Sunday, October 16, 2016
High School Dilemma ((The Wrestling Match) (1964-65))
High School Dilemma
((The Wrestling Match) (1964-65))
In this eighth volume of writing a history of the things I’ve done, perhaps more on the order of things men and women do, to which I’ve written besides these eight books, perchance another 50-short stories in three other books, making it at this point, close to two-hundred short stories, on my travels, Army, war, my drunkenness, my careers, and especially on our rough and tumble neighborhood, on histories of people I’ve bumped into, I’ve also done several on my High School Days. But never on this one subject, a wrestling incident that took place at my High School, and after the match between the black guy and me, a lot of controversy took place of “Why…”
The story is on how a battle in wrestling class was fought. I hold no shame, and I’m sure my opponent, didn’t quite feel like the winner he’d had like to have been.
Let me put it this way: sometimes the whole life of a person’s world floats in the human faces of others, in one’s mind. That said, I
don’t know how to put it, so let me explain in detail, but first let be backtrack some, and present a lookalike incident: I had a fight with another person, a street fight, and I was beating him bad, once I had him on the ground, ready to beat his face in, he said, “Look over there, they’re cheering for you, you’re putting on a show for them,” and I looked and, sure enough, I was, so I stood up, and said, “The show is over.” And they got mad at me.
Now let’s pop up to the wrestling match in High School. We are both the same height, weight, I’m perhaps stronger than he is, but he’s pretty athletic—who’s to say; to which I’m a weightlifter, and semi street fighter, not a bad wrestler, but hot tempered. The lad didn’t scare me none, I figured I’d take him down quick. Mentally some things for me are clearly enough, if I couldn’t he couldn’t, so was my mindset. Thus, the physical education instructor selected me and Jerry to fight, my name is Chick Evens. And the cheers came, “This will be a good show,” I heard someone say. I never shied away from fights, or wrestling, now on the mate, I’m in the more vulnerable position, he needs to turn me over, move me, I need to get out of his grip around my torso, now for a moment, we are in a drugged silent state, “Go,” says the instructor, and the roars come, my opponent can’t budge me an inch. And I hear those same words I heard before, and I’m definite about this kind of thinking: I can’t put on a show, and I can’t wrestling him, I’ll have to roll him over and punch him out, the other watchers are murmuring, and Jerry can’t move me one iota, and he’s trying with all his muscle power, do I act or react?
I laid down flat, it was not going to be a show today.
“What did you do that for…?” several voices questioned, “You could have beat him!”
At first it was a faintly like echo, then it became an insistent question, one I’d not answer. But today I have.
For the forthcoming book: “A Changeable Banquet”