Bailey said he'd never been to the memorial for Paulie, Jesse, Beans and Grant. Ambrose could see why. It involved a bit of a climb up a little dirt road that was far too steep going both up and down for a wheelchair to traverse. Elliott told Ambrose the city was working on having the road paved, but it hadn't happened yet.
When Bailey told him about the spot, Ambrose could see how much Bailey wanted to go, and Ambrose told himself he would take him. But not yet. This time, this first time, Ambrose needed to go by himself. He had avoided it since coming home to Hannah Lake almost six months before. But talk of cupcakes and humility and Bailey's lack of pride had convinced Ambrose that maybe it was time for small steps. And so he put one foot in front of the other and climbed the hill that led to the pretty overlook where his four friends were buried.
They stood in a straight line, four white headstones looking out over the high school where they had all wrestled and played football, where they had grown to maturity. There was a little stone bench situated near the graves where family or friends could sit for a while and the trees were thick beyond the clearing. It was a good spot, quiet and peaceful. There were flowers and a few notes and stuffed animals placed around the graves, and Ambrose was happy to see that others had frequently visited, though he hoped no one would visit today. He needed some time alone with his friends.
Paulie and Grant were in the middle, Beans and Jesse on each side. Funny. That was kind of how it had been in life. Paulie and Grant were the glue, the steady ones, Beans and Jesse the protectors, the wild men. The two that would bitch and moan about you to your face but who, in the end, always had your back. Ambrose crouched next to each grave and read the words carved into the stones.
Connor Lorenzo “Beans” O'Toole
May 8, 1984 – July 2, 2004
Mi hijo, Mi corazon
Paul Austin Kimball
June 29, 1984 – July 2, 2004.
Beloved friend, brother, and son.
Grant Craig Nielson
November 1, 1983 – July 2, 2004
Forever in our Hearts
Jesse Brooks Jordan
October 24, 1983 – July 2, 2004.
Father, Son, Soldier, Friend
Victory is in the Battle was written on the stone bench. Ambrose traced the words. It was something Coach Sheen always said. Something Coach Sheen always yelled from the side of the mat. It was never about the end result with Coach. It was always about fighting to the whistle.
Ambrose sat down on the bench and looked out over the valley below, at the town where he'd lived every day of his life, every day except the years where everything had changed. And he talked to his friends. Not because he believed they could hear him, but because there were things he knew he needed to say.
He told them about what Bailey had said. About taking his life back. He wasn't sure what that meant. Sometimes you can't take your life back. Sometimes it's dead and buried and you can only make a new life. Ambrose didn't know what that new life would look like.
Fern's face floated in his mind. Maybe Fern would be part of a new life, but strangely enough, Ambrose didn't want to talk to the guys about Fern. It felt too soon. And he discovered he wanted to protect her, even from the ghosts of his closest friends. They'd all laughed too often at the little redhead, told too many jokes at her expense, poked too many holes and taunted one too many times. So Ambrose kept Fern to himself, safe inside a rapidly expanding corner of his heart, where only he knew she belonged.
When the sun started to wane and dip below the trees, Ambrose rose and found his way back down the hill, relieved that he'd finally found the strength to climb it.
The wrestling room smelled like sweat and bleach and memories. Good memories. Two long ropes hung in the corners, ropes he'd climbed and swung from a thousand times. The mats were unrolled, thick red slabs of rubber with the circle that marked inbounds and the lines in the center where the action began. Coach Sheen was mopping down the mats, something he'd probably done more than a thousand times. In a thirty-year coaching career, it had to be more.
“Hey Coach,” Ambrose said softly, his mind on all the times he'd turned Coach away when he first returned home.
Coach Sheen looked up in surprise, startled from his own thoughts, not expecting company.
“Ambrose!” His face wore such an expression of sheer joy that Ambrose gulped, wondering why he’d kept his old coach at arm’s length for so long.
Coach Sheen stopped mopping and folded his hands on the handle. “How are ya, soldier?”
