Page 54 of Playworld

To add distance and to try to peel off the last half pound, I jogged down Ninety-Sixth Street, a rolling hill that terminated at Riverside Drive. I could spot the Hudson from here, the highway overpass, the cars blurring at speed. The wind, further chilled by the water, blew into my face with great force. As soon as I turned left on West End Avenue, the gusts’ noises were nullified, I was shielded from them by the buildings. I felt strangely liberated; I considered not going to the meet at all. I would run to an entirely new city, in a new state, and live my life. At which point I spotted our former building’s awning,Five Seventy-Fiveemblazoned across it, and Pete, our doorman, standing outside—I hadn’t talked to him since we’d moved. I crossed the street to greet him. He’d just hailed a cab for a tenant.

“Pete!” I shouted and, remarkably, he recognized me. He said, “Mr. Griffin!” and took his fighting stance. He had loved myCandid Cameraappearance with Ali all those years ago. He said, “The boy who boxed the champ!” As was our ritual back then, I put up my guard, and we bobbed and weaved and feinted and jabbed, just as we had done every day when I came home from school. He said, “Look at you, all grown up. Come get out of the cold,” and then opened the entrance’s iron-grated doors, and I stepped into the building’s lobby. It was radiator warm, was the same bright, vaulted space, the east wall dominated by the gilt-framed mirror tall enough to reflect every bulb of the chandelier and the curling marble staircase that led to the second floor. Pete still had the burst blood vessel, as brown as a burned steak, in his brown eye. He said, “How’s Oren? That boy was so sweet, I worried about him.” He said, “How’s your mom and dad?” He said, “Your momma was so pretty.” He said, “Your dad—he still sing?”

I recalled Sunday mornings as we talked, late spring or early summer, when my mother would raise the two large windows in the living room that faced West End Avenue. There was next to no traffic. I could look north or south and lean onto the ledge and listen to the trees, whose topsreached our third-floor apartment and whose leaves indicated the wind’s prevailing direction. And I could call down to Pete, who’d stepped out from under the awning and was standing watch below.

“He doesn’t sing as much but sometimes,” I said.

“He has a beautiful voice,” Pete said.

“I’m sad we moved away,” I said.

“Sooner or later,” Pete said, “everybody moves away.”

“But not you, Pete.”

“Pete’s right here.”

“I have to go now. But I’ll come back and say hi soon.”

“You do that,” Pete said, and opened the door.

Standing in the lobby’s heat, I had worked up a good lather, but now, as I ran, my sweat turned terribly cold, and a few blocks later, I suffered a full-body cramp. I seized at every extremity. My fingers clawed, my calves balled up, my quads locked. The bands of my hamstrings retracted like raised venetian blinds. Like a cowboy shot on a canyon ledge, I stiffened before falling to the pavement. On my hands’ heels, I managed to sit myself with my back to the nearest building. Pedestrians walked by, indifferent and unfazed. To uncoil the knot I’d become, I flexed my toes and then reached my fingers to grab the balls of my feet and stretch out everything. I sat for a while longer, breathing tentatively, on high alert, should I contract again.

And I had the most vivid recollection of the first time I’d met Coach. I was in seventh grade. It was my first week at Boyd. I’d come to school very early. I knew no one, I had no friends, and was seated in the front hall, alone. Kepplemen appeared. He spotted me and stopped. I saw him see me. It was as if he recognized me, although I had never seen him before. He looked toward the entrance and back in my direction. He seemed to hover there for a moment, and then he drew closer, gliding forward to join me on the pew, though it felt as if I were the one being pulled in. For maybe a minute we watched the front entrance together, but no one arrived. That he’d sat so close in spite of the fact that we were completely alone shut me down. If the front hall had been crowded to its gills I’d have been unable to speak, I was so unnerved. He’d placed both palms on the bench. His long pinkie nearest mine was spread so wide ours nearly touched. He spoke, but softly. “I saw you playing footballthe other day. You look like you’re an exceptional athlete. Have you ever considered wrestling?” That was it; that was all it took. From that point forward I was in his grip. And seated on the cold pavement, I had the first adult thought of my life. Something so simple and revelatory the calm it imparted was wondrous:This will end.I had no idea if I’d made weight, but, oddly, I recognized the wait was over. This state of being I suffered wasn’t permanent, no matter what happened. It was mine to declare concluded, should I so choose, and that broke the spell. I got up, gingerly, and was able to stilt-walk, with almost no bend at the knees, for the remaining blocks. I was laugh-cursing the whole distance, and both feelings were real. Pedestrians gave me a wide berth, as if I were a madman.

