Pinned (13 page)

When the match was over, chaos erupted. Three Rampart girls accosted a Millburn cheerleader in the school bathroom, while Rampart fans stood at the edge of the mat, taunting Millburn wrestlers. Afterward, a police escort did little to deter fans from hurling rocks at the Millburn team bus as it pulled out of the school parking lot.

The next day, officials from both schools agreed to suspend the rivalry for one year.

The whole scene had been a disgrace, Bobby thought. Disrespectful to sportsmanship. Humiliating, as an Italian. Rampart had to be punished. And so, tomorrow, he and his teammates would teach the whole goddamn town a lesson.

"Rampart," Bobby muttered, as if spitting out the sour, pasty taste in his mouth.

He ripped off his comforter, sat up, and opened a window. Cold gusts blew over his dehydrated skin. It was a wonderful relief, the best he had felt all week. Bobby closed his eyes, leaning on the windowsill.

It had been almost two days since he'd eaten. He was starving beyond hunger, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to the bathroom. Maybe the night before yesterday.

Practice had been a nightmare. Between every shot, Bobby had taken a few extra seconds of rest and stalled to save energy whenever it wasn't too obvious. It wasn't the way he wanted to practice. He wanted to go hard every shot, every round-robin, every minute on the mat. But his body couldn't give that much. The aches, the chills, and the coughing had taken their toll.

Bobby switched on the closet light, squinting momentarily as his eyes adjusted, then set the scale at 129 pounds. He stepped on unsteadily. The balancing arm didn't move from the bottom. He tapped the counterbalance to 128 and ¾ pounds. Then an ounce or two under that. The scale arm finally balanced out.

One cup of water was all he could have.

His pewter baby cup in hand, Bobby looked toward the kitchen. The light was on.

He walked in, finding the kitchen empty. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of seltzer and a lemon, and then reached for the cutting board. He sliced the lemon in half, then in quarters, and, for a time, was lost in thought about Rampart.

Then he heard something.

Bobby turned. He looked into the dining room. It was dark, and yet there was his father, sliding a half-empty glass back and forth.

"Dad?"

His father raised his head.

"Kinda late, isn't it?" Bobby said.

"It is for you."

"Can't fall asleep yet," Bobby said. He poured seltzer to the cup's brim.

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Mother is worried you've been sick."

"I'm fine."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's nothing."

Bobby put the cup to his mouth and tilted it back. The lemon stung his chapped lips. Carbonated water ran over his tongue until the cup was empty. Not enough. It was never enough. But that was all the liquid Bobby would have until after weigh-ins. He set the cup down. He was still broiling inside and so hungry, he nearly heaved.

"I made it through practice," Bobby said. "Tough, though."

"Sure," his father said, his voice just a whisper. He rubbed his eyes. "Tough..."

"Dad?"

His father straightened up. "Had a tough break with one of my cases today. Sometimes things go your way. Sometimes they don't."

For as long as Bobby could remember, his father had never showed disappointment in a case, or conceded any loss. In fact, it had never occurred to him that his father
could
lose in a courtroom.

"Sometimes you have to be a little selfish," his father said. The glass slid back and forth. "Figure out what's most important to reach your goal and put what might block your path behind you. You're on the right track now, Bobby. You are. You need to keep everything together. Stay focused. Don't let anything, anyone, distract you. There'll be time to sort it all out later." He punctuated it with a nod.

"But even with all the preparation in the world, nothing is guaranteed," his father went on. "Never guaranteed." He wasn't talking to his son, Bobby was sure of that. "Understand?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"No, do you
understand?
"

"Yeah, sure."

"Beat this kid from Rampart tomorrow."

"I will," Bobby said.

His father took a final swallow from the glass, then smiled a melancholy smile. "You should get some sleep."

The sound of closing locker doors woke Bobby. The Millburn locker room was humid, a familiar stale smell filled the air. A catnap after weigh-ins usually made him alert before a match, but Bobby could tell right away he wasn't feeling better. Congestion blocked his ears, his head throbbed, and he couldn't cough up a wad of mucus caked at the back of his throat.

The locker-room door swung open. Coach Messina stepped in to say, "Millburn, get yourselves ready," then went out.

