Savage Read Free

You paid for this crap? Grow up, kid. Dragging your father to this shit...

    It was July 28th, and I had been twelve years old for nearly two weeks. As I sauntered behind Holly and Dad, I saw a bevy of teens and dads chattering on escalators and lining up for sugary treats, ready for two hours of feeding on the acidic residue like sweet-sick ants. As we passed a merchandise table, a man handed me a single black-and-white sheet with the rundown of matches.
    "What’s that?" Holly asked.
    "Like a thing for what the matches are."
    At home, Dad always exuded a ghastly predisposition, wearing the thin, polyester-cotton-blend tea-coloured pajamas with black socks, fogging his way through the grim early morning routine. It was strange to see him surrounded by extras and wrestling fans in Maple Leaf Gardens. Every morning I saw him, Dad appeared only half-lit; on mute, a stale, predawn musk tricking from his mouth, a mouth full of grown-man realities: failed mouthwash, under-brushed teeth, overlooked food particles. His senses honed in on the substantial, a fresh veneer, hoping coffee would place him elsewhere—if only mentally. This was our Dad; always, first thing, first light, with the rising morning air and the house yawning alive and his first cigarette to set the mood. But I forget about all those tiny corporeal details of my then forty-five-year-old father David, because all I cared about was that those tickets he bought meant we’d be at Maple Leaf Gardens, Red Section, West Gate, by eight o’clock. Each ticket costing $14.00 ($12.73 + RST $1.27 = $14.00), plus snacks and TTC costs. On the way up, I noticed the prices for seats: we had the second-best tickets available next to gold! WWF Maple Leaf Wrestling Live!
    Overhead, a crackled voice unspooled from the Gardens’ dirty quadrants; a booming, invisible bull roar charged through the building’s ghastly innards: " Welcome, everyone, to Maple Leaf Wrestling, presented by the World Wrestling Federation. "
    The voice was tinny; it continued: " Ladies and gentlemen, souvenir programs and other WWF merchandise are available at the concession stands. Don’t forget to pick up the latest merchandise from all your favourite WWF wrestling stars. "
    In our cold seats, Dad cleared his throat and peered out into the crowd that slowly filled the Gardens. He asked Holly if she was cold, if she wanted a hot dog, and "ask your brother..."
    I fidgeted with my shoelaces; my legs were cold. I stared at the empty wrestling ring, how the colour of the canvas was lighter than my own homemade ring, the ring that had been through so many battles already—real 1 and fake.
    1. In June, the ring had to be reinforced after an incident with Dad where he hit his foot on my homemade wrestling ring, then in his usual spooling rage, snapped and crashed his size 9 black-sock foot through the meek tangerine box, the wood as flimsy as skin. The toy blew up like a fake prop coming undone at the perfect Moment. After the attack, I had to reinforce the ring’s floor with pieces of wood about two inches thick, until the material could be stretched over it again. Bringing the ring back to the living room, I said loudly, “Now it’s foot proof.”
    "Is there a program?" Dad asked. I showed my father the single page. Dad nodded as Holly took the page from me.

    "Just like church, right?" Holly joked, passing Dad the fight card I had let drop onto my knee. I heard what Holly said and looked at my sister. Dad seemed to like the joke and had a smirk on his face until it returned to his standard stiff offering. Still, the mention of church freaked me out because of the whole Jesus thing 2 .
    2. One night a few weeks earlier in the month, Dad woke up in the middle of the night and ran down two flights of stairs to wake me up and yell at me for not apologizing for messing up his workshop. Mom screamed behind him in her pink-and-white nightgown, and I peed a little in my pants.