his arms under my armpits, then he hooked his fingers over the top of my shoulders.“Keep your elbows as close as possible to your sides,” he said, explaining every move in detail as he went through it. “Then
apply pressure upward. See what happens?”
I saw what happened all right. I straightened up as much as I could to try to loosen myself from the hold and to catch my
balance. Instantly he let go of me and sprang at my trunk and hips. Before I knew it I was down on the floor.
He grinned as he looked down at me. “Get the picture?” he said, squeezing my arms gently.
I smiled. All the time we’d been wrestling I’d noticed tiny scars on his face. Could they have been caused by fights? A beer
bottle, maybe? Was it just a coincidence, I wondered, that both my natural father and Clint Wagner had been in the military?
Or was there more to it?
Are you my real dad?
I wanted to say. Instead I said, “Yeah, I get it.”
He repeated the moves, then had me take over his position. We must have spent forty-five minutes practicing. By then I was
tired and thirsty, and Clint was, too. He was breathingharder than I was, but then, he was almost three times my age.
“Time for juice. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
We showered and dressed, then went to a nearby coffee shop, where Clint bought us each a glass of orange juice.
I took my time sipping the juice, because I wanted to stay with Clint as long as possible. I wished I could go to his apartment
with him. Maybe then I’d have a chance to see pictures of him when he was young. If there was one of him when he was a kid,
and he looked like me, there’d be no doubt in my mind that he was my father. Thinking about that possibility sent shivers
up my spine.
But he didn’t invite me. I figured that he didn’t think it would be proper.
It was just as well. By the time we left the coffee shop it was getting close to four o’clock. Mom was probably wondering
what had happened to me.
“Thanks for everything, Mr. Wagner,” I said. “I sure appreciate your teaching me those holds.”
“My pleasure, Sean,” he said. “We’ll get together again sometime, okay?”
“That’ll be great,” I said.
“And, look,” he added as I headed for my bike, “practice those holds on your brother. Practice them on anybody, but practice
them.”
“I will,” I promised.
Riding homeward I wondered if I could really practice on Carl. The kind of wrestling we did at home seldom involved holds
I’d learned from Coach Doran or Coach Collins. It was rough and tumble. We used any kind of a hold that came to us at a particular
moment.
But that could change, couldn’t it? I thought. I could try a double leg, or a single leg, or a half nelson on him. He wouldn’t
have to know I was practicing a new hold.
I was home before I realized it. Carl’s bike was already in the garage.
I stripped off my gear and went inside. The first person I saw was Carl, chewing on a chocolate chip cookie.
“Where’ve
you
been?” he asked accusingly.
“At the school gym,” I replied.
“What for? More punishment?” He chuckled.
I shrugged. The quickest way to get into a verbal battle with him now would be to tell him the truth, that I’d gone there
to get rid of the anger
he
had caused. To avoid that I said, “Right. But Clint Wagner was there, along with some other guys, and he taught me a few
holds.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“You can find out easily enough if you care to wrestle with me,” I answered.
“Sure. Why not?” he said, and took another bite of his cookie. It seemed the air between us was clear again — for the time
being, anyway.
Just then Mom appeared at the threshold separating the dining room and kitchen. She scowled at me.
“I’m not exactly pleased about your going out this afternoon, after what happened this morning,” she said tersely. “Especially
to see Clint Wagner again. I don’t think he’s a very good influence on
apply pressure upward. See what happens?”
I saw what happened all right. I straightened up as much as I could to try to loosen myself from the hold and to catch my
balance. Instantly he let go of me and sprang at my trunk and hips. Before I knew it I was down on the floor.
He grinned as he looked down at me. “Get the picture?” he said, squeezing my arms gently.
I smiled. All the time we’d been wrestling I’d noticed tiny scars on his face. Could they have been caused by fights? A beer
bottle, maybe? Was it just a coincidence, I wondered, that both my natural father and Clint Wagner had been in the military?
Or was there more to it?
Are you my real dad?
I wanted to say. Instead I said, “Yeah, I get it.”
He repeated the moves, then had me take over his position. We must have spent forty-five minutes practicing. By then I was
tired and thirsty, and Clint was, too. He was breathingharder than I was, but then, he was almost three times my age.
“Time for juice. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
We showered and dressed, then went to a nearby coffee shop, where Clint bought us each a glass of orange juice.
I took my time sipping the juice, because I wanted to stay with Clint as long as possible. I wished I could go to his apartment
with him. Maybe then I’d have a chance to see pictures of him when he was young. If there was one of him when he was a kid,
and he looked like me, there’d be no doubt in my mind that he was my father. Thinking about that possibility sent shivers
up my spine.
But he didn’t invite me. I figured that he didn’t think it would be proper.
It was just as well. By the time we left the coffee shop it was getting close to four o’clock. Mom was probably wondering
what had happened to me.
“Thanks for everything, Mr. Wagner,” I said. “I sure appreciate your teaching me those holds.”
“My pleasure, Sean,” he said. “We’ll get together again sometime, okay?”
“That’ll be great,” I said.
“And, look,” he added as I headed for my bike, “practice those holds on your brother. Practice them on anybody, but practice
them.”
“I will,” I promised.
Riding homeward I wondered if I could really practice on Carl. The kind of wrestling we did at home seldom involved holds
I’d learned from Coach Doran or Coach Collins. It was rough and tumble. We used any kind of a hold that came to us at a particular
moment.
But that could change, couldn’t it? I thought. I could try a double leg, or a single leg, or a half nelson on him. He wouldn’t
have to know I was practicing a new hold.
I was home before I realized it. Carl’s bike was already in the garage.
I stripped off my gear and went inside. The first person I saw was Carl, chewing on a chocolate chip cookie.
“Where’ve
you
been?” he asked accusingly.
“At the school gym,” I replied.
“What for? More punishment?” He chuckled.
I shrugged. The quickest way to get into a verbal battle with him now would be to tell him the truth, that I’d gone there
to get rid of the anger
he
had caused. To avoid that I said, “Right. But Clint Wagner was there, along with some other guys, and he taught me a few
holds.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“You can find out easily enough if you care to wrestle with me,” I answered.
“Sure. Why not?” he said, and took another bite of his cookie. It seemed the air between us was clear again — for the time
being, anyway.
Just then Mom appeared at the threshold separating the dining room and kitchen. She scowled at me.
“I’m not exactly pleased about your going out this afternoon, after what happened this morning,” she said tersely. “Especially
to see Clint Wagner again. I don’t think he’s a very good influence on
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