Sunday Afternoon Wrestling

This was written (with my students) after reading Eoin Colfer’s “Artemis Begins” from Guys Read: Funny Business.

Unlike most brothers, we didn’t beat the crap out of each other out of anger.  No, the abuse was voluntary and most of the time encouraged by the recipients.  I don’t think I did too much damage without their consent—just an occasional dead-arm punch.

Back when there were just the three of us boys, we established a weekly tradition when we lived in Japan.  For some reason Sunday afternoons were sacredly observed as Mom’s nap time.  We’d come home from church, have a large dinner—usually chicken and rice, lasagna, or something else loaded with carbs, and then Mom would disappear for a few hours.  Sometimes, when Dad was home, we’d wrestle with him, and then settle down for a movie.

Every once in a while, Dad would have an extra meeting, or would be gone on a TDY for the Air Force, and we’d have to entertain ourselves while Mom slumbered.  Of course, it was only natural to carry on our tradition of Sunday afternoon wrestling.  However, without Dad to supervise, it would get out of control and heads would get busted, eyes poked, feelings hurt; but we kept fighting for the fun of it.  And without fail, we’d wake up Mom, and that would be the end—the rest of Sunday spent in our rooms, apart from each other.

One Saturday we watched WrestleMania III where Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant.  By the next day Marc had perfected his impersonation of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and was in rare (annoying) form.  I decided to try a new move on my brothers.  I was getting tired of using the same techniques that kept them at bay; I needed to inflict a new type of pain.  You see, as I was the oldest, they usually tag-teamed against me when Dad wasn't there to keep things even.  Sometimes, they would attack at once and try to pin me.  They never could.  Ever.  Still can’t.

A few months before, my parents purchased new blue-gray couches for the living room.  They were tired of the ugly basic brown base furniture the military supplied.  The back stood about three or four feet off the ground: the perfect height, or so I thought, to be the “top rope” of our wrestling ring.

After I had knocked both Marc and David to the floor, I climbed to the top rope, and jumped at them with my arms stretched out for a double clothesline as they staggered to their feet.  It worked a little too well.

Unfortunately, I fell faster than I had anticipated, and when I caught both of them, sending them thudding back to the floor, their resistance didn’t slow me down at all.  My head smacked into the thinly carpeted floor.  All three of us lay there for what seemed like forever.  No one cried.  No one tattled.  But our wrestling careers seriously calmed down after that.  When we half-heartedly started back up, David tried the same aerial tactic multiple times, but I would just catch him mid-air and set him on the couch.  Somehow, wrestling my brothers lost its luster for me.  It was never the same again.  I would never lose.

Just a few summers ago, Marc, David, Nicole, and Dad all ganged up on me to try and throw me in the inflatable kiddie pool set up for the grandkids.  Guess who the only one who didn't get wet was?