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Of course I'm friggin' ready,
Ivan felt like saying. But he didn't bother opening his mouth. Instead he pretended to be distracted by someone down the hall.

Holt furrowed his brow, annoyed, expecting Ivan to answer. Neither said anything. Students, leaving for the day, walked around them.

"Well, you let me know if you need anything," Holt said, finally. "Anything at all. When this is said and done, I want to be able to say we've crowned our first wrestling state champion. That's very, very important. Understand?"

"I gotta get to practice now," Ivan answered.

Ivan descended the auxiliary stairs to the school basement, turned the corner, and continued through a musty corridor. At the end of a second hallway, past a storage closet, he entered the practice room.

The ceiling was low. A maroon mat covered the floor from brick wall to brick wall. There were no chairs. No benches. No windows. Inside the door hung a board with the twelve Wrestling weight classes stenciled at the top—101, 108, 115, 122, 129, 135, 141, 148, 158, 170, 188, and heavyweight—and below each were two hooks for the names of the Lennings starters and second-stringers.

In an adjacent room, a boiler began to groan and thump in a powerful rhythm, growing in intensity....

Getting louder...

When it seemed the machinery might break through the brick wall, the boiler suddenly fell silent. Momentarily. And the cycle began again.

Ivan, wearing his customary black shorts, no socks, and white T-shirt, breathed in the familiar odor of stale sweat. He tossed his Wrestling shoes to the side and began stretching. Other wrestlers filed into the room and spread out on the mats. Only one wrestler sat next to Ivan.

"Missed you this weekend," said Ellison Ward, combing his fingers through his spiked reddish hair. "I got wasted. Figured it'd be the last time until March. Ended up at the old graveyard, tossin' beer bottles." He half laughed, then looked at Ivan and nodded dismissively toward a group of wrestlers at a corner of the room. "Freshmen."

Ivan stretched both legs out and reached for the soles of his feet. "They'll be gone by January."

"Think so?"

"We start droppin' matches, they sure as hell will quit." He stared at one in particular, a midsized wrestler with thin arms and a slight gut, his face blotched with acne. "What's your name, freshman?"

Ivan's voice brought an immediate silence to the room. The wrestler looked up from the corner of the room but did not answer, as if he were taking a few moments to pray that Ivan Korske was, in fact,
not
addressing him.

"You," Ivan snapped.

"H-hannen," the wrestler said.

"H-h-hannen?"

Then in a clearer voice, "Phillip Han—"

"Kid, I don't need your life story," Ivan interrupted. "You're not gonna be here long enough for it to matter." He glanced at the clock, then barked. "Tell your girlfriends they better be warmed up. We're startin' practice at three sharp!"

The freshmen wrestlers watched Ivan in awe, while the others looked at him with contempt. Ivan was familiar with both looks. Three years ago, early in his freshman season, Ivan beat—dismantled, really—-Johan Mills, a senior captain and the most popular athlete at Lennings, in a challenge match for the starting spot. While Ivan's name would remain on the top hook at 108 pounds for the rest of the season, his outcast status at Lennings was cemented that afternoon.

Ivan was ignored at practice, before matches, even away from the Wrestling room. Out of spite and jealousy, he was sure. The team's coach, Lewis McClellan, saw it and said nothing—something Ivan would never forget. It was only when Ivan won that the team acknowledged him—and then it was only halfheartedly and begrudgingly. He learned the importance of winning for himself, and did so often, setting school records for victories and pins by a freshman. Then as a sophomore. And as a junior. He had learned his four-year quest for a state tide would be a solitary one.

Lying on his back, Ellison bridged up on the crown of his head. He rolled forward and backward, then side to side. "Got a letter from the coach at Montclair State," he said. "Gonna visit the campus Thanksgiving weekend. My pop wants me staying close. Coaches must be calling you all the time."

Ivan put on his Wrestling shoes. "Too many, too often."

Ellison walked his feet closer to his head, his back arched severely, bluish veins rising from his freckled skin. "Where ya looking?"

"Nowhere around here."

