Pinned (14 page)

On his hands and knees, Bobby braced. Caruso was well schooled, Bobby knew. All Rampart wrestlers were well schooled. And had there been a chance in hell that he, or his teammates, might have forgotten, Coach Messina had reminded the team all week in practice: "Stay off the mat with Rampart. Wrestle from your feet!"

So Bobby again stepped up. And just as quickly, Caruso tripped him down to the mat, then slipped in a half nelson. Instinctively, Bobby cranked down on the arm and rolled. Momentum carried their entangled bodies outside the circle.

"Out of bounds!" the referee shouted.

Bobby could only get to his knees. Fifty-eight seconds left on the clock. His chest was rising and falling with rapid, ragged breaths that wheezed in and out of his mouth. This time he did look toward Coach Messina.

"It's simple," Coach Messina said. "You escape, you win."

Again, Bobby and his opponent settled into referee's position. At the whistle, Bobby braced, holding off Caruso's attack. More time clicked off the clock. Then Caruso hesitated and Bobby stepped up.

It was a setup, a wily bit of deception. Caruso pulled Bobby's arm across his face, wedged his arm between Bobby's legs, and clamped his hands together. A cradle. And a damn good one.

Bobby kicked out his leg to break Caruso's grip, but strength his opponent didn't seem to have in the first period now appeared with a vengeance. Caruso squeezed the cradle tighter and rolled Bobby to his back. The ceiling lamps shined in his eyes.

"I got you, Zane," Caruso snarled in his ear.

Bobby strained to keep his shoulder blades off the mat. He twisted. And strained. And something inside him, borne from the hatred of Rampart, grew powerful.
You will
not
get pinned!
He arched his back, kicked his leg, and with an exhausting rush of strength, turned to his stomach.

"Back points, Rampart," the referee shouted. "Two points!"

Caruso covered Bobby on top. Bobby glanced at the scoreboard clock—nine seconds left. He could hear his teammates urging him to move. But he had nothing left, nothing at all.

Three seconds...

Two...

One...

As time ran out, Bobby was helpless. "Time!" the referee yelled. "Two-all tie, gentlemen."

The Rampart side of the gymnasium roared in delight, erupting even louder when Caruso threw his fist in the air. Bobby kneeled on the mat a moment, his head hanging. His worst nightmare had been realized.

"Let's go, Millburn," the referee said.

Bobby climbed to his feet, shaking his head. The referee raised both wrestlers' arms.

Bobby passed through his stunned teammates, past Coach Messina, past Kenny, who was preparing for his match. Behind the chairs, he slumped down. Sweat burned his eyes. Again, he looked toward the scoreboard. Both teams were awarded two points for the tie, and Rampart's margin remained. If Rampart did go on to win—which had become likely after his match—Bobby knew he had had an opportunity to stop the bleeding but didn't.

He gathered his warm-ups and slipped on his T-shirt. All the while, the sweat and frustration—and now tears—poured.

Jeers from the Rampart fans rang in Bobby's head as he sat among his teammates in the silent locker room, waiting. Eventually, Coach Messina entered. Bobby had never seen his coach look like this before. His tie was undone, strain showed on his face, and for a time, he stood silent and motionless before the team.

A minute or two passed.

Finally, Coach Messina spoke.

"Gentlemen, you will find that there are defining moments in your Wrestling life, both good and bad, that come and go. You win today; you forget it tomorrow. You lose today; you forget it tomorrow." He stared at the ceiling. "There are also moments that have a way of staying with you forever. Moments that never go away. You can't soothe them. You might not think about them for a day, a week, a few months—if you're lucky, maybe years. Then they crawl back into your head. You try to forget it ... Erase it ... Bury it ... But you can't."

He shook his head. "This loss, Millburn, will haunt you for the rest of your lives. We were undefeated, second in the county, on the verge of breaking into the top twenty of the state. Think about that—top twenty of the state. Maybe top ten by the end of the season. More importantly, this could've been one of the best teams Millburn's ever had."

Bobby hung his head.

