I found my father\u2019s bed at the end of the corridor. A nurse held his pallid arm up to the light. She adjusted one of the tubes and lowered his arm back to his side. In the neighboring bed, a man older than my father was connected to beeping monitors. He followed me with his eyes. Landis and my mom turned their heads as the nurse walked out.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d asked Landis.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
My mom pressed a knuckle to her lips.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo back,\u201d she whispered. \u201cYou\u2019ll give him a shock if he sees you here.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pointed at my brother. \u201cWhat about him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI made weight, then got on a plane. I\u2019m forfeiting. They\u2019ll give me a wildcard bid. You can\u2019t afford to do that.\u201d He nodded at the bed. \u201cHe\u2019d care, even if you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father appeared small in the bed. He too had been a wrestler. Not a very good one\u2014never got him anywhere\u2014but still. It didn\u2019t seem right that any committed participant should be so reduced. We identified ourselves with our misshapen ears and odd, lumbering gaits. What we shared most, though, were stubborn hearts; we were descendants of Jacob, who\u2019d bested an angel in a nightlong match.<\/p>\n
Yet it was my father\u2019s heart that had failed him. Years of smoking Camels had yellowed his skin. Stress lines carved rivers through his face.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou gonna weigh in?\u201d Landis was a junior. He\u2019d made the NCAAs twice already. I never had. I was a senior in college. Last ever chance. Weigh-ins for one of the conference tournaments, which my school was hosting, were in a few hours. I was over. I felt the extra weight inside me, a stone in the pit of my stomach.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cLet me know if he dies.\u201d<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t intended such melodrama. A hilarious wish to cry crawled up my throat. There was no need to explain the situation\u2019s absurdity.<\/p>\n
My mom called for me to wait. I stopped for a second. Then I was gone.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Redding asked.<\/p>\n
Faded posters with clich\u00e9d motivational quotes plastered the locker room walls.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m over.\u201d I didn\u2019t bother to say why. Redding wasn\u2019t the type to hear more than three seconds of an excuse. He recruited me when I was in high school.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy aren\u2019t you already sweating?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGoing in now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHurry the fuck up,\u201d he said. \u201cBe in after I change.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Plenty of other fathers resembled mine. Mothers, too. He belonged to one of a few competitive tribes. Coaches, parents. Rivals. When we went to Jersey to compete\u2014especially places like Bergen County\u2014we saw sport jackets and Ferragamo shoes. Guys took work calls on their cell phones. Pennsylvania, where I grew up, drew NASCAR caps and camouflage, lips fat with Skoal. Audiences at tournaments could be mistaken for gatherings of hunters. Still, when we traveled beyond our states, Jersey and PA people could be found hunched over the same hotel bars, discussing a referee\u2019s bias or some heroic overtime win. Their moods and topics of conversation depended on how their sons had performed.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
One hour remained until weigh-ins. I had three pounds yet to shed. My priority. I jogged around the mat to loosen up.<\/p>\n
The door to the wrestling room squealed open. Redding\u2019s shadow shot across the mat. He was a brick of a man: short and solid, with apish arms he kept half-bent when he walked. For a second, that look of daily panic washed over his face. When he went home to his wife and baby girl, he cut the truth of his own career\u2019s end from himself, only to let it grow back when he reentered to coach us. My Classics professor would\u2019ve called him a masochistic Prometheus.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe don\u2019t pay you to miss weight,\u201d Redding said. \u201cThat\u2019s not included in the scholarship\u2014missing fucking weight.\u201d<\/p>\n
He jogged next to me. His voice was a loud, berating blur. You hated and trusted him for the same reason: his method worked. He grabbed my shoulder, and we began to drill. A heavy forearm clubbed my head. Our bodies moved with auto-precision. I tried to focus on the familiar feeling of dehydration. But the thought of my father, and who he and I would be when this thing ended, confused me. I could not touch the thought, or see it, and still, its shadow followed me around the room, no matter how fast I moved.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Redding struck me again. I melted into a crowd of boys, huddled close. Most of us wore only underwear. The light fell on our heads as we edged along, the shuffles of our bare feet echoing through the gym. We could smell the basketball court\u2019s fresh lacquer floating on the cool air.<\/p>\n