Ivan stood up and began bouncing on the balls of his feet. Immediately, the other wrestlers followed his lead. He saw the hope in their eyes, the hope that this would be the year Lennings surprised teams in Hunterdon County and won a handful of dual meets. He shook his head. They were fooled by the optimism of a new season, when a glimmer of promise still existed.

Don't fool yourselves,
he thought.
Nothing's different from last year. Or the year before. Or the year before that.

Ellison turned to his stomach and began doing push-ups. "How's your weight?"

"A little under 143."

"What weight ya going?"

Ivan shrugged. "One-thirty-five for Hillsborough and the Hunterdon Central tournament. Maybe cut to twenty-nine after. I'll see." He offered a hand to Ellison and pulled him to his feet. "Takedowns."

Ellison nodded, and the two wrestlers faced each other. Behind Ivan, the boiler chugged to life again. His legs sizzled along the mat and his arms knifed into position as he finished off a double-leg takedown, lifting Ellison high off his feet and down to the mat. Ellison did the same. Back and forth they continued.

The practice room door shut.

Ivan turned. The sight of Lewis McClellan knotted his stomach. Another season of him staring, watching every move he made. On and off the mats. In the locker room, in the hallways. It didn't matter, McClellan was always there. The intrusive eyes, the paunch of neglect, the undeserved authority of a mediocre wrestler fifteen years past his time.

McClellan moved to the center of the room. "Okay, Lennings, let's start the season." The wrestlers spread out slowly. "I know those of you returning to the team are all too familiar with the lack of success we've had."

As if on cue, the boiler kicked into high gear, sending a thumping through the room so strong Ivan could feel the vibrations through his Wrestling shoes. McClellan raised his voice.

"But there's no reason why we shouldn't be able to change what's happened to this program over the past few years. This season, we're not going to fall into the trap of expecting to lose. We
are
going to be better." He pumped his fist. "Of course, I want each of you to understand there's more to being a Lennings wrestler than simply winning or losing."

The incessant pounding grew even louder. McClellan's voice kept up, until he was shouting. "Each of you will learn teamwork, respect for your teammates, referees, opponents, and—"

There was silence.

McClellan's voice quieted. "And coach. I won't ask for everything, but I will ask for this."

Outside the gymnasium, cars of waiting parents lined the school driveway. Bobby climbed into the back of a black Lexus, offering a tired hello to Kenny's mother. The smell of new leather and perfume filled his head as he set down his backpack and slumped against the seat. Kenny pulled the passenger door shut.

"Your coach kept you boys late," Mrs. Jones said, her voice tinged with impatience.

"It's like this every season, Ma," Kenny said.

Mrs. Jones pulled the Lexus to the end of the school driveway, glanced one way, then the other. "Seems later this season." The Lexus darted into the traffic on Millburn Avenue. "Your coach needs to understand there's homework that needs to be done."

"I think he understands," Kenny said.

"No, I don't think so."

"Yeah, yeah...," Kenny said.

"College applications to fill out," Mrs. Jones said. In the rearview mirror, she caught Bobby's eye. "How'd you do on the SATs?"

"Okay."

"Where're you applying?"

"Not sure," Bobby said. "Dad has that covered."

He was much too tired to get into a conversation about his future when his future didn't seem any further away than tomorrow's practice. He figured Mrs. Jones knew he wasn't going to offer much more. The car was quiet, and as they passed under the stone trestle of the Short Hills train station, up Highland Avenue, then eventually onto Lake Road, Bobby stared out the side window, fighting off the typical early-season exhaustion that left him light-headed after each practice.

Mrs. Jones turned to Kenny. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm always hungry."

"Are you going to eat?"

Kenny shrugged.

"All this starving can't be good," Mrs. Jones said. "I don't know how you boys can concentrate on..."

Bobby stopped listening. Any other time, he would have hung onto every word from Mrs. Jones' mouth, following the movement of her red-lipsticked lips as they pursed with each syllable. He would have noticed streetlights glancing off her blond hair and been disappointed that the rest of her was hidden underneath a fur coat. But not tonight. Not fifteen minutes removed from another brutal practice. It was almost Thanksgiving. The first match of the regular season was a few weeks away, the Hunterdon Central tournament not long after that.

