Dirty Moves

At 4:30 on Sunday morning I roust my boys out of bed and tell them to use the bathroom. When they’re done, each takes his turn stepping onto the scale beside the tub. They’re groggy, of course. They’re slow to react, but they don’t protest. My older son understands the importance of a single ounce in wrestling, and the younger is quickly learning. The slightest difference in weight can mean having to compete in the next division, potentially giving away nearly five precious pounds to your opponent. That might not sound like much, but it is when you’re already little more than muscle and bone.Stripped to his boxers, Logan tops the scale at 111. He’s a pound and one ounce over the weight for the division in which he prefers to wrestle, where he’s strongest, between 105 and 109. Logan curses, the most popular four-letter expletive in the book.

“Don’t cuss,” I say, though his father is hardly a model of civil speech.

Logan steps off the scale.

“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that banana last night,” he says.

“You might still make it.”

“How?”

“By the time we get there,” I say, “you’ll probably have to use the bathroom again. That’s another 3, maybe 4 ounces. And you can always run around the gym a couple times.”

At 12, Logan has been wrestling competitively for five years, and he does not like even the slightest disadvantage. Little Nate, on the other hand, is only 6 and weighs in at 34 1/2 pounds, close to the limit for his class. I pat him on the head as he steps off the scale.

“Good going,” I say.

“What?”

“You’re on weight.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that good?”

“It’s very good.”

This is his first year in competition, and he’s excited, wanting to follow in his brother’s footsteps and win his own shelf full of medals and trophies. I’m confident that he will. The youngest in the brood is often the toughest, having on a daily basis to fight off the tortures and teasing of his older brothers.

By 5 we’re in the car, headed for El Monte High School in the San Gabriel Valley. It’s a good 70 miles or better, and we need to be there between 6 and 7 for weigh-ins. Miss those and you don’t wrestle. Nate is snuggled in the back with a blanket and a pillow. Logan sits shotgun but with the seat reclined, huddled under his Levi’s jacket, so that he too can sleep while I drive. I sip coffee and try to keep my eyes open. It’s still dark, and fortunately there aren’t many people on the road. We make good time. Shortly after sunrise, we pull off the freeway, drive a few more miles, and then turn into the parking lot of the high school. Already it’s beginning to fill up.

The registration tables are situated outside the main entrance to the gym. I get in line with the other parents and wait my turn with Nate. Logan, meanwhile, takes this opportunity to run around the gym, hoping to shed those last ounces. A few minutes later I step up to the table and show the woman in charge my kids’ USA Wrestling cards.

“What team are they on?”

“We’re independent.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t have a team,” I say. “It’s just me and my two sons.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “They have to be on a registered USA team or they can’t wrestle.”

We used to have a team but it disbanded a couple of years back when the coach’s three boys graduated from USA Wrestling’s youth programs to high school wrestling. Now, from time to time, especially when the people working the registration tables are new to their job, I have problems. But I’m prepared. I know the bylaws by heart, down to the page stating that independents are allowed to compete as long as they’re accompanied by a registered Copper Coach with a current Copper Coach card. And that person would be me. I’m about to rattle all this off to the woman when the man working the table beside her, a man who’s registered us several times in the past, speaks up.

“No, we take independents. We don’t get many, but we take them. I know this guy,” he says. “You’re from the mountains, right?”

“Lake Arrowhead.”

He whistles.

“Long drive,” he says.

Once I’ve signed them in and paid the entry fees, I search out Logan, catching him as he rounds the corner of the gym at an even jog. He’s worked up a sweat, though he’s not breathing heavily, the sign of an athlete in shape.

“Did you use the bathroom?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I barely had to go.”

I look at my watch.

“Better quit running,” I say. “There’s only 20 minutes left for weigh-ins.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“So you wrestle up a division. It’s no big deal,” I say. “You’re tough.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Except that kid from Norwalk goes one-tens.”

He’s referring to the boy who beat him for first place at an earlier tournament. It was a close match, Logan leading by two points going into the last round when he took a chance, made an error, and the other kid capitalized on it.

