Trying to Save Piggy Sneed (10 page)

That year in New Hampshire (my last) was a watershed for me. Not only did I become a published writer and a father, but the birth of my son Colin would change my draft status to 3A — “married with child” — which would forever isolate me from the dilemma facing my generation of American males; I would never have to make up my mind about Vietnam, because I couldn't be drafted. If Colin kept me out of Vietnam, the combination of being married and a father,
and
my return to the world of wrestling, kept me from experimenting with the most seductive hallmarks of my ‘60s generation: sex and drugs. I was a husband and a daddy and a jock — and, only recently, a writer.

I had just turned 23 when Colin was born. It was late March, which is not spring in New Hampshire. I remember driving my motorcycle home from the hospital. (A friend had driven Shyla to the hospital, because I'd been in class — in Tom Williams's Creative Writing class.) I remember watching out for the patches of ice and snow that were still evident on the roads; I drove home very slowly, put the motorcycle in the garage, and never drove it again — I would sell it that summer. It was a 750cc Royal Enfield, black and chrome, with a customized tomato-red gas tank the shape of a teardrop — I would never miss it. I was a father; fathers didn't drive motorcycles.

The night Colin was born, George Bennett died in the same hospital; I have called George my first “critic and encourager” — he was my first
reader.
I remember going back and forth in the hospital between Shyla and Colin and George. During the years I'd grown up in Exeter, especially before I attended the academy, George's son had been my best friend. (I would dedicate my first novel
in memory of
George, and to his widow and son.)

George Bennett took me to my first Ingmar Bergman film; it would have been 1958 or ‘59 when I saw
The Seventh Seal
— the movie was almost new (it was released in the U.S. in ‘57). It's not psychologically complicated why, when Death came for George, I saw Death as that relentless chess player in the black robe (Bengt Ekerot) who defeats the Knight (Max von Sydow) and claims the lives of the Knight's wife and the Knight's squire, too.

I have since read that
The Seventh Seal
is a “medieval fantasy,” and this I don't understand at all… well, “medieval,” maybe, although most of Bergman's work is timeless to me. But
The Seventh Seal
is no “fantasy.” That Death takes the Knight and allows the young family to live … well, that was how it happened to me, too. At the moment my son Colin was born, George was gone.

In 1982, when Ingmar Bergman retired as a filmmaker — with
Fanny and Alexander
, the stunning memoir of his childhood — I felt another loss. Bergman was the only major novelist making movies. My interest in the movies, which was never great, has grown fainter since his retirement. I hope that Mr. Bergman is happy in the theater (where he continues to direct), although I have difficulty seeing him there — my interest in the theater was never great either.

Upon my return from Europe, Ted Seabrooke had made me feel welcome in the Exeter wrestling room, but something had changed in me; I was so happy to be wrestling again I didn't care how I compared to the competition — I didn't enter a single tournament. I worked out, hard, every day; I coached the kids at Exeter — I thought more about
their
wrestling than I did about mine — and I became certified as a referee. (I'd always disliked referees until I became one.)

That winter of ‘65, there was an additional wrestling coach in the Exeter room — a retired Air Force lieutenant colonel, Cliff Gallagher. Cliff was the famous Ed Gallagher's brother. (Between 1928 and 1940, E. C. Gallagher coached Oklahoma State to 11 national team titles.) Born in Kansas, Cliff had wrestled at Oklahoma A & M — he was never beaten in a wrestling match — and he'd played football at Kansas State (he was a All-American halfback). Cliff had once held the world record in the 50-yard low hurdles, too, and he'd received a doctorate from Kansas State in 1921—in veterinary medicine, although he'd never been a practicing veterinarian. Cliff Gallagher was also a certified referee. We frequently refereed tournaments together.