My dad flanked the group. He tried talking to me; I stared straight ahead. He continually lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair\u2014a tic he\u2019d always had. He may not have felt good about the situation. Never would\u2019ve admitted it. Instead, he talked of \u201csame age, same weight:\u201d a true test of the better man. It was Eastern Nationals. I\u2019d won two tournaments just to qualify. To compete at a high level, dropping a weight class was imperative. You had to be big for your weight. That much never changed.<\/p>\n
I puffed out my bony chest. In line, the older boys shot confident looks at the younger ones. Some had shaved initials into their heads or bleached their hair an Eminem blonde. I squeezed my fists, trying to look aggressive until my turn arrived.<\/p>\n
The scale was digital. I stepped on. 80.2<\/em>. Two-tenths-too-much.<\/p>\n \u201cDrop \u2018em,\u201d said a bearded man, who held a clipboard. He pointed at my boxers.<\/p>\n I looked at my dad.\u00a0 He nodded and raised his eyebrows, lifting his hat. I slid my boxers to my ankles. Climbed back on the scale: 80.00<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re good.\u201d He grabbed my wrist and with a Sharpie, wrote, \u201880 9&10.\u2019 \u201cNext,\u201d he yelled.<\/p>\n My father passed me my clothes. His fingers rested on my shoulder. We walked in silence to the cafeteria.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s second place feel?\u201d he\u2019d asked later that day, on the way home. I\u2019d given up a takedown with ten seconds left to lose in the finals.<\/p>\n I pretended to be asleep.<\/p>\n We arrived home late. Inside, a reheated lasagna steamed on the table.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on, eat,\u201d my mother said, hugging me tightly.\u00a0 \u201cYou both must be starving. Landis waited up for you.\u201d<\/p>\n My father smiled and raised the trophy above his head. I trailed behind, dragging my Batman<\/em> gym-bag by the strap. Landis ran up and hugged me, a sleepy grin on his face. He congratulated me about fifty times.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll bring this to the service station tomorrow,\u201d my father said. \u201cShow Brawly and crew.\u201d<\/p>\n The three of us looked at him. I think my mother\u2019s eyebrows were raised. Landis was eager to study the trophy. He talked about the ones he\u2019d win in the future. I said I just wanted to eat.<\/p>\n My father\u2019s eyes flashed in defense. He muttered something under his breath and tossed the trophy on the table. The shiny plastic wrestler on top of it snapped off. He reattached it the following day.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWake up,\u201d Redding shouted. \u201cIs it going to break you?\u201d<\/p>\n I was sweating good now.<\/p>\n During the pauses in our wrestling, he made me do pushups or sprints. Redding won a national championship in college. None of us knew how he\u2019d competed at so light a weight, given his current size. We often found him in the room doing pull ups with the lights off, three 45-pound plates swinging from a belt on his waist. He routinely accused us of not hating our losses enough. You didn\u2019t back talk him. He could dismantle any person on campus\u2014besides maybe Chambers, our head coach, who was a three-time NCAA champ.<\/p>\n \u201cBig bad senior,\u201d Redding said. \u201cLast ever chance. And this is how you\u2019re moving. Like someone ready to go 0-2 at the barbeque.\u201d<\/p>\n Had I been able, I would have chopped Redding down. I would\u2019ve used the heel of my Asics shoe to stomp his eye sockets in and watched him drag himself in confused circles as I worked my takedowns on his bloody, whimpering form. I would\u2019ve stepped over his corpse to the All-America honors I sought and knew I would never find.<\/p>\n He struck my solar plexus with his forehead as he followed through on a double-leg takedown. My mouth emitted a glob of phlegm.<\/p>\n \u201cI swear to God I\u2019ll do it every time if you don\u2019t get your head in this,\u201d he said. He pushed me back to my feet, doubled me again. I couldn\u2019t breathe. On one knee, I held up a hand\u2014a pathetic flag\u2014begging a moment\u2019s rest. I was using all of my energy to contain the thoughts that Redding kept shaking loose.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The bus chugged down the interstate in the sparse dawn light. Some of the junior high boys laughed, shooting rubber-bands at each other. Some slept with headphones tucked in their ears. Mike bragged how his girl had let him go down her pants at his birthday party.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that feel like?\u201d asked Landis.<\/p>\n He grinned. \u201cBetter than eating after weigh-ins.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBullshit,\u201d said Landis, who was supported by a chorus of naysayers.