Chapter 3

The next morning came for Zach just a few short hours after he’d gone to bed. Except for the burn on his wrist and scratch on his forehead he looked and felt better than expected, even with very little sleep. His dogged avoidance of alcohol and smoke the night before had paid off, he realized with satisfaction as he prepared for practice.

The green army fatigue jacket he would normally wear was soiled with dirt and blood, so he pulled his mother’s down-filled jacket out of the closet and put it on before walking out the door. Its red color and puffy shape felt feminine to him but it was so cold outside that he didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, looking like he was wearing his mother’s coat was the least of his concerns that morning. He was more anxious than he had expected to be about the first day of practice.

The high school was about a mile away. Like he did every morning, Zach walked through the neighborhood of boxy World War II era brick houses towards the school. He’d left his gloves with his own coat, so he hooked the gym bag over his shoulder and jammed his hands into the soft pockets of the jacket. It was early enough that nobody was out except for a few stray cats looking for an easy meal and a warm space.

This was the first time in years that he’d actually cared about what happened during the season. His interest in the sport had been rekindled the previous winter when he’d surprised so many people by having some success. But it was more than just winning that brought him back. There was no greater feeling than when he stood alone against whoever walked out from the other side. The sensation was an incredible rush, maybe better than what he felt when he was on stage with the band. In all his years of wrestling he’d never felt it before, and once he’d experienced it he was hooked.

During the intervening months he’d trained hard, out of the eyes of his closest friends in the garage band world of South Jersey. While maintaining the image of a laid back rocker he secretly lifted weights and ran endlessly in the dark of night. By the time school resumed in early September he could run five miles in thirty minutes and was bench-pressing well over 200 pounds. There would be plenty of wrestlers in the room that morning that could beat those numbers, he knew. What made Zach proud was that none of them had smoked three packs of Marlboros for four years the way he had.

When he entered the locker room the familiar smell of mildew was oddly comforting. He immediately began to see familiar faces. Tim Betterton, wearing nothing but a jockstrap, was about to step on the scale. Betterton was a lightweight wrestler who had earned a starting position in the varsity lineup the previous season and was expected to do so again. Zach walked over and waited for him to finish making adjustments to the scale.

“Hi, Tim. How’s the weight?” Zach asked, trying to sound casual. He needed to find some friends on the team fast, and Tim was a good possibility. He had never shown any resentment about Zach’s lifestyle.

Betterton, who didn’t have his glasses on, squinted back without saying anything as he stepped off the scale. “Oh, Zach,” he finally said as he walked past. “You look so different. I didn’t know who you were.” Before Zach had a chance to answer Betterton had disappeared down an aisle of lockers. Zach quickly turned the other way and picked an empty locker in an empty row.

As he began stripping off his street clothes two more wrestlers he knew came in. Glen Elg and Reggie McKenzie, two middleweights, were joking loudly as they pushed past Zach. “Hey,” Zach said when they dropped their bags in front of nearby lockers.

“Hey,” Elg said, glancing over for less than a second. McKenzie didn’t bother to look over at all.

“What do you think practice will be like today?” Zach asked, trying to think of something to start some conversation. “Do you think we’ll wrestle live?”

“I doubt it,” Elg said.

Zach saw McKenzie shake his head from side to side without looking up from the shoes he was untying. “The coach likes to give everybody a few days to loosen up first,” he said.

“Dude, it’s me!” Zach said. “Zach. Zach Bowie.”

McKenzie looked up from his shoes. “Man!” McKenzie said. “I didn’t even see it was you. I thought you were some freshman.”

“I got a haircut,” Zach said. “How are you guys doing?”

“I need to check my weight,” McKenzie said. “I haven’t been near a scale since last March.”

“Me too,” Elg said. The two tore off another layer of clothing and walked over to the scale, and once again Zach was alone. It wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. Even Bob Mendez barely nodded as he walked past.

One person who did come over to talk with him in the locker room was Coach Rich Crisfield himself. “Zach, I’m glad you’re back this year,” he said. “Bob was right, you look like you’ve been working.”

“Yeah, Coach,” Zach said. “I’m in much better shape this year.”

“I can see that,” Crisfield said. “That was your biggest problem. You’ve got a good shot at making the varsity this year.”

“Hope so,” Zach said. “That’s my goal.”

“What are you, about 165 or 170?” Crisfield asked.

“I think I’m closer to 185,” Zach said. “At least.”

“Hmm,” Coach said. “You’re taller, I guess that’s it.” Zach guessed that he was already trying to arrange his wrestling lineup in his head.

“Zach, I came over to remind you that you haven’t turned in your physical exam form yet,” he continued. “I’m really not supposed to let you practice today.”

