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back in high school
    Hatcher’s dad

CHAPTER 6
December
    You can’t help but be electrified by the noise, though I’m trying hard not to be. The varsity guys burst out of the locker room and start circling the mat, and everybody in the stands is on their feet chanting “Stur-
bridge
” (stamp, stamp), “Stur-
bridge
.”
    I start rubbing my shoulder—it really doesn’t hurt anymore, but I’m feeling conspicuous, embarrassed to be sitting here in regular clothes in a folding chair next to the assistant coach. Al is jumping up and down out there, shoving Hatcher playfully, then making a fist toward the stands.
    The pep band is playing “On Wisconsin,” here in Pennsylvania, and there isn’t an empty seat in the whole gym. My father’s up there, and Kim is up on the very top row with her girlfriends. The guys from Weston South are warming up on the side of the gym, looking around and probably feeling intimidated. Nobody’s come in here and beat us in nine years.
    The bleachers are speckled with shiny blue Sturbridge Wrestling Boosters Association jackets. Anybody who actually wrestled has his graduation year and nickname stitched on the chest: “Spins ’83”; “Bucky ’78.” Some of them even carry old clippings from the
Sturbridge Observer
in their wallets to settle arguments. Everybody’s got a hat on, too. I’m the only guy in town who doesn’t wear anadvertisement for a bar, a tractor, a sports team, or a cigarette on his head.
    There’s one rather large person in the front row with a jacket labeled “Mom,” which I’m sure she thinks is cute. But it’s actually useful information, because otherwise it’d be hard to tell if she’s a man, a woman, or a Bulgarian shot-putter.
    Hatcher’s father is walking out to the mat with a microphone for the announcements. They do this every year at the first match—the booster club president introduces the local dignitaries, who are always the same: Peter Valdez and Jerry Franken, the town’s state champions; Mayor Andrew Watt (“Who?” we all say. “No, Watt.”); the principal; the wrestling coaches; the captains (Al and Hatcher).
    I catch Al’s father looking at me and I nod. He gives me a thumbs-up signal. The band starts playing their other song (“Louie, Louie”) and little Anthony Terranova—our man at 103—starts putting on his headgear and talking to the coach.
    Anthony races onto the mat—he’s a sophomore but just barely beat Tommy Austin in their wrestle-off two days ago. (Al beat me 9–2 in ours.) He takes down the guy from South in about four seconds, and has him on his back right away. He’s got him cradled and he’s driving hard with his legs. The ref slams the mat for a pin, and the place erupts as the first match of the season ends in twenty-eight seconds.
    Al and Digit leap off the bench and start hugging Anthony, and he goes down the line slapping five witheverybody. The “Stur-
bridge
” chant starts again, and the music, and somebody tosses a roll of toilet paper onto the mat, which is another one of the traditions. It unravels maybe forty sheets and comes to a stop at the edge of the mat. The referee picks it up and carries it over to our coach, who grins and sends the next wrestler out.
    By the time Digit gets out there we’re up 15–3, and it gets better. He and his opponent circle around each other for about thirty seconds, then Digit shoots in and flips the guy and it’s over almost before you realize it.
    Digit puts a towel around his neck, picks up a squirt bottle, and sits next to me. He yells the whole time while Al and Hatcher pin their guys in the first period, then sits back and watches the rest of the match. We wind up winning 54–9.
    People pour out of the stands onto the mat, and the guys who wrestled start working their way toward the locker room. I just stand there, looking around and looking dumb. Al’s father wanders up to me and grabs my arm. “Nice job out there tonight,” he says to me, and I