<\/p>\n Every couple of minutes, I\u2019d glance out the window and see our brown Subaru. Its two headlights trailed close in tow. Some of the other parents traveled in the caravan as well. The Big Red I\u2019d chewed for hours burned a hole in my cheek. The feeling wasn\u2019t pleasant, but the gum was necessary. Gum aided salivation. A bottle half-filled with pink spit dangled from my fingers. I had to fill the container before we arrived at the gym in Tunkhannock. If I did, I\u2019d be exactly 1.4 pounds lighter. I\u2019d be on weight.<\/p>\n At one point, everyone but the bus driver and I had fallen asleep. I kept my eyes on our Subaru and its lone occupant, with whom I shared a piece of endless highway.<\/p>\n As we neared the Tunkhannock exit, my father drove alongside the bus. It was then light enough that I could see him darting his eyes at the bus windows. He found me and waved. I can\u2019t remember what I did. Whether I waved back or not.<\/p>\n Landis didn\u2019t place, but I won the tournament. Teched my kid in the finals. Even won OW. When the tournament director announced the words \u201coutstanding wrestler\u201d followed by my name, my father squeezed my hand\u2014squeezed it so hard I thought it might break.<\/p>\n \u201cNo one has anything on us,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re the best tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Redding waved something in my face. A jump rope.<\/p>\n \u201cGo,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n The rotating loops of the rope became surreal. I\u2019d reached this point in the cut many times over my career. This time was no different\u2014as long as I didn\u2019t want it to be. Sound had evaporated in the ninety degree heat. I was at the door. No knocking required. Just had to pass through. The worst of it was over. I knew I was on weight. I could actually feel the difference. Never once in seventeen years had I missed. Still, something sat heavy inside of me. The un-eroded stone. I\u2019d shred myself to purge it.<\/p>\n \u201cGet down.\u201d Redding nodded at the mat. I curled my body into a shell. The shape maintained my sweat. The air felt warm, heavy, and hard to breathe.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThree more,\u201d I wheezed to my dad, who sat in the otherwise empty bleachers. He held out his palm. I high-fived him as I passed.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you cheat, you\u2019re only cheating yourself,\u201d Dad called. We\u2019d arrived early for practice so I could run. Laps, when it was just us, felt like play, not work.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is the fastest I\u2019ve ever run!\u201d I shrieked.<\/p>\n \u201cJust might be,\u201d he said. \u201cChampionship effort right there.\u201d<\/p>\n Despite statistics, you believe you\u2019re destined to be the best. Tournament champ. State champ. NCAA All-American. Medals for country, even. As you advance in the sport, the chances of being the best grow slimmer, yet your confidence in destiny strengthens. Your supporters tell you time and again that you\u2019re the one. And when you fall short of your goal, when you realize you\u2019re not as good as you thought you were, when you sense your body failing, when you see your younger brother lay claim to the plans that were yours, when you realize that it is not a match but a map with the directions out of your shitty town, when you look back at what you\u2019ve sacrificed for the success that never arrived, you feel betrayed. Why would the ones who care the most tell the biggest lies? As if you, too, are not to blame.<\/p>\n I sprinted back to my dad. He dropped his John Deere cap over my head. It fell across my eyes and smelled like smoke.<\/p>\n \u201cReady for practice?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I came closest to missing weight in high school. It was a tournament at which a man named Redding would be scouting me\u2014my senior bid at the District 11 Holiday Classic. I banged my head against the bedroom wall. Thirteen pounds had to vanish within twenty-four hours. Thirteen pounds.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cChrist, Landis. What the fuck am I gonna\u2019 do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShouldn\u2019t of ate all that at Grandma\u2019s.\u201d He lay on the top bunk of our bunk beds that were by then too small, his foot dangling over the side of the wooden frame.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve got five yourself,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cFive\u2019s easy.\u201d<\/p>\n He was right. Five pounds was a practice. Maybe a run afterwards.<\/p>\n I said it was time to go to Mike\u2019s basement, and Landis agreed, so we packed a bag of clothes. We hopped in my rusted Cavalier and went.<\/p>\n Mike\u2019s old man had made his basement a small gym that happened to contain a sauna. Our routine went like this: mat, heavy bag, treadmill, jump rope, sauna, and again. I wore a plastic jumper beneath three layers of sweats. It felt like a leech on my skin. I envisioned lying on a table and asking Jim Bell, head varsity coach, to cleave off fingers and toes, or to flay large chunks of skin from my thighs. The parts could\u2019ve been stored in the freezer. Sewed back on after season. I felt jealous of that Ohio boy I\u2019d seen on the news, the wrestler with no arms or legs.