The Long Run Page 14

  In the old stone pool

  a frog jumps:

  splishhh

  We are told to write a haiku to read out at our next sumo wrestling class. Bug passes one around during study hall:

  Cloud sails by Kavanagh’s crotch

  loincloth slips:

  fuck

  We crack up. Study hall quickly turns into haiku madness, dirty haiku being passed around hand over fist.

  We are all a sight for sore eyes. Buck naked except for our diapers, and with our hair oiled and bobbed on our heads like Pebbles from The Flintstones. We’ve arrived early for McCann’s demonstration class. He asks for a volunteer to demonstrate various Western techniques and positions that are unacceptable in sumo wrestling. His special lessons, as he refers to them, can last for up to fifteen minutes. Today he wants us to see the leg sweep, the leg hold, and the head-and-arm throw, all illegal. “No hair pulling,” he shouts, “no fist punching, no eye gouging, no kicking in the privates.”

  Nobody volunteers for his special lesson, so he nabs McBride and lies on his side on the mat, locking his legs around poor McBride’s skinny waist. He tells us that this is the scissors hold, and no sumo would be caught dead using such a primitive technique. Then he flips poor McBride and jumps on his back and grunts and growls something about arm throws and body braces and why they are illegal. Poor McBride is gasping for air, pinned beneath McCann’s throbbing weight. McCann makes a high-pitched moan and looks up. We can see the whites of his eyes. The veins in his neck stick out, his face is reddish purple.

  “Jesus,” Bug says.

  “What?” Ryan whispers.

  “Jesus,” Oberstein repeats.

  Instantly, we all understand what’s happening. McCann reminds me of one of the aliens in the horror movie we saw last week. He’s snorting and drooling and shouting Japanese words while humping McBride and rocking him to and fro.

  “What about all that gasping and moaning?” Murphy mocks, during break.

  “I don’t see why Yoko Loco needs to give special lessons,” Blackie says.

  “He sounds like McGettigan doing the scales in choir practice,” Bug says.

  “Special lessons, my ass,” Ryan says. “We all know what he’s up to.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Rowsell asks.

  “He isn’t just humping McBride,” Oberstein says.

  “Omigod!” Rowsell says.

  “He’s getting his rocks off,” Murphy says.

  Rowsell turns pale. He looks like he will throw up. “Oh, boy,” he says.

  The first match is between Kelly and Kavanagh. Kavanagh couldn’t pin a mosquito. Kelly will easily win. He’s not called the King of Pain for nothing. He grins his horsy grin, turns his hand into a gun and says, “Stick ’em up!” Then he shoots Kavanagh. Bang! Bang! Kelly’s always doing that lately. Ever since we saw a movie about a bunch of bank robbers called The Story of the Ned Kelly Gang. Rags says it’s the oldest movie in the world, made in 1902. Kelly wants everyone to call him Ned. He gets really pissed if you call him by his real name, Phonse. He even asked Brother McMurtry if he could change his name to Ned. McMurtry poked him in the side of the head.

  Kavanagh doesn’t have a prayer against Ned, who’s about a hundred pounds overweight to begin with. He’s one of the fattest guys in the Mount. And Kavanagh’s definitely the skinniest. Kavanagh’s new nickname is Sumo Toothpick, he’s so skinny. Even his Roman nose is thin. And so is his wavy orange hair. He’s the exact opposite of what a sumo wrestler should look like. If you were looking for a guy to play the role of someone on a hunger strike, Kavanagh would be your man. But a sumo wrestler, not in a million years. Brother McCann started him on extra meals right away. But I don’t think twenty extra meals a day would help poor Kavanagh get fatter. Knobby Knees is such a rake. As he’s doing the sumo bow, he usually squints his eyes and bucks his teeth while giving his opponent the finger. Or during the glare-off, he crosses his eyes and screws up his face and looks so hilarious that his opponent usually cracks up, which enrages McCann. And, of course, everyone cracks when Kavanagh hits the mat. But we’re all so scared to death of McCann that we hold our laughter inside, which makes it ten times funnier.