Fighting off shivers, Bobby dressed in his singlet and socks, his Yankees T-shirt, and, finally, his warm-up suit. Around him, in workmanlike fashion, teammates went through their pre-match rituals. In the corner, Big John mouthed the words to a song on his Walkman, while sophomore David Orenstein adjusted and readjusted his headgear. In the bathroom, Anthony rolled his shoulders; Kenny bounced up and down on his toes. Most of the other wrestlers sat quietly, each in his own space in the locker room.

A few minutes later, Coach Messina returned. "Rampart's out on the mats," he said. "Listen up."

Everyone turned to the center of the locker room.

"We've waited all season for this match. And now we're on the edge of destiny. We can beat Rampart today, there's no doubt in my mind. And if we beat Rampart today, then we
will
be ranked number one in Essex County, and we
will
be one of the elite teams in the state. I can guarantee it."

Coach Messina stared around the locker room, hard.

"That is unless one thing stops you. A lack of absolute confidence. If confidence fails
you
today, then
you
will lose. If confidence fails
us,
then
we
will lose ... The question you have to ask yourself is, after all the months of exhausting practice, after cutting weight and starving, after making every sacrifice and dedicating one hundred percent of your effort to put yourselves in this position, could your confidence be anything but absolute?"

He pointed in the direction of the gymnasium. "Those guys are not from Millburn. They don't have the pride, the training, the dedication. They don't have what it takes to beat you. If each one of you believes this
absolutely,
we will win as a team. Do you believe it?"

"Yes," a few of the wrestlers answered.

"Millburn, don't just say it," Coach Messina snapped. "
Feel
it! Are you going to beat Rampart today?"

"Yes!" the team shouted in unison.

"Good." Coach Messina leaned over and put out his arms. "Hands in!"

The wrestlers pressed against one another, their breathing halted, their hands clasped together.

Bobby
knew
no team was going beat Millburn.

Not today.

"Hoods up!" Bobby said.

In weight-class order, the Millburn team lined up behind Bobby and Kenny in the hall outside the gymnasium's side entrance. Bobby peered in through the door. Opposite sides of the mat were lined with folding chairs for the wrestlers and coaches. The Millburn cheerleaders were practicing their routines. Bleachers on both sides overflowed with spectators. The electronic scoreboard read:
MILLBURN
0;
VISITORS
0. The stage was set.

Bobby signaled.

The gymnasium ceiling lights dimmed, then shut down. The first ... Then the second ... Then the third ... One by one until a single ceiling lamp illuminated the Wrestling circle on the mat, leaving the rest of the gymnasium in darkness. A hushed silence came over the crowd.

Bobby looked into the eyes of his teammates, staring back from under their hoods. "Once around the mat, then start with takedowns," he barked. "Hoods up the
whole
time."

He signaled again.

Thundering from the PA speakers, the sullen voice and haunting cadence of the song "Renegade" began.

"
Oh, Mama, I'm in fear for my life, from the long arm of the law...
"

Bobby's heart jumped. This was it. Senior year. Captain of his undefeated Millburn team. In his home gym. Rampart on the other side. Everything on the line.

He whispered the next lines of the song to himself, as excitement shot up and down his spine. The chills he had endured the past two days were, at least momentarily, stifled by shudders of unbridled emotion.

Relax,
Bobby thought.
Relax.

But his breathing edged on hyperventilation. He had to force himself to suck air in as deeply as his lungs could handle.

"
Hangman is coming down from the gallows, and I don't have very long...
"

Bobby held up his hand. "One. Two. Three. Let's go!"

He led the team on a sprint through a narrow divide in the spectators, emerging from darkness onto the lighted mat, each wrestler whipping his headgear to the side and circling once. The music thundered. As Big John brought up the rear, Bobby and Kenny stood at the center circle. The team stopped, pairing off and alternating takedowns.

Watch me, Caruso!
Bobby thrust his body into Kenny on a double-leg, lifting him high into the air, as if to say, "Look how goddamn strong I am." Kenny did the same, exploding into a hi-crotch, running the pike, and taking Bobby down with such precision that everyone watching
had
to be impressed.

