TWINKLE-TOES

 

Mikey takes the mat.  He skips and hops and paces deliberately, back and forth, to and fro.  He's light on his feet, and ridiculously graceful, a 260-pound, spandex-clad ballerina on a mission.  Despite the size of the moment, and the fact that I've coached Mikey in well over 100 wrestling matches, his movements strike my funny-bone for an instant.  Twinkle-Toes.

 

I can't settle down enough to sit in my chair, so I pace behind it.  The pressure in the Tacoma Dome is stifling, heavy, crushing.  My feet are cement blocks, my quads laboring to move them.  I've felt this pressure in every championship final I've coached, but only once before has it felt like this.

Twenty-one years ago, another exceptional young man is in the state finals.  Our team trails by a few points.  If Lathen wins, we win.  He leads into the third period, when an unlikely desperation move suddenly ends the match.  Lathen bounces up, wondering what happened.  I can't control my body.  My knees buckle.  My gut churns.  I taste bile, and I crawl around on the floor behind my chair.  He lost, and I couldn’t stop it.

In my mind, Lathen's heartbreaking moment has resurfaced, an old wound freshly ripped open.  The memory heaps even more pressure on Mikey's moment.  The decades between these bookend points have been filled with commitment, and discipline, and persistent unrewarded effort by many, to reach the top.  Now, one precious six-minute opportunity presents itself, a generation in the making.  State finals.  Our team trails by 2.5 points.  If Mikey wins, we win.

Mikey, the underdog, shakes hands with the guy trying to crush our dreams.  The PA announcer is white noise, failing to cut through the dense pressure, but one item claws its way into my consciousness:  "27 and 1."  Dream Crusher's record.  The pit of my stomach aches as I pace stiffly behind my chair.  All I can think is 27 and 1, but my wingman, Coach Rasar, whispers calmly, "Mikey's gonna win."  Coach sometimes knows things that I don't know, and I don't know how he can know Mikey's gonna win, but it calms me a little.  Then I remember that Dream Crusher crushed a guy's dream in the semifinals, the same guy who dismantled Mikey twice this season.  I am no longer a little calm.  I still can't settle into my chair, so I continue to drag my cement blocks in circles behind it.

The whistle blows and it begins.  I've coached Mikey for four years.  I understand his strengths.  I know his weaknesses.  I'm aware of his mental hang-ups.  I know everything there is to know about Mikey's game, but when the whistle blows, I feel powerless.  As they say in the business, the hay is in the barn.  Lathen's lesson reminds me that anything can happen at any time, and there is little I can do about it.  The pressure of this particular moment makes me feel especially useless.  I want to cover my eyes and peek through my fingers, but I resolve to do what I can to help.  Still, the hard truth: Mikey is on his own.

Dream Crusher and Mikey bang on each other.  Late in the first round, Mikey scores.  In the second, he scores again.  Then he gives up a penalty point.  Despite his lead, the single unnecessary point feels like a dagger.

The second period winds down, and the pressure builds, as one of my few opportunities to make a difference approaches.  It will be Mikey's choice to start the third round.  Top, bottom, or neutral?  I've made this decision a thousand times, and it mostly works out for the best.  But not always.

The smart money calls for Mikey to pick down.  Get his escape and build his lead.  But I know Dream Crusher is tough on top.  I saw him turn his rugged opponent several times for back points in the semifinals, the same opponent who has beaten Mikey twice.  In my heart I know the correct call, but for reassurance, I ask Coach Rasar what he thinks.  "Have him take down," he says.

Round two ends with Mikey up 4-1.  He looks at me for a decision.  I muster my most confident body language, and forcefully stab my thumb toward the floor.  "Take down!" I shout.  Then, "Get your butt out of there!"  Mikey picks down.  He gets his butt out in 10 seconds, and I know we are on the verge, but I hold my breath.  I've been here before.

Thirty seconds pass.  Then a minute.  I clutch the back of my chair.  With 30 seconds left, Mikey leads, 5-1.  Somebody twists a Tacoma Dome valve, and pressure surges out.  I can almost hear it hissing in a thin, powerful stream.  The clock winds down, and my feet are lighter by the second, as cement crumbles and falls away.  Twenty seconds to go, and a chant swells in my ears:  "Mikey . . . MIKEY . . . MIKEY! . . ."  Hair stands on my neck, and my arms shiver all the way to my fingertips.

Ten seconds.  I inhale deeply and forget to exhale.  Five . . . four . . . three . . . and for the second time in my career, I can't control my body.  My feet won't stay on the floor.  I'm too reserved to dance with my wife, but now I twirl and leap in front of thousands.  I am Twinkle-Toes.

The final whistle blows.  Coach Rasar pumps my hand, and says, "Two old farts got it done."  The next instant, I am airborne, landing in the arms of another assistant––the stoic, 300-pound Coach Fakkema, who has likely never held a man aloft, straddling his stomach.  What would be entirely awkward in any other moment, isn’t now.

Coach Fak sets me down, and I float over to Mikey, who is grinning his familiar boyish grin, and crying.