“Oh cra—,” I started to say but swallowed my words as Carl rolled into my legs. 
“Watch the language, son.” The referee circled around us, his whistle bouncing against his chest.

My knees hit the mat, and I clamped my mouth shut, afraid I’d cuss again. Carl grabbed my shoulders, pushing me down. If I didn’t move fast, I’d be pinned. I concentrated on thrusting my hips forward, which propelled me up, and I jumped to my feet. Carl was thrown off balance, so I clutched his arms, sweeping my foot out and knocking him down. 

I pressed Carl’s head and knee together, the classic far-side cradle. I held him like that until the referee blew his whistle. 

Pinned! Applause and cheers exploded from the bleachers.

I couldn’t believe it. Who would’ve guessed a few months ago that I’d be heading to the state wrestling finals? Carl and I stepped back into the center circle, and the referee lifted my arm into the air. 

“Good luck tonight, Stan. You’ll need it,” Carl said as he wiped sweat from his forehead. He stalked off before I could respond. 

“You’ll be fine,” the referee said, squinting at me. “I have to admit, though, I’m a bit surprised. You know your first year wrestling and all.”

“Probably helps that my school’s hosting the tournament.” I shivered as a breeze blew across the drafty gym. 

“There’s more to it than that,” the referee said.

From behind me came the sound of crutches clumping across the wood floor. I whirled around and found Ken, my younger brother and coach, leaning on his crutches.

“Not bad for a rookie.” He grinned up at me and his face brightened, reminding me of the sky—eyes a dusky blue, hair almost as light as a cloud. My features were more earthbound—dark as dirt.

I shivered again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. Tears pressed on the back of my eyes. There I stood a 6’6, 215-pound senior in high school, and I felt like blubbering. Somehow I controlled myself. 

“Come on,” Ken said. “You’ve got a couple of hours before the match tonight. Let’s find a spot where you can relax.”

“And I want to get out of this sweaty uniform.” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. 

“Complaints, complaints. That’s all I hear.” Ken laughed.

He led me into the locker room, where the smell of foot odor and Icy Hot greeted us. After I changed my clothes, we continued to Coach Pete’s office. Ken sat down on the swivel chair behind the desk, while I eased back onto the sofa and closed my eyes. 

Heartbreak Hotel drifted from the radio. It had played all winter, and I was sick of it. What did Elvis Presley know about heartbreak? Mine was sitting a few feet away from me.

“Remember when you told me you planned to join the wrestling team?” Ken asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if we were in church or something. 

“Yep.” I wasn’t in the mood to reminisce. It hurt thinking about why I was wrestling instead of playing basketball. 

“I didn’t want you to do it.” Ken paused. “But, now, well… thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I mumbled, which sounded lame. Still, he should’ve have known that thanks weren’t necessary. 

“It’s funny that your wrestling career began while you were playing basketball,” Ken said.

Life’s like that. One day you’re on the basketball court, thinking you’re heading in a certain direction, then all of sudden you’re thrown around, wearing a singlet and wrestling some guy.

As I lay there, trying to nap, I worked on memorizing the day my life had changed, putting it in a special file in my mind. It was the place I kept all my memories about Ken. I started collecting them when he became ill. 

This particular one began with a door closing.

**

The front door had slammed, pulling my attention from the basketball hoop. Ken stood on the porch, the collar of his letter jacket flipped up. He propped his crutches beneath his armpits and hobbled down the steps. 

“Nice shot.” Ken gestured at the ball in my hands. “I saw it from the window.”

I nodded, my eyes traveling down Ken’s body, stopping when they reached the stump where his right leg should’ve been. 

I gripped the ball even tighter. I wanted to run away, sprinting across the wheat fields that surrounded our house, away from the cancer that feasted on my brother, one limb at a time. 

Instead, I swallowed and pushed the lump in my throat down until it landed in my stomach. It was always there, waiting to burst out. Sometimes it took the form of anger. Why did Ken bring out in me this mixture of frustration, hatred, and sorrow? 

