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England prep-school and high-school wrestling for years. An NCAA runner-up at 155 pounds, Ted Seabrooke was a handsome man; he weighed upward of 200 pounds in my time at the academy. He would sit on the mat with his legs spread in front of him; his arms were bent at the elbow but reaching out to you from the level of his chest. Even in such a vulnerable position, he could completely defend himself; I never saw anyone manage to get behind him. On his rump, he could scuttle like a crab — his feet tripping you, his legs scissoring you, his hands tying up your hands or snapping your head down. He could control you by holding you in his lap (a crab ride) or by taking possession of your near leg and your far arm (a cross-body ride); he was always gentle with you, and he never seemed to expend much energy in the process of frustrating you. (Coach Seabrooke would first get diabetes and then die of cancer. At his memorial service, I couldn’t speak half the eulogy I’d written for him, because I knew by heart the parts that would make me cry if I tried to say them aloud.)
    Not only did Ted Seabrooke teach me how to wrestle; more important, he forewarned me that I would never be better than “halfway decent” as a wrestler — because of my limitations as an athlete. He also impressed upon me how I could compensate for my shortcomings: I had to be especially dedicated— a thorough student of the sport — if I wished to overcome my lack of any observable ability. “Talent is overrated,” Ted told me. “That you’re not very talented needn’t be the end of it.”
    A high-school wrestling match is six minutes long, divided into three two-minute periods — with no rest between the periods. In the first period, both wrestlers start on their feet — a neutral position, with neither wrestler having an advantage. In the second period, in those days, one wrestler had the choice of taking the top or the bottom position; in the third period, the choice of positions was reversed. (Nowadays, the options of choice have been expanded to include the neutral position, and the wrestler given the choice in the second period may defer his choice until the third.)
    What Coach Seabrooke taught me was that I should keep the score close through two periods — close enough so that one takedown or a reversal in the third period could win the match. And I needed to avoid “mix-ups” — free-for-all situations that were not in either wrestler’s control. (The outcome of such a scramble favors the better athlete.) Controlling the pace of the match — a combination of technique, correct position, and physical conditioning — was my objective. I know it sounds boring — I was a boring wrestler. The pace that worked for me was slow. I liked a low-scoring match.
    I rarely won by a fall; in five years of wrestling at Exeter, I probably pinned no more than a half-dozen opponents. I was almost never pinned — only twice, in fact.
    I won 5-2 when I dominated an opponent; I won 2-1 or 3-2 when I was lucky, and lost 3-2 or 4-3 when I was less lucky. If I got the first takedown, I could usually win; if I lost the first takedown, I was hard-pressed to recover — I was not a come-from-behind man. I was, as Coach Seabrooke said, “halfway decent” as a counter-wrestler, too. But if my opponent was a superior athlete, I couldn’t afford to rely on my counter-moves to his first shots; my counters weren’t quick enough — my
reflexes
weren’t quick enough. Against a superior athlete, I would take the first shot; against a superior
wrestler
, I would try to counter his first move.
    â€œOr vice versa, if it’s not working,” Coach Seabrooke used to say. He had a sense of humor. “Where the head goes, the body must follow — usually,” Ted would add. And: “An underdog is in a position to take a healthy bite.”
    This was a concept