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pounds. I wished Caswell hadn’t been sleeping, because I wanted to drill some takedowns; Lee Hall and I were the wrong size to drill with each other. Instead, I rolled around on the mats by myself and watched the crowd straggle in. I remember it as an old, oval-shaped gym with a wooden track above, like an elongated version of the pit at Exeter, except that the floor space was vast; there were at least six mats rolled out for the preliminary rounds, and a long line of bleacher seats—extending almost to matside—ran the length of the gym wall.
    I kept an eye out for my parents; although they were making a two-day trip of it—they had left New Hampshire yesterday and had spent the night with friends in Massachusetts—it wasn’t like them to be late. Depending on the number of entries in your weight class, you might have two or three preliminary matches before the quarterfinal round, later that afternoon; the semifinals were that night. The next day would begin with the wrestle-backs (the consolation rounds), which would lead to the consolation finals; the finals would be tomorrow afternoon. It would be dark by the time we got to New York, I was thinking—and a long night’s ride on the bus back to Pittsburgh. We would be hungry then, with no more weigh-ins to make—and no money for food. I was also thinking that it was odd to be at a big tournament without a coach.
    With me wrestling 130, and Caswell at 137, we would often be wrestling on different mats at the same time, or at overlapping times; we wouldn’t be able to coach each other—Lee Hall would have to choose between coaching me and coaching Caswell. As it turned out, when Lee Hall was wrestling, both Caswell and I were available to coach him. Lee, however, needed little coaching; he would easily maul his way into the finals—his opponents rarely lasted past the second period. Caswell and I would shout out the time remaining on the clock; that was all Lee needed to know—Lee didn’t need to be informed of the lopsided score.
    John Carr, our ineligible (or injured) 157-pounder, had not made the trip to West Point, but his dad was there; Mr. Carr volunteered to coach Caswell and Lee Hall and me. Mr. Carr loved wrestling; he must have spent many exciting years watching his son—John Carr was a very good wrestler. I remember thinking that Mr. Carr must have been disappointed to be watching
me.
I remember little else about the preliminary rounds. I beat two guys from schools with monosyllabic names (like Pitt). I could guess that they were from Yale and Penn, but they could have been from anywhere; it doesn’t matter—in both matches, I got the first takedown so cleanly that I kept repeating it.
    You take the guy down, you’re up two points; you let the guy go, he gets one point—then you take him down again. After your three takedowns and his three escapes, you’re leading 6-3. After that, the guy has to chase you, which makes it easier for you to take him down.
    I was working Warnick’s arm-drag, which Warnick had worked on me all winter in the Pitt wrestling room; I was working a duck-under, although it wasn’t nearly as smooth a duck-under as Mike Johnson used to work on me—about a hundred times a week. Anyway, I advanced to the quarterfinals, realizing that I’d actually learned a little wrestling in the course of taking a pounding at Pitt.
    In the quarterfinals, I pinned a guy from R.PI.—I remember where he was from only because Lee Hall or Caswell asked me what “R.PI.” stood for and I realized that I didn’t know how to spell Rensselaer
or
Polytechnic. Suddenly I was in the semifinals.
    That hour—maybe it was two or three hours—between the quarterfinals and the semifinals . . . that was the best time of my one season of wrestling at Pittsburgh. That was when I knew I wasn’t coming back. Lee Hall was talking to me; he was saying what a