Free Wrestling Sturbridge by Rich Wallace Page A

seems almost like old times. We used to bust on our town every chance we got—the cops who’ve got nothing better to do than clear us off the street corners; the men who labor every weekday at the plant and cap the workday at the bars, with us—a group of sweaty kids in leotards—providing their only source of pride; the ex-wrestlers who get fat and never grow up; the oppression of the churches and the schools and the parents.
    For tonight we’re not part of that—we can stand back and laugh at it. But there’s that feeling we all share, a feeling we don’t quite give voice to. A feeling that grows stronger every day.
    We won’t be high school wrestlers much longer. I guess we’d better enjoy it.
    Sunday morning. Mom and Dad and me and Grandma slide into a pew about three-quarters of the way back, behind two old ladies in blue coats and the Stockman family: Five well-mannered blond kids, all younger than ten, and a mom and a dad who smile too much. This week’s message—I can’t wait—is entitled “Our Wayward Youth.”
    There’s a blurb on the back of the bulletin labeled “The Philadelphia Story.” It tells how the youth group (“decidedly
not
wayward”) is planning a three-day “ministry” in Philadelphia during Easter week, under the leadership of Youth Pastor Paul Long. I see that I’m listed as one of seventeen active members of the youth group, each of whom “has a solid relationship with Jesus Christ. Praise the Lord!”
    Now, I know at least half of us are far from being active, but Grandma nudges me and points to my name, beaming. She should know better than that. I just look away. The service hasn’t started yet. I look back and see the Reverend in the hallway, just about ready to glide into the sanctuary, so I shove the bulletin into my pocket.
    I hurry to my feet as the organist starts the prelude, and I walk out past Fletcher and Long. Fletcher notices me and seems to flinch, a defensive reflex, no doubt. They can think I’m on my way to the bathroom, but I’m leaving for real.
    Just a lost, wayward youth checking out.
    I will never, ever return. Not in a million, trillion years. Praise the Lord, I’m finished .
    On Wisconsin .
    We’ve only just begun .
    I am out of here .
    ORDER OF WORSHIP
    9:15 A.M., January 22
    ORGAN PRELUDE
    CALL TO WORSHIP
    PASTOR: Let us place ourselves in His presence.
    RESPONSE: Let us be at peace.
    PASTOR: Let us halt the churning of our desires.
    RESPONSE: Let us empty all our cares.
    PASTOR: When we stop our internal fighting, then the healing will begin.

CHAPTER 12
    Kim’s taking me out tonight—she asked and she paid. She picked me up in her mom’s car after practice and we ate at McDonald’s. Now she wants to play pool over at The Fun Zone.
    It’s never crowded in here this early in the evening—just some little kids with their parents burning off dinner at Skee-Ball or video games. We get a table and rack up the balls, and I break but don’t sink anything. Kim walks completely around the table twice, looking for a shot, and I hold my cue kind of perpendicular to the floor and lean on it. You get to see girls from interesting angles when they’re lining up a pool shot, and Kim is among the most interesting I’ve seen. She’s got on a soft black polo shirt, slightly oversized, with PASSAIC TRACK stitched in red on the left chest.
    She finally shoots, easing the three ball into a side pocket from a pretty tough line. She’s got her tongue between her teeth as she lowers her head to table level, searching for her next shot. Then she comes to my side and stretches out across the table, and I’m starting to get some ideas that have nothing to do with pool.
    She misses, and I chalk up my cue and make a real solid stroke that sends about ten of the balls flying but doesn’t sink any.
    Kim squeezes past me and she smells sweet. “Scuse me,” she says. I’ve got my eyes fixed on her, but I guess they stray because I look up and notice the