Pinned (8 page)

You're gonna need that prayer,
Ivan thought, waiting to see if his opponent dared stare back. He didn't. That annoyed Ivan.
Don't be a candy-ass. Make this a match.

...five ... four ... three...

Hillsborough fans began to clap. Ivan unbuttoned his warm-up jacket and pulled off his warm-up pants. He took a couple of deep, relaxed breaths. His vision narrowed. Cropped from the sides. Until the gym's vast space had disappeared. No stands, no spectators. Nothing else; no one else. Just him and his opponent. Bitter anger inside Ivan began to froth and spill over. It was all part of the ritual, and he embraced it. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back, his thighs and calves, were warm and loose. Ivan hissed curses under his breath.

The buzzer sounded.

The referee separated the 129-pound wrestlers and raised the arm of the winner. He then motioned to the scorer's table. The individual match score was reset to zero as the scoreboard above changed to
HOME
: 0;
VISITORS
: 27.

On the opposite side of the mat, Ivan's Hillsborough opponent adjusted the chin strap of his headgear and brushed aside hair from his eyes. His teammates and coaches surrounded him, patting him on the shoulder and back, offering words of encouragement and strategy.

The PA system announced, "Now wrestling at one hundred and thirty-five pounds, from Hillsborough..."

The Hillsborough wrestler bolted from his teammates, sprinting to the center circle. His eyes were wide, his movements herky-jerky. He put a foot on the circle.

"...and from Lennings, Ivan Korske."

The Lennings crowd roared. Ivan dropped his warm-up jacket off his shoulders. He set his headgear and walked to the center of the mat. At the referee's command, Ivan and his opponent shook hands. Ivan saw the fear in the Hillsborough wrestler's eyes. His opponent knew he was going to get pinned. It was just a matter of how quickly.

"Wrestle!" the referee commanded.

Ivan's drop step was blistering. Before the Hillsborough wrestler could react, Ivan was in on the single-leg, arms around his opponent's knee. Tight. He stepped up, ready to run the pike and finish off the takedown.
Too damn easy.
And it was. Devastatingly so.
Fight me ... Fight me!
But his opponent's breathing was already strained.

So Ivan loosened his grip. Slightly. Just enough to allow his opponent to wedge an arm underneath Ivan's armpit as a wizzer.
Think ya got something
Ivan thought, and he nearly smirked, sensing a sudden but shallow confidence in his opponent's movements. The Hillsborough wrestler, balancing on one leg, attempted to hip into Ivan, hoping to knock them both out of bounds so the referee would start them in the center circle again. His attempt was futile.
Weak ... Very weak ... You gotta have more than that.

Ivan allowed the charade to go on for a half minute, then he lost his patience and exploded. Letting go of the leg and stepping into his opponent, with a fury. Wrapping both arms around his chest. Lifting. Kicking out his legs. Crashing him to the mat. Hearing him groan in pain.

"Takedown, Lennings!" the referee called out. "Two points!"

Ivan deftly switched to a headlock, leaning all his weight on his opponent, inching his shoulders toward the mat.
Come on, fight it...
But the Hillsborough wrestler couldn't. He had nothing left.

The referee blew the whistle, signaling the pin. The Lennings fans stomped the floorboards of the stands and yelled their appreciation. Ivan stood up, had his arm raised, then walked past McClellan, past his teammates, nodding to Ellison, who waited for his 142-pound match to be announced.

"Another victim," Ellison said.

"First of many," Ivan answered.

The evergreen nearly touched the ceiling—white lights and silver tinsel spiraling down from the top, ornaments hanging from its branches—filling the room with a sweet holiday scent. A week ago, Ivan had noticed the tree not far from the old pond. It stood out from the others with a kind of nobility that Ivan thought belonged in his house. Now adorned for Christmas, it was a special tree indeed.

Ivan had always loved Christmas, allowing himself, even during the crucial first month-and-a-half of Wrestling season, the pleasure of wishing December away until, on the twenty-fifth, he would wake up and rush downstairs to the living room to eagerly wait for his parents to join him in opening presents.

This Christmas, however, would be the first without his mother.

People hid from their feelings, Ivan thought. He wouldn't allow that. He had learned to face the pain of losing his mother. In his own way. Even knowing she was long gone, he wasn't afraid to feel her presence, her touching his shoulder, kissing his forehead. Later in the day, he would visit her in person.