"... you certainly can't take good notes during class," Mrs. Jones said, shaking her head. "I'll say it again if I haven't said it a hundred times before, this Wrestling is ridiculous."

The Lexus came to a stop along a corner property where Lake Road angled into Joanna Way. Bobby grabbed his backpack, buttoned his varsity jacket, and stepped out. He thanked Mrs. Jones for the ride.

"Haven't spoken to your mother in a while," she said.

Bobby smiled, faintly. "She's been working hard. There's a house in the Deerfield area she's trying to sell." That was a good lie.

"It's a busy time for all of us," Mrs. Jones said. Almost sadly, Bobby thought. "Have her call me ... okay?"

"I will."

The Lexus sped away. Bobby swung his backpack to his shoulder and looked across the street at the Short Hills Club, where he could see four men playing paddle tennis. Bobby found the powerful lights above the courts comforting. During the late fall and winter, the lights shone through the barren trees and illuminated his bedroom as he lay in bed waiting for sleep. When he woke up in the dark morning and returned home at night, the lights were a kind of surrogate sun.

Bobby jogged up the brick path around the house. Before reaching the driveway, he heard voices. He stopped in the shadows, peering through the side window into the garage.

The ceiling lightbulb, yellow and dim, cast odd shadows on his father—a "fine attorney," as family friends often called him. His charcoal-gray suit hung limply off his shoulders, his tie undone. His eyes looked dark and tired. And Bobby watched Christopher, his mussed brown hair sprouting from under a crooked New York Yankees baseball cap, swing a lunch box back and forth.

Bobby thought about waiting until his father and brother went inside the house. They wouldn't know he was home. He could be alone, at least for a few minutes. Then join them later. Maybe even after dinner.

But Bobby was cold. And bruised. And tired. And even a little sad. Standing in the darkness wouldn't help that, so he stepped out under the garage lights. "Hey, Dad, didn't think you'd be home this early."

His father unlatched the trunk of the Jaguar and pulled out a briefcase. "Your mother's working late." The trunk slammed shut. "We have to cook for ourselves."

"That means pizza, right?" Christopher said.

"No, not tonight," his father said.

"But I want pizza really bad."

"There are leftovers."

"Stevie's family
always
has pizza for—"

"Enough," his father snapped, "enough ... We'll eat what we have." He walked out of the garage. "Christopher, help your big brother bring in the garbage pails, then wash up. I have a phone call to make."

Bobby watched his father disappear around the corner of the house to the back door, then he put a hand on Christopher's shoulder.

"You okay?"

Christopher nodded.

"Don't worry about it," Bobby said. "We'll have pizza some other time."

Together they walked to the end of the driveway and carried the empty garbage cans into the garage, setting them along the wall.

As Bobby opened the back door to the kitchen, a car rushed down Lake Road. He looked in its direction, hoping the car would turn onto Joanna Way and up their driveway. But it continued on. He stood at the door for some time, listening for the engine of another.

Plastic food containers sat on the dining-room table. Bobby spooned sliced potatoes onto a plate, then jabbed a piece of veal with his fork. Beside him, Christopher ate quietly, while at the other end of the table, his father poured a glass of wine, saying nothing. Bobby glanced at his mother's empty chair. The dining room felt empty, he thought. The damn house felt empty. Ignore it. Throw down some food, go upstairs, get to bed. Period.

Bobby huddled over the dish. It was his only food all day. One forkful after another, he shoveled the food into his mouth. Chew, swallow, take a breath. Chew, swallow, take a breath.

At any other time of the year, his father would not have ignored such table manners. But the calendar had passed into Wrestling season. Bobby wouldn't have to sit with the family at dinner. His growing moodiness from cutting weight would be forgiven. And as the season wore on, when he became entirely self-centered, that, too, would be tolerated. All in the name of Wrestling.

"Your face is raw," his father said.

Bobby reached up and with his fingers touched an area below his temple where the skin was tacky. "Mat burn."

"Did you return the favor?"

"Of course," Bobby said.

His father nodded, pleased. "This is going to be a special season."

"We'll be good," Bobby said. "Six returning starters. Some of the young guys'll step up, too."