"Instead, we were beaten by a bunch of guys that came into our building and spit in our faces. This was Rampart, for god's sake. If you can't get up for this match, you can't get up for any match. Adam," Coach Messina snapped, "were you even awake today? The kid you lost to was a freshman. And Big John, why in the world would you try to roll someone when you're up by two points with fifteen seconds left? Giving up three back points is inexcusable.

"And someone explain to me how one of our captains..."

Here it comes.

"...ties a match when he is the better, stronger wrestler? Bobby," Coach Messina said.

Bobby raised his head.

"If you're going to be one of the top wrestlers in the state, you have to prove it every single time you step out on the mat. I don't care if you're sick, I don't care if you're hurt, I don't care what's happening outside of Wrestling. Never any excuses, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Coach," Bobby said.

"No excuses," Coach Messina said, "ever again."

At the front of the classroom, Mr. Fitzsimmons slapped his hand on a stack of test papers.

"These were easy questions, people. Winter doldrums. Senioritis. I don't know what it is, but this class is—with a few exceptions—achieving mediocrity in a very grand fashion." He withdrew a piece of chalk from the desk drawer, rolling the thin white cylinder from one finger to the next. "Now, that's not what you or your well-heeled parents want, is it?"

The chalk squeaked with each slash against the blackboard. Bobby hardly noticed. Instead, his hand moved furiously, the ballpoint scratching words on the page of a spiral notebook.

Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby—

Over and over, Bobby wrote. His hand didn't slow.

Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane—

Bobby glanced at the classroom clock. A half hour had passed, yet his textbook remained unopened. Still, he continued. Harder and harder, the pen digging into the paper, the muscles of his forearm burning, then knotting.

State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Za—

"Mr. Zane!"

Bobby looked up, blinked a few times. His eyes focused. Mr. Fitzsimmons—ruddy skin, veined nose—glared at him.

"I can't help but notice all the writing you're doing today," Mr. Fitzsimmons said, the chalk again flitting back and forth between his fingers. "I'm intrigued."

"I'm, uh, taking notes," Bobby said.

"Oh, you are," Mr. Fitzsimmons said. "I'd really like to know on what, since all the answers are worked out in the textbook Which, if you'd looked around, you'd have noticed all your classmates have been following."

Someone snickered. Bobby searched the room for the answer in a classmate's face, but all were blank. Then he squinted at the blackboard, a dizzying maze of symbols and numbers. It might as well have been blank, too.

Mr. Fitzsimmons smirked. "Mr. Zane, I'm waiting."

"Just, you know, being diligent," Bobby said, annoyed.

"'Diligent,'" Mr. Fitzsimmons said.

"Yeah."

"Really? Perhaps you should have been as diligent studying for this test."

"Perhaps," Bobby said.

And then Bobby simply didn't care. Irritated that he had to stop writing, Bobby didn't let the look on his face, or his voice, hide that fact. He spoke slowly and pointedly. "Mr. Fitzsimmons, I don't have a clue what's going on."

The teacher's smile turned sour. "Well, then," he said, "I would suggest that you check those extensive notes of yours."

"My notes?"

"Yes, your notes. Read those notes to the class. Or maybe you'd like me to," he said.

"No, that's okay," Bobby said, sliding his elbow over the notebook.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Mr. Fitzsimmons turned back toward the blackboard. "Do me a favor, Mr. Zane; stay with us in class. Calculus isn't a bunch of useless theories. It's life. It should be accorded the same respect as Wrestling..."

Bobby shut out the rest of what Mr. Fitzsimmons was saying. He slid the notebook out from under his forearm and continued.

ne State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs. Bobby Zane State Champ—129 lbs...

It was quiet, Saturday afternoon. Darkness crept into the bedroom. Ivan sat at his desk, staring at the Western Arizona application, some of the pages dog-eared but still unmarked. He listened for the Nova pulling into the driveway but heard nothing. So he opened the application, as he had done countless times before.

Ivan had memorized the questions by heart.
What has been your favorite class, and why? What has been your single most significant academic achievement? If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be, and what would you discuss?