As a wrestling coach, Cliff was a little dangerous; he showed the Exeter boys a great number of holds that had been illegal for many years — the key-lock, the Japanese wrist-lock, various choke-holds and other holds that dated from a time when it had been legal to coax your opponent to his back by applying pain or the threat of asphyxiation instead of leverage. Ted explained to me that he always allowed Cliff to demonstrate these holds to the boys; at some point, following Cliffs demonstration, Ted would quietly take the time to tell the boys: “Not that one.” The boys, of course, were eager to learn anything new, and Cliff had much to teach that
I'd
never seen before; some of Cliffs holds were new to Ted, too.

We had to be on our toes in the Exeter wrestling room that year. There would be some kid twisting another kid's head off, and Ted or I would jump in and break it up. We'd always ask, “Did Cliff show you that?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy would say. “I think it's called a Bulgarian head-and-elbow.” Whatever it was called, Ted or I would put a stop to it, but we would never have criticized Cliff for his efforts — Cliff was having a great time, and we adored him. So did the kids — I'm sure they were putting the Bulgarian head-and-elbow to good use, probably in their dormitories.

As a referee, Cliff was completely reliable. He had all the right instincts for when to stop a potentially dangerous situation, for how to anticipate an injury before it happened; he always knew where the edge of the mat was — and which wrestler was using it, to what advantage — and he never called stalling on the wrong wrestler (he always knew who was stalling). It was a mystery to me how Cliff had memorized the rule book; as a referee, he permitted not a single illegal hold. (As a coach, Cliff Gallagher taught every move and hold he knew — legal or not.) Cliff taught me to be much better as a referee than I'd ever been as a wrestler. Refereeing is
all
technique; unlike wrestling, refereeing doesn't call upon superior athletic ability — or expose the lack thereof.

I will always remember a maniacally mismanaged high-school tournament in Maine — Cliff and I were the only actual wrestlers among our fellow referees. In the preliminary rounds, Cliff and I were also the only referees who penalized a headlock without the arm contained — if you lock up a man's head, you're supposed to include one of his arms in the headlock. To encircle your opponent's head —
just
his head — is illegal. For the benefit of the assembled coaches
and
our fellow referees, Cliff put on a clinic between rounds; he made special emphasis of the headlock
with
an arm. This information was dismaying to the other referees, and to most of the coaches. One of them said, “It's too late in the season to be showin' ‘em somethin' new.”

“It's not new, it's
legal
,” Cliff said.

“It's new, too,” the guy said — I don't remember if he was a coach or a referee. In any case, he expressed the sentiment of the majority: they'd been using and accepting an illegal headlock all season — probably for years — and it was nothing but a nuisance to them to enforce the rule now.

“Johnny and I are calling the illegal headlock — is that clear enough?” Cliff told them. And so we did.

The points for a repeated illegal hold can mount against a wrestler quickly. Repeated violations lead to disqualification. In no time, Cliff and I were penalizing
and
disqualifying half the state of Maine. (We “disqualified” a few coaches who protested, too.) In the semifinals, I also disqualified a heavyweight for deliberately throwing his opponent on top of the scorer's table; I had twice warned and penalized this wrestler for continuing to wrestle off the mat — after the whistle blew. I'd even asked his coach if the heavyweight in question was
deaf.

“No, he's just a little stupid,” his coach replied.

When I disqualified the heavyweight, his parents came out of the stands and confronted me in the middle of the mat. I had no trouble recognizing who they were — they didn't have to introduce themselves. At a glance, I could see they'd swum forth from the same gene pool for enormity that had spawned their son. Cliff saved me.

“If you understand nothing else, you can understand one rule,” Cliff told the heavyweight's parents. “It's just
one
rule and I'm only going to tell you
once.”
(I could see that he had their attention.) “This is a
mat
,” Cliff said, pointing to where we were standing. “And
that
,” Cliff said — pointing to the scorer's table where the heavyweight had thrown his opponent — “that is a goddamn table. In wrestling,” Cliff said, “we do it on the
mat.
That's the rule.” The heavyweight's parents shuffled away without a word. Cliff and I were alive until the finals.

