BooksBarbecue
Back At Dawn
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 1
  6. 1
  7. 1
  8. 1
  9. 1
  10. 1
  11. 1
  12. 1
  13. 1
  14. 1
  15. 1
  16. 1
  17. 1
  18. 1
  19. 1
  20. 1
  21. 1
  22. 1
  23. 1
  24. 1
  25. 1
  26. 1
  27. 1
  28. 1
  29. 1
  30. 1
  31. 1
  32. 1
  33. 1
  34. 1
  35. 1
  36. 1
  37. 1
  38. 1
  39. Copyright

I was heavy on my feet, a product of nerves and inexperience. I wasn’t low enough. First line of defense: head. Second line of defense: hands. My head was too high, hands too heavy. My opponent shot in, grabbed hold of both legs, and scored two points by taking me down. We rolled out of bounds. I rushed back to the center and got down. Anticipate the whistle, just like practice. I raised my head, saw my father lift both his thumbs in an upward motion. Then I looked at the ref as my opponent climbed on. I exploded up in that split second before the whistle blew. I was quick and scored a point for an escape. I felt lighter now. Everything faded away, and I forgot about the nerves and the crowd, though I could still hear my mother and the collective sighs and gasps as each of us took errant shots. We ended the period in a tie-up. He was leading, two to one.

For the second period, my opponent had the choice of top, bottom, neutral, or defer. He chose down. I tried like hell to keep him there, to turn him to his back, but I eventually got too high and he escaped, scoring another point. There was little time left, and in my desperation to score before the period ended, I took a bad shot. He caught me in a front headlock and windmilled me around, scoring another takedown right before the period ended. I looked at the scoreboard. I was losing, five to one.

It was my choice for the third period. I wasn’t really tired. I looked at my opponent. He was bent at a ninety-degree angle with his hands on his knees, struggling to breathe. His face was red, sweat-covered. I felt certain he didn’t have the strength or endurance to hold me down.

I got into the down position and lifted my head. I saw my parents, saw the others from the bar who had come to cheer me on, saw the entire crowd. Then I looked at the ref. Anticipate the whistle, I thought to myself. My opponent must have done the same because he picked my ankle and thrust me forward as soon as I tried to stand. I was flat on the mat. He worked my arm into an arm bar but I pulled it free and struggled back to my base. I tried standing again but he forced me back down.

One more minute. That’s what my mother yelled. I tried another stand-up without success. Then I realized he wasn’t trying to turn me; instead he kept his arm tightly wrapped around my waist pretending to try. He only wanted to run out the clock, and in sitting on the lead, he had gotten careless, allowing his elbow to drop.