\o7
\f7At 4:30 on Sunday morning I roust my boys out of bed and tell them to use the bathroom. When they're done, each takes his turn stepping onto the scale beside the tub. They're groggy, of course. They're slow to react, but they don't protest. My older son understands the importance of a single ounce in wrestling, and the younger is quickly learning. The slightest difference in weight can mean having to compete in the next division, potentially giving away nearly five precious pounds to your opponent. That might not sound like much, but it is when you're already little more than muscle and bone.Stripped to his boxers, Logan tops the scale at 111. He's a pound and one ounce over the weight for the division in which he prefers to wrestle, where he's strongest, between 105 and 109. Logan curses, the most popular four-letter expletive in the book.
"Don't cuss," I say, though his father is hardly a model of civil speech.
Logan steps off the scale.
"I knew I shouldn't have eaten that banana last night," he says.
"You might still make it."
"How?"
"By the time we get there," I say, "you'll probably have to use the bathroom again. That's another 3, maybe 4 ounces. And you can always run around the gym a couple times."
At 12, Logan has been wrestling competitively for five years, and he does not like even the slightest disadvantage. Little Nate, on the other hand, is only 6 and weighs in at 34 1/2 pounds, close to the limit for his class. I pat him on the head as he steps off the scale.
"Good going," I say.
"What?"
"You're on weight."
"Oh," he says. "Is that good?"
"It's very good."
This is his first year in competition, and he's excited, wanting to follow in his brother's footsteps and win his own shelf full of medals and trophies. I'm confident that he will. The youngest in the brood is often the toughest, having on a daily basis to fight off the tortures and teasing of his older brothers.
By 5 we're in the car, headed for El Monte High School in the San Gabriel Valley. It's a good 70 miles or better, and we need to be there between 6 and 7 for weigh-ins. Miss those and you don't wrestle. Nate is snuggled in the back with a blanket and a pillow. Logan sits shotgun but with the seat reclined, huddled under his Levi's jacket, so that he too can sleep while I drive. I sip coffee and try to keep my eyes open. It's still dark, and fortunately there aren't many people on the road. We make good time. Shortly after sunrise, we pull off the freeway, drive a few more miles, and then turn into the parking lot of the high school. Already it's beginning to fill up.
