The Gifted Greg Franklin

Distraction. Perhaps not the best thing to be concentrating upon, in such a tense moment, but I need to focus my attention elsewhere. I think too much about the match, I’m bound to psyche myself out and lose before I even step on the mat. I discovered long ago, that I wrestle best when my mind is clear or at least when I don’t overanalyze all of the possible outcomes. Right now, I’m thinking about Shannon Bunting. Her big brown eyes and her succulent smile. Her body. That tight, firm body. The last time I saw Shannon was in the summer before ninth grade. She wore a red, white and blue bikini, revealing an upper body transformation that let me know she was no longer a child. In a pair of tight swimming trunks it was much easier to hide my attraction for her mentally than it was physically. That was three years ago. I had told myself for all nine months of the seventh grade that when the time was right I was going to approach her and ask her out. The “right time” as much as I wished it would, never presented itself. In eighth grade an excuse made itself viable as one of the hipster sophomores with a license and a car took her out for a while. When anyone who know of my infatuation questioned me about Shannon, I would simply say, “She’s a taken woman.” I was totally off the hook when Shannon moved up north with her mother shortly before we began our freshman year. Fear as it had always been was why I wasn’t going to ask her out, but at least now I could blame the fact that Shannon lived in North central Iowa, and I lived in southeastern Iowa. Not anymore. Mom ran into Shannon’s dad at the grocery store the other day. She might have waited a whole 30 seconds after he told her, to call me and let me know that Shannon will be moving in with him next fall. The way mom understands it, Shannon hasn’t had the best time at her new high school and she wants to come back and graduate with us. And of course mom had to ask her dad if she was seeing anyone. She’s not. Mom’s reminded me a few times, in case I forget.

“Greg!” Coach Sanders wants to make sure that I’m focused and ready to go. I won my third place match today at the district tournament and I now get to challenge J.J. Smith of Des Moines Lincoln for true second place. I win this match I qualify for the Iowa high school state championships. I lose, my season is over. Coach Sanders also knows that I sometimes over think and psyche myself out. He told me to clear my head and try and get my mind off wrestling until it was time to focus. I highly doubt he wanted me to think about a different style of wrestling that I’d like to do with Shannon, but that’s the beauty of thoughts. No one knows what we’re thinking, unless we want them to.

“You beat him once.” Coach Sanders is still yelling in my ear, “You can beat him again.”

Coach isn’t wrong. I did beat Smith once. I beat him 7-6 in a dual meet. He beat me 4-1 earlier in the season and he also beat me 8-6 sudden victory at a different tournament. I can beat him again, but he can beat me again too.

My record this season is 30-4. Coach says it should be 32-2. We both know that there is no way I was beating returning state champion Adam Keating of Oskaloosa. He beat me 21-7 in the semi-finals earlier today, but the two losses I had to Smith were winnable. I wish this match was against someone else. I wish that the three of us hadn’t have ended up in the same district. Life sure would be a lot easier if the top three of us got to go to state, instead of just the top two.

“Greg.” I turn to my left. It’s my best friend Tony, our 182 lbs wrestler. He finished in third place about 20 minutes ago. He didn’t get a wrestle-back. “We’re only a point and a half behind Oskaloosa. You win your match and we’ll win the tournament.” Great, just what I need to hear. Ottumwa is a basketball school. It always has been. We win basketball conference championships and send our basketball team to state every year. Coach Sanders has been adamant about growing the wrestling program to such heights ever since he arrived six years ago. We’ve won some big matches. Sent guys to state and a few have returned with medals. We have yet to win a team conference or district title though. And the pressure is on me. In about 10 minutes from now or so, I could walk out of here a hero forever cemented in the history books as the guy who won the match to capture the team district title for Ottumwa high school. Moments to become a legend happen so rarely in life for people. I do not want to blow this. I may not ever get a second chance.

The wait is over. It’s time to do this. No more preparation. No more time to think. Smith and I are the final match of the tournament. People often like to argue that wrestling is both an individual and a team sport. The current circumstance illustrates that point as good as any. A personal trip to state for me and a district title for the team, both on the line.

“Control the things you can control.” Coach Sanders who has been on my right this entire time is sending me out onto the mat, “Wrestle smart. Stay focused.”

I wonder what Smith is thinking. I shouldn’t be thinking this, but I am. He knows this could be his final high school match. He knows that I’m good at outside shots and that I have a mean double. I suspect he anticipates I will try to score off of them. He on the other hand is a great upper-body wrestler. I know better than to let him tie me up.

