The sky was the same azure blue as the surface of the lake; the horizon between them was obscured. The weather had turned cool, very cool for this early in October. It occurred to me that the leaves were going to change color at least a month early this year. I remembered the falls when I was enrolled here at Trexler School. Could it be twenty years ago that I walked along this same brick path, past the shimmering lake, on my way to classes at Baron Hall? The school was old even then, covered in ivy and lichens. The great oak trees lining the drive that morning were the same trees that were lining the drive two decades ago. As large as they were, they seemed smaller now or maybe they just seemed bigger when I was twelve years old.
I saw the schoolboys running and pushing each other as they headed towards the gymnasium. Except for the Fubu tee shirts and Tommy jeans, they could be my own classmates. Not much changes really, in a place like Trexler. That bench in front of the Hall is where I had my first sexual experience, touching Bob Jackson’s little white dick. I recall thinking it looked like a soft pale worm, and felt slippery in my hand. We never talked about it again, but I knew he felt funny about it and avoided me the rest of the year.
The brick path wound around Baron Hall and shot across the green on a diagonal. The stems of the summer flowers on either side were dry and brown and would soon be removed by the gardener in his annual fall-cleanup. The fountain in the center plaza was still, the water a muddy color. Leaves were falling onto the surface and floating on the breeze like boats in an armada. As the path wound past the far corner of the green I saw the great hulking gymnasium, a relic of a time when private schools constructed their buildings to resemble fortresses ready for battle. The athletic building was a solid stone castle, with heavy iron gates across the entrance, and bars on the windows. Great towers of granite on all corners were pierced with narrow windows to resemble the openings through which archers would shoot their righteous arrows in defense of the monarch.
This year, my nephew Matt was enrolled at Trexler. He reminds me so much of myself at that age. A gentle boy, easily hurt and prone to disturbing outbursts and bouts of sadness. Matt was participating that day in the intramural wrestling match to decide the state champions. (His parents were not coming, they were in the Caribbean on another unnecessary cruise to try to repair a broken romance.) I was pleased Matt had discovered wrestling, a sport that I had also chosen and embraced. Unlike other sports, wrestlers are pitted against others of the same stature, the same weight category. Being slender, wiry, and flexible does not disadvantage wrestlers. It’s not about brawn, but strategy. I had driven 150 miles from New York to see Matt battle for the state title.
The gates to the gym were open, and students and parents were streaming through the tall oak-beamed portico that gave the place a very gothic feel. They filed into the gallery past old and faded photographs of teams and players long gone, long forgotten. Rugby 1934, Baseball all-stars 1945, Football 1953, State Lacrosse Champions from 1963 through 1972. I searched for my photograph and found it on a stretch of wall between the water fountain and the office of the Director of Physical Education. There I was, still shiny with sweat, my nylon unitard darkly damp across my little bony chest. I’m grinning a smile of satisfaction.
In the photo I'm next to a very large man, towering over my small body. Coach Tom Davis was my mentor and my inspiration. I shivered as I looked at him in the photo. He was stunning. About twenty-five at the time with a full head of wavy black hair and thick, bushy sideburns. They were in style then and still looked pretty damn good to me now. His hairy chest and broad shoulders strained to escape the white Trexler tee shirt he wore. I saw clearly in the old photograph that his waist was slender and his torso rippled with muscular definition. He had the back of my neck firmly in the grasp of one great hand, the other holding my plaque, the same plaque that now hangs on the wall in my office in the city. His smile was broad and toothy-white; his dimples like quotation marks on each side of his expressive lips.
Coach Davis had personally recruited me for the wrestling squad. He had overcome my objections, and persuaded me that I would love it. He came to see my father one night and outlined the positive benefits of the sport. Wrestling would bring me out of my shell, help me become more self-confident, more aggressive and self-assured. Dad was a great guy, but not really great at this parenting thing. He was happy to give over his troubled boy to this energetic coach for manly training and development.
It was a tough battle; my low self-esteem blocked me from giving the sport my best effort. I felt like I would fail, and so I would. Coach Davis never gave up, always prodding me on, forcing me to do what I was sure I could not. He worked in the gym with me, and slowly my skinny body became tight, muscular, lean and bandy. I would love those days in the gym. The other boys seemed to be invisible, as if Coach Davis and I were the only two in the room. I would fill my nose with his scent as he spotted me on the bench, and thrill to his hands on my waist as he lifted me up to the ropes.
In my pre-teen innocence, I had no idea what two men were capable of doing with each others bodies, but in my adolescent haze I had vague fantasies about his powerful body pressed against mine, being lifted up in his strong arms. I dreamed of feeling his muscular body carrying me high above the floor, being swept off to a secret place. There I would see him naked, the fur that tantalized me peeking over the top of his tight tee-shirt would be revealed, I could touch is massive chest and feel his tight belly, covered in dark black hair. The coach pulls down his tight-fitting trunks, and pulls his athletic equipment out the side of his white jock-strap. I had taught myself to jerk-off, and I imagined what his cock must look like, without doubt very different proportions than poor Bob Jackson’s tiny little pee-pee. I reach out for his immense dick, engorged and hard, and...do what?
The day I won the championship in my weight class he gave me a hug that I almost still feel... His arms wrapped around my shoulders, my face pressed into his flat stomach. That was the wonderful day the picture was taken.
Matt was on the mat, warming up, doing basic calisthenics with the other boys on the team. He is an amazingly good-looking boy, his wavy blonde hair falling in his eyes as he does his sit-ups. His eyes are the same color as mine the same color as the azure sky outside on that crisp autumn morning. His body had filled out with lean muscle since I last saw him. He was really a young man now, no longer the frail boy I visited last spring at his birthday party. Wrestling appeared to be doing Matt some good, much as it had developed me twenty years ago. He was looking around the bleachers, an expression of concern on his angelic face. He saw me and shot me a sweet, generous smile. He waived frantically to catch my attention and I waved back, grateful that he was so pleased with my presence on his big day.
