A single shot

He was a high talker certainly; on the mat he strutted like he owned it--could just assume he would flatten you, that was the key, you see. He'd flex in front of every reflective surface, dangle his endowments in the shower room, and on the bus to meets regale us with tales of conquests of the girls we discussed the most. Thought himself handsome, kept himself clean (no sweat stuck to him), belittle your bitterest weaknesses then say he's just kidding, but seriously--

He'd stretch his legs more than once on the bus and rest them on mine, me a frightened, insecure JV freshmen wondering what I was doing there, unsure what to do but somehow sensing a wrestler should say something more. But perhaps not so far down, because every time he saw my lips move he'd tell me not to worry 'bout it and relax, then he'd lean back and close his eyes. Besides, in practice he could just flatten me, like he assumed he could, and I wondered years later if that was the key, you see--

So it was with some wonderment, and something approaching pity in my eyes (as I wondered if there was any key at all), when one minute in his first match his opponent deftly lifted him up and slammed him to the mat with a thud that briefly echoed the gymnasium, and the tears immediately streamed from his eyes, and he cried out loudly, longingly, mournfully, "I wanna go home, no more, no more, I just wannna go hooooome..."