<\/p>\n College scholarships were all my father talked about. I almost didn\u2019t want to go to school, just to spite him. If I didn\u2019t get the thirteen off, Redding would know I\u2019d missed weight. Goodbye, top prospect; hello, forever.<\/p>\n Plastic cards were good for keeping the pores open. At hotels with saunas we used room keys. At Mike\u2019s, I took my driver\u2019s license and wiped another sheet of sweat from my brow. Landis\u2019 expression was fixed in a warped scream, or so my distorted vision told me. Steam turned to water in my lungs. I spit on the floor. Landis poured water over hot rocks in the sauna. We did pushups on the wooden bench. I did fine without food, but I needed to know where the drinking water was. In case things got dangerous. I had awful cotton mouth. A white film had formed over my lips.<\/p>\n A knock, and then Mike\u2019s voice: \u201cTime to go.\u201d<\/p>\n Then other voices. Shadows\u2014like grim, furtive angels\u2014darted before my eyes. Landis and Mike\u2019s faces came into focus. I found myself stretched on the ground, half-in, half-out of the sauna. The colder air had dropped me like someone on a UFC highlight reel.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Landis said. \u201cThis is too much.\u201d<\/p>\n Mike helped me onto his scale. His old man had bought him a nice digital one. I wondered if it could read my thoughts. I pleaded for it to be nice to me. It held so much power.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on, there you go. Step right on there. My dad made sure it was calibrated with the PIAA regulation scales.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked down. Still three pounds over. In that moment, I understood that will alone did not guarantee a desired result. Sometimes it was simply too late to change. Changing would mean disappearing.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d Landis said. \u201cYou can get the three off tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGet up!\u201d yelled someone who sounded a lot like Redding. \u201cIt\u2019s time.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Landis had always been the more level-headed brother. Maybe this was why his wrestling progressed so naturally. His body grew colossal, his skill immense. He had a shot at winning NCAA\u2019s; as a sophomore, he\u2019d placed fifth, and earned All-America honors.<\/p>\n My mom was never okay with our antics\u2014no matter how good we got. I don\u2019t think she could\u2019ve imagined what our family life turned out to be. At first, she thought we were merely athletes like other kids, unaware that the sport we\u2019d chosen reserved its successes for those willing to let it consume their lives. She\u2019d ignore our directives to forgo cooking us dinner, and when we\u2019d refuse to eat it, she\u2019d scold us for wasting food that we could not afford to waste. My father justified our turns in the sport\u2019s extreme ceremonies by means of simple economics. He\u2019d ask her if she could pay for college, and if she couldn\u2019t, whether she wanted her sons to stay around and become pill addicts like some of their friends. She\u2019d switched from part to full-time work at the Weis Market, and still, their combined incomes weren\u2019t enough. We blindfolded her with this necessity narrative, and then asked her\u2014our statue, the only stable one of us\u2014to balance the scales of our uneven lives.<\/p>\n After Mike\u2019s basement, I came home and thought about the three pounds. I didn\u2019t want to take Landis\u2019 suggestion and wait until morning. That was dangerous.<\/p>\n I leaned over the toilet and stuck my fingers deep down my throat.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d my mother asked, the question growing louder as it left her mouth. I\u2019d forgotten to close the door.<\/p>\n \u201cMom, nothing,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with you?\u201d she screamed.<\/p>\n My father ran into the bathroom, a confused look on his face.<\/p>\n She\u2019d seen my thin shoulder blades curved backwards like wings, my body convulsing. A small bit of stomach bile made an amorphous yellow shape in the water.<\/p>\n \u201cI want you to look at what you\u2019ve done to him,\u201d my mother said, pointing at me. \u201cYour handiwork. He has an eating disorder. Like a fucking ballerina.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe doesn\u2019t have an eating disorder. I\u2019m not okay with him throwing up.\u201d He turned to me. \u201cHow much are you over?\u201d<\/p>\n Her punch was followed by the thin crack of his nose breaking.