Stories Index

Wrestling
 

Newark, New York
Winter, 1968

I roll out of bed and feel my way to the bathroom feeling crankier than usual. It takes a minute of fumbling before I find my toothbrush. Through wet, hazy eyes, I try to squirt on a dollop of toothpaste, but the damn brush seems too small for my hands. I give up and toss it aside. Still sleepy—I run some cool water and splash a couple of handfuls over my face and head.
            That’s when I realize my hair’s gone—cut down to a quarter inch.
            I rub the sleep from my eyes and stare into the mirror. The scowling face, pouting jowls, and a military haircut look vaguely familiar, but certainly not like me. A moment later, another face pops up behind me. Grinning and dominated by oversized sunglasses, I don’t recognize this face either, but it seems to know me well enough as it greets me with a chummy, “Hey, man!” The face is attached to an emaciated body consumed in a striped sport coat and neon green pants. I have this sudden, overwhelming urge to throw the guy against the wall, but settle instead for some high-class cursing.
            “What the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you, and whatta ya doin’ in my bathroom?” The words spew out as if my mouth had a mind of its own, and I think that not only do I not look like me, I don’t sound much like me either.
            After a noisy argument, I realize that this weird, skinny guy calls himself Slick and is apparently my manager. I wasn’t aware that a high school wrestler needed a manager.
            My dad yells from downstairs that breakfast is ready. Now what goes through my head is something like, “I’m not feeling well. Maybe I should stay home from school.” But when I throw open the bathroom door and shout downstairs, what actually comes out is, “Hey! Listen up! No one tells the Magnificent Murdo what to do. No One! You got a problem with that?”
            The last line sounds more like, “yoouse gotta problem wid dat?”
            I can’t believe I just yelled at my dad. No reply—I guess he doesn’t believe it either. That or he’s giving me time to pray before he kills me.
            I head back to my bedroom. Slick watches me dress for school like an overprotective big brother. He follows me downstairs to the kitchen where we elbow into place at the breakfast table. My sister Debbie, and Chris and Pat, my two kid brothers, are already there, alternately playing with and eating bacon and scrambled eggs. No one expresses any surprise whatsoever at my appearance or the presence of my companion. Indeed, my mom has two places set for us, and my dad hands Slick the sports section of the morning paper like it’s an everyday occurrence. Then he turns to me and says, “So, the Magnificent Murdo graces us with his presence.”
            My mom, who seems a bit edgy herself, says, “Don’t get him all upset before the big meet tonight.”
            In idiotic unison, my brothers open their mouths, revealing a noxious amalgam of bacon, eggs, toast, and maple syrup.
            “Knock it off, you two,” I shout at them.
            They ignore me and giggle at one another.
            My sister says, “What’s the matter, Donnie? Nervous?”
            That’s when I remember that my high school wrestling team has the final match of the season tonight against the Lyons Lions for the county championship.
            Loud, funny words fly out of my mouth as if I’d rehearsed the whole speech. “Listen up! My name is the Magnificent Murdo! You got that? Magnificent Murdo! The Magnificent Murdo is never nervous. The Magnificent Murdo is mad! He is sore!” I pick up a nearby glass of orange juice and slam it on the table. My folks glare at one another, then at Slick.
            “Hey, baby, it’s cool,” he says.
            My dad goes back to his paper without commenting, and we finish breakfast in a strained silence.

