A week before our first match, the coach ran whistle drills for the top and bottom positions. Jason was down; I was up. Drilling stand-ups as a team. The room would fall silent, and after the top person assumed the position, the coach would blow the whistle and the bottom person was to explode to his feet and try to escape. All twenty-four wrestlers who remained on the team, or twelve pairs, burst up at the same time. The key was for the bottom person to anticipate the whistle, to rush up in the fraction of a second between the ref’s lips puckering and his cheeks expanding but before any sound escaped. The top person, for this drill, wasn’t allowed to watch the whistle and had to react to the bottom person’s movement. If he escaped, the top person had to run one lap after practice. If he didn’t, the lap went to the bottom man.
“Goddamn it, Lincoln, my grandmother could hold you down and she has an artificial hip!” the coach snapped at one of our teammates. “Stand up so that a fuckin’ tank couldn’t hold you down, all of you, you hear me?”
Everyone got down again.
“Okay, top man on,” the coach said.
I got on, placed my left hand on Jason’s elbow, my right arm around his waist with my hand on his navel. The room completely silent, all anticipating the whistle, ready to fight for twenty seconds. Before it blew, however, I removed my hand from Jason’s gut and rammed my thumb straight up the crack of his ass. He yelped and lurched forward as though diving for a ball. He landed on his side and looked back at me with a hurtful expression.
“Daniels, what in the fuck are you doing!?” the coach screamed.
“Nothing, sir.”
“That had to be the ugliest goddamn stand-up I’ve ever seen! You didn’t even stand. It was like you were diving straight ahead for pussy. Do you see pussy anywhere in this gym, Daniels?”
“No, sir.”
“Christ, that was hideous! Just for that, everyone here gets five extra laps.”
The room groaned. I tried with everything to suppress my laughter. Thankfully my face was already red from the workout.
“Well then, get back down. Shit, don’t let me see that again. I’m liable to forfeit the whole goddamn match next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
He got back down, and I assumed the top position while still trying not to laugh.
“You’re a dick,” Jason whispered to me.
5
The day before our match, we received our warm-ups and singlets. I took both home, put on the solid black singlet, and stood in front of the bathroom mirror admiring myself.
“Come out of there and let me see,” my mother yelled.
“You sure you don’t want to wait till tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”