Like Sons, Like Fathers - Part 2

It's a hot start, hope there'll be enough dad vs son action as well as the main tag team match... Please go on posting.

Not planning on doing a dad-son match with this particular story, but if there's enough of a positive response I'll think about a sequel.

“Fuck you. Let’s do this. Tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” I sent back. “When and where?”

“You got the balls to come to me? I have a mat room here. We can settle this shit without anyone interrupting us.”

“No problem. When are we going to do this?”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“Not a damn thing. Where are you?”

He gave me his address – it wasn’t that far a drive. He also included his cell number “in case you puss out.”

“Fuck you. Get ready for the beating of your life.”

“You fucking wish!”

We went on like that for a while, but the important part had been settled: tomorrow morning, Anderson and I would hit the mat one last time and settle things once and for all. After I shut down my computer, I did what I usually did in situations like this. I went straight to my father.

What? You think I’m NOT going to tell him about something like this? Guess again. My dad and I have a great relationship, and in my eighteen years and changed, I’ve learned that he knows when to lay the hammer down and when to stand back, let me do something stupid, and then help me pick up the pieces.

He listened when I told him the whole story, then nodded and said, “Let me talk to his father.”

I gave him Anderson’s cell number. He called, and presently said, “This is Tom’s father. Let me speak to yours.” There was a pause, and then he said, “This is Tom’s father. We met earlier tonight. Did your son tell you what they have planned for tomorrow?”

A pause. “So do I.”

Another pause. There is nothing more frustrating than a one-sided conversation. “Yeah, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Yet another pause. “If you feel froggy, leap!”

That sounded interesting. Dad exchanged a few more remarks with Mr. Anderson, and then ended the call. I knew better than to ask what had happened; he’d tell me what I needed to know.

And he did. “Well, it seems like Mr. Anderson is willing to let you boys wrestle it out,” he said, “but that’s not all he has in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“He challenged me. The stupid son of a bitch challenged me.” Dad was grinning from ear to ear. “He said, and I quote, ‘After my son kicks your son’s ass, I’ll be happy to kick yours.’”

“No way!”

Dad nodded. “So get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be an early day…and a good one.”

I went to bed, but it was a long time before I slept. Excitement kept me awake half the night as I imagined my dad in a fight.

Even up so late, I woke early, before the sun was even up. I showered, dressed quickly, and headed downstairs. Dad was already there, finishing up a very light breakfast. He spooned out some oatmeal and buttered a couple of pieces of toast, then poured me a glass of orange juice. “Nothing heavier than that,” he said, “not on a match day.”

“Gee, Dad, thanks a lot,” I drawled sarcastically, but grinning. “I mean, never having wrestled before in my life, I don’t know what I should and shouldn’t eat before getting on the mat. You’re a genius, Dad, an absolute genius.”

“Keep that up, and you won’t have to worry about getting beat by Anderson,” Dad growled, “because you won’t survive your warmup with me!”

“Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir!” I mock-saluted him, laughing. Dad grinned and glanced up at the clock.

“Time to go,” he said. I nodded, took a final swig of juice, and followed him out the door.

The drive took about twenty minutes; neither one of us talked much. I had butterflies in my stomach over the match—or, if I wanted to be realistic, the fight—and a strange excitement over the thought of Dad fighting Mr. Anderson. He’d been my first teacher on the mat, and he’d been to every one of my matches, but I’d never seen him in action before. The thought of seeing him taking on another man set my heart racing…and caused a really surprising stirring in my groin! Where the hell was THAT coming from?

As we got closer, I sent a text to Anderson to tell him we were almost there. He was waiting for us at his front door, his face completely unreadable. Dad and I got out of the car and walked up the front walkway; Anderson, dressed normally, held the door open for us as we went in the house.

“Mat room’s downstairs,” he growled. “Dad’s already down there.”