Pinned (9 page)

Soon, he nodded off.

"Bobby!"

Someone was nudging his shoulder. Bobby opened his eyes, blinked, and focused.

"Bobby, wake up," Anthony said.

"Huh...?"

"Did ya hear me?"

Bobby sat up. "What?"

"Korske's in your weight class."

"He's going 129?"

"Must've cut down," Anthony said. "The brackets are up on the wall. He's seeded first; you're second."

Bobby breathed in—his heartbeat had kicked into high gear—and forced air out his nose.
Lousy way to wake up from a nap.
The cobwebs cleared.

Kenny rose to his feet. "Come on, let's look at the brackets."

Bobby didn't move. His body stiffened instinctively, and he stared as defiantly as he could muster at that moment. He would concede nothing, certainly nothing in front of his teammates.
Don't show fear,
he thought.
You're a Millburn captain.

He saw his teammates hesitate, as if waiting for his response. As abruptly as he awakened, his body was on alert, his mind clear.

"You can; I don't need to," he said. "I'll see Korske in the finals. I'm ready. I've been ready for him."

Beneath the bleachers, hidden among the steel supports, Bobby bounced on his toes, then stretched his arms and shoulders. What looked like a crumpled algebra quiz lay at his feet next to an empty Coke can, pencils, and chewed pen caps.

His first-round match ended in a second-period pin, setting up a semifinal match against Jordan Seitzer from Manalapan, tough on his feet and Region VI champ the previous season.

Sweat coated Bobby's skin. One more win and he would get a showdown with Korske. He unzipped his navy blue nylon warm-up suit. A pungent smell rose from his armpits.

"On deck, mat number one," the PA system boomed. "One-hundred-and-twenty-nine-pound semifinal. Zane, Millburn; and Seitzer, Manalapan." And a moment later, "On deck, mat number two. One-hundred-and-twenty-nine-pound semifinal ... Korske, Lennings; and Milner, Essex Catholic..."

Bobby genuflected. In a quieter moment, he could have finished reciting the Our Father and the first part of the Hail Mary—which was all he knew—but his thoughts were blurred...
and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who
—Twice he lost his place, then gave up on the rest when the crowd let out a sudden roar. He stepped out from under the bleachers. Time was winding down in the third period of the 122-pound semifinal match.

Bobby watched Korske standing by mat number two. Korske didn't bounce on his toes, didn't stretch his legs or arms, or practice any moves. He didn't talk to teammates, or his coach, and only acknowledged briefly a girl with blond hair standing behind him. Arms folded, headgear tethered to the drawstring of his warm-ups, he seemed as calm as if he were lying on the sofa at home.

At the buzzer, Bobby stripped off his lucky Yankees T-shirt and put on his headgear. He got a pat on the back from his father and a "Go, Bobby!" from Christopher as he marched his way to the corner of the mat. There, he and Coach Messina shook hands.

"This guy's good," Coach Messina said. "But this is
your
season. Six minutes of hard Wrestling. The finals are waiting for you."

Bobby and his Manalapan opponent met at the middle of the mat, each placing a foot inside the center circle. They shook hands. "Keep Wrestling until I stop you," the referee instructed, then blew the whistle.

Bobby immediately tied up with Seitzer. For much of the period, he pushed forward and eased up, letting Seitzer push back, gauging his strength. Sensing an opening, Bobby dropped down for a hi-crotch, pivoting to capture a leg. But Seitzer sprawled hard, and neither gained an advantage.

Bobby pressed the attack, shooting a double-leg, settling in deep. Seitzer wedged his arm underneath Bobby's armpit for the wizzer and, with a powerful shift of his hips, forced Bobby's grip to weaken. Bobby tried to repenetrate, but as he did, the buzzer sounded, ending the period scoreless.

"Your choice, Millburn," the referee said.

"Bottom," Bobby answered, adjusting his headgear. He noticed Seitzer hunched over, tugging at the bottom of his singlet, his chest heaving fiercely.

Bobby dropped to his hands and knees. A moment later, Seitzer settled into the top position. Off the whistle, Bobby stood hard, thrusting his hips out, trying to break the hold around his waist. Seitzer tripped him down to the mat. Bobby tried a second time. Then a third time. On the fourth, he was able to get to his feet, cut his arm underneath, and square off.