Ivan unzipped his jacket and pulled off the layers of clothing underneath. Every run had a purpose—to cut weight, to build endurance, to work on explosiveness—but this morning he had given himself a kind of gift, just an easy jog through the snow, enjoying the soft crunch under his sneakers, the powdery wake behind him.

Ivan toweled off, then put on dry thermal bottoms and sat in front of the tree, arranging the presents. There were four: two from his father, one wrapped in shimmering red paper and the other in green; a large flat box from Shelley, which he hoped was a Flyers jersey; and the last, his gift to his father.

Ivan touched a red and green miniature sleigh that hung from the tree. A branch higher, nearly hidden behind tinsel, hung a cardboard sock, tattered along the edges and creased across the middle. Wads of cotton were coming unglued along the top. Ivan turned it over, recognizing the awkward scribble of his childhood, "Love You Mama and Papa, Merrie Chrisstmas—Ivan." Ivan thought he had made it in kindergarten, though all he could really remember were snippets of so many fading holiday images.

He lay back on the wood floor, listening to the house clank and pipes hiss and the wind whistle down the chimney flue. Ivan sat up, pinching the film of skin over his abs. Still more to lose. He lay back down and sat up again.

He did another sit-up, then another, his upper body reflecting in the bulbous silver ornaments. Now faster. Twisting his torso right, touching his left elbow to his right knee, then the opposite. Harder and harder, he jacked his body upright, all the while thinking about the Hunterdon Central tournament and crushing whichever opponent stood before him. When he reached fifty, he did another fifty.

Ivan then turned to his stomach, setting his hands on the floor, shoulder-width apart, and pushed up. Then again. And again. His forearms were engorged with blood, and a network of veins ran elbow to wrist as he pumped out the reps. At fifty, he sat through and did another set of sit-ups. After that, he did push-ups again.

A half hour had passed when Ivan heard his father's footsteps down the stairs to the living room. Ivan turned around, wiping a touch of sweat from his forehead, breathing hard.

"Merry Christmas, Papa."

The clock clicked to 12:43
A.M.
Bobby was still a long way from sleep. He held his stomach muscles tight, fighting back quivers of nausea, but he couldn't stop the pangs of hunger that wrenched his gut.

Another wave of nausea hit. Bobby sat up and held the edge of the bed. He wanted to yell, but that would have taken too much energy. Heat radiated from his body, but there was nothing left to sweat. He rolled his tongue around to keep his mouth as moist as he could. He ached for water—not much, just a cupful—but his weight was too close to take a chance. Nothing went in unless something came out first.

Bobby stood up, walked across the dark bedroom to the closet, and turned on the light.

He stood naked, his skin puckering into goose bumps from the chilly floor. He set the counterbalance at 129¾ pounds, then stepped gingerly onto the scale platform. The scale arm fell.

He tapped the counterbalance to 129½. The scale arm didn't move from the bottom.

At 129 even, the scale arm floated. And Bobby figured he could probably piss another quarter pound. He'd be able to drink something—not much—but at least something.

In the bathroom, Bobby squinted under the bright ceiling light. From the medicine cabinet, he pushed aside bottles of laxatives and diuretics and pulled out an old glass baby bottle, into which he peed. Urine careened off the inside, filling the bottom. He relaxed, hoping every bit would drain from his body. The yellow liquid moved higher and higher until finally the stream sputtered to a few squirts. Then just a drop or two.

It measured four and a half ounces. Short of what Bobby had hoped, but enough to allow him to keep his mouth wet for a while. He poured the urine out, washed the glass bottle, and set it back in the medicine cabinet. Then he turned on the cold water faucet and filled his pewter baby cup to the top. Four ounces, no more. His thirst was impossibly strong, his hand unsteady. The cup tilted against his chapped lips and the cool water washed over his tongue. He savored every drop.

After a final check on Christopher, curled up restlessly under rumpled blankets, Bobby returned to his bedroom and slid under the covers.

A sprained ankle had kept him out of last year's Hunterdon Central tournament. This year, the 129-pound weight class was his for the taking. With Korske going 135, Bobby was certain no one could keep him from the title. People would take notice. That made him nervous as hell.

