The Match

            When I think about my childhood, I often think about sports, and when I think about sports, I often think about wrestling, and when I think about wrestling, there’s one match I think about more than any other. This is the story about that match.

            The year was 1999 and our squad was as strong as had been in nearly two decades. Our lineup was absolutely stacked—with six seniors, two juniors, and a group of underclassmen who would eventually become the core of the greatest team in the history Iroquois Central. But that would still be a few years away, and in ’99 they were merely kids hungry for a spot in the varsity lineup. When it came to our division matches, we were about as dominant as a team could be. It was common to shut teams out, often times with a perfect score of 78-0. To sum up how strong we were: in a match against Depew, Dave West, our scrappy 140 pounder, pinned his opponent in two seconds. Two seconds—and we all believed we could do the same any time we stepped on the mat.

            But, for Fred Marcheson, our head coach, it wasn’t enough to simply demolish everybody in our division; to have an effortless ride through a perfect season. No—that would be too easy. We needed a challenge. So, coach found us one. Not just a team outside of our division, but a team clear out of our conference; a team whose talent was a mirror image of our own. And it wasn’t just any random school, but the school that three decades earlier brought our team’s National Record of 150 consecutive wins to an end. Our match against Attica would be unlike any we had experienced all season.

            The gymnasium was full, which seemed awfully strange, because we were accustomed to competing in front only our parents and a handful of alumni. But that night, everybody came out. Attica must have brought a hundred fans of their own, and ours outnumbered theirs four to one. Even members of the student body came to watch—like it was a basketball game or something—including girls. Girls! At a wrestling match? None of us could really believe it. On top of that, we all had brand spanking new uniforms, never worn before that night, which somehow made us feel a lot tougher than we really were. I knew we would win. There was no way we couldn’t win. But then it started happening…

            Those of us in the heavier weight classes had been spoiled all year—by the time I stepped on the mat at 152 pounds, the match had always already been decided. But in the match against Attica, things just didn’t work out that way. We had the best lightweights around, but that night, Attica’s were just a bit better. Guys we were expecting wins from didn’t win, and guys we were expecting pins from didn’t pin. Luckily, we had a few underdogs pull off huge upsets to keep us in the match, but still, by the time it was my turn to wrestle, the score was lopsided, and for the first time all year, we were on the wrong side.

            There were five of us still left to wrestle when Coach pulled us together. It was custom for the entire team to huddle up just before and just after a dual meet, but I can’t remember any other time that Coach had us do it in the middle of a match. “You all have to win,” is what he said. Some may say that that’s a lot of pressure for a coach to be putting on five already-nervous teenage boys, but I don’t think any one of us felt that way at all. “You all have to win.” It wasn’t a question. Or a demand. It was simply a fact. We all had to win. That was the only way the score could work out in our favor. Five matches. Five wins. He may have said, “You all have to win,” but I think what we really heard was: “You’re all going to win.”

            As I made my way towards the center of the mat, I remember Coach slapping me on the ass and saying, “All right Jon, this starts with you.” The next thing I remember, the crowd was going wild and my arm was being raised for the win. I couldn’t tell you the score, or even what the guy looked like. I can only tell you the feeling of relief that came over me as I walked off the mat, knowing that I had done my job, that it was now in somebody else’s hands.

            Joe Glinsky won at 160 pounds, which wasn’t a surprise, because Glinsky always won. In fact, in his four year varsity career, I can’t recall him ever losing at a dual meet. At 171, George Skaros, who was probably the most underrated wrestler in Section 6, also won, which again, surprised nobody. Three down, two to go. Dave Nuhn was next at 189 pounds. Nuhn was as tall and strong as any 189 pound teenager could be, but yet, somehow, his opponent that night appeared taller and stronger, like the Russian from Rocky IV. It was hard to watch. During the first two periods you could feel the energy in the gymnasium evaporating as Nuhn was simply ass kicked by an opponent who was simply a superior wrestler. But then something happened. The third period started and much like the Russian in Rocky IV, the wrestler from Attica began running out of energy. Nuhn would take him down and then let him up. Take him down and then let him up. Everybody could see what was happening, but nobody could believe it. Take him down and let him up. With only a few seconds left, Nuhn took him down one more time to send the match into overtime. By then, Nuhn could have probably won by simply blowing on the guy. Instead, he used a double leg takedown.

