stories. They said all kinds of confusing things; gays had bigger brains, lesbians got cancer more often, then all that Christian stuff, the Pope not being much better, calling homosexuality an “intrinsic evil.” He reminded himself to look up that word.
When summers came, he saw stories about the parades, with rainbow everything, like the DNA model in Coach Cleshun’s classroom, balloon links, floating skyward, hopeful and stupid.
One thing didn’t confuse him; the number, one in ten. That meant there was somebody else like him in the gym, at that moment, another Joseph Nicci on every team, with another Dink, Bennie, everybody. He just couldn’t see which one. Why couldn’t it be like Ash Wednesday when all the Catholic kids had smudges on their foreheads, like a club?
A voice over the loudspeakers: “All one-twenty-six, Cadet, please report.”
“What’s the plan, Mister Nicci?” Cleshun asked, rubbing Joey’s arms.
“I’m gonna try a single into a takedown.”
“Try?” Cleshun switched to Yoda voice. His hands patted Joey’s back. “There is no try. There is do or not do.”
“Right,” Joey smirked.
Coach slapped his ass.
Joey’s eyes got distracted by Pauly’s little tattoo, or maybe his equally cartoon-like grin as he stood out on the mat, waiting.
Paul E. Coyote crouched, arms in the perfect stance. His yellow singlet with black stripes displayed his angles and bulges to perfection. He wore kneepads, which could have meant an injury, but Joey wouldn’t take advantage of that. The moment after the whistle, Pauly dove between Joey’s legs, grabbed his thigh. Joey went down.
Not a good sign, he thought. He struggled through a difficult escape, grabbed around to catch Pauly’s arm as the two locked shoulders, fighting for top position. They ended up hip to hip, Pauly sitting almost on top of Joey, trying to get Joey over, but he resisted. They’d both become stronger since their bout the previous year. They kept surprising each other.
Joey tugged his way to his stomach, he the turtle this time, took a breather while Pauly attempted to pry him over. His shoulders? Erg. His head? No. His hips? No. He released Joey just long enough for him to scoot out from under him to standing.
Flubbing a half-assed fireman’s throw, which should have landed Pauly on his shoulders, Joey scrambled to get his hips over, or his arm around Pauly’s neck. He at least got Pauly down, got his turn on top. It felt good to be there, just consider his options, the hours of the clock, but Coach Cleshun yelled alongside Fiasole. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, until Fiasole bumped his hips up against Cleshun, showing him. He caught an image outside the circle: Assistant Coach Fiasole’s T-shirt: ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN COACHES.
Behind him he heard Bennie yelling, “Getcher leg out!”
Joey crossed his legs, spreading them out wide for support, his hip becoming the third point of his tripod as he shoved into Pauly’s ribs. Keeping his grip on Pauly’s shoulders, he shoved again, slowly, methodically. Pauly resisted, grabbing Joey’s neck. Joey wrapped his forearm around Pauly and yanked, desperately. He almost got him, but Pauly hip-heisted, forcing Joey’s head down, closer to his shoulder, to that funny tattoo, the sharp smell of his armpit.
The whistle blew. End of period.
The two boys rose. Joey retreated toward his coaches, sucking in breath. Fiasole gritted his teeth, showed a hand lock, what Joey had tried to do. Coach Cleshun said, “Keep yer butt down. Watch his hips.”
Joey grabbed the back of his thigh, which began to throb from some shove or strain. When did that happen, he wondered. He didn’t have time to think about that. Choose: which position? He signaled neutral, forgetting to check what Cleshun was signaling, glanced back once, didn’t see any look of disapproval.
They faced off again, but this time Joey went for the double leg. Pauly jumped back. Joey only
When summers came, he saw stories about the parades, with rainbow everything, like the DNA model in Coach Cleshun’s classroom, balloon links, floating skyward, hopeful and stupid.
One thing didn’t confuse him; the number, one in ten. That meant there was somebody else like him in the gym, at that moment, another Joseph Nicci on every team, with another Dink, Bennie, everybody. He just couldn’t see which one. Why couldn’t it be like Ash Wednesday when all the Catholic kids had smudges on their foreheads, like a club?
A voice over the loudspeakers: “All one-twenty-six, Cadet, please report.”
“What’s the plan, Mister Nicci?” Cleshun asked, rubbing Joey’s arms.
“I’m gonna try a single into a takedown.”
“Try?” Cleshun switched to Yoda voice. His hands patted Joey’s back. “There is no try. There is do or not do.”
“Right,” Joey smirked.
Coach slapped his ass.
Joey’s eyes got distracted by Pauly’s little tattoo, or maybe his equally cartoon-like grin as he stood out on the mat, waiting.
Paul E. Coyote crouched, arms in the perfect stance. His yellow singlet with black stripes displayed his angles and bulges to perfection. He wore kneepads, which could have meant an injury, but Joey wouldn’t take advantage of that. The moment after the whistle, Pauly dove between Joey’s legs, grabbed his thigh. Joey went down.
Not a good sign, he thought. He struggled through a difficult escape, grabbed around to catch Pauly’s arm as the two locked shoulders, fighting for top position. They ended up hip to hip, Pauly sitting almost on top of Joey, trying to get Joey over, but he resisted. They’d both become stronger since their bout the previous year. They kept surprising each other.
Joey tugged his way to his stomach, he the turtle this time, took a breather while Pauly attempted to pry him over. His shoulders? Erg. His head? No. His hips? No. He released Joey just long enough for him to scoot out from under him to standing.
Flubbing a half-assed fireman’s throw, which should have landed Pauly on his shoulders, Joey scrambled to get his hips over, or his arm around Pauly’s neck. He at least got Pauly down, got his turn on top. It felt good to be there, just consider his options, the hours of the clock, but Coach Cleshun yelled alongside Fiasole. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, until Fiasole bumped his hips up against Cleshun, showing him. He caught an image outside the circle: Assistant Coach Fiasole’s T-shirt: ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN COACHES.
Behind him he heard Bennie yelling, “Getcher leg out!”
Joey crossed his legs, spreading them out wide for support, his hip becoming the third point of his tripod as he shoved into Pauly’s ribs. Keeping his grip on Pauly’s shoulders, he shoved again, slowly, methodically. Pauly resisted, grabbing Joey’s neck. Joey wrapped his forearm around Pauly and yanked, desperately. He almost got him, but Pauly hip-heisted, forcing Joey’s head down, closer to his shoulder, to that funny tattoo, the sharp smell of his armpit.
The whistle blew. End of period.
The two boys rose. Joey retreated toward his coaches, sucking in breath. Fiasole gritted his teeth, showed a hand lock, what Joey had tried to do. Coach Cleshun said, “Keep yer butt down. Watch his hips.”
Joey grabbed the back of his thigh, which began to throb from some shove or strain. When did that happen, he wondered. He didn’t have time to think about that. Choose: which position? He signaled neutral, forgetting to check what Cleshun was signaling, glanced back once, didn’t see any look of disapproval.
They faced off again, but this time Joey went for the double leg. Pauly jumped back. Joey only
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