Our coach was a slightly overweight fifty-year-old who taught shop at the high school. Every day, he wore the same pair of black nylon shorts that were nearly pulled to his chest, so tight that we could see his balls on each side of the permanent camel toe no less than an inch deep. He carried himself as though the world conspired against him and his only defense was profanity, which he used constantly. He had graying hair at his temples, was always squinting though he wore no glasses, and had a ruddy complexion that gave the appearance of high blood pressure. None of us would become close with him, but in his own way he was endearing to us all.

He gave a brief tutorial in the locker room. In total there were twenty-nine of us for fifteen weight classes. He expected that by the end of the week, he’d be left with only twenty, twenty-two at the most. Wrestle-offs would be the Tuesday before our first match, which was a month away on a Thursday. There was one other person in my weight class, and I knew there was no way he could beat me even though I knew next to nothing about wrestling. Heart and determination had to count for something.

As the coach passed out equipment, I leaned over and whispered in Jason’s ear.

“How much did you weigh?”

“Eighty-five,” he said.

“I’m still going to screw you up.”

“Maybe after I screw yer momma,” he snapped back. I laughed. The coach glared at me.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“Jason said he’s going to screw my mother.”

“And you thought that was pretty goddamn humorous, huh?”

I nodded, drunk with spastic energy to get on the mat and do whatever it was we’d be doing. “Yeah, because he doesn’t realize my mom doesn’t go for blonds.”

“Your dad is blond,” Jason argued.

The coach nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll see if you’re both still laughing after running twenty laps after practice.”

Over the years, I’d lost none of my fiery nature, not a single ounce of piss and vinegar. After I had learned to fight and thus acquired the confidence such knowledge brings, I think I’d grown even more restless. The problem was that I no longer had an outlet for my natural aggression after the fight with Donny Smith. Sure, there was still the occasional scuffle, but they were hardly fights, always broken up immediately after starting, and I believe that was half the reason for my eagerness that day; I was certain I’d found the outlet the heavy bag still hanging from my bedroom ceiling no longer provided.