“Well, come a little closer, bro,” I said, my voice raspy. “And I’ll show you another sweet one.” 

Ken shuffled to the driveway. 

I dribbled, powered forward, and jumped, sinking the ball into the basket. 

“Slam dunk,” Ken said, wheezing a little. 

That cough again. I’d heard my parents talking about it the previous night. Their conversation had drifted up through the furnace grate. Just snatches of their words. “I’m worried.” Then “cough doesn’t sound good.”

“Wow,” Ken now said. “Think you can do that during a game?” 

“It helps that we keep the hoop a little low.” I dribbled the ball and attacked the basket. Missed. My mind had been elsewhere. 

Ken frowned and leaned more heavily on his crutches. 

“But you never know.” My words sounded forced. “What good is it being 6’6 if I can’t dunk a ball or two?” 

Ken didn’t seem to notice my insincerity. “That’s for sure,” he said, lowering himself onto a bench. I resisted the urge to help him. He hated to be treated like an invalid. 

I dribbled and practiced lay-ups, my thoughts on Ken’s optimism. He’d returned to school not long after the amputation, even resuming his duties as junior class president. 

Sometimes it seemed like the cancer had affected the rest of us more than Ken. I’d taken over his farm chores, spending more time than necessary outside. My solitude had even made me a little crazy. I now talked to Hattie, our dairy cow, like she was a person, telling her the progress of Ken’s disease and wondering about the future. 

Mom’s face, though, usually told me what that might hold. Dark and distant, her expressions spoke of a future without Ken. And Dad, well, there was no telling what he was thinking. Never had been.

“Are you going to shoot or what?” Ken said. “If you squeeze that ball any tighter it’s going to burst.”

“Hey, can’t help it if I’m strong, not puny, like you.” I wanted to bite back my words, angry at myself for reminding Ken of his weakness. 

“Who you calling puny?” He pushed his chest out, a smile playing across his lips.

“You, runt, that’s who.” I strolled over to the bench and patted my brother’s head. The stubble pricked my hand, but I felt it in my heart. When would I stop seeing the aftermath of Ken’s treatment? Probably never. Hair would grow back but not a leg.

Ken, though, chuckled and stood up. Wobbling, he said, “If I weren’t a crip, I’d take you on. Heck, even with this bum leg, I could probably womp ya.”

I hesitated, unsure what to say. I hated it when Ken referred to himself as a cripple. 

“Hey, you know what Coach Peterson said?” Ken asked.

I tensed. Coach Peterson was the wrestling coach. It had been Ken’s sport and he’d looked forward to defending his state championship, maybe even winning a scholarship to college. Those dreams were now gone. 

Even my own dreams of a football or basketball scholarship seemed distant. The cancer had drilled my life down to a day-by-day existence. 

“Are you going to ask me what he said or what? Man, you’ve got to stop daydreaming. It’s driving me nuts.” 

“Okay, Okay. So what did Coach Pete say?” 

“He asked me if I wanted to be assistant coach this season.” Ken paused. “Think it’s because of my leg?” He looked down at his hands, then up at me.

I broke the gaze, saddened by the pleading expression in his eyes. “Of course not.” Although that was exactly what I’d been thinking. “He wants you to be his assistant because you’re the best damn wrestler this state has ever seen.” 

Ken’s cheeks reddened. “Hey, man, thanks. I’m thinking I’ll probably do it.”

I couldn’t quite tell if it was a question—there had been a slight lift at the end of his words. “It’d be nifty,” I said. “You’ll see wrestling from a different angle, probably learn a lot too.”

“It means I’ll have to miss some of your games.”

“What are you talking about? You always missed my games for wrestling matches. It just couldn’t be helped.” 

“Yeah, but I was sort of looking forward to seeing you play this season.” 
“Uh, it isn’t that excit—.” 

The rest of my sentence was cut off by Mom yelling, “Time for dinner.”

I was glad to end the conversation. Ken had never been so indecisive before. I knew why coaching scared him. He was afraid of being around the other wrestlers, going to matches, and attending the state championships. How would it make him feel? Jealous? Left out?

