Titans

Titans

A yellow school bus, gears grinding, faces hazy in the windows, pulled out of the
parking lot. Behind them in the dusk was Harry S. Truman Senior High, a single-story brick building, damp as a factory.

A thin boy sat quietly in the middle of bus. Keven Sullivan. His hair was shorn, though the stubble curled wildly, defying comb or brush. He sat with hands folded tightly atop a bulky gym bag held loosely together with packing tape.

Beside him on a green leather seat swayed a husky youth in a lettered athletic jacket. The husky boy had a military crewcut, a square Iron Man face, and eyes cool and black as the stones that littered the plowed slush on the side of the road. Peter Grammel. One of two co-captains on the team. At practice his voice sounded gravelly, rumbly as boulders bouncing down a mountain. Now he was silent, meditative.

In the seat behind Keven two dark figures chewed at the walls of their mouths and spat into tiny Dixie cups. They growled and coughed up every precious ounce that might tip the scales. Occasionally they spoke in low whispers. Their smiles were private, contemptuous. Rick DiAngelo. Mark Armstrong. Part of the mysterious world of the lightweights. Their teeth shone in the dark of the bus like glowing fangs, pointed as the metal on a paper clip opener.

Keven slid a pair of onyx glasses out of his shirt pocket. He stole a glance over his
shoulder, somehow annoyed by DiAngelo and Armstrong’s unholy giggles, worrying they might be directed at his back.

“You wear glasses too?” Grammel asked. Peter squinted out the window.

They watched Mr. Christian sitting in the front seat next to the driver. The solid math teacher had a thick General Custer mustache. He held the front railing firmly, as if he bounced along over the potholes at the helm of a covered wagon. Behind the coach in rows of silent contemplation huddled the team - twelve bronze spirits, their hearts black as Grecian urns. Alongside Iron Man, headlights reflected off the glasses of the thin boy.

* * * *

The Titans walked in single file down the hallway, some in red and black team jackets, some in baseball warm-up vinyls. Each boy carried a bulky black gym bag inscribed with a large red “T.” The building was quiet and cold. The walls pale cream. DiAngelo and Armstrong both wore plastic suits. Their sneakers squeaked against the tile floor.

Coach Christian gathered the team in a circle, told them to wait, then went off to look for the locker room. Iron Man leaned against a wall, staring blindly at the floor. Armstrong spat on a poster. Eddy Covaleski, his curly blond hair sticking out like elves’ ears, grinning till his lips seemed as wide as a cantaloupe rind, picked up a phone on the wall. Bob MacKenzie hovered next to him sniffing Covaleski’s elbow.

A secretary’s voice crackled over the line. “Can I help you in the gym?”

“Yeah,” Eddy drawled, “blow me.” He smashed the phone down like a hot red potato. Nervous energy rippled around the circle. Keven wanted to laugh, but couldn’t.

* * * *

Ray Diekman, the heavyweight and other co-captain of the team, tore open an orange locker with a hand clammy as a rubber glove. Keven balanced his gym bag on a bench, then mechanically began pushing buttons through the holes on his shirt.

Diekman sat beside him trying to cross his legs, but could not reach his shoes. “Hey Sully, get them for me.”

With great discomfort, Keven gripped Diekman’s heel and yanked off a size 13 Converse All Star. The air felt cool and misty from the nearby natatorium, but the heavyweight perspired from the effort. His sweats were as wet and grubby as a kitchen scrubby. Keven threw Diekman’s shoes into the co-captain’s locker. They banged into the bottom.

Red-haired Frank Wiley, freckles camouflaging his naked body from head to toe,
padded toward the office. Aware Diekman stared at him, Keven took off his glasses and finished undressing. His hands shook as he shucked his socks and boxers. The square tiles beneath his soles felt slimy as a river bottom. Rubbing his arms to keep warm, and balancing himself on his toes, he took his place at the end of the line.

Covaleski stepped off the scale, eyes cold. Next Wiley. Then the thin boy stepped up. Coach Christian set the weights. Keven blushed, his hands clasped before himself awkwardly.