I try to be upbeat. I try to turn his self-doubt around on him.

“That’s good,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because you need the competition. You learn more from your losses, not your wins. Besides, you’ll get him this time.”

Gang graffiti mars the walls of the boys’ locker room, and the lockers themselves are mostly busted and broken. This is where weigh-ins take place, and it’s packed with kids from the competing teams. The Outkasts. The Terminators. Fontana Boyz and the Scorpions. All have team warm-up suits while my sons are simply dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Clearly we stand out, and not solely for lack of uniforms. We are one of the few white families in an overwhelmingly Mexican American community. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, if I invite it somehow, or if it’s just part and parcel to the nature of this sport, but we occasionally get that dirty, lingering look that suggests we’re not welcome here.

In the last 10 years or so, wrestling also has become more popular with girls, which is terrific, but because of their presence in the locker room--and there are only a few here this morning--it’s mandatory that the boys weigh in wearing their wrestling singlets. For Logan, that means forsaking another couple of ounces, and sure enough, when he strips down to his singlet and steps on the scale, he’s over the mark.

The man working the scale jots down Logan’s weight on a clipboard. Then he writes “110 1/2” on my son’s arm with a black felt-tip pen. Next in line is Nate, and he’s been watching his brother. He knows to wait until the man signals him to step forward, and I admire this about him, that at 6 he’s already well-mannered and mindful of his surroundings. He weighs in at 34 pounds, meaning he’ll wrestle thirties. The divisions are separated by 5-pound increments.

As my boys are putting their clothes back on, I notice Logan staring at something, his eyes narrowed. I look in the same direction. The kid from Norwalk is staring back at him, just as meanly, from the other end of the locker room. I put my hand on Logan’s shoulder, which seems to break the spell.

“What’re you doing?”

“He’s trying to psyche me out.”

“Don’t go there with him,” I say. “Don’t let him rattle you.”

“I’ll kick his ass.”

“You’re here to wrestle,” I tell him, “not fight. That’s exactly what he wants you to do--lose your temper and screw up.”

But I can see he’s not listening. I know my son well. We’re very much alike in temperament, quick to anger, and when he gets like this it’s impossible to reach him. For better or worse, and I suspect it’s for the worse, this ugly thing will just have to run its course.

The younger children, between the ages of 5 and 11, wrestle in the morning. The older ones, 12 to 15, compete in the afternoon. In Nate’s first match he goes up against a tough little kid from nearby Fontana, birthplace of that fun-loving fraternity known as the Hells Angels. Because I am a card-carrying Copper Coach who has paid all the necessary fees and dues and attended all the mandatory seminars, I’m allowed in my son’s corner on the mat. The other fathers and mothers have to stand on the sidelines, which are cordoned off with yellow caution tape, and watch the team coach instruct their sons and daughters. I hand the bout sheet to the scorekeepers and then take Nate aside. He’s nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I kneel down so we’re looking eye-to-eye.

“What’s the game plan?”

“Go for points,” he says. “Don’t worry about the pin.”

Those are my exact words.

“What else?”

“Just relax,” he says, “and do my best.”

“Good.”

The teenage referee, likely a volunteer from the high school’s wrestling team, calls Nate out to the mat. I give him a pat on the back, a gentle nudge to get him moving. The other kid is waiting for him. He’s crouched over, his knees slightly bent, hands out to his sides. It’s the proper stance. Nate assumes the same position. They shake hands and then the ref blows the whistle.

It’s hard to imagine brutality among 6-year-olds. It’s hard to imagine how a coach, or a father, could in good conscience teach a child to inflict pain on another child in a fair and clean sport. But in the first round the Fontana boy tries to bend Nate’s arm, and when he can’t do it, because Nate is holding strong, he strikes him in the crook of the elbow. Once. Twice. Three times. The ref is slow to respond, and when he finally does, when he stops it, it’s not even with a penalty. Then, in the second round, the kid grabs Nate from behind, locking his arms around Nate’s waist. Leaning back, lifting him into the air, he slams my boy face down into the mat.