The teams were at weigh-in when I arrived in the locker room, standing lightest to heaviest. Coach Kepplemen did not even acknowledge my presence when I entered. He stood with his clipboard, filling in the rosters, and gave me only his profile while Collegiate’s coach clacked the scale’s poises into place, spoke his wrestler’s name aloud, checked the pair of wrestlers’ weights, and then waved the next boy forward. I removed my damp hat and gloves and unbuttoned my team jacket. I stepped out of my warm-ups, my singlet, my socks and shoes. I dropped my drawers. I considered the delicate, almost deerlike diffidence of these two rows of boys as they stood, cross-armed or slouched, arms loose or hands folded over their genitals. I took my place in line, though I’d have just as soon cut straight to the front, I was so furious. When it was our turn, the Collegiate coach adjusted the scale to 121 and said his wrestler’s name aloud, which Kepplemen penciled into the lineup sheet, nodding to him warmly, respectfully. To me, Kepplemen said, “Step on, please,” although he still would not look at me. I waited until he did. I could tell he was scared. He was certain he was about to be humiliated, some way, somehow, not because I would let him down but simply because I was here. “Step on, please,” he repeated, and I did not move until we made eye contact. When Kepplemen finally did look up from the clipboard to meet my gaze, I held it as he often did when we were in private, but untilheaverted his eyes. UntilIcould take in the entirety of his person, unabashed and uncontested. His fingers were trembling, but so were mine. Because I realized that I hated him. I always had, all these years.Not for who he was or what he wanted. I hated him because he’d showed me who he was without knowing he had. Because I knew him better than he knew himself, and this seemed the very condition of his being an adult.

“Name,” the opposing coach asked me when the balance fell.

“Griffin Hurt.” And then to Kepplemen, I said, “Write it down.”

—

At school the next day, Cliffnotes asked me, “Are you in trouble?”

When I asked why, he said, “Because I just saw your mother coming out of Mr. Fistly’s office.”

Practice that afternoon was canceled. No explanation was offered. At dinner that night, I was too scared to broach the subject with my mother, but she surprised me by bringing it up herself. “I met with your principal today,” she said, and glared, adding, “Now eat.” She’d made spaghetti Bolognese. I recognized her ferocity, that it carried repercussions if I disobeyed, so I forced down every bite though this did not appease her. The following day passed without event, although Kepplemen was still absent. Through our captains came the news practice was canceled, and I remember the feeling that something tectonic had shifted. Cliffnotes, Tanner, and I shot looks at one another in the hallway as if we were hiding something, were keeping this secret, even though we did not know what it was—if it somehow implicated us and promised some undreamed-of reward.

On the following Monday afternoon, after suiting up for practice, we were greeted in the gym by Mr. Tyrell. He had a chipped front tooth and a scraggly mustache. His brown hair, threatening a mullet, was thin and parted down the middle. He had us sit against the wall and informed us that an announcement was going to be made. His West Coast drawl was raspy; it sounded like he always had a smoker’s loogie lodged deep in his lungs, which he occasionally paused to bring up, fist to mouth, and swallow again. When Tanner asked, “What’s this all about?” he said, “Patience, my bros, all questions will soon be answered by the man himself.”

And then Fistly appeared, his heels clacking against the waxed floor. He strode to the edge of the mats and did something remarkable: he removed his loafers. He padded to the mats’ center and stood on theBruin insignia. Beneath his socks we noticed him flex his toes. If he’d removed these garments to reveal feet as downy and taloned as a snow owl’s, I wouldn’t have been surprised. He considered us one end to the other. It was difficult to tell whether it was with pity or disapproval, though he let his eyes rest on me just long enough to communicate I was somehow the catalyst. He carried several papers with him, which he’d rolled into a tube. He smacked it against his leg several times. When he did speak, his tone was somber, apologetic. Could it be that he was the one who was actually embarrassed?

“I have some rather unfortunate news,” Mr. Fistly began. “Mr. Kepplemen has abruptly decided to take a position at the Fessenden School in Massachusetts. His explanation is that he was made an offer he could not refuse. I am, of course, deeply troubled by the fact that he is leaving both this team and the middle school program without a coach, not to mention our physical education program short-staffed. I consider his behavior appallingly unprofessional, and I have told him as much. But to no avail. We bid him adieu and shall think of him no more. I can assure you that we have begun conducting a search in the hope of replacing him, but this late in your season I’m afraid you must lower your expectations regarding its success. In the meantime, Mr. Tyrell has generously offered to step in as head coach pro tempore. As some of you may know, Mr. Tyrell was the assistant varsity wrestling coach before Mr. Kepplemen began his tenure here. You will join me in welcoming him into this role, and I am confident you will be patient with Mr. Tyrell as he gets his bearings during this transitional period. We have high expectations of our students at Boyd. We have evenhigherexpectations of our faculty. In this case we have been sorely disappointed, and for that you have my sincerest apologies.”

Fistly, eyes downcast, gingerly walked to the mats’ edge, slipped into his shoes, noisily marched toward the exit, and departed.

All of us shot looks at each other. Some shrugged, confused. Others covered their mouths, dismayed. I, like a boy whose pockets were stuffed with candy, awaited the shout from the storekeeper that I’d been caught. And like an unwilling accomplice, wanted someone to blame.

Tyrell turned back to us. “Everyone, this is heavy, for sure. I know you’re feeling some uncertainty at the moment, but as we used to sayback home, there’s no one way to ride a wave. So let’s get back up and have a wicked hard practice.”

As the team began warm-ups, Tyrell pulled me aside. “Mr. Hurt.”

“Coach.”

“I’m bumping you up to one twenty-nine. For the rest of the season.”

“But Swain starts at that weight.”