“One hundred and thirty pounds. Two under,” the coach said. The assistant coach, a small man with glasses thicker than rubber bands, marked it down on a clipboard. Mr. Christian said: “You’ve got a forfeit, Keven.”

“What?”

“Springfield’s 132 pounder is sick. You don’t have to wrestle.”

The boy stepped down off the scale, unconscious that he had rubbed against
Diekman’s blubber. He wanted to sing out, till he stood back among the lockers. Keven looked at the others dressing in their red and black tights. Iron Man stretched his legs against a bench. DiAngelo and Armstrong had made weight and pulled 7-Eleven hoagies and a carton of OJ from their gym bags, biting into them greedily, mayonnaise dripping from the corners of their mouths. Slowly Keven sagged. He pulled on his uniform, shoulders wilting like freshly picked basil.

* * * *

A buzzer sounded, hurting Keven’s ears. The scoreboard read: Titans 63, Lions 3.
Diekman’s 216 pounds rested comfortably on a squirming boy in white headgear and faded blue tights. Ray twisted his opponent like a pretzel. The Lion was on his back in the final throes of flailing frantically back and forth as his shoulders inched toward the spongy mat. A black and white striped referee crouched on all fours. Whistle in his mouth, the ref scurried around the combatants with the agility of a squirrel.

Coach Christian smiled, hardly even paying attention to the match. He talked, hands on his hips. Nodding seriously to every word, arms folded across his chest was Senior Keith Doll, the teams’ 154 pounder. Keith was undefeated thus far in the season and had pinned his opponent in a new team record: 18 seconds. He played the role of the team’s silent leader.

Keven sat among a line of folding chairs at the edge of the mat. The smell of sweaty sneakers clung in the air. He glanced out the corner of his eye at Doll. He admired the bulgy biceps, the trim waist, the Cheerios box face.

DiAngelo and Armstrong shoved one another back and forth in the seats next to him. Armstrong’s shoulder blades bit into Keven’s side. When they did not respond to his growls he pretended not to notice them. His eyes roved the dwindling bleachers, looking for a girl with a Raisin Maid face, broad hips, and long swirls of hair dyed white as a plastic spoon. Robin Baker was among the few girls in his Freshman history class that went braless. There she was, standing up, taking a last look at the mat before she filed out. He cringed, watching her, hiding behind Armstrong. She stared at Keith Doll’s back, turned and left.

The ref’s hand slammed the mat. The team crowded around Diekman and slowly headed toward the showers, weary gladiators. The thin boy slipped away from the others into a dark hallway. He found a pay phone and dropped a dime in the slot. As he listened to the line ring he traced a pattern over the names carved into the coin box.

“Hello? Keven?”

A lump rose in his throat. He felt empty as the plastic pie container at home on the
kitchen counter. “Hi Mom. Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, someone gave him Phillies tickets so he ended up taking Buck to see the Brewers. So how’d you do, honey? Did you win?”

“I had a forfeit. The other kid has the mumps or something.”

“That’s a shame. After all your hard work and worrying. Well, come on home. I’ll make you some Lipton soup.”

* * * *

Not bothering to shower, avoiding the antics of his teammates, Keven neatly folded his uniform and placed it back inside the big plastic gym bag. Alone, feeling spent as an empty book of matches, he went outside to the cold bus and plopped down in a seat.

After a short while Brian Troutman climbed on board and sat in the front. Troutman had a smooth complexion and blond hair that kept falling over his forehead into his eyes. A straight “A” student. He was the only other Freshman on the team. When he spotted Keven he wiped his eyes.

“At least you didn’t get pinned,” Kevin said.

After a while Troutman sniffled, “Yeah, that’s true. But it stinks to be the only one to lose. You lucky bastard. A forfeit. I wish I didn’t have to wrestle.”

Keven erupted viciously, “Shut up! You don’t know squat.”

“What? What did you say?” Troutman was only 112 pounds. He pretended not to understand.

Keven put on his glasses and turned toward the frosted window. “There are worse
things in life than losing.”