~ Back It or Pack It ~

~ Back It or Pack It ~

I’m Jim. Home after a long day at work, I find my wife in her sitting room seriously putting on makeup. I kiss her on the neck. “You’re getting gussied up. We going out?”

“Among other things.” Then she looks at me, annoyed. “Of course we are. Have you forgotten today is our 35th wedding anniversary?”

“No, Baby. But it’s Wednesday. I figured we would celebrate this weekend.”

“Oh don’t worry, we will. But tonight we’re going to dinner at Schlesingers Steakhouse. Get changed.”

“Okay. I’m just going to check on the results from today. I’ll be right back.”

“You and your wrestling obsession. All it ever gave you was a bum knee.”

As I walk to my home office I add, “Don’t forget about the dislocated elbow and cracked sternum.” Scanning the shelves full of wrestling trophies from High School and College is like walking into a room full of my oldest and dearest friends. She will never understand it. I pull up the NCAA tournament results. She’s right about the bum knee. It’s aching. Must be rain coming. She’s also right about forgetting the anniversary, because I was focused on another anniversary. I go into pictures and lovingly study the yearbook group team photo from my senior year. That wrestling season was epic. 40 years and I remember it like it just happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

The clinic we called it. The wrestling room of a rival High School, open every Sunday night from 6 till 10 to anyone. Grown ex-wrestlers, referees, coaches. It would be teeming with young locals in the offseason wanting to stay in shape or pick up some new moves. But we were approaching the end of the regular wrestling season when only the most devoted like me, showed up. I wanted to be a champion. I wanted to be on the Olympic team someday. I wanted to beat that monster, that son-of-a-bitch Lonnie Bryson. He trounced me in the regional finals last year. So I went to wrestling camps, lifted weights, and came here every week trying to learn anything and everything I could.

I was stretching when the Daily Press sports writer, Mr. T came over. Shit! We called him Turtle-man. Hence Mr. T. Most tried to avoid wrestling him. He always smelled mentholated, like Vick’s Vapor rub and his shoulders were weird, you couldn’t get both down at the same time. There were slim pickens that night so I wrestled him. As usual, I took him down quickly and spent a while trying to pin those crazy rounded shoulders until he was exhausted. Breathing heavily, he told me about his predictions for the upcoming tournaments. “This year, I’ve seeded Lonnie first again and you second, Jim.”

“What? Why?” That would break my Dad’s heart. He still had not gotten over the whipping I took from Lonnie at the regionals. It was my one truest desire to beat him, publicly, soundly. And I knew I could do it now. Mr. T didn’t know we were wrestling Lonnie’s team that coming Saturday. Our last regular season dual meet and a probable preview of our championship tournament battle. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I pretended to listen to him while searching for another partner. There. Jake Nethersal. I knew of him. Two time NCAA champ and since enlisting, the number one wrestler in the United States Army. He threw his guy with a move I had never seen. He was leaving. I cut off Mr. T and ran over. “Mr. Nethersal, I’m a big fan. My name is Jim Archer.”

“I know you. I follow all the locals. I saw you wrestle for the regional title last year.”

“Yeah. Second place hurt. He’s was too strong for me then.”

“Yeah. I’ve been watching you here though. You’re a different wrestler now. He’s not at your level anymore. You’ll take him this year, no sweat.”

“I think so too. What was that throw? I’ve never seen it before.”

“I call it a Japanese whizzer. I counter the lateral drop with it. Here I’ll show you.” He explained while going through the motions. “When he under hooks and comes forward, whizzer over his arm, hand to the chest, grab your own wrist and, this is key. Don’t pull. Step back, under and through.” He flipped Jim to the mat.

“That’s amazing.”

“Well I call it a back it or pack it move. If it works, he’s going to his back and you end up with a keylock, he’s pinned. But if any little thing is off, pack your shit and go home, cuz he will crush you. You try it.” After a few failed attempts, I was frustrated. “Look Jim, you’re going to the chest too soon. When you feel the under hook lock, it has to all come together at once. Just keep practicing. You’ll get it. I have to go but we’ll work on it next week.”

**********

The next day at wrestling practice, I weighed in 3 pounds over my weight limit. Coach Lafrese was really pissed but I wasn’t worried. It was Monday. I had till Saturday morning to work it off. We were doing takedown drills when I noticed Cynthia Williams was watching us practice. She was one of the hottest girls in school and only dated the big time jocks. Holy shit! She looked at me smiling and waved. Then it happened. We went down hard in one of those weird positions and something popped. I screamed and went over holding my knee. I spent three hours at the emergency room. The next morning Mom had to go to work so Daddy took me to the office of Dr. Mullins, Orthopedic Surgeon. My coach showed up too. The doctor was no-bones about it. Both meniscus torn and a patella fracture in the left knee. It required surgery, right away. No wrestling after the operation for at least 6 months. WHAT! Daddy was shattered. He had arranged for Va. Tech to come watch me in the tournaments. Coach Lafrese wailed about losing the team score because Lonnie would pin Casey, my backup. I could just see Lonnie Bryson now, sneering at me in the stands, Ref holding his arm up, the winner. I had to wrestle. Especially if the district, regional and state championships were out. This match was my last and only chance at salvation. No. This just would not work. But I had an idea. I asked the Doctor for a moment alone with my guys. I explained my idea to Daddy and Coach. “Set the operation for after the big match. Then I can still wrestle on Saturday.”