  McCann in a loincloth is a sight to behold. He’s really hairy. Oberstein says he looks like a gorilla in diapers. Blackie says he looks like a retard. He’s the referee of every bout. He jumps around, spraying spit everywhere, screaming out Japanese phrases that make absolutely no sense to anyone. Once he stopped the Kelly–Kavanagh match and yelled Kee-Koo-Yu about fifteen times at the two of them. They just froze there, like frightened animals, until McCann finally realized they didn’t have a clue what he was saying and blew his whistle, karate chopped both of them on the shoulders and shouted for them to continue wrestling.

  We all know Kavanagh is gonna lose every match he ever fights, but in our hearts we all want him to win.

  “Poor Kavanagh,” Blackie says during break. “Everything’s goin’ wrong for him today. Seems like some days everythin’ goes our way, everythin’ falls together, everythin’s so easy. Other days, just the opposite. On a bad day we’re all thumbs. Gonna be a lotta bad wrestlin’ days for Leo Kavanagh. Willie Mays got it right. ‘Say hey, it ain’t hard. When I not hittin’, I don’t hit nobody. But when I hittin’, I hit anybody.’ Kavanagh ain’t hittin’ nobody today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Kavanagh’s headin’ for a loooong slump.” Blackie shakes his head and laughs harder than I’ve ever seen him laugh. He gets such a big kick outta Kavanagh.

  And it’s true. Knobby Knees can’t do a thing right. If he isn’t being pinned to the mat or knocked outside, his loincloth is slipping. We can see his pubic hair or the crack in his ass, and we howl. But Kavanagh’s a mystery. He’s always in trouble, but he’s always smiling. And he has the widest smile you’ve ever seen. Rags always calls him FDR, because he says they have the same smile. He’s an amazing character. He gets pinned, he laughs. He gets knocked down, he gets up and laughs. His loincloth slips, he giggles. McCann belts him for no apparent reason and he’s laughing as he tells us about it. He bows and chants the Zen meditation, and there’s a broad grin on his face. And he doesn’t just laugh with his mouth. He laughs with his whole body. It’s like he accepts whatever comes his way, good and bad alike. And this gives him a special kind of freedom, the freedom to always move ahead, always leaving room for the good things. “Kavanagh’s always gonna survive the hard times,” Blackie once said. “He’s one helluva laugher.”

  We look like a scrawny lot for sumos. We’re eating a lot more, but the running is keeping the weight off. Except for Oberstein. The chubby cherub is starting to look like the ballooning Buddha. He’s really packing on the beef. Today, before wrestling, Brother McCann teaches us about Buddhism and the Eightfold Path. He says it will help us to become better sumos. The first step of the Eightfold Path is the “right knowledge” of existence. When we are all dressed in our loincloths, he calls us to the tumbling mats and lectures us on right knowledge. He reads from a paperback entitled Zen and Mind over Matter, which he keeps tucked in his loincloth when he is not reading from it.

  “Attention, all sumos. All sumos, attention. Today, sumos, we will learn a Japanese version of Zen, which teaches that the mind is kept imprisoned in the lower region of the abdomen and must be freed, since such imprisonment prevents the mind from operating anywhere else.” He reads, “‘The power generated by abdominal centralization . . .’ This power will permit a sumo to push another over the circle’s rope without touching him. Pay close attention, sumos, to the following: ‘The runaway mind must be stabilized and unified.’ What are the key words here, sumos?”

  “Stabilized and unified, Yokozuna.”

  “Excellent, sumos, excellent. ‘The runaway mind must not be localized, but permitted to fill the whole body. Allowed to flow throughout the totality of your whole being.’ Listen carefully, sumos . . .” McCann’s face becomes very intense, and his voice drops to a whisper. “This is the great sumo se
cret. The power pack, sumos. The mind, in accordance with its nature, must be free to exercise its functions . . . unhindered, uninhibited.”

  “The power pack?” Murphy says.

  “Quiet, Murphys-san. It will meet your opponent as he moves about trying to strike you down. When your hands are needed, they are there for the mind. So too with the legs. When ordinary thoughts are quiet enough, the higher mental center receives grace. God’s grace. When energies are balanced through meditation, they produce an intelligent awareness that is located in the belly. Where attention and breath meet. Where, sumos?”

  “Where attention and breath meet, Yokozuna.”

