For the Love of Money by Sam Polk Read Free Book Online Page B

After classes, I grimly piled on my damp layers of sweats and shuffled along the same dusty trail I’d run the day before. The sun beat down, but no sweat came.
    Coach was in the locker room when I returned. He was angry that I was still a pound over. He put me in the front seat of his car, rolled up the windows, and turned the heater up full blast. While he drove, I sucked on Jolly Ranchers, spitting the saliva into a plastic cup. Coach’s face was dripping, but I didn’t start sweating until twenty-five minutes in.
    I was still a half pound over when we got back but was too parched to do anything. I stripped to my underwear and lay on the cool stone floor, shifting positions every few minutes to new slabs to conduct away the heat. I kept sucking on the Jolly Ranchers, spitting toward the drain next to my head. My teeth hurt, like the enamel had been ripped off of them.
    The San Marino wrestlers arrived. Each team lined up in their underwear according to weight. One by one opponents stepped on the scale, and the ref released the metal finger. If it moved, even by a little, the wrestler made weight. My opponent looked tiny. I couldn’t believe I was trying to weigh what he weighed.
    When it was my turn, I stepped on the scale. The ref removed his finger. The metal finger didn’t move. I was still too heavy.
    I pulled off my underwear and stepped bare assed onto the scale. I was dizzy. I watched the metal finger as the referee dropped his hand.
    It moved. Just barely, but it moved.
    Before I was even conscious of it, I’d drained a Gatorade in one swoop. It wasn’t pleasurable or enjoyable; it was simply gone, and I was suddenly freezing. I was gulping water, but I still felt as thirsty as before. Soon I was shivering. I put my sweats back on but was still cold. I started to munch on whole wheat bread, and after a while I was full and I knew I was in trouble. The match was in an hour.
    The stands were pretty full for a wrestling match, maybe fifty people. Dad was standing at the side of the mat, talking on his cell phone. He’d recently started a public relations business, Polk Communications, and he worked incessantly. It was just him alone in an office, but he’d started to talk about how one day he’d sell the company for millions of dollars. As we warmed up, liquid sloshed inside my stomach. I kept looking at Dad to see if he was watching me, but he was engrossed in his call. The ref blew the whistle, beginning the 103-pound match. I felt nauseous, already exhausted.
    Before I knew it I was up next. I took my warm-ups off and walked slowly to the center of the mat.
    My opponent was soft and pudgy, a fish. Novice wrestlers are called fish because of how they flop around when you put them on their backs. I towered over him. The whistle blew and he shot. The shot is the most common offensive move in wrestling, sort of a controlled tackle. I saw it coming and scooted away easily. We circled each other again, and then I shot, got ahold of the back of his legs, and lifted him easily into the air. I carried him on my shoulder while he wriggled likea live tuna. The crowd screamed. I heard my dad cheering. I strutted around the mat, then slammed him down, holding him on his back to earn points. I was up 5-0.
    I could have kept him on his back, maybe pinned him right then. But the screams from the crowd filled me with pride; I didn’t want it to be over yet. So I let him turn to his stomach. Then I just stood up. Letting someone up in wrestling is like slapping them in the face. You give them a point, because you know you can earn it back. He stood up uncertainly, unwilling to believe I had so startlingly disrespected him. I walked back to the center of the mat. He started toward me.
    We circled each other, and then I shot again, and again lifted him into the air. I heard Dad yell, “Twice!” and I felt proud. But the fish seemed heavier now, and this time I didn’t slam him but