Still, the pen in his hand wouldn't move. Frustration scrambled his thoughts. It was the middle of February, the season was coming to an end. It was time to make a move, time to be bold.
Finish the damn application,
he admonished himself. His fingers tightened, pressing the pen against the paper.

Nothing...

Ivan sat back. Earlier in the day, South Hunterdon had pounded Lennings, 45–6. For the third time this season, his victory kept the team from an embarrassing shutout.

From the start, Ivan had tied up with his South Hunterdon opponent, letting his opponent feel his strength, assuring him there wasn't a chance in hell of making it to the second period. Still, the South Hunterdon wrestler was game, sprawling hard at Ivan's every move, trying so desperately, and obviously, not to make a mistake.

Then it came: an awkward step, leaving Ivan an opening. Ivan shot in for a hi-crotch, pivoted, and lifted his opponent high off the mat. His speed was starding. Ivan held the position long enough to glare over at the South Hunterdon bench, before dropping his victim to the mat. The South Hunterdon wrestler tried to sit out, then hit a switch. Ivan countered both easily. There was an obligatory struggle, but once Ivan clamped in the half, turning his opponent to his back, it was only moments before the referee called the pin.

Ivan tried to focus on the application, remembering his last conversation with Coach Riker. "Y'all will get an answer from the admissions committee soon enough," Coach Riker had said. It was a done deal, Ivan figured. A third in the states guaranteed a spot in Riker's program, how could it not? "But nothin' happens until the committee gets that application," Riker said. "Send it in now, son."

That was two weeks ago. It was easy to put off the essays. Too easy, Ivan knew. There was always a good excuse. Go on a long run. Lift weights. Practice moves in the basement. Do push-ups and sit-ups. Think about Shelley. Something—anything else—could be done instead.

Ivan looked out the bedroom window. His father would be home soon. Maybe he'd have one more thing that needed to be fixed, or moved, or worked on. Maybe one more night would slip away.

No,
Ivan thought,
time to get this done.
And so, he started at the top of the page.

Applicant's Name:
Ivan Korske

Address:
1002 Farmingdale Road, Lennings, New Jersey 07002

Father's Name and Occupation:
Josef Korske, Farm Maintenance

Living or Deceased:
Living

Mother's Name and Occupation:
Anna Korske

Living or Deceased:

Ivan stared at the last word for a long while. "Deceased," he said, as if saying the word for the first time. He said it again. "Deceased."
Dead. Expired. Departed. Passed. Gone.
His mother was now summed up neatly in one word.

Ivan threw down the pen and swept away the papers. They fluttered to the floor. He'd finish another time. When he could think more clearly. Later tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. Before the season ended. Sure, he'd do it then.

Ivan pushed his chair back—the legs scraping along the wood floor—and hunched over.

Why do they keep asking about her? What the hell do they really wanna know? Just rip open my guts and look in.

It wasn't just the college essays. It was the people in town. The kids at school. Teachers. They stared, sometimes briefly, but mostly with a Angering pity that made Ivan feel like a freak. So, he stared back. "She's dead, okay?" he wanted to yell. What was the point? They'd keep staring and whispering.

Ivan sat back, thinking, remembering, feeling memories of his mother fill his mind....

***

Sunlight sliced through the canopy of trees to the ground where Ivan lay against a fallen tree trunk. The dirt was moist, almost cool, but otherwise, the August humidity was everywhere.

Search and destroy. The game that would bring Ivan neighborhood immortality. It was his turn to be prison escapee. To win he had to avoid being captured by Timmy and Josh before making it to his backyard where the golden sword of freedom, the crowned jewel of Farmingdale Road, stuck straight up in the grass. If he won, Ivan would keep the sword and the tide of "Supreme Exalted Being" until the next game, whenever that might be.

The stakes were high, life-and-death, Ivan thought, since during all the times he and the Scotts had played, he had never won.

Not once.

His would-be captors were formidable. Timmy, though pudgy and not particularly coordinated, had straight-ahead speed, and Josh had a knack for knowing where Ivan was, without looking very hard. It was a weird psychic thing, Ivan figured.