Chapter 29 - Solomon
The USWNT cleared the Colombia hurdle without much trouble, easing to a 2-0 victory in Logan’s absence. The quarterfinals awaited, and a matchup with neighbor and rival, Canada.
Solomon’s match with the Russian went exactly like the previous two had gone. Try as he might, throwing or taking down the Muscovite proved as easy as doing the same to an oak tree. Nothing Solomon did seemed to bother the Russian, and although he defended well, near the end of the round Solomon became noticeably fatigued and he found himself sent crashing to the mat. The referee signaled waza-ari, meaning the match wasn’t over, but since Solomon had failed to score, if time ran out, he’d lose the match. The seconds ticked away but nothing changed.
A loss to an older, more experienced opponent, a gold medal favorite, was nothing to be ashamed of but once the Russian’s hand was raised, Solomon couldn’t hold back the tears. He made eye contact with Gavin and the two men embraced next to the mat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Uncle.”
Gavin held Solomon at arm’s length. “Sorry? Are you crazy? Sorry for giving me the athletic highlight of a lifetime? My own nephew in the Olympics, kicking ass? I’m nothing but proud of you! You’re my hero, Solomon!”
The two men embraced again, Solomon finding family in the crowd with his eyes, seeing all of them clapping, cheering, and giving him the thumbs up sign. Losing wasn’t something he was used to something he hoped he’d never get used to. His heart swelled watching the Fijian flags slice through the air and the smiles on the faces of his friends and family.
As fate would have it, Adonis DeCarlo took the mat next, operating out of the same corner the stewards urged Solomon to vacate in order to proceed with the next match. Two minutes into the match, Solomon watched Adonis catch his South Korean opponent in an arm bar as the two scrambled for position on the mat. Waiting until absolutely the last moment before his elbow joint was painfully dislocated, the South Korean was forced to tap out, signaling a surrender that sent Adonis to the semifinals.
Adonis would meet a Cuban, while the Russian who beat Solomon was scheduled to face the Japanese judoka in the semis. As he left the mat, Adonis couldn’t help but smirk at Solomon as he strutted past him, knowing he’d finally, irrevocably buried his rival.
Solomon broke into a light jog, winding up right in front of Adonis. “Beat the Cuban or you’ll be seeing me in the repechage, buddy. Can’t duck me forever.”
“Does somebody want to get this loser out of my face, please?” Adonis implored, to no one in particular. Gavin interceded on Solomon’s behalf, hustling his fighter away before tensions escalated.
“You have another fight in an hour, you numbskull. Don’t get yourself disqualified.”
Solomon laughed. “I’m fine, Uncle. I’m cool, I promise. I’ll be ready.”
In Olympic judo, two bronze medals are awarded, to winners of a tournament called a “repechage.” Two quarterfinal losers compete for the right to advance to a bronze medal match against the semifinal loser from the opposite side of the bracket.
If Solomon could beat an Israeli opponent, a special forces soldier with a nasty reputation for preferring to break arms and choke opponents into unconsciousness rather than take them down or throw them, he’d be in the bronze medal match against the loser of Adonis’s semifinal against Cuba.
Solomon felt jitters like he’d never felt in his life, even when he sent that first e-mail to Gavin so many years ago.
He was as close as any Fijian had ever been a to an Olympic medal, and the chance could well come against the judoka he’d been dying to face for more than two years.
Solomon asked Gavin for some privacy, and he found a corner of an empty locker room and prayed like he’d never prayed before. He prayed for strength from his father and courage from his father. He gave thanks for Logan and asked God to bless a future with her, if that was in the cards. The butterflies in his stomach disappeared, one by one, and he felt the fury of the storm coursing through his veins. Somewhere in the bowels of the stadium he knew his opponent was calling on his military training, recalling his own path to the brink of a medal. Solomon also knew that it mattered not. Once the two men set foot on the mat, Solomon knew, he knew, that if he fought his fight, it made no difference what the Israeli did. He traced the tattoo on his forearm over and over again, breathing deeply, controlling his racing heart.
Gavin summoned Solomon to the mat, and the coach liked what he saw from his fighter. A storm brewed behind Solomon’s eyes, but he was in complete control of it. He bounced on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain the energy crackling within. By contrast, the Israeli looked indifferent, almost bored. He might as well be a man preparing to take a nap.
As Solomon completed his final pre-match stretches, he caught a glimpse of blonde in the crowd, curls that could belong only to the most beautiful girl in Rio, Logan Lowery. She’d been busy with her match earlier, but somehow she’d gotten word that Solomon would be in action again and she’d found a spot among the spirited Fijian rooting section.
Solomon hoped to see her brilliant smile, but instead he saw only fire. Her face wore a mask as intense as his, and she lifted a hand, balled into a fist toward Solomon, urging him to make the most of his opportunity, to make her proud, to take what was his.
Solomon required no further inspiration.
When facing a new opponent for the first time, as Solomon was doing in his repechage semifinal against the Israeli soldier, custom was to be cautious and play defense, craft a plan of attack based on the give and take of early clinches. Rather than take things slowly, however, Solomon was on the other man with the force of a tsunami.
At first, the other man retained his placid demeanor, going through the catalogue of counters to whatever Solomon tried. When the action crashed to the mat, however, Solomon noticed a look of confusion, bordering on fear, on the other man’s face as they grappled for position. Solomon spun his hips over and around, taking hold of an arm, and falling back into a textbook arm bar. Rather than the instant submission that usually accompanied such a hold, the Israeli battled, trying to flip over, pull his arm free, anything to escape the hold. Only when Solomon lifted his hips from the mat to increase the torque did he feel the referee’s hand tap his shoulder to indicate he should release the hold. He’d won!
Containing his jubilance, Solomon congratulated his fallen foe, thanked the referee with a bow, and waited to have his hand raised. Leaving the mat, he was surrounded by his coach and family, tears glistening in many of their eyes. He waded through the crowd when he spotted blonde hair among the almost universally dark tresses, embracing Logan, who whispered in his ear. “You were a very bad boy last night. I didn’t realize that was the kind of kiss you wanted.”
Solomon’s olive skin flushed crimson recalling the events in Logan’s room, under her comforter.
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you in front of your friends,” Solomon whispered back.
“Pfft. They’re just jealous.” Logan and Solomon kissed before Logan slipped away, leaving him with one final whispered message. “You have to sleep tonight. As much as I want to see you, get some rest. We’ll talk after you win your medal tomorrow.”
Solomon could live with that. For now, he and what seemed like half the population of Fiji had some celebrating to do. A native son would be fighting for an unprecedented Olympic medal in just under twenty-four hours.
After a shower, Solomon and Gavin settled in to watch the final 90 kilo judo match of the evening, the semifinal between Adonis DeCarlo of the United States and his Cuban opponent, a veteran of three previous Olympics, with two medals in his trophy case back in Havana. The Russian who’d bested Solomon had beaten the Japanese champion in his semifinal, and he’d await Adonis or the powerful Cuban in the gold medal match. The loser would settle for a shot at bronze.
Adonis battled admirably, even catching the Cuban with a waza-ari, but experience was too much too overcome, and with Logan’s teammates, the twin sisters of Adonis, watching, he was thrown frightfully across the mat, landing with a crash, with the referee signaling for an ippon. Victory for Cuba. Also victory for Solomon. He’d now get his hands on Adonis DeCarlo, with the whole world watching.
And with an Olympic fucking medal hanging in the balance.