I see him squint in pain.

I see him fight back the tears and I want it stopped. Right now. This is not what wrestling is about. This is not how I’ve taught my kids. Slamming also merits a penalty for unnecessary roughness, but the ref again fails to note it. I’m a second away from calling the match when I see it, this glint in Nate’s eye, his face suddenly hardened with resolve. The boy is on top of him, and Nate locks the kid’s arm under his own and rolls him, perfectly, onto his back for a one-point reversal and three point near-fall. The round ends a moment later, and Nate returns to his corner.

I drop to one knee, so he can hear me better.

“You’re doing great. That kid’s a dirty wrestler but you’re smarter, you’re faster. This is the last round,” I say, “and you’re behind by two points. I want you to go for the takedowns. Don’t worry about anything else. He’s leading too far with the left leg and that’s what you want. That left leg. After you take him down, let him back up, OK?”

“Let him back up?

“Right.”

“What for?

“Because you’re going to take him down again. Only the second time, I want you to hang on, just ride him out till it’s over. Escapes are only worth one point and takedowns are worth two, and you’re going to win this match by one point.”

And that’s what he does.

When the match is over, Nate walks off the mat victorious, smiling proudly. Unfortunately his next couple of bouts are even tougher, though by no means as violent as the first. He loses two by narrow margins but wins his last by a pin and earns himself a fifth-place ribbon out of the 12 in his division. Not bad for his first tournament. Logan wrestles later that afternoon, winning three in a row and qualifying for the final bout for first or second place in the 110 weight class. His opponent, of course, is the boy from Norwalk, who also has won three in a row, all pins.

In Logan’s corner, as I’m rubbing his arms, loosening him up, I tell him pretty much what I told his brother.

“Go for the takedowns. Go for rolls and reversals. If the pin presents itself, great. But this kid is strong. Don’t butt heads with him.”

“I’m stronger.”

“You probably are,” I say, though I’m not so sure. “I want to see some good smart wrestling out there, not some brawl.”

Unlike street fighting, there are rules here. The intent is not to injure, and moves like arm-bars and chokeholds are taboo. Wrestling is about controlling your opponent, not destroying him, and I try to instill in my sons a sense of respect and principle for the sport. For Logan, fixated on avenging his narrow loss, it’s a tough sale today, and I’m worried when the ref calls him out to the mat. I’m worried that this could turn into a free-for-all.

The ref hands him a strip of red Velcro, which Logan wraps around his ankle, identifying him for the scorekeepers. The kid from Norwalk hustles out, waving his arms, doing a kind of goose step. He’s cocky. He’s arrogant, and I want it even more now, for Logan to beat him, to knock that ego down a few notches. If nothing else, it would serve the kid well later in life.

They shake hands.

The ref blows the whistle and Logan shoots in, not wasting a second, catching the boy off guard and taking him down for two quick points. I’m on the sidelines, excited now.

“All right,” I shout. “Now turn him. Get him on his back.”

In the heat of battle, and given the headgear that wrestlers wear to protect their ears, I doubt if he hears anything I say. Of course that doesn’t stop me from trying, and I continue to shout instructions from the sidelines, as does the opposing coach, a stout, potbellied man with a goatee. The kid escapes and gets to his feet, but not before Logan rocks him onto his back, scoring a near-fall for another three points. The first round ends with my boy leading five to one. Logan returns to his corner breathing hard.

I hug him.

“Good work,” I say. “Another takedown and that’ll put you ahead seven to one. Lock him up. Ride him through the second round. Got that?”

Logan nods.

“Keep that lead going into the third,” I say, “and it’s over.”

The rest period ends. Logan returns to the mat, and about halfway through the second round he scores yet another takedown. I suck in a deep breath. I let it out slowly. Assuming he doesn’t get pinned, there’s no way that the other kid can catch up. He’s done it. He’s won, and I’m proud of him. That he didn’t lose his cool. That he wrestled smart.

Then something happens. Something bad.