  “It is the power pack, the place where energy is transformed.” McCann repeats the words again, and then tells us to assume the lotus position and meditate on the message.

  “Oh no, not the lotus position,” Oberstein says.

  After five minutes or so, he orders us to stand and resumes his lecture. “The mind, sumos, must be left to itself, utterly free to move according to its own nature. This type of mental freedom, sumos, is spiritual training, religious training, ecumenical training. The Holy Father’s wish. Like the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola. Properly trained, a Zen master can skilfully neutralize sword attacks with a fan. That’s right, sumos, a fan. No matter what technique a warrior or swordsman uses. And some of you young sumos may be called upon one day to fight a swordsman with only a fan.”

  Oberstein looks at me and turns white.

  “Nothing, nothing, can put honor right as the thrust or cut of a sword. During the Tokugawa Period, rikishi,” he joins his hands in prayer and bows when he says this word, “sumo wrestlers were regarded as being of sufficient social status for permission to wear the daisho, a combination of long and short swords, normally reserved for warriors. Next week, sumos, we shall look at the art of swordsmanship known as iaido, the way of the sword. Iaido is a mental discipline, sumos. Also, sumos, it is based on the proficient use of the traditional Japanese sword. Iaido is an art that contrasts the idea of ‘life’ with ‘life worth living.’ Next week, sumos, you will all learn the formal etiquette of iaido, the ten basic steps. And you will learn also the character of the sword itself. The choice of sword, proper costume for iaido and all other essentials.”

  “Iaido voodoo,” Bug whispers.

  “Now the first step in freeing the mind, sumos, is meditation and concentration in the still posture known as zazen, perfect for abdominal breathing. What is the posture known as, sumos?”

  “Zazen, Yokozuna.”

  “Excellent! All sumos must now learn the art of haragei.” He tells us to take the lotus position again on the mats and practice our abdominal breathing. He takes a ski pole from the equipment rack, calls it a ski-o-saku and walks around shouting orders on breathing technique and whacking wrestlers on the back and shoulders with the ski pole if they are not breathing properly.

  “We Westerners are soft, we do not train our athletes properly,” he yells after belting O’Rourke. “Do not swell your chest out with pride, O’Rourkes-san. That is the wrong way, that is the Western way. Be a Roman of the Asian persuasion. Breathe from your belly. Your soul is in your stomach, sumos. Remember that. Your stomach. Where attention and breath meet. The power pack. Repeat that.”

  “The power pack, Yokozuna.”

  He allows us to meditate a while longer, then yells for every sumo to halt his breathing and pay attention to a demonstration of how tremendous power can be generated by freeing the mind from the lower regions of the abdomen. He orders Kavanagh to stand up and prepare to give him a stiff karate kick in the stomach at the sound of the whistle. It is the only time Kavanagh doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even grin. The last thing in this world Kavanagh wants to do is kick McCann in the gut. McCann tells him he must breathe deeply and concentrate, preparing to kick him with all his might.

  “Aim for the belly button, Kavanaghs-san,” McCann says.

  “But, Brother . . .” Kavanagh stammers, stroking his skinny arms and legs, which are covered with a light blond down.

  “The belly button!” McCann shouts, and crouches with his legs slightly bent and his hands resting on his knees. There is a terrible strain on McCann’s reddish purple face. The veins in his neck are popping. He looks like he’s going to use the toilet. “Almost ready, Kavanaghs. Steady now. Pay attention, sumos. This is the art of haragei. No more swelling chests. Sumos must develop the bellies and the tremendous power needed to compete. At the sound of the whistle, Kavanaghs will kick his hardest at my belly button, and I will heave my abdomen forward with all my might, hurling him backward and to the ground. Ready, Kavanaghs-san? Pay attention, sumos.”

  McCann steadies himself, breathes madly for a few seconds, puts the whistle in his mouth and blows. Kavanagh leaps into the air and sends his bony right foot smashing into McCann’s huge belly. There is a deafening ripping sound. McCann screams in agony and falls flat on his back. Kavanagh crashes on top of him, jumps up and hops around the gymnasium on one foot. McCann spits and coughs and gurgles. He is in extreme pain. He rolls on his stomach and gasps, drooling and appearing to be about to throw up. We all think Kavanagh, who is crawling back to join us on the mats, is a goner.

