Other serious injuries are also possible. Take Darren Courtemarche, a fearsome competitor, also here today at the Paradise Beach Club, a fearsome competitor whose pale skin and high, arched eyebrows give him a rather spiritual aspect. In September of 2002, Courtemarche was pulling at a tourney in Littleton, New Hampshire, when — in the words of his Granite Arms teammate Badger Drewes — a ligament in his right elbow “exploded like a hand grenade.” The subsequent surgery, in which the ligament was rebuilt using tissue from his ankle, took four-and-a-half hours, and Courtemarche was advised by his doctor to hang up the pulling for good. But here he is, grunting away at the little table.
I ask him if he is concerned that the same thing might happen again. (Is that a stupid fucking question, or what?) “Well, it’s in the back of your mind,” Courtemarche says gently. “I mean, there was no warning the first time.”
For all its technicalities, arm wrestling has a libertarian, minimum-interference approach to the rules. After the elaborate psych-out thumb-wrestle of finding a grip, the ref says, “Ready? GO!”, and as long as you keep your elbow on the pad, your other hand around the stanchion, and your feet somewhere near the floor, pretty much anything goes. Pullers throw themselves back and down, essentially hanging off their opponent’s arm with their entire weight, or burst forward and rotate their torsos over the clinch, bearing down with terrible force. Your standard bout is over in seconds, at which point the loser will generally recoil from the table as if he’s been scorched, and start walking in tiny circles. The victor meanwhile is expanding in rosy magnanimity. “Nice pull, nice pull,” says everybody. This contrast adds great pathos to the business of “strapping,” whereby pullers unable to settle into an acceptable grip after one minute have their hands bound together by the referee: you lose, and your limp mitt is still tied to its conqueror.
My showdown with John Pickering is not over. It’s best of three, and as I take my place at the table for our second bout, I feel like, this time, my head’s a little more in the game. Carl and Jan Schmeichel have been coaching me: “You’re gonna need to hit it right away,” Carl reminds me. “Imagine there’s a fire in the left breast pocket of your shirt, and in your right hand is a glass of water. Put it out! That’s the move. Aim there. Speed could be your advantage.” “Hit it right on the ‘G’ of ‘Go!’ ” adds his father.
What can I say? I do my best, and my best lasts for about two seconds. I sink on the dry breast of failure. No two ways about it, I’ve been flashed in Weirs Beach. “I saw you make the move!” says Carl, supportively. “That was 10 times better than your first bout!” adds his father. “See? You learned something!” And guess what: because John Pickering and I were the only two in our weight class, as runner-up I get a trophy, an elegant item with a couple of golden pullers grunting away on top. I earned it through defeat, but I will keep it with pride, because it accords with my basic sense of life: in this beautiful world of ours, where big men best each other over the little table, you get a prize just for showing up.