            The gymnasium was going crazy! But there was still one final match. Winner takes all. We sent out a red-headed sophomore by the name of Matt Keem. Keem had started the season as a 171 pounder, but when he realized that there was no room for him in an already crowded lineup full of talent, he quickly took on the task of bulking up to heavyweight. (In a sport where most athletes are constantly cutting weight, we were all very jealous.) Keem’s opponent that night was not only a “true” heavyweight, but also looked like a 35 year old long-haul truck driver. If the two were standing next to each other, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would pick Keem to come out on top. But on that night, we all saw our first glimpse of a wrestling genius, and somehow, (which we would see him do so many more times over the next three years) Keem took control of the match. And he won. And we won. We had beaten Attica.

            We would all go on to win a lot more (though Attica would get their revenge the next season, humiliating us on their home turf). Personally, I would achieve many more athletic accomplishments in my own life—a State Championship in Rugby, another in Mountain Biking—but none would ever compare to that night we wrestled Attica. For a sport that takes so much pride in individual achievement, with those guys, on that night, I’ve never felt a stronger sense of the word “team.” And yet “team,” doesn’t even really do it justice—we felt more like family than friends. It’s been over a decade and a half, and I’m aware that this is one of those stories that’s probably going to get better every time I tell it, but that’s okay, because when I think back to that win against Attica, so does the feeling of pride I felt that night.

            

Dropped

        I dropped a hat. It wasn’t just any hat. It was a Buffalo Bison’s throwback baseball cap. It was black and white with a red brim and it fit my head perfectly. I wore that hat everywhere: New York City, Baltimore, DC, the Carolinas and Kentucky. I wore that hat everyway: brim up, brim down, backwards, and sideways. The hat was stained with my sweat, covered in dirt, and faded from the sun, just like a professional baseball player’s at the end of a long season. I loved that hat. But I dropped it and now it is gone.
It all started with a large wooden dining room table and the Boy Scout motto--"Be Prepared." I had never been on a long trip, or on the open road alone, so I had little idea of what to bring. I knew that carrying something that I would never use would be better than forgetting something that I desperately needed. So during the weeks leading up to my departure, the table filled with supplies until the wood top disappeared.
It was everything that I could possibly think of:

