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A powerful debut novel. --Booklist, starred review
"The crowded bar had made space an I could hear other people screaming byt no one came near me. It was a smaller circle than the one I had wrestled in but it was a circle and I went to work. I turned him around and pulled him to me, put a half nelson on him, forced his neck down. The circle opened up. There was a free space at the bar and I drove him forward, drove his face into the side of the bar. I moved my hand down his back and between his legs, picked him up and held him there, feeling his weight above my head, feeling the power in my muscles and I threw him to the floor. I wiped my shoe across the blood, lifted my foot and brought it down and brought it down, triumphant, foot on the back of a fallen opponent like a classical statue, like in the pictures my college wrestling coach showed the team at the beginning of each new season. White marble figures graceful in victory." --from Headlock Adam Berlin received a BA from Brandeis and an MFA from Brooklyn College. His work has been published in a number of magazines, including Other Voices, Santa Barbara Review, Puerto del Soland Bilingual Review. His story "Cojones" was nominated for a 1997 Pushcart Prize, and his poem "Triple Threat" has been nominated for a 1999 Pushcart. He teaches English at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. 1
The one in front of me was looking at me like I was the stupid one. He was the one walking through the bar, he was the one with the full drink, he was the one in my way and he hadn't moved his shoulder just like he thought I hadn't moved mine. I had moved mine. I had moved my shoulder into his shoulder to send the alcohol over the edge of the glass to make him stop walking and he'd stopped. He'd turned around. He looked at me like I was the stupid one but he was the stupid one. He didn't know what I did best.
He told me to watch where I was going. I was watching. I had watched his head turn when I bumped him and I had watched his eyes focus on mine. I was watching his mouth talking, one of those losers who talked first. I had been talking to myself in the bathroom mirror but that was to myself. I had to do something. He was still holding the glass and some of the spilled alcohol made his hand wet and that was the hand I took. I held his wrist with my one hand, held his hand around the glass with my other hand and pressed his palm hard and harder into the glass until the glass broke. He screamed and I pressed harder until a triangle of glass came out the back of his hand. All his focus went to his hand and away from me. He couldn't take his eyes off his hand that was squirting blood on the sleeve of his shirt. The crowded bar had made space and I could hear other people screaming but no one came near me. It was a smaller circle than the one I had wrestled in but it was a circle and I went to work. I turned him around and pulled him to me, put a half nelson on him, forced his neck down. The circle opened up. There was a free space at the bar and I drove him forward, drove his face into the side of the bar. I moved my hand down his back and between his legs, picked him up and held him there, feeling his weight above my head, feeling the power in my muscles and I threw him to the floor. His head bounced once and his body relaxed. The hand with the glass sticking out of it was leaking blood onto the floor. I wiped my shoe across the blood, lifted my foot and brought it down and brought it down, triumphant, foot on the back of a fallen opponent like a classical statue, like in the pictures my college wrestling coach showed the team at the beginning of each new season. White marble figures graceful in victory. I pictured my grandfather like that, standing over some long-ago Russian opponent, his mouth set firm like I remembered, like in the old photographs from a time when people posed without smiling. Strong and beautiful the way it was supposed to be on the mat when it was done right.
"The crowded bar had made space an I could hear other people screaming byt no one came near me. It was a smaller circle than the one I had wrestled in but it was a circle and I went to work. I turned him around and pulled him to me, put a half nelson on him, forced his neck down. The circle opened up. There was a free space at the bar and I drove him forward, drove his face into the side of the bar. I moved my hand down his back and between his legs, picked him up and held him there, feeling his weight above my head, feeling the power in my muscles and I threw him to the floor. I wiped my shoe across the blood, lifted my foot and brought it down and brought it down, triumphant, foot on the back of a fallen opponent like a classical statue, like in the pictures my college wrestling coach showed the team at the beginning of each new season. White marble figures graceful in victory." --from Headlock Adam Berlin received a BA from Brandeis and an MFA from Brooklyn College. His work has been published in a number of magazines, including Other Voices, Santa Barbara Review, Puerto del Soland Bilingual Review. His story "Cojones" was nominated for a 1997 Pushcart Prize, and his poem "Triple Threat" has been nominated for a 1999 Pushcart. He teaches English at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. 1
The one in front of me was looking at me like I was the stupid one. He was the one walking through the bar, he was the one with the full drink, he was the one in my way and he hadn't moved his shoulder just like he thought I hadn't moved mine. I had moved mine. I had moved my shoulder into his shoulder to send the alcohol over the edge of the glass to make him stop walking and he'd stopped. He'd turned around. He looked at me like I was the stupid one but he was the stupid one. He didn't know what I did best.
He told me to watch where I was going. I was watching. I had watched his head turn when I bumped him and I had watched his eyes focus on mine. I was watching his mouth talking, one of those losers who talked first. I had been talking to myself in the bathroom mirror but that was to myself. I had to do something. He was still holding the glass and some of the spilled alcohol made his hand wet and that was the hand I took. I held his wrist with my one hand, held his hand around the glass with my other hand and pressed his palm hard and harder into the glass until the glass broke. He screamed and I pressed harder until a triangle of glass came out the back of his hand. All his focus went to his hand and away from me. He couldn't take his eyes off his hand that was squirting blood on the sleeve of his shirt. The crowded bar had made space and I could hear other people screaming but no one came near me. It was a smaller circle than the one I had wrestled in but it was a circle and I went to work. I turned him around and pulled him to me, put a half nelson on him, forced his neck down. The circle opened up. There was a free space at the bar and I drove him forward, drove his face into the side of the bar. I moved my hand down his back and between his legs, picked him up and held him there, feeling his weight above my head, feeling the power in my muscles and I threw him to the floor. His head bounced once and his body relaxed. The hand with the glass sticking out of it was leaking blood onto the floor. I wiped my shoe across the blood, lifted my foot and brought it down and brought it down, triumphant, foot on the back of a fallen opponent like a classical statue, like in the pictures my college wrestling coach showed the team at the beginning of each new season. White marble figures graceful in victory. I pictured my grandfather like that, standing over some long-ago Russian opponent, his mouth set firm like I remembered, like in the old photographs from a time when people posed without smiling. Strong and beautiful the way it was supposed to be on the mat when it was done right.