Pinned (7 page)

Shelley turned and walked over to the dresser, flipping through a stack of unopened envelopes from college athletic departments. She held one up. "They spelled your name wrong. You'd think they'd get
that
right."

Ivan moved beside her.

"Have you started any essays?" she asked.

He shook his head.

Shelley picked up a quarter-sized bronze medal discarded in the corner of his bookshelf, turned it over, and read the etching on the back. "Bloomfield Summer Wrestling Tournament, fourth place." She handed him the medal.

Ivan rolled it in his fingers. "My first tournament. They took the four littlest kids and threw us together. Got my ass kicked." He flipped the medal on the shelf, where it skittered under dog-eared copies of
Amateur Wrestling News
and
W.I.N.
Magazine. "I keep it out as a reminder."

"Of what?"

"Getting my ass kicked."

Shelley looked around the room. "Where are the rest?"

Ivan tapped a bottom drawer with his foot. Then another drawer.

Shelley knelt down and pulled one of the handles. Gold trophies lay stacked, one on top of the other, with dozens of medals littering the bottom like coins in a treasure chest. She picked up a fistful of medals. "AAU freestyle qualifier, first place. District seventeen championships, first place. Most valuable wrestler, Old Bridge Wrestling Festival." She looked at Ivan. "Do you remember winning these?"

"A few," Ivan said.

With a sigh, she pushed the drawer closed. "You're so hard to understand."

"Hard to understand?" Ivan said.

"You're better at wrestling than I am at
anything.
"

Ivan shook his head. "Doubt it." He didn't want to hear this. It didn't matter what Shelley or his father or the newspapers
said
about how good he might be. There were only results. He had only placed third in the state last year. Not first. Not state champ. There was no consolation prize for
almost
winning. There was only winning. Or losing.

"You're good at the piano," Ivan said.

"'Yeah, sure," Shelley said, rolling her eyes. "I'm okay, one of a zillion people who are okay at the piano. I can play at the holidays for my aunts and uncles; I can play at school sometimes." She held her fist to her chest. "It's just not
in
me. Not
in
me like wrestling is
in
you. What you have is special. Can't you find
any
satisfaction in that?"

He didn't answer.

Shelley stood. She leaned her shoulder against his. "It's late," she whispered.

She seemed tired—tired of doing her homework, tired of prodding him to do his. Ivan wanted to kiss her and have his body naked next to hers. He wanted to make love to Shelley, though he didn't know what making love felt like. And, it seemed, she might want that, too.

Then Ivan simply erased those thoughts. There wasn't time to be boyfriend and girlfriend. That complicated life and would certainly steal his focus from wrestling. He wouldn't allow that. They would always be friends—best friends—but Wrestling had to come first.

Always.

Sun streamed through the kitchen windows, bathing the room in a warm morning haze. Bobby walked in from the foyer, anxious and quiet. At one end of the breakfast table, his father sipped coffee as he thumbed through a stack of legal briefs, jotting notes and separating the papers into piles. At the other end, Christopher shoveled cereal into his mouth, humming along with a Saturday morning cartoon on the television. His mother, dressed for an afternoon open house, stood at the counter, spooning bran and fruit chunks into a blender.

Bobby waited for one of them to notice him and acknowledge that this wasn't a typical morning—that he was just a few hours from the first dual meet of the season. But no one said anything to him, or to each other. They were like total strangers, he thought.

"It's hot in here," he said. He put down his gym bag, walked to the counter, and kissed his mother's cheek.

"I made some ham sandwiches," she said. "They're in the fridge." She returned to preparing her breakfast.

His father, looking over his glasses, asked, "How's your weight?"

"Close."

"A problem?"

"No."

Hunger did claw at his stomach, and his lips and tongue were dry, but Bobby would not put an ounce of food or a drop of liquid in his body until after weigh-ins.

His father tapped the top edge of a handful of pages, making them flush. He secured the pages with a paper clip, then set them in his briefcase. "I have a few more things to look at here. I'll drive you to the school in a—" He stopped and stared down the table. "Christopher, turn the television down."