a pair of jeans

a pair of cargo shorts

two pairs of rugby shorts

a bicycle jersey 

two t-shirts

a rugby jersey

a short sleeved button down shirt

a long sleeved button down flannel shirt

a long sleeved cotton pull over

a wool sweater

three pairs of ankle-cut socks

three pairs of boxer-brief underwear

a pair of spandex underwear

a leather belt

a spring rain jacket

a pair of waterproof pants

two winter hats

a pair of winter gloves

a winter jacket

a winter jacket-vest

a bandana

a bath towel

a pair of leather sandals

a pair of running sneakers

a one and a half person tent

a forty degree plus sleeping bag

a camping hammock

one medium sized notebook

two pocket sized notebooks

two pens

two books for reading

a dozen folded road maps

a folding toothbrush

travel sized toothpaste

travel sized 2 in 1 soap and shampoo

travel sized deodorant

a half roll of toilet paper

a box of Ziploc sandwich baggies

a box of large trash bags

a deck of waterproof cards

a pack of cigarettes

a tin of chewing tobacco

a Zippo lighter

a homemade first aid kit

two flashlights

four AA batteries

four AAA batteries

a handheld FM radio

a set of headphones

ten feet of nylon rope

a cellular telephone

an AC adapter for charging it

a pocket knife

four one-time-use hand warmers

my wallet, four bungee cords

two extra bicycle tubes

three extra spokes

one extra tire

a handheld CO2 compressor

five CO2 cartridges

three extra chain links

a bicycle repair multi-tool

a bicycle helmet

a coiled bicycle lock

a bag of trail-mix

a jar of peanut butter

a half dozen bagels

four water bottles

a set of saddlebags

a backpack

a Buffalo Bison‘s throwback baseball cap 

As I looked out over the table only one thing crossed my mind: how in the world was I going to get all that stuff on my bicycle?
I would wear the bicycle jersey, the spandex underwear, the rugby shorts, a pair of socks, the running sneakers, and the helmet. The inner frame of my bicycle would hold two water bottles and the coiled lock. Everything else had to be placed on the rear rack of the bike. I hung the saddlebags, one on each side, and went to work. It took many attempts, different schemes, and complicated patterns, but somehow I made it happen. Like a real life game of Tetris I arranged and rearranged, and then re-rearranged. I shuffled, stacked, compressed, and dangled. Then I shoved, bent, inserted, and squeezed until every last item was on my bicycle. When the puzzle was finally complete the rear end must have weighed over sixty pounds.
It was immediately apparent that I needed to get rid of some gear. The first twenty five miles of my ride, from Buffalo, New York to my hometown of Elma, felt like I was dragging a bundle of bricks. The rear end of my bike swayed back and forth and I was concerned that the rack would snap off like a dead tree branch in the wind. A bridge over a set of railroad tracks felt more like a mountain than a gentle incline. When I reached my parents house I dropped my sandals, the winter jacket, and the winter jacket-vest with ignorant hope that the temperature wouldn’t drop.
In Rochester I dropped a flannel shirt and in Oswego the long sleeved cotton pullover. In Potsdam I purchased a lightweight pair of camping pants in which the legs zipped off into shorts. This allowed me to drop the pair of jeans and the cargo shorts. In Annapolis, Maryland I dropped the medium sized notebook and traded a Faulkner novel for a contemporary biography. In Charlotte, North Carolina I dropped a t-shirt, and the book I picked up in Annapolis, giving them to my friend Nate as a gift. I knew he would appreciate them more than me.
Somewhere in Kentucky I dropped the Buffalo Bison’s throwback baseball cap. I noticed that it was gone as I neared the Mississippi River and the Missouri border. It was hot and the sun was shining and I longed for the brim to shade my face. I tore through my belongings even though I knew that it wasn’t there. I always kept it right on top. I swore up and down the road, my eyes starting to mist, clenching my fist to hold back the tears. I considered going back, looking for it, but I knew it was a lost cause. I had traveled close to sixty miles already that day and it could have been anywhere between where I was and where I stayed the night before.
I vaguely remembered hanging the Buffalo Bison’s throwback cap on the low branch of a pine tree just before I laid down to go to sleep. I was camping illegally on the water’s edge at a place called “The Land Between the Lakes.” I cannot be completely sure but I could have sworn that I grabbed it when I left the next morning. Maybe I did and it fell somewhere on the road. But maybe I didn’t and it continued to hang on the branch. Regardless, it was gone, and I would never see it again. It would prove to be the only thing that I didn‘t drop on purpose.
In Manhattan, Kansas I dropped my bungee cords, giving them to an adventurous young man who was riding his motorcycle to the northern most point in Canada.
By the time I reached Denver, Colorado I had dropped thirty pounds of fat. It was all extra weight that my body apparently did not need and made me wonder what other extra baggage I was carrying. So I sorted through my belongings and dropped what I did not need: the extra tire, my backpack, hammock, leather belt, bath towel, Zippo lighter, rain pants, t-shirt, rugby jersey, a pair of rugby shorts, one flashlight, the deck of waterproof cards, and a winter hat. I boxed it all up, gave my friend Mitch ten dollars, and told him to mail it all to me when I got to where I was going.
After crossing the border into a new state I dropped the map of the one that I had just traveled through. I was always moving forward. On a frigid night in Kremmling, Colorado I remembered the hand warmers tucked into the side of my saddlebags. I tore them open and dropped them in my sleeping bag, but they did little to comfort my body from the cold. In Salt Lake City, Utah I picked up a lightweight long sleeved polyester shirt and dropped my wool sweater. It was the last thing I would drop.
By the time I reached the Pacific Ocean I was riding light. I had only my saddle bags, tent, sleeping bag, pants, long sleeve shirt, rain jacket, socks, underwear, bicycle supplies, two small notepads, toiletries, and water bottles. The sixty pounds I started with had dwindled to about fifteen. And I was absolutely content with everything on my bike, knowing that I could survive with just those few items. There was only one thing that I really missed.
The Buffalo Bison’s throwback cap was a birthday present from a close friend. I can still recall the moment I got it. It was a Friday night at a local baseball game. Between the third and fourth innings my friend told me to follow him, away from our seats and into the clubhouse store. For months I had carried on about how much I loved the hat--the sharp design, the classic style. We stood in front of the display. “Try one on,” he said. “Does it fit? Happy birthday. It’s yours.” It wasn’t even my birthday.
I often times wonder what became of the hat. Maybe it’s still hanging from the low branch of a pine tree on an island in “The Land Between the Lakes.” Or maybe it’s in a ditch off to the side of a lonely Kentucky road. I like to think that somebody found it, that they saw it and said, “Wow, this is a good looking hat.” I hope they picked it up and tried it on and it fit their head perfectly. I hope they wear it everywhere and every way. I hope they love the hat. The hat that I dropped.

