The Man Game Read Free

Off came The Bay’s tricoloured boxer briefs. Minna and I shot each other hesitant but inquisitive glances, and although I watched her lips part and one black eyebrow cock up, she chose to say nothing.
    A spectator’s gleeful whoop soared into the air and a baritone voice called out, All right. There was sustained applause.
    You going to get down to it? said the naked man to his still boxered opponent.
    The guy shook his head while he looked to the ground, a
No
gesture, and all at once the audience erupted in hisses and catcalling. They stamped up and down and swatted insults at him. Get outta the yard; Go home; Go back to wherever you came from; Take your sorry self back to that shameful place.
    After all this stress from the mob, the player finally agreed to take off the boxers. The crowd loved this. The crowd noise was embarrassing as he pulled the folding holes down over his ankles and left the elasticized underwear in the dirtof his corner. He stood, gently rocking on the balls of his feet, under the steaming gaze of some hundred or so people.
    They’re naked, said Minna. Kat, you didn’t say anything aboot buck.
    I had no idea. I wouldn’t have brought you if I’d known.
    They got great bodies, said Minna.
    I had no comment. A little younger than me, but they still looked as physically fresh as if they’d come straight from the high school gymnasium. All those endurance runs and flexed arm-hangs, push-ups, and basketball had left a good imprint.
    I’m a little confused what’s happening, she said.
    This definitely isn’t what I pictured.
    We watched as the two men warmed up. The stocky guy with the long curly hair greased back did a one-armed handstand. He made it look like the kind of thing a person just does. I checked my wrist for a watch, for something else to do instead of gaping at the naked men while they limbered from the necks on down. It was a big show of loosening various flattoned street muscles along their arms, backs, chests, legs, and necks. I ignored it. Not to be outdone, the taller, more heavily built and unshaven one did a backflip, landed on a single foot. Deep breaths and neck cracks led to flippering wrists and more heaving breaths. They danced on their toes and dodged left and right. I wasn’t paying attention. After both guys relaxed to a neutral position and shared a moment of staring stillness, they walked to the centre of the yard and shook hands.
    I’m Silas, said the tall one.
    Hi there, I’m Ken.
    They backed away and hunched down, arms held out at the ready, same as Olympic wrestlers. I had a good idea of what was about to happen and I thought of my poor cousin, relieved he wasn’t out in front of me.
    By the rise in idiot cheering throughout the yard, and without a referee or any coaches watching, I assumed this was probably going to end much worse than it began.
    It’s a wrestling match, I told Minna. It’s naked wrestling.
    I’m ready to go whenever you are, she said.
    Yeah, I said.
    We arranged ourselves for a delicate exit.
    Silas was the big one, and cromagnonically hairy. It was impossible to ignore the hair all over him. Not to mention that his arms were frightening—slablike muscle carpeted straight to the fuzzy knuckles. And his knees were scabbed in long stretches.
    Ken was the one with less bulk and height but more sinew. He was square and scribbled; he looked like a car battery, capable of great shocks and acid attacks. He did agile footwork I thought looked sketchy. Even with less hair he looked more animal than Silas. Perhaps his size could account for that, or his winter tan, or his thick, crusty hands.
    He was the first to move. In a spider-fast sprint Ken was across the yard, nothing but pure tendon and rippled muscle and a delicate layer of pale bluish skin. A person had to be more alert than me to know he was coming. He seemed to glide through my blind spots until he was on top of the game, locking