            Scott arrives to pick me up for school; I can hear his phlegmatic ’65 Dodge special a quarter mile away. With a barely human grunt, I grab my books and lumber out to meet him, followed as always by Slick. We pile into the backseat without a word of greeting. Scott stares at us in the rearview mirror. “Don? You feeling okay?”
            I’m thinking, of course I’m okay, what else would I be? But what comes out is, “Forget that Don crap and listen up. I’m the Magnificent Murdo. Understand?” Scott mumbles something that sounds vaguely like “asshole” and shakes his head; he drives extra slow to school.
            I go through the day watching the other kids avoid me. The Slickster and I eat lunch at an isolated table in the corner of the cafeteria. I take study hour alone at the library. My girlfriend screams and runs away the instant she sees me. All the girls scream; all the guys walk in the opposite direction. Banners all over school advertise tonight’s wrestling match with the Lyons Lions. In my locker, I find a note scribbled in black crayon from “a friend” telling me that “you better win, or else!”
            Or else what? Infuriated, I slam the locker door, knocking it off the hinge.
            As I stand there listening to the sound my own heavy breathing, a growling laugh echoes over the PA system. I turn around to find the once‑crowded hallway is now vacant and dim. Vapors rise from the ground; a sallow light permeates the suddenly chilled air. An alien form appears at the end of the hall. Dim at first, then a sudden blinding light reveals a massive silhouette. The figure stretches and growls as if breaking out of chains. Slowly he emerges from light. Blood oozes from his forehead forming a black puddle at his feet. Through the haze, I recognize my opponent in tonight’s match, Rick “Turk” Tricarico, a Lyons senior known on the high school wrestling circuit as the Executioner.
             I yell down the hall, “Executioner! What the hell are you doing here? This is Newark Reds’ country.”
            The “Reds” team name comes from our school colors—maroon and gray. Not as clever as the “Lyons Lions,” but anything’s better than the “Newark Maroons.”
            Turk raises his arms and shouts back, “You’re dead meat, Murdo! You hear me? Dead. Meat!”
            “Over my bleeding, dead carcass, Executioner!”
            He turns and vanishes down the hallway.