The Truth about Sports (fiction)

Gary Eastman couldn’t believe his good fortune. Sure, he had always known he was a good golfer, but never—not in a million years—did he imagine that he would find himself among the world’s elite.  

            An accountant by trade, amateur golfer by weekend, when the PGA announced that their yearly championship would take place in his hometown, Gary jumped at the chance to qualify. So, over the course of four rainy days in March, Gary beat out every local player—even Tom Tillowitski, the Coast City Country Club’s “pro,”—shooting a remarkable nine under par and thus winning the single qualifying ticket for the Championship. To play among the best was an honor in itself, but now, after three days of play, Gary Eastman couldn’t believe that he was winning the tournament by two strokes.

            The sporting world couldn’t believe it either. Gary was suddenly thrown into the national spotlight—journalists wanted interviews, photographers wanted pictures, fans wanted autographs. So, on Sunday, just before the final round, when Gary was led to a secluded room on the third floor of the Country Club, he assumed that it was for another interview for another newspaper. He assumed wrong.

            “Hello Gary,” the man behind the mahogany desk said. “My name is Bob Costas.”

            “I know who you are, Mr. Costas. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gary said as he shook his hand and quickly eyeballed the two men who stood at attention behind the legendary broadcaster.

            “Oh, don’t pay any attention to them,” Bob said. “They’re only here for protocol. First thing first, congratulations. Hell of a round of golf you played yesterday, and Friday’s sixty-three, that will be remembered for a long time.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “One round left. How are you feeling this morning?”

            “A bit nervous.”

            “And that is to be expected. Are you aware of what the cash prize is for the winner of this tournament?”

            “Two million dollars.”

            “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Eastman, especially for someone who only makes sixty grand a year. Wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Yes, sir. As an accountant, I’m well aware of how much money two million dollars is.”

            “Well, then you are also aware that twenty million is a much larger sum.”

            “Excuse me, sir,” Gary said, somewhat confused. “I don’t follow.”

            “We are going to give you twenty million dollars to lose this tournament today.”

            “To lose! I don’t understand.”

            “Gary, what I’m about to tell you can never leave this room. Do you understand that?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “It’s fake. It’s all fake.”

            “Excuse me, sir?”

            “Sports—professional sports in particular—it’s all set up. We already know who’s going to win every major championship for the next decade. You didn’t think we were going to let a trillion-dollar-a-year industry be decided by chance, did you?”

