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Dumb Flesh

Dumb Flesh

Early Saturday at Owl Head

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Barry Friedman
Dec 03, 2022
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My son, Paul, never wrestled. He did, however, play football in junior high school when he was 13 or 14. Never in a game, but because he was a big kid, the coaches persuaded him to come out for practice with the promise of joining the team. They talked of college scholarships and teamwork and hard work and it was a good message. I found him early one morning, before school, face down on the patio of his mom’s house, spinning around.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He said he was practicing a drill his coaches told him to practice. He was, he told me, an “offense lineman.”

I smiled but didn’t laugh.

My ex-wife’s husband, Bob, said Paul had been getting up early and working out like that for a few weeks.

“He’s going to be good,” Bob said.

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