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Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Humiliating Your Opponent (Cont.)

Especially when you are a kid, you encounter guys who you think you should be able to pin.  These may be guys who are held in contempt by your friends.  They may be guys who are just a little odd, or are not really in very good shape.  You step out, in front of your friends, and you wrestle them.  But, then, inexplicably and humiliatingly, you are beaten. 

Held in a hold.  Unable to move.  Struggling feebly.  All the while your friends look on, laughing at you. 

I wrestled a guy like that once when I was a kid.  My friends were convinced that he was some sort of punk and that I should be able to take him so easily.  I could see that he was built.  He had that smooth, muscled look some guys have, and I wasn't so sure I could take him.  But, they were pushing me to go at it, so I did.

I thought his body looked a lot like the guy without the shirt shown above.  He stripped off his shirt to wrestle me, and I was both intimidated and turned on.  Still, I was game and we were soon rolling on the grass in the front yard while a ring a guys shouted around us.

He was good at getting around behind me.  Those were the days before MMA, so he wasn't trying to submit me.  He was trying to pin me.  The school-boy pin.  The ultimate end to any match in those days.  When an opponent sat on your chest and held your wrists to the ground, laughing in your face while you struggled to escape and buck him off.

I did not give in easily.  I turned and tried to force him back onto his back, but he was stronger, and from the slight smile on his face, I could see that he enjoyed messing with me. 

Although it was autumn, it was still warm, and we were soon covered in a sheen of sweat as we rolled in the grass.  I kept trying to gain an advantage over him, but he was so strong. Much more of an athlete than me.  My friends were calling me names.  Telling me that I was a loser and a punk.  And, I could feel my opponent drawing strength from that.  He believed them.  I was starting to believe them, too.

He worked me over until he was lying across my chest, pressing me into the ground.  He was laughing, and that pissed me off, but there was little that I could do.  We were chest-to-chest, his crotch pressed into mine, and his hands were clasped around my wrists.  I foolishly tried to force him off with just my arms, but I wasn't strong enough, and he was using his weight to hold me in place.

One of my friends, David, leaned down and looked me in the face while I was held there. 

"Get up," he commanded.  "Don't you let this fag beat you."

I summoned my strength and tried again, raising up into a bridge while I tried to roll him off me, but he pressed his chest down into mine and I collapsed again onto the ground.

I was beaten.

I gave.

My friends turned away and left me there on the grass, my opponent grinning above me. 

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