Vision Quest (16 page)

Down goes Sausage to sweep a leg. Mash is too fast and Sausage sweeps air.

Sausage locks up like the pro wrestlers on TV. He stands
forehead to forehead with Mash and tries to muscle. Each has a hand behind the other's neck and a hand on the other's elbow. Our bench goes wild. “You can't muscle him, turd head!” Schmoozler yells. Coach Morgan talks into the tape recorder.

Sausage is pushing Mash around the mat. Mash, of course, is letting him, inviting Sausage to precipitate his own demise. Balance again. Our crowd loves Sausage's aggressiveness and cheers like crazy.

Kuch taps my knee. “Look,” he says. I was watching Mr. and Mrs. Mashamura. They sit as calm as can be. Smiling intently is the furthest they seem to go emotionally. Mash has hooked both of Sausage's arms. Sausage is hopelessly off balance but pumps his legs hard and drives his head into Mash's navel just the same. Mash suddenly kicks out both legs. Sausage is smashed flat. His nose is taking quite a beating.

Sausage barks and wheezes a little and tries to get up, but Mash has spun behind him for two points. Sausage is right to his knees like a shot, crawling around the mat in a burst of energy. Mash can't find anything to grab. The buzzer sounds and the Sausage Man has survived round one.

Sausage gets his choice of positions and chooses top. The ref is down on one knee looking Mash in the eye. Sausage sights along Mash's spine and stares into the barrel of the ref's whistle. It blows.

Mash kicks into a beautiful long sitout. Sausage grabs
for him, but he's long gone with his escape point.

Mash is more aggressive on his feet this round. He acts like he wants to lock up, but when Sausage reaches for him, Mash drops to one knee and takes Sausage to his back with a fireman's carry. Immediately he gets the half nelson, then the crotch. Sausage has had it. Mash lifts a little on the crotch and the leverage pushes both Sausage's shoulders deep into the mat. He's pinned. We don't even have time to yell for him to bridge before the ref slaps the mat. The L.C. fans jump up cheering.

All of a sudden Sausage's dad is out of the bleachers and onto the mat, yelling at the ref. Coach is off the bench and between them fast. Mr. Thuringer is pointing at the ref and trying to get at him, yelling that the whistle was too fast. Sausage is up and between Coach and his dad, trying to shove his dad off the mat. Both benches are paralyzed, but the L.C. fans hoot and jeer. This kind of stuff doesn't happen very often.

Mr. Thuringer realizes right away what an ass he is—you can see it come over his face. He says something to Sausage and Sausage pats him on the back. Instead of just going back and sitting down, he apologizes to Coach and the ref and then to Mash right there on the mat. I can't hear what he's saying because the L.C. fans are yelling so loud. But it's obvious he's apologizing.

The ref raises Mash's hand and then Mash goes over and puts his arm around Sausage and talks to him and his dad
for a few seconds. Then he sprints back to his bench and they mob him joyfully.

We all get up and meet Sausage, who is crying and smiling both. Coach Morgan puts his arm around him and takes him behind the bench to fix his nose.

Raska and Mike Konigi win, Seeley gets beat by a point in a great match, Schmoozler tears his guy a couple new assholes but can't pin him, Williamson loses bad, and Kuch is up 5–0 in the first round when I get up and walk behind the bench to loosen up for my match.

Carla got here in time to see Schmooz dig a few furrows across the mat with Steve Munker's head. Schmooz would drive him to his back and almost have him pinned; then Munkers would bridge way up on the back of his head and scoot off the mat. They'd go back to the referee's position and the same thing would happen. Schmooz would drive hard at the whistle and Munkers would go to his back. Then he'd bridge and Schmooz would drive and off the mat they'd go. It was like a ritual. The crowd loved it. I'd hate to have to trade scalps with Munkers. The back of his head will be all scabs tomorrow.

Carla trots over, pats my arm, smiles big, and tells me good luck. Then she goes back to her seat beside Belle. Belle saves her a seat when Carla comes late from work.

A couple maladjusted creeps in the L.C. section yell out how cute it is that I have a girlfriend. They really love it when I begin my rope-skipping. A few of the older men
hoot and yell out, “Hey, Sugar Ray!” I hear it all.