"Escape," the referee said. "One point, Millburn."

It had taken a monumental effort, but Bobby pressed for the takedown. With time running down, he tugged on Seitzer's head, then drop-stepped into his gut. It was as beautiful a single-leg as he had done all year, and for a moment, he pictured the scoreboard flashing 3–0.

But that was premature. Again, Seitzer threw in a powerful wizzer, driving Bobby outside the Wrestling circle as the second period ended.

Bobby walked back to the center, mad at himself for losing the takedown. Now he would be in the top position, needing to ride Seitzer for the final two minutes to protect the 1–0 score.

At the referee's whistle, Seitzer did a roll that Bobby countered, then sat out and turned hard, which Bobby followed smoothly. Seitzer sat out again, but Bobby kept a tight waist. The two wrestlers battled from the same position, Bobby looking to maintain control, Seitzer fighting for the escape.

Time was ticking away—a match with Korske was waiting. Bobby felt Seitzer weaken, so he drove his opponent's head toward his knees, setting up the snap-back. It was waiting for him. Right there. He could rip Seitzer to his back, score near-fall points, and ice the match.

But unexpectedly, inexplicably, an errant thought—perhaps about Korske, or maybe his parents—cracked Bobby's focus, and he hesitated a moment too long.

Seitzer ducked his shoulder, hips whipping over his head. Bobby recovered momentarily, stepping over the roll, but as he did, Seitzer locked his wrist and hooked his leg. A Granby roll. A move so graceful that, even as it happened, Bobby managed a hint of admiration. Then he braced.

"Hold on, Bobby!" Coach Messina yelled.

Bobby felt Seitzer lean back hard. Bobby scooted his hips toward the outside circle, trying to get out of bounds before the referee made the call. He inched closer. One leg out. He needed to get a shoulder over the line. So close, Bobby knew, but impossibly far.

"Reversal," the referee shouted an instant before the buzzer sounded. "Two points, Manalapan."

Bobby collapsed.

A wave of disappointment crushed him. They were staring, he was sure. Every person in the gymnasium was staring, mocking his loss. Bobby struggled to his feet but did not raise his head. The referee lifted Seitzer's arm in victory, drawing cheers from the Manalapan fans gathered at one corner of the gymnasium.

Bobby walked off the mat, passing his teammates, Christopher, and his father, who offered a quiet, "You'll get him next time." Bobby gathered his warm-ups and looked over at mat number 2.

Holding an eleven-point lead, Korske was looking for a pin. With his Essex Catholic opponent flat on his stomach, Korske reached around and under the wrestler's waist, trapping his left arm and tightening.
A gat wrench,
Bobby thought. Korske went up on his toes and drove toward his opponent's left shoulder, then rolled and arched, twisting his opponent to his back. The execution was stunning. A sophisticated move against a good wrestler, and yet Korske made it look as easy as drilling.
Incredible
..., Bobby thought. As he turned away, he heard the referee slap the mat, signaling the pin.

Coach Messina pointed. "In the locker room."

Bobby shuffled toward the door marked
VISITORS
.
Here it comes. What's Coach gonna tell me? That I had the match and pissed it away? Damn it, I know that.

Inside, Bobby threw down his headgear and straddled a locker room bench. He covered his head with his hands, feeling the throb of frustration along his temples. He heard breathing and noticed Coach Messina standing beside him.

"Six minutes of hard wrestling, not five minutes and fifty seconds," Coach Messina said. He slapped a locker with his hand. "You dominated that match, but you let up for one moment, and look what happened. Bobby, you're good enough to beat any one of these top guys. But you can't have a bad match, or a bad period, or a bad ten seconds. Not at this level."

"I wanted a chance at Korske," Bobby said.

"I know you did."

Bobby looked up. "Think I could beat him?"

"Not the way you just wrestled," Coach Messina said. "You have to become mentally tougher. Can't have a lapse in concentration. Not against Korske."

"This was my chance."

"You'll get another."

"Not this tournament."

