Pinned

by Alfred C. Martino

  Ivan said nothing.

  "You don't agree with me. I didn't expect you to. So let's cut to the chase." McClellan sat on the edge of the desk. "There has to be punishment. Principal Holt and the school officials want a suspension. They're a very straight-and-narrow group. You understand. Rules were broken."

  McClellan was lying, Ivan thought. Holt would never suspend him, not with a chance for him to go to the states on the line.

  "Maybe I should talk to him," Ivan said.

  "To whom?"

  "Holt."

  McClellan smiled. "Oh, I see. You don't believe me. You can certainly take that chance. But let me tell you, Ivan, after Mrs. Hannen called the school this morning, all hell broke loose. School violence. You're lucky they let you in the building this morning. But I spoke to Principal Holt and he agreed to go by my recommendation. If I'm satisfied with the punishment, then he'll be satisfied with the punishment. Of course, if you don't believe me, you can walk out right now and take your chances."

  Ivan rolled his eyes. "So I'll pay for the damage."

  "Let other people worry about the bathroom," McClellan said with a sarcastic laugh. "I've given this some thought. Weighed all the factors. I'd like to see you wrestle through the end of the season. But I also want you to learn from your mistakes. I was thinking along the lines of an apology."

  Ivan tensed but gave away nothing.

  "You don't seem to want to."

  "I'll apologize, if I gotta."

  "To whom?"

  "You tell me."

  "I think you know."

  Ivan shrugged. "Hannen."

  McClellan shook his head.

  Ivan sat back. "To who then?"

  "Again, you tell me."

  "The team."

  McClellan walked to the office's back window. "It's a bit warm in here." He reached up and unlatched the lock, then pushed open the pane of glass. He rubbed his hands to wipe off any dirt. "Ivan, to whom do you need to apologize?"

  It was then that Ivan fully understood the tone of McClellan's voice. Like a bully's. Like someone who had all the power and was ready to exploit it. This meeting was a joke.

  McClellan smoothed his white dress shirt and straightened his tie. He came back to the desk and sat down again.

  "You don't like me very much," he said, with a smile. "You don't think I'm a good coach. Probably think I don't know my elbow from my ass in the Wrestling room. Maybe you even think I'm the worst goddamn coach in the county."

  McClellan grinned wider. "I know you understand the situation here, but if you don't, I'll make it crystal clear. I want to coach a state champ—that's what I want. I'm that good of a coach, despite what you or anyone else thinks. You and I also know I may grow to be an old man before I get that chance again at this school." McClellan's eyes never left Ivan's. "You hate this place. It disgusts you. You hate me, the team, the school, the whole damn town."

  Bile bubbled up Ivan's throat. Only a hard swallow kept the bitterness down. He had underestimated McClellan, thinking he was a fool. Ivan stared at McClellan as fiercely as he would an opponent.

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "You know."

  "Apologize?"

  "Yes."

  "To you."

  McClellan grinned.

  Drop dead. I'll never say I'm sorry—

  Then Ivan cut off his rage. He was about winning, his life was about winning. He thought about his mother and father sitting in the Lennings bleachers; the roads he had run over and over, enough miles to make it all the way to Western Arizona; coming within a whisper of advancing to the state finals last year. Images of the past four years scrambled his thoughts; still, the answer was clear. The state championship was on the line, which meant more—just barely more—than winning this battle of egos with McClellan. There would be a time and place to tell him to screw himself. It would be soon enough.

  Know what, McClellan? I'll apologize to ya. No sweat off my back. They're just words.

  He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry Hannen and me got in a fight. I wanna come back to practice today."

  McClellan said nothing.

  Ivan straightened up. "I can win the states this year. You can't take that away. It's my only way outta here."

  Still, McClellan said nothing.

  Ivan leaned in. "Goddamn it," he said. "Okay, I'm sorry; I'm damn sorry yesterday ever happened and for what I said to you. I'm sorry, okay, are ya happy?"

  A hint of a smile touched McClellan's lips. "Yes," he said. "That's what's best for everyone involved. And that's what's fair. Now write it down." He held out a pen and a piece of paper.

  "Write it?"

  "Yes, write it."

  Ivan looked at McClellan's hands. He was exhausted and beaten, and it took all his strength not to vomit his disgust right there in the office. "If I write it, I'm back on the team?"

  "Sure, sure," McClellan answered, pulling a stack of papers from the drawer and spreading it out on the desk with the other. "I'll tell Principal Holt what you and I decided here today. We'll get this whole episode behind us." McClellan's head was down, already marking the papers with a red pen. "Don't forget, get that to me by noon."

  Ivan closed the door behind him. That was it. He stood in the hallway, leaning back against the wall, pen and paper in hand. He would write the apology, he would get it in by noon. It was over. He had sold his soul for the state championship.

