baseball season, he’s still Coach to me. Anyone who doesn’t do wrestling doesn’t get it. It’s not like the other sports where you’ve got a whole team to back you up. With wrestling, it’sone-on-one, so there’s this instant camaraderie, a brotherhood of wrestlers. Only another wrestler will understand the pain you go through, how much you hate dropping weight, and how, as much as the sport sucks, you keep coming back for more.
Coach used to wrestle in high school and college, so he’s more like one of the guys than the other teachers. He teaches chemistry, but he also has a small office in the back of the weight room. Sometimes I go in there and talk with him. He can be tough, but he’s the only adult here who doesn’t treat me like a dumb jock. He was the person who encouraged me to apply to Fredonia. I was thinking I’d go to MCC, do community college for a year, but he said it’d be good for me to get away from home.
“Hey, Ritter,” I called out to him.
Coach looked up from his desk and saluted me.
“Okay if I work out?” I asked.
“Where’re you supposed to be?”
I held up the pass from the principal.
“Go for it,” Coach said. “But easy on the biceps. I heard you batted in two runs yesterday.”
I put on my iPod, pumped some heavy metal, and warmed up on the treadmill. I ran for a few minutes at a steady five mph jog and then turned it up to ten.As my sneakers pounded against the track, I began to forget Natalie, that poem, the ceremony. Whenever she drifted into my mind, I’d hit the arrow to increase my speed.
By the time I moved on to biceps, I was dripping with sweat. Guys won’t admit it, but we’re all obsessed with our biceps. I did three sets of ten reps, thirty-five pounds on each side. I knew I was pushing it, especially since we have practice this afternoon, but what the fuck. That was going to be my motto today. What the fuck.
Now I was ready to start benching. I glanced into Coach’s office. He was on a call, his chair rotated so he was facing the wall. He’d murder me if he knew I was benching without a spotter, but there was no one else in the weight room. And, besides, you’d have to be an idiot to drop the bar on yourself.
I headed over to the bench press. Back in wrestling season, I was in prime shape. I was wrestling at 145 and benching as much as 150. Now I’m a fat slob, my weight probably up to 158 or 159. And the last time I benched, I couldn’t do more than 120. Damn depressing.
I put seventy on both sides. Then, after another glance at Coach’s back, I added another five poundseach. One-fifty, baby. Time to get serious.
I lay down on the bench, gripped my hands on the bar, and unracked the weights. Oh, man, I thought as I brought it down. I was one weak motherfucker. As I heaved it up, my arms were trembling so bad I thought they might buckle. But I kept— two —pumping even though— three —the blood was rushing to my— four —head and I was struggling to— five —
“What the hell are you doing, Evans?”
Breathe.
Coach was standing above me. He wrangled the bar out of my fists and fitted it onto the rack. “I said, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m benching,” I sputtered.
“Without a spotter?” Coach barked. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just have to wait for Coach to finish. He cools off quickly.
“Listen—” Coach slipped twenty pounds off each side. “You do whatever you want on your time, but you’re not going to injure yourself on my watch. I’ll spot you, but take it easy. You were only doing one-twenty last week.”
Coach had me on 110 now. My pecs were killing and my triceps were strained, but I wasn’t about to tell himI couldn’t do any more.
I got my hands back in position. Coach unracked the bar again. I pumped out ten and then stared up at the ceiling, panting. I was just lifting my arms to do a final set when Coach said, “Hey, Evans, it’s
Coach used to wrestle in high school and college, so he’s more like one of the guys than the other teachers. He teaches chemistry, but he also has a small office in the back of the weight room. Sometimes I go in there and talk with him. He can be tough, but he’s the only adult here who doesn’t treat me like a dumb jock. He was the person who encouraged me to apply to Fredonia. I was thinking I’d go to MCC, do community college for a year, but he said it’d be good for me to get away from home.
“Hey, Ritter,” I called out to him.
Coach looked up from his desk and saluted me.
“Okay if I work out?” I asked.
“Where’re you supposed to be?”
I held up the pass from the principal.
“Go for it,” Coach said. “But easy on the biceps. I heard you batted in two runs yesterday.”
I put on my iPod, pumped some heavy metal, and warmed up on the treadmill. I ran for a few minutes at a steady five mph jog and then turned it up to ten.As my sneakers pounded against the track, I began to forget Natalie, that poem, the ceremony. Whenever she drifted into my mind, I’d hit the arrow to increase my speed.
By the time I moved on to biceps, I was dripping with sweat. Guys won’t admit it, but we’re all obsessed with our biceps. I did three sets of ten reps, thirty-five pounds on each side. I knew I was pushing it, especially since we have practice this afternoon, but what the fuck. That was going to be my motto today. What the fuck.
Now I was ready to start benching. I glanced into Coach’s office. He was on a call, his chair rotated so he was facing the wall. He’d murder me if he knew I was benching without a spotter, but there was no one else in the weight room. And, besides, you’d have to be an idiot to drop the bar on yourself.
I headed over to the bench press. Back in wrestling season, I was in prime shape. I was wrestling at 145 and benching as much as 150. Now I’m a fat slob, my weight probably up to 158 or 159. And the last time I benched, I couldn’t do more than 120. Damn depressing.
I put seventy on both sides. Then, after another glance at Coach’s back, I added another five poundseach. One-fifty, baby. Time to get serious.
I lay down on the bench, gripped my hands on the bar, and unracked the weights. Oh, man, I thought as I brought it down. I was one weak motherfucker. As I heaved it up, my arms were trembling so bad I thought they might buckle. But I kept— two —pumping even though— three —the blood was rushing to my— four —head and I was struggling to— five —
“What the hell are you doing, Evans?”
Breathe.
Coach was standing above me. He wrangled the bar out of my fists and fitted it onto the rack. “I said, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m benching,” I sputtered.
“Without a spotter?” Coach barked. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just have to wait for Coach to finish. He cools off quickly.
“Listen—” Coach slipped twenty pounds off each side. “You do whatever you want on your time, but you’re not going to injure yourself on my watch. I’ll spot you, but take it easy. You were only doing one-twenty last week.”
Coach had me on 110 now. My pecs were killing and my triceps were strained, but I wasn’t about to tell himI couldn’t do any more.
I got my hands back in position. Coach unracked the bar again. I pumped out ten and then stared up at the ceiling, panting. I was just lifting my arms to do a final set when Coach said, “Hey, Evans, it’s
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