Hot box of boys

3.18.11

Hot box of boys*

I.

When the boy in the blue singlet looks up to you, your arms scoop,

your hands dip. Get behind him, get behind him…

                                                                                                                      

The boys dance till the boy in red shoots, grips the boy in blue’s

legs, then his ribs, a bird’s ribs in a trap of limbs. Fierce-faced, red boy splays, spins

his legs, winds himself like a crank. Brute force! Brute force! Get his shoulder

crossways. Blue boy arches his back, all 40 pounds of him taut. Boysweat

hangs in the gym, billows in a yeasty cloud. A chignoned

mother shifts her slim buns in the bleachers.

C’mon Auggie. Get up, she says. Fight!

In and out and in and out goes the ref’s hand.

You are on your knees, on all fours. Reaching for the boy in blue, lifting 
the way you want him to lift, roaring so he can hear you, so he can feel 
the vibration of your voice, so he can feel his next move.  

II.

Is this the sound of boys becoming men?

Deep, staccato shouts, groans and squeaks, men’s ancient exercises, warriors in the ludus—whistles trilling, sudden tears, cries of boys who creep to the edges of the arena.

Is this some homoerotic dream?

A boy’s head’s trapped between another's knees, a boy’s belly pressed into another’s backside. No, it’s not, or it is. But there’s no snicker yet. Arms, shoulders, thighs—all free 
to touch for now.

Is this why we had the second child?

If we hadn’t made love that Fourth of July, we wouldn’t be here in this hot box of boys.

They wouldn’t look up to you before their battles. They wouldn’t hug your legs at the fish fry.

III.

I squirmed our son’s first time. Our tiny boy on the mat—I worried he’d be hurt, that his small neck would snap, or his arms would twist impossibly. I pictured bruises and blood. But everything he ever did wrong was right on the mat. No need for hands off, sit still, not so rough. He won and he won and he won. In the final today, in seven seconds, he pins the other boy.

Now he’s kneeling matside, blue-ribboned medal round his neck, saying
the same things you say. Pressure, pressure—turn up the heat. Hold him, 
hold him—take him down.

The whole Saturday, we’ve spent it in this box. Is this what you expected when you gave 
in, and we decided to do this kid thing again? Did it cross your mind 
at the hospital, when you first held the boy who looked like you?

IV.

You’ve shelved your ambitions for the season.

Instead of writing, you surf flowrestling.org.            

Instead of reading, you line up the one-man, two-man little guys in Scecina’s block house.

You count days in your calendar till the season ends, but you print out certificates for each boy. At a restaurant, you draw designs for new singlets on the paper that covers the table.

V.

In this swarm of boys, you're the weather vane that holds true.

Each boy in blue catches your eyes. His courage peeks

out from his singlet, a flat, rosy breast.

Oh, your big talk, that talk I fell in love with. Talk and talk and talk. That talk fermented in a torched barrel.  It changed into something smooth, something that’s going to last. You’ve flipped yourself inside out, barked yourself hoarse. I’ve watched you pat a hundred bottoms, shake a hundred hands. 

Tonight you’ll fill the bath for our son. He’ll hang another medal in his crowded case.

Next week will be the end-of-season pizza party, and St. Pat’s Guinness at the Golden Ace,

and the boys will disappear to the green fields with mitts and cleats.

Tonight you’ll retire to the box of this house, the box of this room with its tatty furniture and ratty ferns. You’ll put your feet on the wobbly ottoman. Through the open window, we’ll hear the hotrods wind round the Speedrome’s dirt track. 

*This could be a love poem: To my husband coaching at the St. Michael of Indy City Finals Little Guys Wrestling Tournament, March 12, 2011