Chapter 13

As the surging recollection evolved it illuminated my thoughts with uncanny brightness. It was as if yesterday were 1979, still laying on the rubberized mat the rank smell of dried sweat and worse mixed with the scent of my own vomit.
It was the long awaited district three high school wrestling tournament. Through numberless grueling workouts and months of victorious Friday night battles, my twin brother DeRay and I had qualified as the number one seeds in our respective weight classifications. It was our senior season at the small rural high school which boosted mostly poor rough stock farm boys bussed in from the surrounding agricultural communities. This year the season ending tournament was hosted by our school and athletes and parents invaded the tiny farm town having traversed from most all parts of southern Idaho.
We were identical twins and often confounded our teachers and friends with our strikingly similar appearance. At one point to the absolute dismay of my exasperating mother the school photographer returned only one set of school portraits, convinced I am sure that he had mistakenly photographed the same student twice. But like many identical twins I suppose, in a struggle for dependence from an eerie body double our analogous ways did not extend into every aspect of life. This was especially true when it came to wrestling. Although we were unanimously voted co-captains of the grappling squad we approached success on the mat in much different ways. DeRay my senior by a mere seven minutes employed those additional four hundred twenty seconds to gain a decisive advantage. Methodical he developed a very mature and well thought-out even cerebral approach to wrestling. Unfortunately the echo of this calculated thinking process never reverberated with me. Instead of out-witting my grappling pray I stubbornly stuck with the brute method. This brainless tactic relied solely on base instinct and sheer muscle. Through out the eight years we wrestled competitively the inevitable truth was firmly established. DeRay’s thinking tactics excelled well beyond my own, yet because it differentiated us I stubbornly clung to my archaic visceral approach.
With the tournament nearing and the season behind, any lingering doubt regarding this matter again quickly dissipated. Peering at the win-loss records inked in the wrinkled tournament program DeRay’s record bordered on absurdity. Having accumulating 24 wins against one solitary loss he was certainly considered one of the states best. As for me, some would certainly consider 17 wins and 9 loss’s respectable. However I felt at times to be reaping the sour fruit of my boorish physical technique. Nevertheless, regardless of this slightly backward style I considered myself competitive and remained confident that I would advance to the upcoming state tournament.
Silently, I lounged lying comfortably on mats edge waiting for my first match to get underway. Looking up at the welcome banner that limply hung from the gyms naked rafters I poised myself for victory. Even as the team encircled the mat to begin our ceremonial warm-up routine I felt certain of a trouble free conquest over the three opponents I would face. Not only did I believe I could win, I expected it.
My first victim would be a tall lanky boy from a larger upstate high school. Twice we gruelingly sparred during the duel meets of the regular season. He was younger and less experienced and I exploited this amateurish plight bullying my way to win both matches, one by pin the other on points.
Meeting at the large orange emblem at the mats center, we limply Shook hands and offered unconvincing accolades. Retreating to the inner edge of the large circle that marked the boundary of the wrestling surface, I postured preparing for eminent attack. My mind confidently filled with visions of glory, of jubilant teammates showering celebratory congratulations, of a shiny gold medal dangling from a colorful ribbon.
My bodied readied, the whistle shrilled and undaunted I pounced. Blindly aggressive I Slithering beneath my advisories grasps easily capturing an unguarded knee. Swiftly locking ankles I furiously reeled in his thin thrashing body, then Like a rabid beast I Wildly Heaved myself upon my victim. Hopelessly snared and unable to escape, he succumbed crumpling sheepishly to the mat. Keenly aware of my opponent’s deflated optimism I sensed the end and rapidly moved for a killing pin.
Then In one excruciating moment, a moment that has haunted me for twenty-five years, the unexplainable occurred. With my rival wrapped tightly within my arms, with the aroma of victory in the air, my unrelenting stamina unexpectedly evacuated as the air in a tire-shredding blowout. Like a punch-drunk prizefighter struggling to survive the final round I halfhearted fought. My physical capacity collapsed and my insides churned like a boiling caldron. Weakened and lethargic I could not amass the strength to overcome my sudden listlessness. Seized by Unimaginable Frustration an acidic vomit forced its way into my throat and through tightly gritted teeth. In this chaotic condition my dreams were ruptured as the final whistle callously sounded.
Astonished over these agonizing turn of events, I slowly rolled over onto my churning stomach. Unbelievably stunned and confused I buried my puke covered face into the mat. My opponent victoriously celebrated as jubilant coaches and teammates thronged him. I could not comprehend this implausible loss. It all seemed surreal like a pinch proof dream.
Feeling textured reassuring hands stroke my battered shoulder tears welled and I fought back defeated sobs. Turning over again, onto my back I looked into my fathers face. He tried to smile but beyond the opaque grin worried wrinkles furled his forehead.
Then the rough cowboy that was my Dad evaporated and he Delicately Knelt beside me. Carefully bending over my sweat soaked body until our eyes converged; the gruff bellowing voice that I knew became a soothing whisper. Gentle as a mother’s la-la-bye-bye he calmly asks one question. He wanted to know if in this heart wrenching failure I had given all? Had I reached deep inside and extended every ounce of will? Tears again cascaded running along reddened cheeks before streaming into the valleys of my grimacing jaw and finally pooling on the floor.
Staring deeply into piercing blue eyes my lips quivered, the pain and agony of my broken spirit was beyond that which I had the ability to verbalize. Still, through tortured sobs I managed to speak and insipidly told my father I had. Looking away for a brief moment he survived the frantic hustle and bustle surrounding us. Drawing my attention to the carnival like atmosphere he drew near to me again. Curling a large weathered arm around my shoulders he told me it was all window dressings of life. What really mattered he strongly admonished is that I tried my best. That and that alone he continued made me a winner in his eyes.
Two decades later on a cracked and pant starved wooden bench I looked down on the dejected façade that covered Tanners face. His eyes clearly shown his building disappointment and in them I saw a glimpse of my own. Sliding closer I drew him near and slid my arm around him as my father had so many years ago. Wounded and erratically shaking, he looked up at me tears forming in his eyes. Fittingly it was now that my anxious brow furls while I forced a contrived smile.
Tenderly mopping troubled tears from tanners check and almost whispering I ask if in defeat he had given all. Tanner overcome by emotion managed to nod affirmatively. Desperately trying to check my own rising sentiments I warmly repeated my fathers tender words.
Feeling a bit embarrassed by the weepy trickle the fond memories had sprouted and Not wanting to embarrass Tanner with a public fatherly hug I slapped a resounding high five and retreated from the dugout.