In the boys bathroom, which contained no baths, the shouts of the tournament crowd are muffled by cinder blocks and sheet rock and whoever is puking in the far stall.
So of course the whole place smells like vomit.
Wrestling is one of those sports I guess where victory is often swollen, raw, bloody and smells faintly like puke. There is blood on the mirror and splattered on the white edges of the sink and poka dot paper towels that never made it into the waste basket.
I walk back out to the bleachers where Cory is reading, passing a troupe of shouting coaches. It’s a queer feeling to watch unattached and on the verge of boredom as two young men sweat and bleed on each other, trying to rend the will of the other obsolete. I wonder what I would do if one of those attack-trained humans started twisting my arm up like that… probably scream and bite and flail.
I don’t go down without a flail I tell myself as yet another ripped teenager shrugs off his singlet to reveal glistening abs.
Yeah, well, I got a Nintendo DS… new high score!