Ken hobbled in the direction of the house. “Coming?” he asked when I hadn’t moved. 

“I’ll be there in a sec,” I said, returning the ball to the garage.

As I jogged up the front steps to the house, I tripped. “These stupid legs of mine,” I said. Having grown several inches in the past few years, sometimes my limbs didn’t seem like a part of me. 

I froze. “My legs,” I mumbled, suddenly knowing how I could help.

I flew into the house. My family sat around the Formica table in the kitchen. Ken had already slathered meatloaf and mashed potatoes across his plate. 

“Slow down there, son.” Dad frowned. 

Mom fluttered around me. “What’s wrong?”

In the background, the TV blared. CBS anchorman Douglas Edwards read the news, “And today, November 1, 1955...” 

I switched off the set. “I’ve decided to quit basketball,” I said, clutching a ladder-back chair. “I’m going out for wrestling.”

“No way. No how,” Ken said. “I won’t let you do it.” He waved his hands in the air, sputtering something that I didn’t catch. 

Dad lifted his fork to his mouth and slowly chewed, his eyes never leaving my face. 

Mom said, “Now, honey—.”

I cut her off. “I want to do this.”

“I don’t want some stupid sympathy gesture,” Ken said. 

“You don’t get it.” I marched over to the window and drummed my fingers against the glass. The pinging sound of rain answered back.

“Then explain it to me,” Ken said. “Why would you quit basketball during your senior year?”

Dad turned to me. “Yes, explain yourself, son.” 

“Because…” I said, unsure how to continue. I rubbed my eyes, feeling their rawness beneath my knuckles. When was the last time I’d slept through the night? 

“Come on, think about what you’d be giving up,” Ken said. “You could get a scholarship. Besides, Coach Marinski will be furious.”

“Don’t you get it?” I felt like I would explode, breaking into hundreds of pieces, a jigsaw puzzle that was impossible to fit back together. “You’re more important to me than all that stuff. I want to be there for you. You can be the brains of the operation, teaching me everything you know about wrestling.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Ken said.

“That’s not what this is about.” I said, although, at first I’d wondered if pity had been a part of my decision. 

Ken frowned. Purple-black smudges dug into the skin beneath his eyes. So he didn’t sleep either. Why would he? 

“I mean it. I want to do this.” I pressed my forehead against the pane. The glass cooled my brow, steadying me and strengthening my decision. 

“All right, then. “ Ken whispered. “All right.” He joined me at the window, his hand on my shoulder, using me as a crutch. 

The sound of Mom crying came from the living room. My father said, “He wants to do it. It’s the right thing.”

Ken said, his voice filled with a false brightness, “I’m not sure I can make a wrestler out of a big lumbering basketball player like you.”

I laughed, but maybe Ken was right. I’d probably embarrass myself, Ken, and the entire team. Then what would I have accomplished? 

**

The next day after school, I found Coach Marinski in his office and explained why I wouldn’t be playing basketball that season. 

He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Don’t you think you owe your teammates something?”

I had a whole list of things the world owed Ken, and I didn’t see anyone paying up. Still, guilt pressed me down into a chair, and I hung my head. “I know, but I have to do this.” 

“I understand.” He came around the desk and reached out his hand, as if to pat my shoulder, then stopped and crossed his arms. “Life, um… isn’t easy, or fair.”

That was an understatement. I’d been hearing words of wisdom like that since Ken was diagnosed. I listened for the most part, sometimes I felt even touched, but then the feeling would disappear and anger would return. No one knew what I was going through. 

“This decision of yours has got to be final, no wishy-washy stuff.” Coach stuck his jaw out. “There won’t be a place for you after the season begins.” 

“That’s fine.” I stood and we shook hands. 

Coach said, “There is someone, though, who’ll be glad to hear of your defection, I mean, decision.” 

“Who’s that?”

“Neville.”

The second-string center, of course. There was always someone who profited from another person’s misery. 