  “Sayonara, Kavanaghs-san,” Bug whispers.

  After several minutes of gurgling and snorting, McCann pushes himself to his knees. He gasps and stutters Kavanagh’s name. “K-K-Kav-Kavanaghs . . .” Kavanagh races to him and hovers over him. We can see the fear in his eyes. “Too . . . too high, Kavanaghs. Too close to chest . . . Missed . . . Missed the belly buttons . . .”

  Kavanagh apologizes and asks if he should try the kick again.

  “No!” McCann can only whimper. He is still in tremendous pain. “Tomorrow . . . next class . . .” He stands, dazed, stares at the ceiling for a full minute and says, “Lockers, sumos . . . Over . . . Class is over . . . today.”

  Everyone heads to the lockers at once. En route, we laugh about Kavanagh’s kamikaze kick. With a disgusted huff, McCann hobbles off. Still hacking and spitting, he waves to Ryan and Oberstein and me to roll up the mats.

  As McCann disappears through the door, Oberstein points to the pale brown spots on the backside of his loincloth.

  “He shit himself,” Oberstein says, when McCann is safely out of sight.

  “I think he only farted. It was a giant fart,” Ryan says.

  “No way! Didn’t you see the brown spots on his diapers?” Oberstein says. “He shit himself.”

  We’re only back in class a few minutes when Brother McMurtry pounds on the door. It’s clear from his sour expression that we’re not in for a surprise wingding. He walks the aisles silently for a minute before removing his steel-rimmed glasses and biting the tip of an arm.

  “The culprits will be exposed. It’s just a matter of time. You understand that, do you not, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Yes, Brother.” The gap between Ryan’s front teeth seems wider.

  McMurtry asks me if I understand.

  “Yes, Brother,” I say. I want to tell Ryan to stop biting his nails.

  “Mr. Kelly?”

  “Yes, Brother,” Kelly says.

  “We accept, Mr. Ryan, that you fell asleep on the toilet and were missing from your bed for a period of time. What happened to you can happen to anyone. We all get tired. We all need sleep. Isn’t that right, Brother McCann?”

  “That is correct, Brother McMurtry.”

  I’m starting to feel weak.

  “We are not accusing you of anything, Mr. Ryan. Every boy is innocent until proven guilty. Now, what do you know of the wine missing from the sacristy?”

  “Nothing, Brother.” Ryan coughs and keeps rubbing his sweaty palms on his knees, which he always does when he’s nervous. He looks as guilty as sin.

  “Nothing?”

  “Honest to God, Brother. First I heard of it was the time you mentioned it in class.”

  “There has been no talk of it among the boys? Not a hint of it?”

/>   “No, Brother.”

  “No talk of boys drinking stolen wine on the weekend?” McCann interjects.

  “No, Brother. Honest.” Ryan’s really nervous. His baby face is getting paler by the minute.

  I cough to try to break the tension. They look at me.

  “First I ever heard of it is when you mentioned it in class, Brother.” I stare at McMurtry’s swollen forehead.

  They are silent. Then McCann turns to me and says slowly, “Mr. Carmichael, would you place your hand on the Holy Bible and swear to it?”

  I’m so scared I’d swear to anything. “Yes, Brother.”

  “By all the saints? Would you swear by all the saints?”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  “And you, Mr. Ryan? Would you swear by all the saints?”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  They seem to believe us. Ryan sits silently. I can see the sweat on his forehead. He’s really frightened, and the tears are beginning to come into his eyes. I’m worried that he might crack, so I invent a story about how I hate alcohol because my sister told me that it is the devil’s poison and that she saw my father and Uncle Will Carmichael get so drunk one night they nearly burned the house down. I tell the story so quickly and with such speed that I almost believe it myself.

  Ryan stares at me. He believes every word. Brother McMurtry seems to believe me too, but there is doubt in McCann’s eyes.

  “It is surely demonic, a tool of the devil,” Brother McMurtry agrees.

  McCann asks if we’ve ever seen any of the altar boys taking a sip of wine, from the bottle or from the cruets when they are filled up for Mass. We both say no.