            “But how is that possible?”

            “We have our ways. Why do you think certain penalties get called while others are ignored? Why do you think certain key players get injured at the least opportune times? Why do you think superstars suddenly have bad games? We control everything. The Lebron James and the Tiger Woods and the Mike Trouts of the world—they were developed in laboratories. We knew who they would become before they were even born. Everything is controlled. But, every once in a while, someone like you comes along to disrupt things, and, unfortunately, we just can’t afford to let that happen. If you were to win today, then every amateur in the world would suddenly believe that they had a shot at greatness. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

            “And what if I say, no?”

            “I don’t think you understand, Gary. There isn’t a choice here. You will take the twenty million and you will lose today. Thank you for understanding, and use the money to take care of that family of yours—that beautiful family of yours.”

            Gary Eastman left the office and found his way to the first hole, which he quickly bogied, but not on purpose. He went on to birdie eight of the next seventeen holes, winning the tournament by five strokes, and becoming the first amateur to ever win the PGA Championship. The local fans flooded the eighteenth green and prompted Gary up on their shoulders. Everyone was ecstatic—the entire crowd—except for two men who stared at Gary with piercing eyes. Gary, with a smile, stared right back. He couldn’t wait to see what happened next…

            

The Resolution (fiction)

            A new year. A new life? Barry believed it was possible. It’s not that his old life was terrible or anything. To the contrary, it was quite a success; depending on how one defined success. He had a nice job, which paid a nice salary. He had a nice apartment in a nice apartment building. He had a nice car. He had a nice boat. He had a nice 401k. But regardless of all these nice things, Barry did not feel that his life was very nice.

            Work. Barry’s life had consisted of work and not much else. For the past fifteen years he had traveled. He found himself in strange cities with strange names like Omaha and Albuquerque and Baton Rouge. And because of this life of travel, he seemed to age faster than most his age. Not yet forty and his hair grew completely grey and his waistline gained an inch with each passing year. Airport bars had become his home away from home. But it wasn’t his hair or his weight or even his drinking that really bothered him. Barry was lonely. He had neither a wife, nor a fiancée, or even a girlfriend for that matter. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he touched a woman.

            A resolution. Barry had never made one before. What was the point? Nobody ever kept them anyway. But this year was different. He had recently been promoted to sales manager, which meant no more travel. No more red-eye flights. No more fast food dinners. This year things would change. He dyed his hair. He bought a gym membership. He stopped drinking. He filled his apartment with inspirational sayings. This year Barry would find a woman to share his life with.

            A prospect. She hit the gym each morning at seven, spending most of her time on the treadmill. At first, her and Barry exchanged smiles. Then pleasantries. Then finally, after two weeks, Barry found the nerve to run next to her. They talked. They laughed. They enjoyed one another’s company. Perhaps she was the one. Everything seemed to be going Barry’s way. He was working less. He was losing weight. He was on the verge of asking out the beautiful woman from the gym. Until…

            Competition. The man was tall and handsome, and had what people called a “million-dollar smile.” And he was running on the treadmill next to her. Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? She was beautiful. What was Barry thinking? That he could possibly stand a chance with a woman like that? He suddenly felt old and fat and ugly. So he quickly exited out the front door and headed to the nearest fast food restaurant. After he gorged himself on all he could, he went into the office and asked for his old job back. After work, he went home, ripped up all of his inspirational sayings, and polished off a bottle. In the morning, hung-over, he shut off his alarm and went back to sleep. Perhaps he could start his new life next year.

            The resolution. Carol ran on the treadmill next to the handsome man. “So,” the man asked, “where is this guy you’ve been telling me about?”

            “I don’t know what happened,” Carol said. “He used to come every morning. I really wanted you to meet him. I really thought he might be the one.”

            “Don’t sweat it little sis’,” the man replied. “The year just started. You still have plenty of time to fulfill your resolution.”