Bobby looked up from his hood, catching sight of his mother, father, and Christopher sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Bobby nodded to his father, who nodded back.

"Renegade" finished, and soon the national anthem, as well. The Rampart wrestlers lined the edge of the mat in weight-class order, their warm-up hoods hardly hiding the sneers on their gaunt faces. Bobby and his teammates stood on the opposite edge of the mat, sneering themselves.

The PA system boomed, "Welcome to Millburn for this afternoon's match with Rampart High School ... Wrestling at 101, from Rampart, Ricky Imperiale." The Rampart wrestler sprinted across to the center of the mat.

"And from Millburn, David Orenstein." Orenstein marched, head down, body stiff. Halfway, the two wrestlers shook hands, then turned and went back to their teams.

"Wrestling at 108, from Rampart, Louie DiPaolo. And from Millburn, Steve Smith." Again, the two wrestlers met halfway across the mat, shook hands, and walked back to their places.

The announcer continued with the 115-pound and 12 2-pound matches.

Bobby stared at Caruso, noting the smirk on his face, the patch of whiskers on his chin, the slicked jet-black hair. Caruso snickered, then mouthed, "Poor little rich kid."

Bobby despised the Rampart team, the town, and everything it represented. He couldn't have held any more anger, and it all focused on the wrestler standing across from him. Underneath his warm-ups, Bobby's armpits were slick with sweat, his body quivered. He indulged in it.

"Wrestling at 129, from Rampart, Jim Caruso ... And from Millburn, Bobby Zane..."

Bobby marched across the mat, buried under the roar of the crowd. He threw out his hand; Caruso threw out his. They slapped hands, then turned. As Bobby stormed back to his teammates, he said to Kenny, "Let's beat these assholes."

The introductions continued until the heavyweights were announced. Then it was time to start the match. The referee stood at the center circle, motioning for the two 101-pounders.

The Rampart fans rose as one, clapping and shouting, and stomping their feet, shaking the bleachers to their foundation. Rampart had won the first three matches, and now—ahead with seconds left in the 12 2-pound match—was about to hold a nearly insurmountable lead in the team score. The Millburn crowd, sensing the dual meet slipping away, belted out the school song while the cheerleaders shook their blue and white pom-poms, their cheers drowned out in the shrill that filled the gymnasium.

Bobby pulled off his T-shirt, tossed it to the floor, and strapped on his headgear. He coughed and shivered, then flexed his muscles to bring warmth to his body. The buzzer sounded.

Bobby stalked over to Coach Messina. They shook hands.

"Bobby, we're not wrestling well tonight. Someone's gotta step up and stop the bleeding. Are you gonna do it? Are you gonna be the one?"

Bobby nodded.

"Good," Coach Messina said. "Stay on your feet with him. Take him down, and let him up if you have to. Now go get him!"

Bobby marched through the gauntlet of shouting teammates, stepping onto the mat as his name was announced over the PA system. He met Caruso at the center circle. Caruso's eyes were cold, and his muscles rippled in waves along his shoulders, across his chest, down his arms. They shook hands. Months of preparation, years of hatred, came down to this.

The referee leaned in and blew the whistle.

They wouldn't know, Bobby thought.

He had a 2–0 lead—on a textbook double-leg in the first period—but they wouldn't know. His lungs were burning; his throat had nearly closed. It had caught up to him. The sleepless nights. The coughing. The chills. The aches. The shitty practices. But the Millburn fans wouldn't know. They wouldn't know that in a few seconds, when the second period ended, he'd want to throw up right there in the center circle. They'd see that their captain, Bobby Zane, was winning and think the match was turning in their favor. It looked good on the surface. But they wouldn't know.

"Time!" the referee shouted.

Bobby stood up, bent over, and hacked. And hacked again. He didn't bother looking toward Coach Messina, or his teammates, or his father, or anyone else. They couldn't help him.

"Rampart's choice," the referee said.

"Top," Caruso growled.

Bobby settled into referee's position, on his hands and knees; Caruso moved in on top. Off the whistle, Bobby exploded into a stand, looking to create space for an escape. He was giving it all he had, but his body was resisting. Before Bobby could get his balance, Caruso swept him easily back down to the mat.