"But—"

"Turn it down!"

Bobby turned. The kitchen was silent. His mother stiffened as she glared toward the table. Christopher reached out to lower the volume.

"Bobby," his father said, "have you heard of—"

The blender churned, cutting off his words. From the corner of his eye, Bobby saw a hint of a smirk on his mother's lips. She and his father exchanged seething looks.

His father raised his voice above the noise. "Ever hear of Ivan Korske?"

The blender stopped.

"Korske?" Bobby said. "From Lennings. Took a third at 129 last year. Lost a close one in the semifinals. Everyone was talking about it. They said he got ripped."

His father pointed toward a
Star-Ledger
on the counter. "There's a write-up on him."

Bobby opened to the newspaper's sports section and the headline:
KORSKE SEEKS ELUSIVE STATE TITLE
. Bobby scanned the article, catching parts of Korske's modest background, the death of his mother, and the prediction that no one would score a takedown on him all season. Bobby looked for just one thing and nodded when he found it.

"He's going 135 this year. Can't say I'm disappointed."

"You can beat him," his father said.

"Yeah, well, I'll just worry about today's match."

"You can beat anyone. You just don't believe it yet."

Give it a rest, Dad. How about worrying about our family?
Bobby snatched his gym bag and direw on his varsity jacket. "I'll be in the car."

His father pulled the Jaguar onto Joanna Way and rounded the end of their property, then rushed down Lake Road. Bobby stared out the frost-coated side window, clutching his gym bag. This was not how he wanted to start the morning. Part of him wanted to yell
something
at his father, but he couldn't come up with anything meaningful. And when he did, he thought better of it.

"When's your match start?" his father asked.

"JVs go at ten," Bobby said. "We'll start around eleven."

"After I drop you off, I'm going home to finish some work. I'll drive out to Morris Catholic with Christopher," his father said. "How are college applications coming?"

"Fine."

"The one from Cornell?"

"It'll get done."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How about today?"

"Today?"

"Work on it after the match."

His father was serious, oddly serious. Bobby didn't understand why. The applications would get done, there wasn't any urgency. The deadlines weren't until February and March. His father knew that.

"I'm going to the mall later," Bobby said. "Me and some of the guys..."

"'Some of the guys,'" his father repeated. His forehead knotted, and when he continued, his tone was firm. "These applications have to get finished, Bobby. I don't want another weekend to slip by. Christmas is a week and a half away."

Bobby didn't look over. "They'll get done."

"You and I both know you won't have much energy to write all the essays once the regular season gets going."

Bobby sighed. "I'll start them tomorrow. No practice, no match. I won't have anything else to think about," he said. "I just can't today."

"You're going to see that girl," his father said.

"No."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm going with the guys," Bobby said as convincingly as he could.

"Don't bullshit me, Bobby!"

Bobby felt the heat rise up his sweatshirt. This was serious. He didn't often hear his father swear. "Come on, Dad, I've got a match today," he said. "The applications'll get done. I promise."

"You're damn right they will."

Neither said a word. Soon, his father pulled the car down the Millburn High driveway, coming to a stop in front of the gym. He stared ahead. A distant look, Bobby noticed. Bobby waited for his father to say something, and when he didn't, he opened the door and reached a foot to the curb. Then he felt his father's hand on his arm.

"Hold on, Bobby. Listen to me a moment. This is going to be a difficult winter. Very difficult. There's a lot going on. Now would be a good time to"—he paused, as if searching for the right words—"to prepare for anything that might happen." He seemed to force a smile.

Bobby knew his father was talking about something very different from a tough winter of Wrestling. A helpless feeling overcame him, one that had been building for months. Something very wrong had seeped into his family, something destructive and elusive, a kind of disease. He couldn't stop it or slow it down. These were heady thoughts, something Bobby hoped he'd never have to consider. His mind scrambled for answers, not knowing the most important questions.

But Bobby realized that wasn't the truth. He knew the questions. They were crystal clear. He knew the answers. They were just as obvious. Most of all, he knew what was happening to his family.