Coach was adamant. “No way. What if you mess it up worse?”

“I won’t. I’ll stay off of it. No practice. It’s not that bad. Look.” I straightened the knee and had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. But there was a solution for that problem too.

Daddy seemed more open. “You really think you could still beat Lonnie Bryson in this condition?”

“Hell yes. Piece-of-cake.”

“Wait. Wait.” Coach interrupted. “Your 3 pounds over. How will you make weight if you can’t work out?”

“I won’t eat or drink anything this week. That should do it. But even if I’m still over on Saturday morning, I’ll take it off in the whirlpool.”

Daddy fought that. “You can’t just not eat or drink all week.”

“Come on Guys. It’s only four days. Three and a half really. I only have to wrestle for 6 minutes. Less if I pin the bastard. We win the team title and I prove who the real champ is. Then I get the surgery and life goes on.” It only took a few more minutes to convince them. We all agreed not to tell Mom the plan until we absolutely had to. She would be furious but that couldn’t be helped. The Doctor wasn’t too happy either but he did give me a prescription for a beast of a knee brace to wear during the match. So the plan was set. Beat Lonnie on Saturday, get the surgery on Monday.

**********

It was Friday afternoon. I had just bought a codeine pill from Sleepy Thomas, the local pot dealer. He told me to take it 1 hour before the match.

Next to wrestling, Acapella class was my favorite thing in life. Our annual school Spring Concert was scheduled for the next week. I wouldn’t make it for the show, but I was also the stage manager. It was quite the production. Four scenes all staged for different themes. They needed me to get it ready. Thanks to Coach Lafrese writing me a note, I was free from my other classes and spent every day working on the sets with one crutch. That was the only reason the week had been tolerable. Not eating or drinking all week was hard, especially being so thirsty. And still 2 pounds were hanging in there. On the suggestion of our assistant Coach, I spent all day chewing gum and spitting the constant flow of saliva into a cup until I finally ran out of spit. Totally grossed out my sister. That’s when I discovered that one coffee mug of spit weighed a quarter pound. Cynthia Williams had been totally ignoring me walking around holding hands with Bennie Epersen, big shot pitcher on the baseball team. Oh well. I guess the injury took me out of the top jock position. And real trouble. My English teacher Mrs. Granger, spotted me building the lifeguard chair for the Concert when she was leaving the teacher’s lounge. She was a hard ass anyway. Her class was so difficult that anyone who did better than a C was called one of Granger’s Rangers. She went ballistic. My Acapella teacher Hattie, tried to defend me explaining that I was legally excused from class and we were just days from the end of the semester anyway. But Granger railed about me already having way too many absences and how these absences were not legal since I was here on school grounds working on the Concert. She told Hattie she was in trouble too and promised to fail me in English and keep me from graduating. Hattie was shocked to learn that I had missed 18 of Granger’s classes that semester since I always showed up to Acapella and Male Chorus, and asked me for an explanation. I had no viable response. She thought it best for all concerned that I leave. I went home in a funk. I still had to tell Mom that I was wrestling tomorrow.

**********

It was 10:30 am. Having just spent an hour in the whirlpool with it pointed at my chest set at 110 degrees, I stepped on the scales in the wrestling locker room. Thank the Lord. I made it at last. 155 pounds on the nose. I sat on the wooden bench slumped over, alone. The match wasn’t until 2:00. Even the coach wasn’t there yet. Had to ring the bell and Gomer, the janitor let me in. I was whipped. Physically exhausted like I was weighted down, mentally in a fog. So dehydrated that my dry mouth was almost painful, my lips were chapped and sore and my hands were so slick I could hardly hold the sharpie to write my weight on the board. I lay back on the hard bench and dozed off.

I awoke as my teammates filtered in. All the fellas were patting my back, encouraging, supportive. But I was in a daze. Coach squatted in front of me shaking his head while checking the swollen knee, all purple and black. “This is crazy,” he mumbled. Then called everyone to the big locker room for the official weigh-in.

I made weight of course. There was Lonnie Bryson. He came over and studied my knee. “I heard about your injury. You know I’ll go after it.” His eyes softened. “You don’t have to do this Jim.”