“Shake hands guys.”

The referee has blown his whistle and we’re underway. Smith reaches for me, trying to get me into a Russian tie. If he can create an angle, I know he can get me off balance and score on me. I square up with him, preventing him from getting me off balance. An opportunity presents itself; I clear the elbow and take a second to decide whether to attack the far knee or to try for a snatch single. The one second of hesitation is enough for Smith to react as I try and shoot for his leg. He’s sprawled out. He now has me in danger and himself in a position to score. I must keep fighting. I must keep moving. If I stop, he’ll win this battle. We scramble about the mat. I can’t make out what is being said, but I can hear his coach and Coach Sanders screaming.

“Out of bounds!” The referee yells as I take a moment to suck in some oxygen and see that the score is tied at zero with about three seconds left in the first period.

The period ends. I shouldn’t have hesitated. Had I just went without thinking, I would have scored. No time to kick myself in the ass about it now. The referee takes his coin out of his pocket. He flips it up into the air and it lands on red. It’s Smith’s choice. He chooses down. I have but a few seconds to decide how I want to try and keep him down. Do I throw in the legs? Do I try for a crab ride? Last time we wrestled I tried a good ole fashioned chop the arm and work for a bar arm series, but he was able to easily hit a Granby roll and get out of it. The referee motions me to get into position. I’m throwing in a leg.

The period starts, I’m trying to throw in a leg but Smith is fighting it like mad. I shove on his head and try and throw in a half nelson as our war of wills unfolds. He now has a hold of my left hand and wrist with both of his hands and as he pulls I’m getting over extended. Son of a bitch! He’s starting to stand up and I cannot get myself back into position.

“Two!!” I hear the referee loud and clear. Smith has hit a reversal on me. No time to panic. I wasn’t put onto my back, I’m only down by two, and the match is still winnable. I have no idea how much time is left on the clock, but I’m going to treat it as if there isn’t much. Experience has taught me that Smith is a hard guy to get out of position. I’ll need all the time I can get. I stand up to my feet and I struggle to get away and Smith struggles to keep a hold of me. I clear his hands as I turn away from him and I hear the buzzer sound. Did I get my point? Did I score? The referee looks over at the score table. He looks back at me and then at my coach.

“No escape!” He yells, “No escape!”

Coach Sanders shakes his head in disagreement. The sense of urgency is even greater. I know Coach Sanders is going to have me take bottom but I look over at him anyway for advice. Sure enough he points his index finger downwards towards the mat. Two more minutes. 120 seconds is all that it will take to decide our fate. I’m down two to zero. I have got to get an escape and I have got to score a takedown.

The whistle blows and I explode up off the mat. I know there is no way Smith is going to ride me out. I am going to get away from him. He brings me back down to the mat and I explode back up again. This time I have hand control. I turn away from him and break free.

“Escape green!” The referee yells.

I’m only down 2-1, if I can get a takedown I’ll win this match 3-2. I fight for an opening. I need to set something up and then go for it, but for the life of me I cannot create an angle. I cannot get Smith out of position. We battle out of bounds. There is only 15 seconds left in this match. I’ve got to make something happen and I’ve got to make it happen now. As the referee blows his whistle for us to start, I fake a high crotch to the left and with everything I got, go for a low single to the right. Smith falls to his butt. I hear my Coach and the crowd of Ottumwa Bulldog fans screaming for the referee to signal two as I fight to get my head out.

The buzzer sounds. Coach Sanders is irate. Coach Willis, our assistant wrestling coach is holding him back as he tries to walk out onto the mat. I don’t think he’s sworn yet, but he isn’t happy. From the chorus of boos I hear from the crowd, I don’t think anyone is happy. Well, except for those who are cheering for Smith.

“How can you not give that two!?!” Even though the referee is less than a foot away from him, Coach Sanders still feels it necessary to yell at the top of his lungs.

“He did not have control.” I’m surprised at how calm the referee is remaining considering that he has a 5’5, 130 lbs ball of a fire that I call my Coach screaming in his face, “They were fighting for position.”

“Position my …foot!” Coach Sanders has a strict intolerance for swearing and he leads by example. “That was two points and you know it!!”

“Good match.” I say as I shake Smith’s hand and give him a small hug, “Get a medal for me at State, will ya?”

