Pinned (12 page)

And so, practice plodded along.

"Stand with the leg!" McClellan screamed. "Now run it!"

Ivan looked over. On the other side of the room, Jon Pico kept his head down on a single-leg, allowing his practice partner to sprawl back and counter with a quarter-nelson, driving his head to the mat.

"Damn it, Jon, you gave that position so easily," McClellan said. "At least make him work for it."

Pico sat up on his knees. "I thought I'd—"

"Don't tell me what you thought. You're not supposed to think; you're supposed to react. It's the end of January, for god's sake; we've been doing this for over two months. This stuff has to come to you without thinking. Like breathing." McClellan blew the whistle long and hard. "Take a water break."

A water break?
Ivan thought, then said out loud, "Now?"

McClellan turned in Ivan's direction. "Did you say something?"

The team held still. Ivan stared at McClellan, knowing even a blink would be a concession. He wouldn't give McClellan that satisfaction. He stood tall.
Wanna start something?
The pounding furnace suddenly ceased. The room was quiet.

McClellan's nostrils flared, his jaw was rigid. "Don't want a break, Ivan?"

Ivan stood, fists at his waist. "Not sure we need it," he said, then, with more than a hint of disgust, "Coach."

"Why?" McClellan said. "Not sweating enough?"

"Not sweating at all."

Trickles of sweat inched down McClellan's forehead and disappeared into the ridge of his nose. "Maybe I need to make practice harder."

"Whatever," Ivan said.

"Maybe you need to work harder."

"Harder?" Ivan laughed. "I work my ass off every practice."

"Watch your language," McClellan said. "I don't tolerate that in this room,
my
practice room. You have a problem with the way practice is run?"

Ivan shook his head and smirked. He saw slack-jawed faces of the other wrestlers. He drew in a breath to say something snide but didn't. That was his concession.

"Does anyone have a problem with practice?" McClellan said. He waited. "I said, does anyone else have a problem with how practice is going?"

From the back of the room came a voice, "No, Coach."

Heads turned. Ivan recognized the voice without looking.
Hannen.

"Good," McClellan said. "Okay, then. Get a drink of water and let's hustle up."

A few of the wrestlers hurried out of the practice room, but most of the team lingered to see what might happen next. Ivan continued staring down McClellan. He had hated him since freshman year. Always did; always would. Teacher-of-the-year awards meant nothing in this room. The wrestling room.

Soon, practice continued. Still, nothing changed. The Lennings team drilled moves as if going through the motions, waiting for practice to end, waiting for the week to end, waiting for the season to end. Once again, Ivan thought with great satisfaction: McClellan was the loser.

Then, something happened.

Ellison hit a hi-crotch, stood up with the leg, and ran the pike flawlessly. His execution impressed Ivan. Next to them, Lawrence Wright hit an arm drag to a double-leg that caught his practice partner by surprise. Behind them, Hannen gave his usual all-out effort. Grunts filled the room. The usual plodding from drill to drill evolved into a kind of dance, each pair of wrestlers hitting one move after another without hesitation.

Practice began to flow.

"One man on his back," McClellan barked. "The other man has a reverse half in." He strode around the room. "When you're on your back, it's survival—pure and simple—that keeps you from getting pinned. None of us should get pinned. At the same time, there's no excuse for the man on top to allow his opponent off his back. You have to have that killer instinct!"

There was
energy
to the room, a kind of palpable excitement that something good was happening, and for a moment, Ivan imagined that this was what it was like every day in the practice rooms of schools like Paulsboro, Hunterdon Central, Phillipsburg, and Highland Regional.

"Man on top, don't let him off his back," McClellan said. "Man on bottom, get off your back by bridging up, slipping an arm through—
anything
to keep from being pinned."

He blew the whistle. The fifteen-second shots continued.

"We're finally coming together," McClellan shouted. He was beaming, clapping his hands. "Let's keep this going. No letdowns. No relaxing."

Ivan looked around. The Lennings Wrestling team was dancing, and McClellan was the choreographer. There wasn't a reason for what was happening. It had to be a mistake, a fluke. Nothing was "finally coming together." Blinded by five straight losing seasons, McClellan was confusing dumb luck for something greater than that.