Kuch is about to pin Rance Prokoff, so I whip the rope faster. I reverse the rope a few times and start to blow the air out hard. If they were not so concerned about their guy being smothered by Kuch's braid, the L.C. crowd would be on my ass for sure. They're screaming at the ref, whose only concern is Rance's shoulders. Kuch is coiled around Rance like a vine, stretching him out with a hold called a “guillotine.” It's hard to tell who's the one in trouble unless you know the hold. They're both on their backs, wrapped head to toe, but Kuch's arm is woven under Rance's neck, around his shoulder, and under his back, where Kuch's hands are locked. The higher Rance bridges, the more Kuch stretches him and the closer Rance's free shoulder is drawn to the mat. Rance is straining hard to pull away and wagging his head back and forth, trying to shake off Kuch's thick braid, which is probably annoying but definitely not overwhelming. Coach Morgan runs out and flips it off. Our fans boo and their fans yell at our fans.

Romaine is behind their bench, stretching his groin and looking over at me. I dance a little and reverse the rope some more. I turn a little circle while I skip. The rope whacks the warm-up mat steadily.

Kuch almost has him, but the whistle blows, ending the round. That gives me more time.

I'm bridging on my neck, working it around and around, when the pinning chant begins. I can't make it to
my feet before I hear the ref slap the mat. Kuch has Rance stacked up in a beautiful chicken wing just like Coach demonstrated on Balldozer in practice. It take them a few seconds to get untangled. I put my jump rope under my chair and walk with the guys to the edge of the mat to congratulate Kuch. He's smiling and not even breathing hard.

“Way t' go,” I say.

“See ya soon,” he replies.

You can barely hear the announcer through all the noise. Cheers and boos and stomping feet. I'm the least popular wrestler in Spokane. Also, along with Shute, I'm the most popular. It depends on who you talk to. Some people don't like it that I dance and skip rope.

Romaine and I cross, shake hands, and turn to face each other. Romaine glares. He's into being tough on the mat. Only a real cretin is psyched out by that kind of shit. The ref's whistle chirps. I hear Kuch yip and howl like a coyote.

I stand straight and bounce a little on my toes. Romaine is crouched and moving slowly forward. I seem heavier, but he outweighs me by seven pounds. His arms are so long he's hard to lock up with. And he's so tall it's hard to take him down with leg dives.

He taps my forehead and I bounce away. He's after me, trying to lock up or maybe work an arm drag—catch one of my arms and pull me forward off balance so he can slip inside and get a leg. His hand whips out and slaps the side of my head. Part of the tough-guy routine. Our fans boo
and theirs cheer. I bounce away and dance a little and stand straight.

His hand whips out again, but I duck, drop to one knee, and sweep his leg, hoisting it high as I move behind him. I trip the other leg and he goes down. I get the two points and our crowd cheers.

Because he's tall, I work on controlling his crotch. Most of his strength is in his legs, so I ride him low, my arm locked back around his hips and through his crotch rather than around his waist, my leg hooked through his at the knee. Romaine is really a tough guy. I never liked playing against him in football and I'd run away from him in a street fight. But for a wrestler he has poor balance. You ride his hips tight and you know right where he's going. He doesn't try much except to get back to his feet. I ride him out to the whistle.

Romaine chooses top. I get down on my hands and knees in the referee's position and Romaine gets down beside me and grabs hold. The ref checks our position and my nose begins to bleed. Just a couple drops at first. But it's a steady stream by the time he moves back and sticks his whistle in his mouth. He calls time and motions to our bench. Tommy Reilly, our manager, runs out with the wet towel to wipe the blood off the mat. I pass him on my way to the bench to meet Coach.

“I didn't even get hit,” I say apologetically.

Coach wipes my nose and mouth. “Better go all out this
round, Louden,” he says as he stuffs the little gauze stoppers in.

I nod. I can taste the blood. I breathe through my mouth and the blood bubbles. I swallow it.

“Come on, you Swain, take him now!” yells Otto.

I sit out at the whistle. Romaine can't stay with me and I escape for a point. I go right after him. He reaches to lock up and I drag his arm. I take him to his knees and get control for two points. The ref calls time. Romaine's back is covered with my blood.

I pass Tommy again walking to the bench. I get one more time-out before I'm disqualified.

