Free Athletic Shorts by Chris Crutcher Page A

their match Chris and Petey slip away to their respective locker rooms. The buzz of anticipation fills the gymnasium, and opposing chants break out. “Petey! Petey! Petey!” is answered with “Byers! Byers! Byers!” and as the PA announcer calls them to the center of the mat, both explode from the locker room—instantly stunning the crowd to silence. Petey streaks across the gym floor in his bare feet, a thick imitation tiger skin strapped over one shoulder and a four-foot Fred Flintstone Nerf club in one hand. He bellows, “Bigfoot want woman!” as he steps onto the mat.
    Opposite him, decked out in a skintight leopard-skin-pattern leotard, Chris Byers slinks across the gym floor. She is Daisy Mae to Petey’s primitive Abner. Her long lashes drop, and she turns to the crowd, waving seductively. In the bleachers Petey’s grandfather slapshis knee and nods so hard his glasses nearly fall off his nose. The crowd begins to get it, and while the officials and coaches sit stunned, they resume their respective chants. Coach regains his composure first, steps onto the mat, and clamps down on Petey’s shoulder. “What the hell are you doing, Shropshrire?”
    “Bigfoot bring woman down,” Petey growls.
    “You get back into that locker and into your gear,” Coach says. “I’ll try to keep from having to forfeit. Move it.”
    “Come on, Coach,” Petey whispers. “It’s just a way to get rid of the tension for all the hype. It’s good for both of us. Just let us wrestle.”
    Coach thinks a moment, glancing across the mat to Silver Creek’s coach for guidance. The Silver Creek coach shrugs why not? “The foolin’ around better be over, boy,” he says into Petey’s ear. “You win this one or we lose the match. Got it?”
    “Got it,” Petey says. “Just like the big boys.”
    Petey drops the club off the edge of the mat and meets Chris Byers at the center, where they lock up hand to elbow in the traditional starting position. The roar from the crowd deafens them, and they barely hear the referee’s whistle, but when they do, each appears to work for the advantage. Her mouth close to Petey’s ear,Chris whispers, “One, two, three,” and steps back, clutching his forearm with both hands while turning away, and flips him. Petey performs a full airborne somersault, landing flat on his back, roaring like an injured animal. Chris holds her grip on his forearm, stomping the mat fractions of an inch from his head. Petey slaps his palm against the mat in the best Hulk Hogan tradition and bounces on his back as if his head is being kicked. The crowd rises to new decibel heights.
    Brent Edwards, the referee, runs the local department store in Coho. His store sports the most complete novelty section anywhere in the state. Brent Edwards loves a good joke. Chris and Petey couldn’t have counted on this; both expected to be stopped after their first wild antics, but Brent slides into his role as if he works after midnights on weekends for Turner Broadcasting. With the dramatic flair of a man aced out for the lead villain in his senior class play, he pushes Chris back to the edge of the mat and kneels beside the fallen Petey, lifting, then shaking him. Petey falls back to the mat as if deceased. “I hope you’re ready to face Coach,” Brent whispers. “I wrestled for him. You’ll run bleachers for this.”
    Petey smiles. “I’m ready.”
    Brent smiles back. “You’re in love .”
    A hand grips the referee’s shoulders, and he’s pulled back on his butt, as Chris steps back and leaps, executing a perfect knee drop, followed by a patented Gorgeous George Eye Gouge. A guttural roar escapes Petey’s lips, and he stumbles to his feet, pawing at his eyes as if that will return his sight, then falls again to his knees, groping toward the edge of the mat where the club lies. Meanwhile, Chris Byers circles the mat, arms extended above her head, welcoming her beloved fans to the world of real wrestling.