Bobby didn't want to hear another word from his father; he just wanted to get the hell out of the car. "Gotta go, Dad. See you later?"

"I'll be there," his father answered.

Bobby closed the car door. He watched the Jaguar curl around the school driveway, turn right, then disappear down Millburn Avenue. He might have stood there in the cold for a long while if Anthony hadn't walked up.

"Hey, Bobby," Anthony said. "We gotta get going."

The words nearly slipped by his ears. "Uh, yeah, I'm ready."

Anthony grabbed the sleeve of his varsity jacket. "You're dazed, man. Remember, we got a match today."

Bobby raised his eyes. Coach Messina stood before the varsity team in the cramped, musty visitor's locker room of Morris Catholic High School.

"It begins today," Coach Messina said, arms folded across his chest. "Your seasons. Our team's season." He held up the lineups. "On paper, Morris Catholic isn't very strong. We should beat them by a wide margin.

"But we don't wrestle on paper," Coach Messina continued, dropping the lineups to the floor. "Last year's records mean nothing. Reputations mean nothing. What matters is how well you wrestle on the mat today."

Coach Messina took his time, gesturing deliberately, locking eyes with each of the twelve Millburn wrestlers.

"Don't let up at all, not at any moment this season. From the first practice, to today's match, to the state tournament, each of you goes all out. You'll have the spring and summer to relax."

***

Coach Messina was pleased, Bobby could tell. He didn't smile or stand up or say anything, but instead sat back in the folding chair on the Millburn side of the mat and watched.

Damien Eriksen, Morris Catholic's 129-pounder was a tough wrestler—district champ last year, with a third-place finish in the regions. "Don't give him the opportunity to believe he belongs on the same mat as you," Coach Messina had said before the match. "Leave no doubts."

And so, Bobby was doing just that.

The referee motioned. "Millburn's choice for the second period. Top, bottom, or neutral?"

"Neutral," Bobby said. In the first two minutes he had scored a takedown, let his opponent escape, then taken him down a second time for a 4–1 lead. He expected to do it again.

The referee stood at the center circle, motioning for both wrestlers. Bobby stood ready in his stance; Eriksen did as well. Off the whistle, Bobby moved forward to tie up with Eriksen. He dug his toes into the mat and drove his legs, then eased up, allowing his opponent to push back.

Fifteen seconds passed...

Then a half minute...

And the game of cat and mouse continued.

At the edge of the circle, Eriksen crossed his feet, putting himself momentarily off balance. Bobby reacted instantly, dropping down to his right knee, his right shoulder and arm deep between his opponent's legs, then pivoting sharply to capture a leg. He swept Eriksen down to the mat to finish off the hi-crotch takedown.

But a 6–1 lead wasn't enough. Bobby continued his attack, jamming his hand under Eriksen's right arm and onto his head for the half nelson, then driving forward and cranking in the head. The Morris Catholic wrestler offered little resistance, and for a moment, Bobby was mildly surprised to be so thoroughly dominating an opponent Coach Messina considered to be tough.

Bobby turned Eriksen to his back, scoring two back points. Then held him for a referee's count of five to get the additional point.

"Near fall, Millburn," the referee shouted. "Three points."

Eriksen was ready to be taken; Bobby knew it. He went for the pin, tightening his grip, pressing his opponent's shoulder blades to the mat until both touched and the referee slapped the mat.

TEAM SCORE: HOME: 0 VISITORS: 22

Ivan lowered his eyes from the scoreboard.
Another damn season of embarrassments. First match—getting our heads handed to us.
He stood behind the Lennings bench, waiting for time to run out in the third period of the 129-pound match—the match before his. Another Lennings wrestler was being tossed around the mat as if he had no business being in the same gym as his Hillsborough opponent.

...ten ... nine ... eight...

"At least it's not another pin," Ellison said from behind Ivan. He rolled his neck and stretched his arms.

"Does it matter?" Ivan said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan saw Shelley, sitting halfway up the stands with some friends, wave. Ivan nodded, then fixed his stare across the mat. His opponent was kneeling down behind the team, eyes closed. After a moment, he genuflected hastily and stood up.