“You bet man.” He says back to me, “I’ll miss these epic battles. I hope you make it to State next year.”

I stand there for a second, as the referee puts one arm on me and the other on Smith.

“Hell of a match. Both of you.” He says to both of us as he turns to me, “Good sportsmanship.”

I’m not sure what hurts more. The fact that I won’t be going to the state tournament or that I let the team down. I could have won the match and taken credit for why we won the district championship today, but instead I lost and now I have the burden of responsibility for why we didn’t.

“Hey, I’m proud of you buddy.” Coach Sanders shakes my hand as I walk over to him and throw my t-shirt and shorts back on. “You fought hard out there. You did what you could. It’s not your fault.”

I appreciate Coach Sanders trying to make me feel better, but I don’t. I know how much it means to him to win a team district championship. It’s a goal he spoke about on my first day of practice freshman year and it’s a goal he’s mentioned many times since. I could have made that goal a reality for him today and I didn’t.

“You handled yourself very well out there.” Coach Willis doesn’t say much. He only speaks when he feels that he absolutely needs to, “Keep your head up.”

I begin walking back towards the locker room. My body aches and I don’t know what’s worse, the stench of my breath or the wretched smell of my sweaty body. I need a shower, I need to brush my teeth and I need a big tall glass of water.

“You were screwed Franklin.” Of all people, the last person I expected to say that to me was Adam Keating.

“Thanks Keating.” I figure since he addressed me by my last name, I should address him by his.

“I hope you make it next year.” He says as he extends his hand to me.

“I hope you win the state title again this year.” I say to him as we shake hands.

He nods at me and we go our separate ways. I wonder what it takes to be as good as he is. Is it natural? I don’t mean to be arrogant but I can’t see him working any harder than I do. I run till I puke, I lift till my arms feel like they’re going to explode and I do both freestyle and Greco-Roman in the spring. Then in the summer I attend wrestling camp. Some believe that there is no such thing as talent or natural gifts. I do.

I enter the locker room and grab my gym bag that I had sat on the floor. I pull out my pants and a clean Ottumwa bulldogs wrestling t-shirt with a clean pair of underwear and sox and lay them across the bench. I know I cannot take too long because the awards ceremony is going to start in a few minutes, but a long hot shower is going to feel good.

“Greg!” I turned to see Tony as he walks in.

“Hey Tony.” I say back to him as I grab my towel out of my bag and begin walking towards the shower.

“Man, I can’t believe how loud the gym got during your match!” He says to me, “When the referee didn’t give you two, I thought that the roof was gonna come off. It was just like a…”

“IVW match.”

Tony and I both turn our heads back towards the door at the same time.

“Uncle Eddie?” I can’t believe it’s him. I haven’t seen Uncle Eddie since last Easter. He missed Christmas earlier this year because he had to go to Canada for a show. Uncle Eddie is a professional wrestler. He goes by the name, The Talented Eddie Franklin. He wears a baby blue singlet, with white spandex pants underneath, and a white mask. He comes out to the ring wearing a baby blue robe that matches his singlet with his name on it in bright white. Dad thinks he looks like an idiot, but I’ve always thought he looked kind of cool. When I was little, I thought he was a real life superhero. We look a lot alike. I actually look more like him than I do my Dad. We both have dark brown hair, blue eyes and big heads. Although he’s about 25-30 lbs heavier than me and about a ½ an inch taller than I am, we’re built similarly too. I wish I knew how in the hell he got so ripped though. I lift weights all the time and for the life of me I can’t get the pretty little vein to run through my biceps the way it does his. Pisses me off. I want the veins damn it. He mainly works for Interstate Victory Wrestling out of Kansas City, Missouri. They’re a small company that does shows all over the Midwest. They’re on local television stations at odd hours every other Tuesday night. Eddie says that he’d be working for one of the bigger companies and making serious money if only he was a little bit taller and a little bit bigger. 5’10, 225 lbs is a big man in the normal world, but in professional wrestling, they consider that to be itty bitty.

“I thought you had him Greg.” He says to me, “I really thought you scored there at the end.”

“Seems everyone but the referee thought that was two.” Tony responds before I do.

“Thanks for coming to watch me.” I say to Eddie as I grab my shampoo out of my bag, “I’m surprised I didn’t see you earlier.”

“I keep myself well-hidden I guess.”