The finals were at night. Scary people from the middle of Maine emerged in the night. (My good friend Stephen King doesn't make up
everything;
he knows the people I mean.) The fans for the finals that night made the disqualified heavyweight's parents seem mildly civilized. In rebellion over the illegal headlock, our fellow referees had gone home; Cliff and I alternated refereeing the weight classes for the finals. When he was refereeing, I was the mat judge; Cliff was the mat judge when I was out on the mat refereeing. A mat judge can (but usually doesn't) overrule a referee's call; in a flurry of moves, sometimes the mat judge sees something the referee misses — for example, illegally locked hands in the top position — and in the area of determining the points scored (or not) on the edge of the mat, before the wrestlers are out of bounds, the mat judge can be especially effective.

There can be 11 or 12 or 13 weight classes in a high-school wrestling tournament. Nowadays, in the New England Class A tournament, the lightest weight class is 103 pounds — there are 13 weight classes, ending with the 189-pounder and the heavyweight (under 275). But in high schools there is occasionally a 100-pound class — in some states today there is also a 215- or 220-pound class, in addition to 189 and 275 — and in Maine in ‘65 the heavyweight class was unlimited. (The weight class used to be
called
Unlimited.)

In the first three weight classes, Cliff and I gave out half a dozen penalty points for the illegal head-lock — apparently a feature of Maine life — and Cliff bestowed one disqualification: for biting. Some guy was getting pinned in a crossface-cradle when he bit through the skin of his opponent's forearm. There was bedlam among the fans. What could possibly be more offensive to them than a no-biting rule? (There were people in the stands who looked like they bit other people every day.)

That night in Maine, Cliff Gallagher was 68. A former 145-pounder, he was no more than 10 pounds over his old weight class. He was pound-for-pound as strong as good old Caswell from Pitt. Cliff was mostly bald; he had a long, leathery face with remarkable ears — his neck and his hands were huge. And Cliff didn't like the way the crowd was reacting to his call. He went over to the scorer's table and took the microphone away from the announcer.

“No biting — is that clear enough?” Cliff said into the microphone. The fans didn't like it, but they quieted down.

We had a few more weight classes (and a lot more illegal headlocks) to get through; we kept alternating the matches, between referee and mat judge, and we kept blowing our whistles — in addition to the headlocks without an arm, there were over-scissors and full-nelsons and figure-four body-scissors and twisting knee-locks and head-butts, but there was no more biting. In the 177-pound class, I called the penalty that determined the outcome of the match; I thought the fans were going to rush me on the mat, and the coach of the penalized wrestler distinctly called me a “cocksucker” — normally another penalty, but I thought I'd better let it pass.

Cliff conferred with me while the crowd raged. Then he went to the microphone again. “No poking the other guy in his eyes over and over again — is that clear enough?” Cliff said.

It was Cliff who refereed the heavyweights, for which I was — for which I
am
— eternally grateful. The boy who'd been thrown on the scorer's table, and had thus been victorious in the semifinals, was a little the worse for wear; his opponent was a finger bender, whom Cliff penalized twice in the first period— patiently explaining the rule both times. (If you grab your opponent's fingers, you must grab all four — not just two, or one, and not just his thumb.) But the finger bender was obdurate about finger bending, and the boy who'd been bounced off the scorer's table was already … well, understandably,
sensitive.
When his fingers were illegally bent, the boy responded with a head-butt; Cliff correctly penalized him, too. Therefore, the penalty points were equal as the second period started; so far, not one legal wrestling move or hold had been initiated by either wrestler — I knew Cliff had his hands full.

The finger bender was on the bottom; his opponent slapped a body-scissors and a full-nelson on him, which drew
another
penalty, and the finger bender applied an over-scissors to the scissors, which amounted to another penalty against
him.
Then the top wrestler, for no apparent reason, rabbit-punched the finger bender, and that was that — Cliff disqualified him for unsportsmanlike conduct. (Maybe I should have
let
him be thrown on the scorer's table without penalty, I thought.) Cliff was raising the finger bender's arm in victory when I spotted the losing heavyweight's mother; it was another easy gene-pool identification — this woman was without question a heavyweight's mom.