He stared at the ceiling. Slight imperfections in the paint began to fade in and out. He felt his chest rise and fall with each breath, and he followed the rush of each pulse down his shoulders, arms, wrists, and fingertips; and his torso, legs, feet, and toes. Then he ran through the catalog of moves in his head.

Again and again.

Eventually, yawns came more often and sleep quieted his tired mind.

Sweat beaded on Ivan's skin. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The midnight run had been a good one, one that would put his weight at 130 pounds. By morning, he'd be closer to 129¼. By weigh-ins he'd be right on weight.

He'd stay at 129 pounds for the rest of the season. He hadn't told McClellan or his father, and wouldn't until morning, relishing the idea that the 135-pounders at the tournament would be thanking God when they found out, while the 129-pounders would be scared as hell.

Switching on the bedroom light, Ivan listened for his father downstairs, then closed his door. He walked to his bed and reached under the mattress. In his hand, he held the application for Western Arizona University.

Attached was a note from Coach Riker, wishing him good luck for the season. Ivan fixed on the signature, George Riker. The "Gainesville Grappler," a nickname he earned as the winningest high school coach in the state of Florida.

But it was at Western Arizona where Riker had secured his legend. It was Riker who turned the university's nearly defunct Wrestling program into an NCAA contender, who guided three wrestlers to national tides, who made the upper echelon of collegiate programs—the Iowas, Nebraskas, and Oklahoma States of the world—sit up and take notice. In a fitting tribute,
Wrestling USA
called Riker "the Dan Gable of the West." Ivan received recruiting letters from dozens of college coaches across the country. None was as important as this one.

A drop of sweat fell on the envelope, smudging Ivan's name. Then another.

This is gonna get me out of Lennings. That's what it's gonna do. Get me away from McClellan, from Holt, from all this crap.

He reached inside the application's envelope and pulled out the essay sheets and personal-information request form.

But a familiar fear stopped him.
I can't do it,
he thought.
Maybe,
he worried,
I'll never be able to do it.
Without another thought, Ivan slid the pages back into the envelope and the envelope, once again, under the mattress.

By nine o'clock, weigh-ins had ended, and a buzz of anticipation filled the Hunterdon Central gymnasium. Sitting high in the stands with his teammates, Bobby looked down on the gym floor, where two mats lay side by side, each with a scorer's table and chairs at opposite corners for coaches. Wrestlers from the eight competing schools had begun warming up—stretching out and drilling moves. At a far entrance, a team in maroon warm-ups walked in.

Kenny tapped Bobby on the shoulder. "Lennings."

Bobby sat up. He was curious to see Ivan Korske up close. He watched each wrestler, but none had what the newspapers described as "the musculature of a thoroughbred, the cold stare of a caged panther."

"I'm ready for Korske," Kenny said.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Kenny nodded. "I don't give a rat's ass if he took a third in the states. Other guys worry about that; not me."

Finally, the last of the Lennings wrestlers walked through.

"Well, that's a disappointment," Kenny said. "Big, bad Korske's a no-show."

It was wishful thinking, Bobby knew. Korske would be there. He'd show up in a big way.

Moments later, a lone wrestler entered through a second door. It seemed the gymnasium hesitated.

"Spoke too soon," Bobby said.

Korske's walk, his gestures, growled, "You know who I am; don't mess with me." Other wrestlers stopped and stared. Korske nodded to a few people, shook hands with the Hunterdon Central coach, then sat down on the bottom bleacher, away from his team.

Kenny leaned forward. "Look at him. Tryin' to be a tough guy. I'm gonna kick his ass from here to Millburn."

"Hope you do," Bobby said.

"Oh, I will."

And so, Bobby had seen Korske and was duly impressed. Perhaps Korkse had glimpsed him and was impressed, as well. Bobby hoped so, but doubted it. He closed his eyes; facing Ivan Korske—or a wrestler of his stature—would come at another time. And when it did, he knew he'd have to be perfectly prepared. But for now he'd worry about his weight class, his opponents. The murmur of background conversations softened as he ran through dozens of scenarios for the opening whistle of his first-round match. He visualized the mechanics for a single, double, and hi-crotch—his body hitting each perfectly, taking his opponent down to the mat. Then duck unders, leg sweeps, hip throws...