Free Wrestling Sturbridge by Rich Wallace

stairs and shut my door. I take off every piece of clothing and get under my covers, and call back the feel of her muscle, the soft smell of cotton, and the tip of her ear against my mouth.
    I’m shivering.

Things we hate in this town:
    summer people from New York
    disrespectful teenagers
    anti-hunters
    Things we hold dear to our hearts:
    American brotherhood
    family values
    fashionable haircuts

CHAPTER 11
    The guy I had tonight was slow and soft; maybe a 125er with ten pounds of fat. I pinned him in forty-eight seconds. We won ten of the thirteen matches by pin, and the other three by decision. Sturbridge 69, West Pocono 0.
    I sit in front of my locker for a long time, letting the music and the towel snapping and the yelling go on around me. I’m up to 3–0, but it’s hard to stay sharp when you’re only competing every other week. Plus, if the other team has anybody good at 135 or 140, then Al and Hatcher stay put. I only get out there against stiffs.
    I wrestled off with Al two days ago, and he beat me 10–3. I fell behind early and lost my drive, but the difference between us isn’t as great as people think. I’m even starting to think I could take him.
    But this season is slipping away. If I’m lucky, I’ll get three more dual meets, and that will be it. A career that never was, unless I can get past Al.
    Digit’s already dressed; I haven’t even showered yet. “You coming?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” I say, and start taking off my uniform. “Yeah.”
    We’re headed for McDonald’s—everybody who can afford to gain a pound or two—to celebrate our new ranking.
USA Today
has us up to eighth nationally, with no other Pennsylvania schools in the top ten.
Keystone Wrestling News
will be out in three days, and we expect to be number one in the state.
    I shower in a hurry, and find Hatcher and Digit and Al waiting in Al’s car in the parking lot. I wasn’t sure they’d still be around; our foursome seems to be slowly dissolving.
    I’ve spent so many nights with these guys in the past six years that I could tell you everything they dream about, every girl they’ve ever been interested in, every time their fathers smacked them around. But I’m not sure we even know each other this season. I’m not sure I even know myself.
    Ever since junior high school we’ve talked about winning it all. Not just as a team, but as individuals, taking the state. Every time we’d lift weights we’d be pushing each other, busting on each other and making us work.
    Or we’d stand on Main Street in the evening, watching the traffic, always with wrestling on the edge of our consciousness no matter what was going on. Being on top was a fantasy, but we were working our way into it, one workout at a time.
    Even last year, when these three guys were solidly on the varsity, I still was a part of it. But now I’m like a leper, watching from the outside.
    “Hey, man, we’re number one,” Hatcher says as I get into the car.
    “Looks that way,” I say.
    “I was pretty worried tonight, though,” Al says, not at all serious. “Especially after Coach gave that pep talk.”
    Coach had warned us about getting big heads, aboutletting down because the other team was winless. We know better than that.
    “We should have lost,” Digit says with a laugh. “Let the town go home crying for once.”
    Al giggles. “We should do that. Next week against Wharton.”
    “Get out,” Hatcher says. “No way.”
    “Not lose the whole match,” Digit says. “Just scare ’em. The three of us will get pinned. We’ll still win the match.”
    “Coach would shit in his pants,” Al says. He laughs. “But screw him. I’d do it if there wasn’t so much at stake.”
    “Number one ranking,” Hatcher says.
    “Top ten nationally,” Digit offers.
    “Immortality for the rest of our lives,” Al says. “And executive positions at the cinder block factory.”
    “Can’t wait for that,” Digit says.
    We pull into the McDonald’s lot, and it