It’s the day of the first tournament. I hear my parents’ shower running and pull the covers over my head. I don’t open my eyes. If I look at the clock, it’s going to say five-thirty. My body feels like I got flattened by a steamroller at last night’s practice.
The hall light clicks on. Abba pulls my covers back and shakes me awake.
“Don’t wanna get up,” I mumble. I had the dream again last night. The shadow-person walked to the middle of the bridge and called to me. He wanted me to wrestle, but when I stepped on the log, I fell, same as before.
I must fall back asleep, because next thing I know, I’m standing on my parents’ bathroom scale in underwear and socks. I’m not sure how I got here.
“Ninety-four point six,” Abba says. “That’s cutting it close. No breakfast until after weigh-ins.”
If Mom were here, she’d be brushing her wet hair, splashing it on me, trying to make me laugh, but she and Dalia don’t fly home until tomorrow morning.
The rest of the morning is a blur of packing: food for after weigh-ins, peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, apple slices, a few Hershey’s Kisses, my headgear and last season’s headgear for emergencies, my notebook. I get dressed in layers of red-and-gray Gladiators gear and hope my new singlet doesn’t give me armpit wedgies.
Abba sits at the table with a cup of coffee. “Lev, stop bouncing.”
I ignore him, plant my hands on the kitchen table and bounce even higher. One of my sandals flies off my sock and hits the back door. Grover woofs.
Abba puts two big hands on my shoulders. “Settle,” he says. I look at his scruffy face. His stubble is almost as gray as the hair on his head. Abba leans forward until our foreheads touch. “Save your energy for the tournament.”
When we step outside, cold, quiet night touches my face. I hear a long, lonely “hoo.”
“Is that an owl?”
Abba nods. “It’s a good sign. You’re going to wrestle smart today.” He rubs the top of my head. “Let’s hit the road, Jack.”
I toss a pillow and blanket into the back of Abba’s SUV. He puts on his favorite band from when he was in high school, Rush. The sound pumps like heat through my muscles.
Why do I love this sport? Who wants to leave the house before six a.m. on a holiday weekend? It’s cold enough to freeze the boogers inside my nose. But later this morning I’ll have a great match. I’ll feel my opponent hesitate for a second, my instincts will kick in, and the other guy will be on his back, fighting for his life. I’ll push down on his chest and slap! The ref’s hand will come down and I’ll be standing in the center of the mat, victorious.
My first match is against a kid from the Burtonsville Bulldogs. Coach Billy calls me over. “Be aggressive out there,” he says. “Take the first shot.”
“First shot, best shot.” It’s one of Coach’s favorite sayings.
I jog onto the mat and put on the red ankle cuff. The ref has a matching red cuff on one wrist and a green one on the other. He uses them to tell the judges when a point is scored. Every time he raises his arm with the red cuff, the judges mark down a point for me.
A boy in Burtonsville purple puts on the green cuff, then takes his stance across from me. We shake hands.
“Wrestle!”
Lunge. Knee down, hands out. I grab his leg and pull the Bulldog down, spinning behind him. “Takedown. Two!” the ref yells, and holds up two fingers.
Seconds into the match and I’m sweating. I pull the Bulldog’s arm out from under him, forcing him flat to the floor.
“Time!” a voice yells. I don’t have time to check in with Coach before the ref sets us up for the second period. I’m top man, my chin hovering above the Bulldog’s shoulders.
On the whistle, I move. Almost without thinking, I sink a half nelson, sliding an arm through the kid’s elbow and behind his head. I roll the boy over. He pants and groans, kicks and bucks. I hold on. The ref is belly down on the mat next to us. I catch his eye for a second as he checks the Bulldog’s shoulders. Slap! The ref’s hand hits the mat.
It’s over.
“That’s the killer instinct I want to see,” Coach Billy says, grabbing me around the shoulders. First match of the season, and I pinned my guy. I’ve got this. I know I’m good enough to make it to States.