Ambrose winced at the address. Guilt and grief hung like heavy chains around the word. His pride in being a soldier had been decimated by the loss of his friends and the responsibility he felt for their deaths. Let heroes wear the word. He felt unworthy of the title.
Mike Sheen's eyes narrowed on Ambrose's face, not missing the way Ambrose flinched at his greeting or the way his mouth tightened like he had something to say, but wouldn't say it. Coach Sheen felt his heart quake in his chest. Ambrose Young had been a phenom, an absolute monster in the sport. He was the kind of kid every coach dreamed of coaching, not because of the glory it would bring to him, but because of the thrill of being part of something truly inspiring and watching history unfold before your eyes. Ambrose Young was that kind of an athlete. Still could be, maybe. But as he hovered by the door, his face a web of scars, his youth gone, his hair gone too, Mike Sheen had his doubts.
The irony that his hair was gone did not escape Coach Sheen. Ambrose Young had been absolutely teachable and obedient in the wrestling room, except for when it came to his hair. He had flatly refused to cut it. Coach liked his boys clean cut and military short. It showed respect and a willingness to sacrifice. But Ambrose had calmly, in private, told Coach he would wear it in a tight ponytail off his face when he was in practice and when he wrestled, but he wouldn't cut it.
Coach Sheen had told Ambrose that he would allow it if Ambrose would lead in every other way. Meaning, if the team all started growing their hair out, taking practice lightly or disrespecting the team or the coaching staff in any way, he would hold Ambrose personally responsible, and Ambrose would cut his hair. Ambrose had held to his end of the deal. He led the team. On match days, he wore slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie to school, and made sure all the other boys did too. He was the first to practice, the last to leave, the hardest worker, the consistent leader. Coach Sheen had considered it the best deal he'd ever made.
Now Ambrose's hair was gone. So was his sense of direction, his confidence, the light in his eyes. One eye was permanently dimmed, and the other roved the room nervously. Coach Sheen wondered if there really were such things as second chances. It wasn't the physical stuff that worried him. It was the emotional toll.
Ambrose walked toward his old coach, clutching his gear, feeling like an intruder in a place he used to love more than any place on earth. “I talked to Bailey. He said you would be here.”
“Yeah? I'm here. You wanna work out? Shake the rust off?” Mike Sheen held his breath.
Ambrose nodded, just once, and Coach Sheen released the air in his lungs.
“All right. Let's drill a little.”
“You could sign up for some ballet or some gymnastics,” Coach Sheen suggested after Ambrose lost his balance and fell to the mat for the tenth time. “That's what we used to have some of the football players do when they needed to work on balance, but I'm guessing you'd look hideous in a tutu and the little girls would think it was a reenactment of Beauty and the Beast.”
Ambrose was a little stunned by the blunt assessment of his lack of beauty. Leave it to Coach Sheen not to pull any punches. Bailey was just like him.
Coach Sheen continued, “The only way your balance is going to come back is if you just keep drilling. It's muscle memory. Your body knows what to do. You're just second-guessing yourself. Hell, stick an ear-plug in the other ear and see if it helps to be deaf in both.”
The next night, Ambrose tried it. Not being able to hear at all actually evened things out a bit. The eyesight wasn't as big an impediment. Ambrose had always been a hands-on wrestler–constant contact, hands on your opponent at all times. There were blind wrestlers in the world. Deaf ones, too. There were wrestlers without legs, for that matter. There were no allowances made, but no one was excluded either. If you could compete, you were allowed on the mat–may the best wrestler win. It was the kind of sport that celebrated the individual. Come as you are, turn your weaknesses into advantages, dominate your opponent. Period.
But Ambrose hadn't ever had weaknesses on the mat. Not like this. This was all new. Coach Sheen had him shooting single legs, double legs, high-C's, ankle picks, and duck-unders until his legs shook, and then he had him do it from the other side. Then he was pulling his big body up the rope. It was one thing to climb a rope if you were a wiry 5'5, 125 pounder. It was a completely different matter when you were 6'3, and over two hundred pounds. He hated the rope climb. But he made it to the top. And then he made it again the next night. And the next.