            We arrive early that evening for the county championships at the Rochester War Memorial. My parents, Scott and his mom, and my brothers and sister sit together on the Newark side of the packed arena. On the opposite side, the Lyons students cheer in matched frenzy. They wave banners with the slogan, “Kill ’em, Executioner.” The Newark fans scream back and wave banners with my own catch phrase: “Listen Up! Go, Murdo!”
            In the locker room, Slick directs my preparation—layers of black and red makeup, streamers wrapped around my arms and legs, day-glow ear protectors, and surreal sunglasses complete my bellicose outfit. I feel ridiculous and proud at the same time. The Slickster encourages me with “Go, baby” as my theme music (the opening measures of Straus’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra) announces my entry into the ring.
            Thousands of screaming fans greet me as my manager escorts me from the locker room into the ring. My mom waves, and my dad flips a thumbs-up sign; my brothers both stick their tongues out. The music stops, and the Executioner’s music, Chopin’s Funeral March, blares to the screams on the Lyons side of the gym. Over the PA system, the ring announcer’s voice echoes, “Now entering the arena . . . .” The Lyons side goes mad with screams of “Dead man!”
            The Executioner is dressed entirely in black. His face is hidden behind a black leather mask and wide-brimmed hat; his black wrestling boots extend past his knees. Accompanying the Executioner is his manager, a savage girl dressed in a black mourning dress, tiara, and veil. She wields an evil sickle like Death and shakes her waist-length black hair, streaked with red flashes, in spasmodic, insane fits as if shaking loose a nest of snakes. The Newark side boos and hisses, but under the layers of tacky makeup and badly colored hair, I recognize my ex, and the Executioner’s current girlfriend, Sophie Provenzano.
            I grab Slick, who is bouncing around like a toy poodle on speed behind me, by the collar and yank him within an inch of my face. “Oh man, you gotta be freakin’ kidding!” We had dated briefly for a couple of months. Technically, you could say I dumped her because she was a bitch, although the way she tells it, I was a complete asshole. I think we were both right.
            “Be cool, baby!” All of Slick’s responses are variations on the same theme, and all are equally unhelpful.
            “No, man, you be cool and listen up. A month ago that creature was my girlfriend.”
            “Baby, you dated a Lyons chick?” He nearly doubles over with laughter.
            “Yeah—a freakin’ nut job. Real pissed when I broke up with her.” Slick is laughing too hard to comment.
            The ring announcer continues his animated introduction as Turk climbs into the ring with the help of his manager who thoughtfully parts the ropes for him. “Now entering the ring, from parts unknown, weighing in at one hundred twenty pounds, the 1967 state champion in the one-hundred-twenty-eight-pound weight class, Rick ‘Turk’ Tricarico,” he delays for effect. “The Executioner!”
            A chorus of jeers from the Newark side meets a wave of cheers from the Lyons fans.
            “And his opponent. From Newark High School, weighing in at one hundred and nineteen pounds. Undefeated at home, three-time varsity letterman, and 1967 state champion in the one-hundred-and-twenty-pound weight class, Don Bacon . . . The Magnificent Murdo.” He stretches out my ring name, adding the appropriate fall in pitch, so that it sounds something like this: “Murrrrrrrrrdooooooooo!” Cheers and curses switch sides.
            I look to my manager for some encouragement. “Turk’s dropped a weight class. Any bright ideas, smart ass?”
            “No sweat! He’s messed up big time from trying to make weight. Now listen, baby, we’re tied with Lyons at five matches each. This is the tiebreaker. Don’t let us down.”
            There are banners and local TV cameras, mad, screaming fans, and blistering lights on my back. The referee blows the whistle for the first period. I run out into the center circle, but before I can react, a pair of fists come down hard on my head, sending me sprawling to the ground. I roll to safety, spring to my feet, and dive for the Executioner’s legs. He jumps back, but not quick enough, and I flip him over for the takedown. The referee holds two fingers in the air; the crowd goes wild.
            After two periods, the Executioner leads by one point, a difference of one reversal. As the Slickster sprays a stream of water into my mouth, I glance over to the opposite corner where Sophie, Turk, and the Lyons coach seem to be in a heated argument. All I can catch over the crowd noise is Sophie yelling, “Do it or else, Turk!” and the Lyons coach screaming, “No way, Rick, no way!” Sophie flips me off as the whistle sounds announcing the start of the third and final period.
            We both run to the center of the mat and circle each other like a pair of starving hyenas. I make a dive for the takedown, but instead of the standard drop back, the Executioner jumps onto my back and starts pounding me like I were a piece of meat. He springs to his feet and follows up with a flurry of kicks to my groin, more fists on my back, and a kick or two to the side of my head. Caught off guard by Turk’s sudden disregard for high school wrestling rules, the referee runs around us, blowing his whistle like a maniac while trying to hold off the two coaches who have jumped into the ring trying to pull Turk off of me. They manage to drag him over to his corner. As I stagger to my knees, Sophie Provenzano suddenly jumps into the ring and starts kicking me in the stomach.
            “You bastard!” she screams with a well-placed kick. “You fucking bastard! Asshole! No one breaks up with me. No one!”
            I hear a snap from inside my own chest as Sophie kicks in a rib. A pair of referees and my coach pull her off me, but not before a well-placed kick to the head nearly knocks me out cold. Still screaming as they drag her away, she breaks loose and attacks the Lyons coach in a blur of kicks and punches. He falls to the mat and rolls around, screaming and clutching his leg in agony. In the ensuing chaos, Turk breaks free and attacks me with his manager’s sickle.
             I can’t fight this way. I’m thinking takedowns and reversals, and this maniac is beating me over the head with a fucking stick! A steam of blood trickles into my left eye; my head and side pound in pain. I try to stand up, but the Executioner clotheslines me back onto the mat. He follows up with a series of illegal moves from professional wrestling: atomic knee drop, a double ax handle, and a suplex. Realizing I’m too beaten up to fight back, Turk easily scoops me up like a rummage-sale doll and slams me down face up on the canvas. He makes the cover and counts me out himself as the referee is preoccupied with Sophie who has started to attack the Newark Coach. A stream of people, teachers, and a couple of cops finally pull Turk, who is still counting me out, off of me. I roll over just in time to see them drag Turk and Sophie from the gym.
            The Slickster helps me to my feet. I’m able to stand just long enough to be declared the winner by disqualification. A huge cheer circles the Newark side of the gym. I have just enough energy to wave to the crowd before my vision goes black, and I pass out.

            Sometime later, lying flat on my back, I open my eyes to find a crowd of faces above me—my father, Slick, my coach, and Scott. They all look anxious, but no one says a word for a long time.
            Scott breaks the spell. “Hey, Don. You okay?”
            Best I can do is gurgle a bit and nod. Scott says to my dad, “He’ll live.”
            My dad bends down for a closer look. “Quite a cut you got there, son.” That’s when I notice the wetness on the left side of my face. Turk must have sliced my face up with his manager’s sickle.
            The coach motions for a medical team; they lay a stretcher next to me. “Easy does it,” my coach says. “You put on quite a show.”
            My dad says, “But it was too close. You damn near lost it for us.”
            The pounding in my head blocks any attempt at speech. I close my eyes and feel a hot rivulet of blood flow down my cheek and onto the mat.


Dedicated to the memory of Rick “Turk” Tricarico

 Copyright © 2010   Donald W. Bacon
revised 01-July-2010