But something
was
happening. Ivan couldn't deny that. Enthusiasm, tangible and sweet, filled the room.

"Damn good practice, Lennings!" McClellan shouted. "We'll finish up with a six-minute match. I want you to go hard, like this is the state finals. And we're going to practice the same way tomorrow and Wednesday, then wrestle this way against North Hunterdon on Thursday, and again in practice on Friday." He pumped his fist in the air. "And then you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna call the coach over at Hunterdon Central, and you know what I'll say? I'll say, Coach, I hope your boys have been practicing well, because Lennings is coming to town on Saturday."

When practice ended a half hour later, the team crowded McClellan, clapping wildly, hooting, hollering, drowning out the clanking pipes and banging boiler. Long faces were replaced with smiles.

Ivan stood to the side, neither clapping nor smiling. He grabbed his headgear and walked out of the room.

The top section of the Sunday
Daily Record
fluttered open and closed. Ivan stepped out onto the porch, then down the walkway. The cold did little to awaken him. With the newspaper under his arm, he scanned the horizon, disgusted by the thought that even the slightest hint of spring was buried well beneath the frozen ground and would be for some months.

Inside, warmth from the kitchen baseboard heater quelled the goose bumps that dotted his skin. Ivan handed the newspaper to his father after pulling out the sports section for himself.

"Will you eat today?" his father asked.

"Maybe tonight."

On the stove, a teakettle gurgled, then whistled. Ivan poured a cup of water over a tea bag, dropped in a sugar cube, and passed it to his father.

He wondered what McClellan was doing right now. He wondered if McClellan had hoped in some far-off corner of his most wishful thinking to open the sports section and see, in bold letters:
LENNINGS SHOCKS POWERHOUSE HUNTERDON CENTRAL
. The article would hail the match as one of the great upsets in New Jersey scholastic Wrestling history. It would be the pinnacle of McClellan's coaching career. Of his entire Wrestling career. Of his life.

Ivan turned to the High School Wrestling results. He wondered if McClellan had yet done the same. He wondered how reality hit McClellan. In print, it had to be even more devastating:
HUNTERDON CENTRAL ROLLS
47–4.

Great job, McClellan, you really got the team ready. Oh, yeah, were they ready.

Ivan pictured McClellan sitting, disgusted, shoving the newspaper off a table, rubbing his fingers into his forehead to smooth the frustration.

Monday's practice had surely given McClellan a glimmer of hope that he had made into a floodlight of improbabilities. He and the team had been blinded by a flash of unexpected excellence—a mistake, really—that could never have been maintained.
How stupid,
Ivan thought. Lennings on their touched-by-God best day couldn't beat Hunterdon Central, or North Hunterdon, on its absolute worst day.

"We have work to do," his father said. He tipped back the mug, then set it down.

Ivan stood up and moved to the kitchen window.
Why waste an ounce of energy thinking about McClellan, or the team, or the team's record? What's the point? Nothing changed last season, or this season. Or would next season. Not until McClellan is gone.

Ivan looked up. His breath had fogged the glass. Beyond that, a ceiling of thunderclouds swept low over Lennings.

Bobby opened his crusted eyes and blinked. He took a moment to orient himself to the high school nurse's office. The air was stifling, his lips were cracked, his tongue as rough as sandpaper. He tried to swallow away the sour taste in his mouth, but his throat was too swollen. Pushing off a blanket, Bobby struggled to sit up.

He coughed, then coughed again—a throaty, hoarse cough that wouldn't stop, building to a crescendo that left him gasping for breath and his stomach muscles twisted in a wicked knot. A residue of sweat outlined an area on the green vinyl couch where he had lain down. He wiped it away with his hand.

Beyond the closed door, the hallway buzzed. He looked up at the wall clock. It was quarter after one—between periods. He had napped restlessly for two hours, perhaps a little more. A chill crawled over him. He bent forward, head in his hands, and flexed his muscles. Yet, in spite of the physical misery, only one thought filled his head. Rampart.

Yesterday's
Star-Ledger
headlined the upcoming match as
A CLASH OF UNBEATENS
, with an article highlighting "a key bout at 129 pounds between seniors Bobby Zane of Millburn, 8–1, and Rampart's Jim Caruso, 10–0." It went on to say, "The team emerging victorious on Saturday afternoon will undoubtedly earn the top spot in Essex County and a certain top-twenty state ranking."

