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too?”
    “Max? Naw.”
    “Max? That’s his name?”
    “You didn’t know?”
    “I …I never asked.”
    “The guy is so cool.” Dink told him Assistant Coach Fiasole was getting a Masters Degree in Kinesiology at Montclair State, so Coach Cleshun was working him too, coaching him on how to coach. Fiasole had almost gone to state championships as an undergraduate at Trenton State.
    They watched some other matches, ate some chips (a total no-no), then turkey sandwiches (a not-so-bad no-no), then some Häagen-Dazs (a total, complete absolute Nein!). A Greek guy and a Japanese guy butted heads. The Greek guy was getting creamed.
    “They got tiny dicks,” Dink blurted.
    “Who?”
    “Japs.”
    “So?”
    Dink kind of grunted.
    “How do you know?”
    “Look at ‘em.”
    Joey did, then said, embarrassed to blurt it out, “They always get small when you wrestle. It’s self-defense of the body.”
    “Who said that?”
    “I dunno. I read it somewheres.”
    Dink grunted out some fake Japanese, “hoojiga boojiga!” piled on top. They rolled around on the floor for a bit, fake stuff.
    While Dink straddled his back, Joey lay on his belly. They settled that way, feeling each other’s warmth through their sweats. Dink’s groin pressed against his butt. Joey tried to pretend he didn’t notice, hoping Dink wouldn’t pry him over, since his penis began to stiffen between his hips and the carpet. He folded his arms under his chin, content. He could have stayed there longer, if Dink had only chilled, let the moment be, before whispering in his ear, “J’ever get a boner from wrestling?”
    He tried to shrug Dink off, but Joey found his hands clamped down like Spidey under the Octoguy. Dink held him down. He put his arm around Joey’s neck, arms, held fast.
    “Get off me!”
    “C’mon, Neech. You can tell me.”
    Joey might have told him if he’d just let go.   Dink rubbed against his butt, insisting. Joey thought Dink was trying to trap him somehow, but then he thought, how could Dink fake a boner if he wasn’t a homo, too?
    Dink rolled off.
    “Geez, Dink.”
    Joey sighed, put his head under his arms to hide his embarrassment. But under his armpit, he spied Dink’s body, his belly exposed with his shirt up, his boner pressing his sweats into a soft tent. Everybody called him Dink because his penis was small – Dinky Dick – but the way it pushed up in his sweat pants, Joey figured that wasn’t always true.
    A long moment passed. The people on the tube roared.
    Dink said, “Sorry.”
    “S’okay.”
    They continued watching the video, touching every now and then, bumping shoulders or kicking their feet.
    Joey couldn’t help but feel relieved and comforted from just watching, not just discussing ace moves or dopey fumbles, but that he could see the match from the outside, not under the knot of sweat and limbs that often hurled by like hours crammed into six minutes. He could let his eyes linger on a guy’s spread butt, the little descending bulge.
      Both boys had settled down to watching the tapes without comments or jokes, their first truce.
    “I got some other stuff, too.”
    “What stuff?”
    “You know, different stuff. Movies. Pro stuff, Van Damme.”
    “Cool.”
    “And some other kinda wrestling.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like no holds barred.”
    “Mmm. Pancreeze, whatever they call it.”
    Joey looked around the room, trying to find his other shoe. “You can take this one home, or I’ll make a copy for you.”
    “We ain’t got a VCR.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “No.”
    “You’re not poor, are ya?”
    “No, it broke on the move. And Dad keeps sayin’ he’s savin’ gettin’ a new one till Christmas. Made a total fuss over buying my jacket.”   He lied, but it sounded good. He’d worn the jacket every day since then, even on weekends.
    “You keep wrestlin’ good, you get a scholarship. Free college.”
    “Yeah, well, maybe.”
    “Don’t maybe. You go all over the country,