As I left Coach’s office, a hand clamped down on my shoulder and spun me around. I fell back into the lockers, my physics book tumbling from my hands. Tom and two of his followers stood in front of me. 

“What’s this I hear about you quitting basketball?” Tom poked me in the chest. 

His cronies murmured, “Loser.” 

Even though several inches shorter, Tom outweighed me by about 15 pounds. His crew-cut bristled around his face, and he sported a wispy mustache. 

“You can’t do this, man. Not our senior year.” His final words came out a whine. I didn’t have time for his babyish attitude. The past year with Ken’s disease had made me feel old, like I was partners with my parents in fighting Ken’s illness, rather than a brother and son. 

“Back off.” I shoved Tom and he bumped into his buddies. “What were you doing? Listening at the door?” 

“Come on, Stan.” Tom rubbed his shoulder. “You owe it to the team.” 
“I don’t owe you a thing.” I said, even though I didn’t believe it. We had played football and basketball together since we were little squirts. 

Heck, I felt like I owed something to everyone—my teammates, my brother, my parents. My stomach seized at the thought of it, and puke collected in my throat. I swallowed it back.

“You might just be ruining our chances to go to state. You know that, right?” Tom yelled. 

Some kids who had gathered around us, chanted, “Fight. Fight,” 

There wasn’t going to be a fight. I had a bigger battle ahead of me.

As I hurried away, Tom and his buddies shouted, “Loser.”

Although school was over, my studies were just beginning. I pushed the gym door open—Ken and Coach Pete waited for me on the wrestling mat. 

**

“Okay sleepyhead. Rise and shine,” Ken said, pulling me back into the present.

He stretched his arms over his head as I rolled in his direction. My knees ached from lying curled up on the sofa. 

The door opened and Coach Pete poked his head in. “So this is where you two have been hiding. Time to get dressed Stan. You’ve got to weigh in.”

I just lay there, staring at him. I didn’t think I could move, as if Ken and I had switched places and I was now the one with the missing leg. 

Ken, on the other hand, clomped over to me and prodded me with his crutch. “Were you dreaming of Lauren?” he said, referring to the Lauren Bacall flick Blood Alley we’d seen over the weekend.

“So that’s how it is?” Coach Pete grinned. “There will be time for girls later. But right now you’ve got a match to win.”

I followed them into the dressing room, pulled on my singlet and stepped onto the scale. Ken and I then made our way to the gym. Mom and Dad sat in the front row of the bleachers. Mom clutched a handkerchief to her mouth and smiled at us. Fear, though, lived in her eyes. It had been there since Ken was diagnosed. Dad nodded, not showing any emotion. 

Ken poked my shin with his crutch. “Lookee over there.” 

Tom leaned against the far wall. None of his usual cronies hovered around him. He touched his forehead and met my eyes. Some kind of salute? 

I suddenly felt overwhelmed at what was going to happen next. 

“Come on.” Ken took my arm. “They’re waiting for you.”

I joined my opponent Bill and the referee on the mat. We shook hands then stood in the neutral position, arms loose, and legs apart. The referee blew his whistle, and Bill and I circled each other.

I lunged, but Bill twisted out of my way. My speed pushed me forward, and Bill drove his head under my armpit, lifting me from the mat with the fireman’s carry. 

Ken yelled from the side, excitement vibrating through his voice. Coach Pete clutched his head, squeezing hard, the same way I’d tortured the basketball on the day I told Ken I was taking up wrestling. 

I prepared myself for the thud of the mat. Takedown was inevitable sometimes, but it didn’t mean you’d stay down. I’d learned that during my months of wrestling, of becoming my brother’s legs. And with that thought, I planned my next move.

**

Note to readers: Ken Fanning died from cancer during the spring of 1956, his junior year of high school. In a farewell letter to his classmates he wrote, “I’m aware of what a wonderful bunch of people I have been going to school with. Nobody should ask for any more.” Stan, his brother and my father, placed second in the state wrestling championships that year, his rookie season. He went on to play football at the University of Idaho and was drafted by the Chicago Bears in 1959.