Bobby had tossed the newspaper into the garbage. When it came to Rampart High, rankings and records meant nothing. Rampart and Caruso could have been undefeated or winless, it didn't matter. This was Rampart. Bobby could say, hear, and think about the name a thousand more times and it wouldn't change his feelings. His hatred was absolute.

The office door opened. Nurse Lowery, an elderly woman with a pinched face and wrinkled neck, walked in carrying a box of bandages. Wire-rimmed glasses dangled from her neck.

"Robert, I'm pleased to see you're awake," she said, setting the box down at her desk. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Bobby said in a rasp. He cleared his throat.

Nurse Lowery eyed him suspiciously. "Really?"

"Guess all I needed was a little sleep." Bobby clenched his stomach muscles, holding down another wave of nausea.

"You've missed a number of classes today."

"I'll catch up."

"Frankly," she said, nodding toward the office phone, "I think it's high time you call one of your parents and have them pick you up."

"No, thanks."

"I thought that would be your answer," Nurse Lowery said, "so I took the liberty of contacting your mother at work."

"Why?" Bobby said. "What'd she say?"

"Well, she certainly didn't seem surprised that you were sick. And she said she'd be down here immediately, if you needed her."

"I'm okay." Bobby smiled—a very weak smile, he knew, but it was the best he could muster. "I've got practice in an hour and a half."

"You, young man, should not even be thinking about exercising."

"Tomorrow is Rampart," Bobby said.

"Rampart?" Nurse Lowery sat down behind the office desk. "Ah, yes, I heard conversation in the teacher's lounge about this. Apparently this year is bigger than in years past." She shook her head. "Well, this is the second day in a row you've been in my office. Your temperature is sky-high, you're sweating profusely, and I'll bet you're doing your darnedest to hold down lunch."

"Didn't have lunch," Bobby said. Or breakfast. Or dinner last night.

"You're getting worse."

"I'm fine."

"Robert, you need to rest here on this couch, not on a Wrestling mat."

Bobby muffled a string of coughs with his hand. "I'll be okay."

"If that's your choice," Nurse Lowery said. "But I'll tell you, you might not make tomorrow's match if you keep this up."

Like hell,
Bobby thought.

Nurse Lowery held out two aspirin. "Your mother said it was okay."

Bobby popped the tablets to the back of his tongue and, with a mouthful of water, swallowed as best he could. He suddenly noticed how fierce his hunger was. He'd check his weight soon. Maybe he could have a couple of ounces of food. A slice or two of ham, maybe. Maybe not. He stretched out on the couch, propping his head on his varsity jacket.

The throbbing started again, and soon, so did the sweating.

Bobby held the phone away and muffled a cough, then turned back. "Can you make it?" he said. "I want you there."

He heard Carmelina sigh. "I wanna be there," she said. "You know that."

"Then, be there."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Bobby...," she said. "I can't. My boss won't give me a day off."

"You sure?"

"I asked."

"It's Rampart," Bobby said, as if that was all he had to say.

"I know it's real important," Carmelina said.

"It's everything."

The phone was silent.

"I'm sorry," Carmelina said, finally.

"So am I."

It was well after midnight. Bobby stared at the ceiling. The mechanics for a single-leg played in his mind: driving through his opponent and stepping up with the leg, then running the pike and bringing him down to the mat. Heat rose from the neck of his T-shirt, and his hands clenched.

The desire to defeat Rampart went far beyond the Wrestling mat. There was much more at stake. He hated Rampart for the people they were. Whenever he heard a snide remark about Italians being wise-guy Guineas or Nicky-Newarkers, he thought about Rampart. They were punks, and their arrogance was an affront to
good
Italians.

The aftermath of a match against Rampart two seasons ago still smoldered. Bobby remembered how Millburn's Stuart Brown sparked a 27–23 victory over Rampart in Rampart's gymnasium. Instead of giving up an expected pin—and six team points—against Rampart's captain, Brown held tough in an 8–1 loss, allowing Rampart only three points in the team score. It was the gutsiest Wrestling Bobby had ever seen, something he would never forget.