The physical examination form was something Zach had hoped wouldn’t come up. He hadn’t turned in the form because he hadn’t had an examination. Visits to the doctor didn’t happen in his household very often. Zach had chosen not to bring it up with his mom because it would only lead to a tirade about ‘crappy Shipley’s health insurance’ and ‘hundred dollar doctor visits.’ “I’ll bring it next time,” he told Crisfield.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Crisfield said. “We can let it slide.”

The wrestling room was exactly like it had always been first thing Saturday morning. It was cold and sterile, although that would change by the time practice was over. Wrestlers referred to the room as the “Fire House” because of how quickly it heated up. The faint smells of mold, sweat and the unnatural odor of the mats were barely perceptible because of the low temperature, but they were there.

“Hey Burnout! What are you doing here?”

Zach knew who was yelling at him as he laced up his wrestling shoes while sitting against the wall. It wasn’t the first time Mark Easton had called him that, or other similar names.

“Burnout,” Easton said again as he came closer. “I’m surprised you came back out this year.”

“Here I am,” Zach said.

“Got any weed in your locker?” Easton asked. “We’re bringing in the dogs after practice to search for drugs.” Easton pulled out a jump rope and began skipping rope. Zach could hear the woosh of the rope as it passed dangerously close to his face. The sound of it snapping against the mat echoed around the room.

“I haven’t smoked anything in months, Jerkoff,” Zach said.

Easton froze in mid jump. The rope landed with a final slap against the mat. “What did you call me?” he asked.

“Jerkoff,” Zach said. “You heard me.”

The two upper-weights who had been wrestling nearby suddenly stopped what they were doing and looked over. Nobody talked that way to Easton, especially not in the Fire House.

“You think you can walk into my room and talk to me like that?” Easton said. “You’re nothing but a wasted druggie. You’re a skinny nobody.”

“We’ll see when wrestle-offs start,” Zach said. “I’m going 171 this year.”

“You couldn’t beat me even if I was down to one lung, just like you are,” Easton said. “Don’t do it,” he warned. “I’ll make you look bad, Burnout.”

This was the same abuse that Easton had heaped on Zach for as long as he could remember. But Zach thought he’d seen Easton flinch. He slowly climbed to his feet without answering. Without warning he shot at Easton, grabbed both his legs and took him down hard with a sloppy double-leg takedown. Before he knew it, the team captain was on his back in a tight headlock. He flailed furiously trying to free himself. When he couldn’t, he balled his free hand into a fist and swung wildly, somehow managing to connect with Zach’s cheekbone.

The other wrestlers in the room had enjoyed the confrontation until it turned ugly. After the punch was thrown two of them jumped on Zach and struggled to pull him off. Easton landed another punch to Zach’s chin. When Zach being restrained Easton continued to throw punches at Zach’s face. By the time Zach had been dragged away his lower lip was oozing blood.

“You dirty son of a bitch!” Easton yelled as he scrambled to his feet. “Let him go! Right here, right now, Burnout!”

Coach Crisfield ran into the room and ended the standoff from the doorway with one word. “Enough!” he shouted. All heads turned and even Easton quieted down instantly. “What’s the matter with you guys?” Crisfield said as he crossed the mat. “We’re a team, remember? What happened?”

Zach touched his lip with a thumb found it was red with blood. His cheekbone hurt so he tested that with another finger. That one came up dry.

“Ask him, Coach,” Easton said as he pointed at Zach.

“He got what he deserved,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. Zach wasn’t sure who the anonymous commenter was referring to but he guessed it was himself. Easton was the team captain while Zach had no allies on the team.

Crisfield’s presence was enough to restore order, and practice began a few minutes later. After the incident practice was as uneventful as Reggie McKenzie had predicted it would be. They did some calisthenics, followed by strength training in the weight room, and then some basic wrestling drills. They finished up with a three-mile run. By the end Zach’s lungs were burning as they sucked in cold air but he managed to finish first. He locked eyes with Coach Crisfield as he crossed the finish line. Crisfield nodded silently after checking his stopwatch.

~~~

“How was practice?”

“Good, Mom,” Zach answered. “We didn’t do too much. I won the three-miler, though.”

“You’re kidding!” she said. “That’s fantastic! Was it good to be back?”

“Yeah. It was, Mom,” Zach said.

“Was the coach surprised to see you?” she asked.

“He didn’t act like it,” Zach said.

“I think that’s good. Don’t you?” she asked.

After nodding in agreement he walked into the bathroom. He was thankful that his mother had chosen not to mention the scratched forehead, swollen lip or bluish cheekbone that she couldn’t have helped noticing. When he knew she had left for work he returned to the kitchen and filled a baggie with ice cubes. For the next hour he laid on the floor on his back, moving the ice bag from wound to wound. It had been an exhausting day, preceded by a long night. Before long he was asleep. When he awoke, with a bag of warm water resting on his face, the room was nearly dark. He had slept all day.