time, but I’d never asked him.

As for Carl, he’d cheer quicker for Bull than he would for me.

We stood outside of the mat, Hunter Nyles on one side and I on the other. Bob Townsend, the ref, a tall, balding guy with
a barrel chest, stepped onto the mat. The red and green armbands on his wrists made it easier for the scorekeeper to see which
wrestler had scored when the ref raised his hand to indicate a point. In this match the green, on his right wrist, represented
Jefferson Davis Junior High, since the meet was being held at our school.

The assistant referee, Clint Wagner, a muscular guy who had a trim mustache and was only a couple of inches taller than me,
stood
on the opposite side of the mat, watching. He, too, wore armbands.

“Okay, Jefferson. On the mat,” Referee Townsend said.

I got on the mat. Then Nyles. We stood apart, facing each other, waiting for the ref to blow his whistle. I was scared. Nyles
looked even bigger in his tights than he did in his everyday clothes. He might be thin, like Coach Collins said, but he wasn’t
that
thin.

Shreeeek!

The whistle blew and we went at it, grabbing each other’s hands and releasing them. Suddenly Nyles grabbed my hands again,
rushed at me, and dived at my legs, pulling me toward him as he did so. I could hear him grunt as I went down, falling on
my back. He pressed his head against my stomach, fighting for a quick takedown, and I squirmed and twisted to keep him from
doing so.

It did no good. From the corner of my eye I saw the ref raise two fingers. I winced. Two points already for the Squasher!

I gritted my teeth, rolled over, and got an arm around Nyles’s neck. He squirmed out of
it as if he were greased. I was positive then that there was more to this skinny kid than I had originally thought.

I twisted around to face him. I was down, with my left leg straight out and my right curved under me, when he got his arms
around my waist and locked his hands against my chest. I could feel the tight pressure of his skinny arms. They felt like
ropes cutting into my body. I could hear and feel him breathing hard against my neck. I thought I was a goner for sure when,
suddenly, I saw the ref lean forward and tap Nyles’s arm.

The Squasher released me instantly, and the ref straightened up and made the locked-hands violation sign over his head for
the scorekeeper to see. Then a finger flashed.

A point for me!

In a moment we were in tight combat again, the Squasher diving at my legs as I stood up. I grabbed his head and rolled over
onto the mat, pulling him with me. He squirmed out of my control and wrapped his hand over my neck in a half nelson. It was
a takedown. Two more points for him.

A second later I twisted out of his grasp and tried the shoulder roll on him, as Coach Collins had taught me. A cheer exploded
from the Jefferson Davis gallery, and I knew I’d scored two points for a reversal. But, like a slippery eel, Nyles twisted
out of my grasp and got an armlock around my leg. Another point for him.

A whistle shrilled, ending the first period. We broke apart and stood up, breathing hard and sweating like crazy. I glanced
at the scorer.

“Five points for Nyles! Three points for Bailor!” he announced.

In spite of the Squasher’s leading by only two points, I was nervous and tight. Sweat rolled down my face, arms, and legs
in rivers. I was afraid that the next time we got into a clinch he’d pull some quick, secret move and pin me. I could picture
him gloating down at me.
Next time have your coach pick out a guy your size, Halfpint.

I couldn’t let him think like that. I
had
to show him that just because I was smaller I was no pushover. If he was going to best me, he’d
really have to earn the win, and maybe the next time the tide would change.

The second period started and we went at it. It didn’t start off well — the Squasher got a single-leg hold on me almost before
I was ready. Then he was penalized again for putting an illegal chicken wing hold on me. Seconds later he clasped a hand over
my mouth and started to twist my head, a no-no, just as a handover-nose or -throat would be, and he lost another point.

His breaking the rules made me realize how desperate he was. He had found out that I was tougher than he’d thought, and that
he had to play dirty to score. I just hoped the ref wouldn’t miss any of it.

I tried the shoulder roll again. This time I pulled it off. I felt better. I almost grinned in his face. Some of the tension
left. If I could do it once I could do it again, I thought.

I tried, but the Squasher twisted out of my hold and rolled me over onto my back, winning points for a near fall. I strained
with all my power as he tried to pin me. His left arm was
holding down my left leg and his right arm was wrapped around my neck. But I was up on my elbows, straining hard, and he couldn’t
budge me.

We split points in the third period, he getting four more than I. The match ended with him scoring sixteen points to my ten.
Three points for his team.

We shook hands and looked at each other eye to eye. He’d won, but he wasn’t happy. I could tell by the disappointed look on
his perspiring face. He had thought I was going to be easy pickin’s, that he’d pin me.

Well, he didn’t. And if there was a next time…

Oh, heck, I thought. I’ll wait until the next time came. The important thing was
now.
I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Not a bit.

“Good show, Sean,” Coach Collins said as he met me outside of the mat with a broad smile on his face. He shook my hand, put
an arm around my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze. “You gave him a battle.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I said.

“You need more work on the roll,” he added.
“And a couple of other holds. But don’t worry. You did okay, even if you did lose. Not only is that Nyles kid bigger than
you are, he’s also more experienced. I hope you don’t feel bad about coming out on the short end.”

I winced at the coach’s pun. “Not too bad,” I answered truthfully. I really hadn’t expected to get within ten points of the
Squasher, let alone six.

Neither Mom nor Carl looked half as pleased as the coach had.

“I can’t understand why they put that big kid against you,” Mom complained. “Don’t they match you boys up by size?”

There you go, I thought, bringing up “size” again. It would never end.

“By weight, Mom,” I said, trying to shrug off my irritation. “He only weighed a few pounds more than I did.”

“Mom’s right,” Carl cut in. “I think you’re lucky he didn’t make hamburger out of you.”

Thanks, brother, I thought. He still enjoyed ridiculing me. Would his digs never end, either?

“Anyway, you did okay,” Mom said. “Bigger
or not, that Nyles boy showed he had more experience. In a couple of years — maybe even next year — you’ll give him a run
for his money, I’m sure.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Maybe,” I said.

“Wish I was old enough to wrestle with the JV’s,” Carl said. “I bet I could handle most of those characters.”

“I wish you were old enough, too,” I said.

I meant it. Maybe a good wrestling match with some of those “characters” would teach him something about humility.

I took a shower, got into my civvies, and started to head back to the gym when two girls came dashing around the corner. The
first one crash-banged right into me.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” she cried, grabbing my shoulder to catch her balance.

“That’s okay,” I said, reaching out to catch my balance, too.

She pushed back ringlets of her blond hair and stared at me with wide, grapelike eyes. “Oh! You’re Sean, aren’t you? Sean
Bailor? You just wrestled Hunter Nyles.”

I nodded. “Yes. And lost.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t such a bad loss,” she said. “I thought you did fine.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” the girl next to her said.

This other girl had shoulder-length brown hair and wore a sweatshirt that had a picture of Garfield the cat on the front.
Were they just being nice to me? I wondered. They were probably students of Franklin Junior High. I’d never seen them before.

“I’m Gail and she’s Barbara,” the blonde said. She flashed a smile and waved. “Nice meeting you! See you again — maybe!”

They ran off, heading toward the far side of the stands where the Franklin Junior High students and fans were sitting.

Some of the Jefferson Davis fans yelled and waved as I headed down the gym, and I waved back.