I know good and well the reason too. My Dad and mom aren’t big fans of Uncle Eddie. I can’t say I know the reason why. It was a hatred they must have developed long before I was ever born. I can guess, but I don’t know if I know the real reason. I think it’s because Eddie lives a fast life of professional wrestling, traveling from town to town and he makes just as much money as Dad does. Dad calls Eddie irresponsible and incapable of having a real job. He talks down on him for not having kids and not being married. I personally think Dad is a bit jealous of Eddie, but I’ve never had the balls to come out and tell him that’s what I think. Great Grandpa Franklin got along with Eddie before he died, but other than that, at family functions I’m about the only one that’ll talk to Eddie. Ottumwa is less than 30,000 people. We live on the north side, not too far from the community college. Eddie lives on the south side. It’s less than a 10 minute drive. He’s never been to our house. We’ve never been to his. I tried stopping by once earlier this summer but he wasn’t home. I’m not even real sure if he knows where we live.

“I figured you’d have a show tonight.” From prior talks, I know that Eddie usually performs damn near every weekend. He performs throughout the week too. I don’t know if he has days off. If he does, I doubt they’re ever Saturdays.

“I do.” He says back to me as he puts his hands in his pockets, “St. Louis tonight.”

“What times the show start?”

“8:00.”

“It’s 3:00 now. It’s at least three hours from here isn’t it?”

“Closer to five.”

“You better get going, or you’re gonna be late.”

“I’m the last match of the night. I ain’t gonna be late. I told the promoter that my nephew was wrestling in a district tournament today and I wanted to watch him.”

“Well I appreciate that Eddie. Does dad know you came?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well I gotta shower up and get ready. They’re doing the awards ceremony here in a minute.”

“I hear ya bud. I need to get on the road myself.”

“Thanks for coming.”

He gives me a thumbs up and makes his way out of the locker room. He’d come to events more often if he could. In spite of my parents not liking him and not wanting him around because they think he’s a bad influence, he has always been very supportive of my sister Syd and I. He called me after the conference tournament to congratulate me. He had heard that I made the finals. I didn’t. I actually took third there too but it was still nice to hear from him.

I know I’m supposed to hurry, but I can’t help but stand here in utter paradise as the soothing hot water falls down on my back. If there were an endless supply of hot water, I’d be tempted to stand here the rest of my life. If it weren’t for my tight muscles twitching as they relax from the intense heat, I might know what it is like to be an animal like a horse that can sleep standing up.

“Greg!’ I open my eyes as I hear Tony’s voice.

“Yeah!” I shout back already aware of what his response will be.

“They’re starting the award ceremony. You better hurry up and get dressed.”

My back is begging me to leave the hot water on and to skip getting my third place medal. Yet, I can’t help but think that if I were to do that it’d be a slap in the face to all of my teammates who took fourth or lower.( Only the top three wrestlers per bracket get a medal at this tournament.) It’d be a slap in the face to the other five opponents in my bracket who placed below me. It’d be a slap in the face to Adam Keating and J.J. Smith. It’d be a horrible display of sportsmanship. Coach Sanders and Coach Willis wouldn’t approve and neither would my parents.

I shake hands with Keating and Smith as we get off of the award stand. I tell them both I hope the best for them at the state tournament. Ottumwa sent three guys to state today and five of us finished in third place, one match away from qualifying. One more win a piece and we’d have eight guys going to state.

Disappointment still hasn’t set in the way that I feel it ought to set in. I feel bad, but I don’t think I feel bad enough. As all of the qualifiers are called to the center mat to have a picture taken, I look at Smith realizing that it could be me in his place. I think that’s supposed to piss me off and make me angry but if I have to be honest, it doesn’t. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m not able to feel anymore. Maybe I’m numb to all emotions. I’ve been upset at times far more trivial than this. Do I not feel anger anymore? Do I not feel upset? I haven’t laughed or smiled in the last half hour either. Why am I not feeling anything?

“And edging Ottumwa by just half a point!” The announcer has been talking this whole time and I’m only now noticing, “Your team champions, Oskaloosa!”

I look out onto the mat as Oskaloosa is being given a team trophy. If we weren’t meant to win today, I’m glad they won. After all they’re hosting the tournament. I look up into the stands and see my Dad clapping as he looks at me. He looks a bit disappointed, maybe even slightly ashamed. Or maybe it’s empathy. Hell I don’t know. To one side of me is Tony and to the other side of me is Coach Sanders. Neither of them is smiling. They would be, if I had won.