Free Takedown by Matt Christopher Page A

can’t wait
     till we get on the mat together. I’ll show you some holds that’ll make you wish you took up Ping-Pong instead of wrestling.”
    I matched his cold stare. “I can’t wait, either,” I said.
    “Max! You’re a jerk, you know that?” Gail said irritably. “You don’t care
what
you say! You don’t care about anyone else’s feelings! I think you’re… despicable!” Her small fists were clenched. She was
     furious enough to belt him.
    So was I. But her reaction didn’t exactly please me, either.
    It seemed like
everybody
was trying to fight my battles for me. And I didn’t like it one bit.

12
    When we got home the front door was locked. But there was a light on in the living room, so we were sure Dad was there.
    Mom knocked and he opened the door for us. He was in shirtsleeves and wearing his reading glasses.
    “Well,” he said, studying us, “from your pleased expressions I don’t need to ask you who won. But to make sure, I will, anyway.
     Who won?”
    “Sean did, of course,” Mom said elatedly, removing her coat and handing it over to him. “You missed a good match, Troy. It
     was nip and tuck most of the time.”
    “Mostly nip,” Carl chipped in.
    “Sorry,” Dad said, shaking his head. “I guess I’m a poor fan. But you know how I feel about wrestling. It just doesn’t…” He
     shrugged, searching for a reason.
    “That’s okay, Dad,” I said. “A lot of guys don’t care for wrestling. Our principal, Mr. McClure, doesn’t. He’s never been
     to a wrestling meet. But he admits it’s a good sport. Good, clean exercise, he calls it.”
    “That I can admit, too,” Dad said, nodding.
    Just the same, I wished Dad had been at the meet. I was proud of the win. It was a nip and tucker, all right. It would’ve
     been nice to have seen him up there in the stands cheering for me.
    But maybe his not being my natural father had something to do with it. If he were, he probably would’ve been there, whether
     he cared for wrestling or not. A lot of other fathers came, and I bet they weren’t all wrestling nuts, either. They came because
     their sons were there, giving it their best, putting every bit of their heart in it, in a one-on-one competition.
    Then I thought of Clint Wagner, of the pleased, proud expression on his face after my match with Lucas was over. Only a father
     could look that way.
Oh, Clint! Please tell me you’re my father! Please!
    The next evening — Friday — after I returned home from wrestling practice, I waited for a call from Clint. I was hoping he’d
     ask me to go fishing with him again. Maybe this time I’d finally break the ice. Maybe I’d have the nerve to ask him:
Clint, are you my father?
    But eight o’clock came and he didn’t call. And then eight-thirty, and nine o’clock rolled by, and he still didn’t call.
    I was disappointed. Well, maybe he had a commitment. Or maybe a date.
Would he still date women at his age?
Maybe. There were a lot of
maybes
when it came to Clint.
    Thinking about Clint kept me awake half of the night. I could call him in the morning, I thought. Or I could ride over to
     his place. I didn’t know where he lived, but I could find out by looking it up in the phone book. Momwouldn’t have to know about it — she’d think I was pestering him. But what was so terrible about visiting a friend, anyway?
    After breakfast the next morning I checked out Clint’s address in the phone directory and rode over there on my bike. Mom
     was busy vacuuming the rugs, so she wouldn’t even miss me.
    When I rode up toward the apartment building where he lived, I saw a small U-Haul truck parked in front of the main entrance,
     its tailgate down.
    I pulled up beside it, letting the engine of the bike idle, and wondered if somebody was moving in or out. I didn’t have long
     to wonder.
    Within five seconds the entrance door swung open and a guy wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball hat came out, carrying
     a large cardboard