Permission

All he wanted was permission to fail, but no one saw the pleading in his eyes. Instead they saw a kid who could push himself to the point of blacking out, someone who would train through stress fractures and broken fingers, someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. They saw him furious when he lost, but he only cared because that was what was expected. He couldn’t do anything for himself, so he allowed others to determine his course in life. And so wrestling became his life.

Mike stepped on the scale and looked at the numbers that he balanced his fate against. Half a pound and he’d make weight. A full pound and he could eat.

He pulled off another garbage bag from the roll he kept under the bathroom sink, and cut holes in it for his head and arms. Slipping it over head, he hesitated for just a moment. What if he just left it there, covering his mouth and nose? But he pulled it all the way down and then overlaid it with two sweatshirts and a windbreaker.

Mike ran until he felt the sweat sloshing around against his skin. He’d figured out a while ago that signaled that he’d extracted at least a half a pound. He dropped where he was and belted out 50 push-ups, flipped over and did a hundred crunches, then bounced back up for the run home.

Peeling the slimy, black bag off himself, Mike stepped into the shower, being careful not to swallow any water. He toweled himself dry until he was sure that every last drop of moisture was gone, and then went to receive his judgement. He was lucky today; he managed a full pound and a half.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he mixed up a protein shake, making sure that it was exactly 12 ounces. Adding in a Met-Rx bar at another 3.5 ounces, and he figured he would still be under the limit. Just to be sure he took both upstairs to the bathroom, stripped down again, and stepped on the scale with both the drink and energy bar in hand. Damn, that was cutting it close, but the bottle had to weigh something, right? Besides, he’d piss out the water weight in the morning.

It was after midnight before he got to bed. Mike knew that he had to keep his grades up if he wanted to stay eligible, so Shakespeare and pre-cal kept him from his rest. He could sleep during lunch tomorrow to make it up. What else could he do then anyway?

---

The school day drifted by him in haze. Mike did his best to follow along in class, but his thoughts kept drifting off. Not towards the match, or anything like that. All he could think about was Thanksgiving. He tortured himself with the images of Mom’s cornbread and Grandma’s cranberry relish. Three years without tasting any of them, and he knew this year wouldn’t be any different. He had to be stronger than holiday tradition; only the weak gave in to comfort.

In the halls he answered the same stupid questions that came up every time there was a dual meet.

“Ready Mike?”

“You know it!”

“Ya’ gonna kick his ass tonight, Mike?”

“So hard he’ll taste my shoe!”

What he really hated was luck.

“Good luck Mike.”

Like luck has anything to do with, you piece of shit. I bust my ass every damn day, so I don’t need any luck.

He never said that though. It was always just, “Thanks man.”

They were home tonight, but it was still a big meet. Their cross-town rivals, who they destroyed last year, were back with a vengeance. For Mike it was different. He had lost to Tim Glasdel, their 135 pound state all-star. Lost by a cheap move that a Freshman could have dodged. He watched that tape over and over. Belly down, you moron. He can’t pull your head under if you just lay flat on your stomach.

Glasdel was strong, but Mike knew he could beat him on technique. If he just didn’t make any mistakes, if he just didn’t screw things up...

---

They went in order of weight class, so Mike was the sixth one up. He stepped onto the mat, and his world closed in. His hearing became selective for the whistle, his vision turned from seeing images to seeing motion. He became kinetic, ready to explode.

Boom! Mike shot first, but his opponent was fast and managed to throw his legs back before Mike could get a lock. Shuffling back up to the neutral position, he circled to the middle of the mat. He saw it coming, but his long legs were too slow. Take down, two points! Shit, he was on bottom. His opponent reached under Mikes arms and locked hands around his neck. The bastard was trying the same move as last time. He splayed out flat, and stymied Glasdel’s attempts to flip him. Mike built back up to his base, and tried to sit out. Escape, one point! Back in neutral position, they locked heads together, each trying to get the underhand for a throw.

Suddenly, Glasdel dropped and shot for Mike’s leg. Another take down, an Mike was on bottom. Before anything else could happen, the whistle blew and round one was over.

He lost the coin toss, but Glasdel differed and gave Mike the choice. In actuality, he gave coach the choice, and coach signaled for Mike to take bottom. Escape. Same as before, he had to escape. At the whistle, Glasdel chopped at Mike’s arm but couldn’t break him down. Switching tactics, he went in for the half nelson. Mike knew he was about to get turned, and if he went over, he was done for. He was going to lose again. In front of his team and all those people, he was going to end up on his back. And then what was he? Nothing, a loser.

But there was another option, one that people could accept. He just had to fight. For the first time, Mike fought for himself, for his way out, for an end to the pressure that had been crushing him for all these years.  

And when Mike felt his shoulder go, and the pain shoot through his arm like lightning, he at last had what he wanted: permission granted.