"No, not this tournament," Coach Messina said. "Beating Korske today wouldn't make your season, anyway. There's a long way to go. But from this point on, promise yourself, no letting up against anybody. Not for a moment. Imagine every opponent is Korske. Every match. Then, down the line, at Jadwin, you
will
get your chance. And you
will
beat him."

It was then, in the dim locker room, his coach looming above him, that Bobby quickly pushed aside self-pity. Coach Messina was coldly honest; Bobby knew he had to be that way with himself. And so, he considered why he had just lost, opening himself up for the truth.

Did I run enough?
Bobby knew there were nights when he could've stretched a three-mile run into a four-mile run.

Did I work hard enough in practice?
He remembered drills when he could've pushed himself harder.

If I'd known from day one that Korske was going 129, would I have worked on perfecting my switch? My sit out? My single-leg? Of course.

Finally, Bobby asked himself:
Was I as prepared as I should've been?

The answer to this was a very obvious no.

Focus, preparation, execution—that's what had to separate him from his opponents. And now Bobby understood, with a feeling that he would not reveal to the others, who looked to him as their captain, there was
always
more he could have done.

Coach Messina put a firm hand on Bobby's shoulders. "We don't have a single wrestler moving on to the finals yet. That's unacceptable. I want you out there preparing the others. Get these guys ready to wrestle. And we need you to win the consolations for third place."

Bobby nodded. "Be there in a minute, Coach."

"No, you're a captain. You get out there now."

Coach Messina was so damn exact. Input information in one end, output some neatly thought-out answer on the other end. No waste of emotion. No extraneous words. Discriminate.

Bobby stood up. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He had to face his teammates, his father and Christopher, the Millburn fans, the other spectators. He had to face the defeat, then put it behind him. Later, he would watch Korske in the finals. He would get a chance at him, down the road.

Down the road, at Jadwin.

Coach Messina had told him so.

The dining-room light flickered. Ivan leaned over the oak table, careful not to disturb the arrangement of silverware and glasses. The bulb buzzed, then blinked off. Ivan tapped it once, then another time, until, after one last annoyed rap, the light stayed on. He shook his head.
Another thing that needs to be fixed.

He felt neither hungry nor very much like sitting down at the table. Winning the Hunterdon Central tournament so handily—three pins in three matches—left him restless, his body needing to move around, his thoughts wanting space.

He heard the oven door shut. His father walked in, holding a silver platter with two thick pieces of sizzling meat, charred along the edges. "Dinner fit for a champion," he said. He placed two plates on the table, stepped back, giving the room a thoughtful look, then nodded, pleased.

After a long day at the farm, his father had worked hard to prepare the dinner. Though his father would never say it, Ivan was certain it was his way of apologizing for missing the first two matches. Not that it mattered, Ivan thought. Both matches hadn't made it into the second period, anyway. The attention made Ivan uneasy. It was just another Saturday night, just another tournament victory. It was
not
the state championship.

He sat down, unfolded a cloth napkin, and spread it over his lap, as his mother had taught him. He ate quickly, craving the steak and potatoes. After a few bites, his stomach, shrunken after six weeks of cutting weight, felt as if it would burst.

"That boy from Manalapan was strong," his father said.

Ivan shrugged.

"I remember when Wrestling was not so easy for you," his father continued. "You were young and it was many years ago, but you should not forget. Tell me about your first matches."

"Not much to say."

"Where were the boys from?"

"Didn't notice."

"Their names?"

"Don't know."

Ivan reached into his pocket, pulled out a medal, and handed it across the table.

His father held it up to the light. "I must build a wood cabinet for all your medals and trophies." He spread his hands wide. "Large glass doors. And one spot in front for the state championship medal. That would be nice."

"Sounds like a lotta work."

"A lot of work?"

"Too much work."

"No," his father said.

"Papa, you come home tired every night. Now you work Saturdays. You're gonna wear out."

His father brushed aside his concern.

"I heard stories, Papa. People are getting laid off; is that true?"

His father hunched forward, spearing the meat with his knife, then cutting a piece and putting it into his mouth, cutting another piece and shoving it into his mouth.

"Saying nothing tells me enough, Papa." Ivan looked down. "Are you gonna lose your job?" he said quietly, almost hoping his father didn't hear him.