<\/p>\n She drove him to the hospital. Before leaving, she told me to get dressed and get in the car; no way was I staying home. I prided myself on fearlessness when it came to fights, but I did not wish to challenge the look on her face. I sat in the back seat of the Subaru, took stock of the scene: him with his head tilted back, bleeding into ice cubes, which were wrapped in a Disney t-shirt he\u2019d bought on their honeymoon, and her letting him have it with her silence. As we drove, I became the void into which their marriage fell. They weren\u2019t to blame. Simple as it was, governed by the knowledge that athletics, for us, were golden tickets, my father\u2019s fervent mentoring was ten percent vicarious thrill, ninety percent wanting better for his boys. The problem, though, was ninety plus ten made one hundred. No room for anything else. A man rendered invisible in the gentler spaces where sons often searched for their fathers.<\/p>\n My parents rode with this silence from then on; it didn\u2019t stay where it was supposed to\u2014encased in that singular evening\u2014but instead followed them wherever they went. Still, she never let him travel to the big matches alone.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cTime to go,\u201d Redding said. He prodded my ribs with his toe. \u201cGet up and check.\u201d<\/p>\n I stood but made no move to strip.<\/p>\n \u201cI said get on the scale.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFuck you. I\u2019m not weighing in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGet on the scale.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m on weight.\u00a0 You or that scale can\u2019t say otherwise. I know I\u2019m good.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter what you know. Get on the scale.\u201d<\/p>\n Redding stepped to me, his chest almost against mine. I couldn\u2019t tell what it was that glittered in his eyes as he tried to process my refusal. I thought he might hit me. I hoped he would. One hit from Redding and something would break: an eye socket, a jaw.\u00a0 It all amounted to almost a clich\u00e9.\u00a0 What was I but a kid who hated his dad for pushing him to this final act that would soon be over? And him: a guy who\u2019d allowed himself to be more of a coach than a dad. \u00a0Maybe an awareness of this truth was what had caused his heart to fail. Without warning, tears poured from my eyes. Redding watched me weep like an overgrown child. He was the last person I\u2019d ever want to cry in front of.<\/p>\n \u201cGet dressed,\u201d Redding said. He nodded, chin tilted down at his chest, as if confirming something for himself. \u201cGet out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The smell of ammonia wafted through white corridors. I sprinted to my father\u2019s room. His eyes were closed. A machine now supported his breathing. He looked fragile as a paper doll. Landis and my mom were gone\u2014perhaps getting food in the cafeteria. I looked around, unsure of what to do. A nebulous reflection stared back at me from the polished floor. I sat down on the bed. Took his hand.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can go home now,\u201d I whispered. I lifted his arm up, like he\u2019d won something, and I thought of the times after my greatest matches: how he\u2019d smiled with intense pride; how even my mom would soften, undeniably happy. I lowered his arm back to the bed.<\/p>\n When I returned to the gym, weigh-ins were over. My mom and Landis picked me up an hour later. They informed me that Dad had passed away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I once dominated a kid in front of his mother. Many times, actually, but this one stood out. She sat on the first row of bleachers. We were the visiting team. Score was 14-3 when I decided to put him down. I placed him in a leg cradle\u2014my legs bent his knee to his head, like a fetus\u2014and I did it on his mother\u2019s side of the mat. I stared into her eyes as he screamed that he couldn\u2019t breathe. The anguish on her face made me squeeze harder. The kid\u2019s threat was no joke. He passed out. She, of course, ran onto the mat\u2014as if he hadn\u2019t been humiliated enough. Despite her shrieks and the heartbeat in my ears, all I heard were my father\u2019s echoing claps.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I found my father\u2019s bed at the end of the corridor. A nurse held his pallid arm up to the light. She adjusted one of the tubes and lowered his arm back to his side. In the neighboring bed, a man older than my father was connected to beeping monitors. He followed me with his eyes. Landis and my mom turned their heads as the nurse walked out.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d asked Landis.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":14083,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[896,249,1032,144],"class_list":["post-13874","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-fathers-and-sons","tag-sports","tag-sports-writing","tag-wrestling","writer-daniel-kennedy"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13874","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13874"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13874\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14084,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13874\/revisions\/14084"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14083"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13874"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13874"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13874"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}