“Have to do it pretty soon, son,” Coach says. He lays me down on my back and presses both thumbs along the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Things go a little black. He stuffs my nose full of stoppers and pats me on the back.

I drive hard at the whistle, but Romaine stays steady on his hands and knees. I go for the half nelson and he counters by going to his feet. I lift him up with an arm through the crotch and bring him back to the mat hard. Too hard. The ref blows his whistle and gives Romaine a penalty point. The L.C. fans cheer and jeer at me. Some people also think I'm mean. But I'm not. Our fans boo. I apologize and Romaine taps my fists with his.

We're both on our feet now. My nose is dripping when the whistle blows. I fake a lockup and dive for a leg. Romaine is ready. I don't get much of a hold and he comes
with a cross-face that bends my head back and makes me release the leg and go back to my feet. Blood's all down my top and onto my tights. Romaine hesitates and looks at the ref. He blows his whistle and motions to our bench.

The L.C. crowd has flipped out. They're jumping up and down and pounding each other on the back. Our crowd is pretty quiet. I could lose my first match in two and a half years if my platelets don't start promoting some coagulation. I'm aware of it, but I'm not self-conscious or scared. I'm wrestling the best I can.

Coach puts the pressure on my nose again. “Get him to lock up, then take your fireman's carry,” he says.

“Okay.” I nod. The pressure on my nose feels good. I breathe deep and slow through my mouth.

Our bench and crowd yell me a lot of support when I walk back to the circle. L.C. is screaming for Romaine. I get a little look at Carla, calm and smiling.

I don't really hear the whistle. Romaine starts for me slowly and I just wait. He reaches for an arm, but I pull away. I look up at the clock. There's a minute left in the round and I think about stalling it out. I move forward and Romaine moves to meet me. We lock up loosely. I back away a bit, then blast forward, hooking his arm and dropping for the leg. I pull him over my shoulders and slam him down, maybe too hard. But there's no whistle. I go for the half nelson and crotch as Romaine tries to roll on his side. I cinch up good on the half nelson and keep him on his back.
I kick my legs out wide and get up on my toes to be just as heavy on his chest as I can. I lift on his head and crotch and press down with my chest. His jersey is covered with blood. I can't hear a thing the crowd is so loud. I close my eyes and sink the half nelson deeper and cinch up with all I've got. A tremendous cheer bursts from somewhere. A hand taps my back and I let loose and roll off Romaine and onto my back, swallowing blood.

The ref motions for me to get up. Romaine and I shake hands and then the ref raises my arm. I turn toward the bench and see the clock with just six seconds left. Everybody's waiting for me at the edge of the mat.

I'm so goddamn tired of
spinach. I called Dr. Livengood after the match and told him about my nose. He said I wasn't getting enough iron and that I should eat spinach and cream of wheat. I can't eat cream of wheat because it's too much bulk, so I'm eating spinach. God, I hate it. I've got spinach breath, my teeth are turning green, and I've become estranged from my own stools, they're so ugly and malodorous. And it's only been two days.

One good thing, though: I've only had one bloody nose. Dad accidentally whacked me with a cold turkey leg as he was getting it out of the fridge. I was standing behind him, reminiscing about what an eating orgy Christmas vacation used to be for me, then WHAM—I get this big, brown, greasy turkey leg right square on my beleaguered schnozzola. It only bled a little.

Dad was really sorry. I pretended to attack him to get at the turkey leg and he pretended to beat me with it. Carla laughed and Katzen ran downstairs to her bear. I was about semigory with blood and turkey grease when Kuch and Otto came to pick me up to run. We ran early tonight so we could get plenty of sleep. The turkey smell
was so luscious I hated to wash my face. The bus leaves for Missoula at five tomorrow evening.

When I got back I banged the door open with a shoulder block and stood in the doorway kicking snow off my boots. We put new weather stripping on the doors this winter. You have to be Larry Csonka to open the things.

“How ya doin'?” Dad asked. He sat by the fire reading
Time
in poor light.

“Fine, Dad,” I replied, shaking the ice out of my hair. Instead of running I walked home from the park, so the melted snow froze on me. I grabbed the towel that I tuck around the neck of my rubber sweat suit and wiped my head and face.

Carla came upstairs. She walked very slowly because Katzen was perched on her shoulder, peeking precariously through the swirls of her hair.