Slot Machine by Chris Lynch Page B

action.
    Bellows was determined to pin me before that happened. With one hand still on each of my shoulders, he lowered his head and butted me in the chest.
    The whistle blew. “Abusive move,” Coach called.
    “Ya,” I concurred, gasping.
    “No punishing moves,” Coach told Bellows, slapping him on the shoulder. “That would cost you a warning in a real match. Two of ’em would cost you a point.”
    Bellows stuck out his hand and yanked me to my feet, even though I was quite happy where I was. “Okay, let’s start over again,” he said, bouncing anxiously.
    “I think that’s good for now, boys. Let the other guys have a crack,” Coach said, and I almost hugged him.
    “Nice job,” Eugene whispered when I staggered back to the edge of the mat. “Way to hold that predicament.”
    I was still breathing hard, my ribs killing me with every heave, when I thanked him. I winced when Bellows came by and slapped my back.
    But I liked it.
    Axe, though. Axe was a different story entirely. Axe was the kind of guy who would slap your back only if you were standing on a cliff above a bay full of alligators. He was next on my dance card one rung down, at super middleweight.
    Emphasis on the super. I never saw a kid so hard before. His arm muscles were dense and lashed with lumpy veins, his legs like two thick nautical ropes, and his bones—very dangerous—were practically filed to points on his elbows, cheeks, and temples. He had a face that never changed for anything, and looked like he didn’t enjoy not one minute of whatever he was doing.
    The only bright spots, as I could see them that morning, were the “no overzealous” speech and the soothing memory of “no punishing moves” from the day before. It would be all right, I thought, because I didn’t have big aspirations here. I knew what was what. All I wanted was to hold my little bit of ground. Hold off on the pin. I could live in a predicament.
    Yet when the match started, it all meant nothing.
    Axe could wrestle. He did it all by the book, and nobody could stop him. When we met, the first thing he did was to slap away my outstretched hands, spin me around, and lock a grip on me from behind. He took his powerful right arm and threaded it up under my soft one. His hand held the arm from the inside of the elbow, and he yanked it almost behind me. Then his left hand came up and slapped onto my neck, and in one mighty, overwhelming swoop he flipped me to the floor.
    I was nearly paralyzed. The move, and the hold that followed it up, were so efficient, so controlled, and it seemed to me so damn mean hearted, that I was immobile with dread. Axe now had my right arm pulled firmly back, and his left hand pressed so hard against the side of my head that the heel of his hand was leaving a bone bruise right behind my ear.
    I looked out from under Axe’s hand as he pressed my cheek to the floor. I could only see anything with the eye that was against the mat, the other being blocked by Axe’s fingers. I felt like the helpless antelope I always saw on the nature show, the one that didn’t get away, the one left staring big-eyed into the camera as the big cats swarm him and the rest of the herd escapes.
    No punishing holds. My head hurt, my neck was twisted like a wrung towel. For one half of one half of a second my muscles thought there was a chance. Everything hurt ten times as much when I twitched. I was staring right into the faces on the sidelines, and they looked uncomfortable for me. I wished I could look away.
    “That’s enough, Coach,” Eugene yelled out.
    I hated that I was such an asshole as to think nobody could pin me.
    “Predicament, Elvin,” Coach yelled. “Break it.”
    At a certain point you always see the antelope stop kicking and lie back. I lay back.
    An explosion. Axe released his grip, half lifted me, and slammed me flat on my back. He had caught me napping. I was pinned and croaked.
    And pretty well broken.
    I was still grieving over it as I