Escape Points Read Online Free PDF Page B

the twisted remains of a car crash.
     
    In the stands, boys slept like young cougars between matches, curling onto pillows, hooded sweatshirts pulled over their heads, covered by down-filled coats brought hastily from home, water bottles strewn like spent rifle casings across the floor near the orange peels and candy wrappers. A young wrestler could have as many as six matches in one day, fewer if he lost early on, more if he won. The goal was not to go home early. The goal was to go home later sporting a green ribbon with gold-colored medal for first, second, or third place.
    I always waved at Weldon. I called his name. Mostly he ignored me. He had mastered the expressionless chin chuck, lifting his chin in acknowledgment in a quick upward jerk. Brendan did it too, then Colin.
    But as a parent, you didn’t go for the acknowledgment; you couldn’t. It would be too upsetting; the immediate return on investment could not be measured. You went because there was no other activity you needed to do to catch up on work, run the house, or God forbid do for yourself, that was more important than being there in that gym for that child that day. Unless you had two other gyms to be in for your other children; then you did your best to catch a piece of everyone’s glory. You went because you believed—had to believe—that years from now when you were gone or when they were much older, they would remember the sight of you in the stands in the team colors screaming their names. And to them it would be a good memory.
    You want to contribute to the good memories.
    Your children will never recall happy memories of you getting a manicure or staying home to read a book. I felt I had a finite window on the timeline, minutes between the beginning and ending buzzers,to show them I cared enough to be there. I could get myself a manicure and read a book when they were all away at college.
    With prodding from the announcer, the wrestlers in the appropriate age groups headed to the holding pen with their coaches, and officials called their names for check-in at the assigned mat number. They attempted to put novice against novice and veteran against veteran. It was no fun to beat someone easily. You wanted your matches to be tough. Team parents kept track of who on the team was wrestling when and on what mat.
    “Is Brendan up next?” Caryn asked, and then we would all move together, sometimes with Leslie, Paula, and a few other moms to get closer to the mat where he was wrestling and cheer for the few minutes or less it took to declare a victory or a loss. And we would all do the same for each other’s sons. Some high schools wouldn’t ever allow you on the gym floor, and if so, we watched from the spectator’s gallery above; hoping not to stand next to the parent of the child our son was wrestling. If one of the team moms was not at the gym for the tournament, another mom would give her a play-by-play by cell phone: “He’s looking real strong, they’re circling, the other boy shot, got him down, he got out, one escape point, they’re circling . . .”
    Each of them called me about Weldon, Brendan, or Colin if I was in traffic or couldn’t attend because of another commitment with another son somewhere else.
    More than a few of the mothers on other teams were dressed in spandex-tight jeans and low-cut camisoles as if they were headed to a night on the casino boats, while some wore baggy sweatshirts with the youth team logo, their long brown hair sprayed into ponytails, bangs sitting stiffly on foreheads. One woman we nicknamed “Hot Mom” because at these tournaments she gave her son back massages between matches, so exaggerated and sensual it made us squirm.
    One father wore a T-shirt that read, I T’S N OT THE S IZE OF THE D OG IN THE F IGHT, I T’S THE S IZE OF THE F IGHT IN THE D OG . The Little Huskies logo is that breed of dog, standing upright on two legs and looking menacing, more human than canine. Most of the logosfor other