The kid works himself free. The kid scrambles to his feet, and I don’t believe that what happens next is an accident. I don’t believe that his hand catching in my son’s headgear is an innocent mistake, any more than I do his pulling the straps down across Logan’s eyes, blinding him. Why the ref doesn’t call it for what it is--a blatant foul--is beyond me. Logan takes it for granted, as any good wrestler might, that the ref will shout for a time-out, and it costs him, this assumption, this belief that sport is fair. It’s a disappointing but necessary lesson, and I blame myself that Logan has to learn it this way, for not having taught him earlier that in sport, as in life, you must often assume the worst in another.

Dazed, confused, he stands up straight, and the other kid rushes him, like a lineman taking out a quarterback. He rams him in the stomach. As his back strikes the mat I actually hear the swell of air forced from his lungs, and inside of five seconds the referee blows the whistle. Logan has been pinned. He gets to his feet and rips off the red Velcro strip from around his ankle and throws it in the ref’s face. That’s when I snap, when the other coach, the guy with the goatee, starts screaming at my son.

“You apologize,” he says.

“Go to hell,” Logan says.

He steps toward my son, but I’m there now, between them.

“You discipline your kid,” I say, “I’ll discipline mine.”

“Your boy’s a sore loser.”

“Your boy’s a cheater.”

For a few seconds we just stare each other down. I know I’ve crossed a line I should never cross, especially in front of my children, but how much can you reasonably take before you lose it? He turns away, and it’s good that one of us does it.

On the ride home that afternoon I ask my sons what they would like for dinner. “Anything,” I say. “You name it.” This is tradition. This is my offer after every tournament, win or lose, as a reward for a day well spent together. Typically, from Logan anyway, it invites a single word--steak, say, or shrimp. He loves both. And I love to cook either for them. Today, however, when I pop the question, I receive no answer. I look at Nate in the rearview mirror. Already a welt is forming above his left eye--the result, I imagine, of a well-placed elbow or knee to the face, a blow I hadn’t noticed. His arm, where the first kid struck him, is also bruised and sore. I watch him rub it. I watch him bend it up and down, slowly, like it must hurt.

“How about you, Nate?” I say. “Want anything special for dinner?”

All I get is a shrug.

For a while I let it go. For a while we drive in silence. Logan is pretty beat up, too, with bruised ribs where that kid speared him, and, from another bout, scratches on his neck and down one side of his face. I wonder if it’s worth it, if maybe it’s time to hang it up. I don’t want to ask the question, because it’s always been my favorite sport, because I live through my kids, as parents often do, but it seems the right thing now.

“Maybe we should try something else,” I say. “Like soccer. Or baseball.”

“What are you talking about?” Logan says.

“We don’t have to wrestle, you know. There are other sports.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m nailing that stupid Mexican next time.”

Half my childhood was spent in Los Angeles, the other half in East San Jose. My stepmother is Mexican. My stepbrother and stepsister are Mexican, and two of my lifelong best friends are Mexican, one so close to the family the boys call him uncle. Uncle Orlando. I’ve experienced hate, and I’ve experienced the sort of acceptance and love that transcends it. My son, I think, ought to know better. I raise my voice.

“What’d you just say?”

He bows his head.

“Nothing,” he says.

“I don’t want to hear you talk like that again. You understand me? No more cussing, either. I’ve had it.” He’s quiet. I shake my head. I look at him again, hard. “You’re mad because he cheated. That’s it. That’s all. Don’t get it mixed up. Mexican has nothing to do with it.”

I would like to believe my own words, and I do. I would like to believe that I can offer my sons a better world where there is no racism, no cheaters, no parents who teach their children to hate and hurt others. But I can offer them no such thing. At best I can only instruct so that they might suffer less, and so that in surviving they know when to suspend the rules, for their own protection. As we drive home that evening, both boys staring silently out the window, bruised and shaken, I make them a promise.

We will have steak tonight.

We will have shrimp, too. The works. And afterward, when calm has prevailed, I will lead them to the middle of the living room floor and lovingly show them the moves I eventually had to learn, those dirty ones, the kind designed to hurt.