“Yeah. I do,” Was all I said. Maybe he wasn’t a monster after all.

I opened a thermos of milk and took my codeine pill. Since we had already weighed in, I drank the rest of the of milk and suddenly felt nauseated. I gave my brown bag of a sandwich and carrot sticks to Ricky, the heavyweight. I wasn’t hungry. Then I slowly, methodically prepared my knee for battle. First a layer of athletic tape. Then the beast knee brace courtesy of Doctor Mullins. Tight elastic with binding straps top and bottom and hinged metal braces on each side for stability. Then I put on my singlet. Over that I pulled up my knee pad. A little more tape to keep it from sliding and it was ready. The left knee looked huge. Like a hump on a camel.

To wild applause from the auditorium, the team jogged out to our side of the mat. I trudged out behind them trying to disguise my limp as best I could. Mom got crazy mad at me and Daddy when I told her I was wrestling. She said she wasn’t coming but there she was in the stands with my Dad. Thank God. And was I hallucinating or was that Hattie, Mrs. Granger and Dr. Mullins sitting with them?

When my turn arrived, the team score was pretty much going as expected. Our last three wrestlers were definitely going to lose. For our team to win, I had to win my match. Coach said, “This is it, Jimbo,” And slapped my ass. The Ref called us out to the circle. He held up his arm, told us to keep it clean, dropped his arm, called out, “WRESTLE!”

We locked up immediately. He was strong, but not like I remembered. The codeine was doing its job. Pain wasn’t a factor. But my knee wasn’t working right either and my reactions were sluggish. My best moves on my feet, drags and duckunders, were out of commission. I couldn’t shoot in either. Fine let him make the move. He shot in for my legs. I was too slow on the sprawl and he took me to my back. I saw the Ref counting off for the pin. No fucking way! Wake up boy! I arched up into a high bridge on my head and toes and flipped him over. The buzzer sounded and I looked up at the score. 5 to 2. That wasn’t good. I asked the Ref, “No back points?” He brushed me off.

Lonnie won the coin toss and I started period 2 on my knees, him on top. True to his word, he went straight for the knee. Now it hurt. He rode the knee like a cowboy, but with 15 seconds left in the period, I somehow got to my feet. I was tired and weak now and couldn’t pull his locked hands apart. He was pushing me out of bounds. I thought of a rather devious trick I heard about from an old Coach at a William and Mary wrestling clinic. Locked hands was legal on your feet but not on the mat. I pushed Lonnie’s wrists together and dropped to my right knee. The Ref held up a 1 point penalty. Lonnie tried pull apart and I threw his arms out and turned. The buzzer sounded. Locked hands and an escape. 1 point each. 5 to 4.

I was on top for period 3. All I had to do was get him on his back one time. Leg riding was my specialty. I snaked my right leg into his and he was my bitch. I could ride him all day, but I had to turn him. Suddenly I was dizzy. I lost my bearings, lost my grip. What was happening. We were up facing each other. He had escaped. How! When! Jesus Christ! He was ahead 6 to 4. The Ref said, “10 seconds left, let’s WRESTLE.”

I was in a tailspin. My left knee had gone out completely, I was seeing four Lonnie’s spinning around. I felt him sink an underhook. Somewhere in the back of my mind Jake Nethersal’s voice was telling me. Go for the whizzer, hand to the chest, grab your wrist, step back and under. Then I blacked out.

I woke up in a hospital bed. Mom and Dad at my side. Dr. Mullins was checking my knee. “You gave us quite a scare Jim. I think we’ll reschedule the surgery. We need to rehydrate you and get your electrolytes back to normal.”

Mom kissed my cheek and said, “That’s from Hattie.”

Then she hugged me as I asked, “What happened?”

Daddy was beaming. “You don’t remember? You won, son! Beat him 8 to 6 with that crazy flipping move just before the buzzer went off.”

I won. Wow! Jake was getting a Christmas present.

Mom gave me a note. “This is from Mrs. Granger, your English teacher.” It read, Write me an essay on wrestling and I’ll reconsider you graduating. Nice match.

And there at the door. Cynthia Williams, smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

I hear from the bedroom. “Jimmy. Come on and change clothes. I have a surprise for you.”

I turn off the computer thinking about Cynthia. She and I had one bad date, but there was a silver lining. I met her next door neighbor Debbie Patrick and asked her out. How did that go you ask? She’s taking me out for dinner on our 35th wedding anniversary tonight.

In the bedroom I take off my clothes when Debbie steps out of her sitting room in a skimpy, sexy outfit. She still has it. “You look super-hot Debs.”

She juts out her hip, leans against the door jamb and says dreamily, “I thought you might like to wrestle.”

I flop back on the bed, arms flat and say, “Back it or Pack it Baby.”

***********