  35

  Carmelina's sobs were clear through the phone. "Everyone was lookin' at me in school," she said, in halted breaths. "They knew, they knew. They knew where I was going. I'm telling ya, they knew ... Their eyes, I could tell in their eyes."

  "What happened with the test?" Bobby said.

  "Nobody's ever looked at me like that," Carmelina said. "It was like they knew I was gonna do something really wrong. Was I gonna?"

  Bobby covered the receiver and walked out of his bedroom to the top of the stairs. The light in his brother's room was off and everything was quiet downstairs.

  "The test, Carmelina," he said. "What happened?"

  "How could they know—"

  "Carmelina, listen to me," he said, in a forced whisper. "What'd the test say?"

  Carmelina didn't answer for a long time. Bobby thought she might have hung up. "Carmelina?" he said. "Carmelina? Are you there? What'd the test say?"

  "I don't know," she said, finally.

  "What do you mean, 'I don't know'?"

  "I ... don't ... know...."

  "But you went to the clinic. Maria took you, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "So what'd they say?"

  "This big black woman just kept smiling, telling me everything was gonna be all right. She just kept smiling ... God, I don't know why. This wasn't a place for smiles. But she did. The kind of smile that was trying to hide somethin' real bad ... I was so scared, Bobby, so scared."

  "I know, I know," Bobby said. "I'm sorry you were scared—"

  "Too scared."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I left."

  "You left?"

  "Maria took me home. I couldn't do it."

  Bobby wanted to throw the phone through his bedroom window. "You gotta go back. This is serious, Carmelina. You can't just leave it alone. It won't go away. Tell Maria she's gotta bring you there again."

  There was a long pause before Carmelina spoke again. "I'll go next week," she said, but the lie was clear in her voice.

  "I don't believe you," he said. "Next time you'll just leave again. Maybe not even go."

  "Then, you take me."

  Bobby sat down on his bed.

  "See?" Carmelina said. "You don't wanna bother. Just go on living your life, forget about me. And don't you worry, Bobby, I'll go next week to the clinic and I'll get the test done. And know what? Maybe I'll tell you whether you're gonna be a father or not. It's not your worry."

  "Not my worry?"

  "I'll deal with it."

  "No, no forget it," Bobby said. "I'll ta
ke you next week. Tuesday night after practice. After you're done with work. I'll pick you up at the mall. I'll tell my parents I'm going to Kenny's, studying or lifting or something like that. They'll never know. Okay? Carmelina ... Carmelina, are you there?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'll take you, understand? But you gotta promise me you'll go."

  "Bobby, I'm scared."

  He rubbed his eyes. "I'm scared, too." And he was—damn scared. "We'll go together."

  36

  I'm goin' running, Papa."

  "Again tonight?" his father said, pleased. "That is two times."

  "For the states, Papa," Ivan answered. "For the states."

  Ivan closed the front door, ran down the porch stairs, and ducked into the shadows of the house. From inside his jacket, Ivan pulled out a large envelope. It was stamped and addressed to the admissions committee at Western Arizona. The application was ready to go. Or as much as it would ever be, Ivan knew.

  Envelope in hand, Ivan sprinted down the driveway and onto Farmingdale. The application postmark deadline was tomorrow. He had cut it close and it had been a struggle, but Ivan had finally finished the essays and questions. Hastily, he knew. Sloppily, even. It all would have been much better if Shelley had helped. But he got what he deserved.

  The fields of grass passed quickly and, soon, Sycamore Creek and Wellington Farms, too. Ivan neither noticed the cold nor the heat under the layers of clothing, nor any of the familiar surroundings. He ran fast, unusually fast. Despite practicing for two horns and having already run once tonight, his legs felt surprisingly light, his lungs large. Ivan didn't think about past matches, or future matches, for that matter. He just ran. Hard.

  Streetlights illuminated the shop awnings on Main Street and the blue mailbox in front of Mr. Johnston's Florist Shop. Ivan came to a stop, stared at the envelope one last time, then pulled back the handle and dropped it in. The envelope was out of his hands; now everything was under his control.

  Ivan looked around. Across the street, the Evergreen sign blinked. Trees rustled. The town's stoplight changed from red to green. He liked the solitude. Ivan crossed the intersection and jogged home.

  37

  Bobby sat hunched over on the locker-room bench—the hood of his warm-up suit draped over his head, his eyes closed—pushing aside worries about Carmelina and his parents and everything going on in his life outside Wrestling.

  "Be ready off the whistle...," he whispered. "Be ready off the whistle..."

  He looked up. Kenny also straddled the bench, deep in thought. Big John, a black T-shirt stretching across his broad frame, snapped and unsnapped the chin strap of his headgear. In the bathroom, Anthony splashed water on his face, then rolled his neck and shoulders. They were all nervous as hell, Bobby could tell.

  Few doubts remained in his own mind. His record was 16–1–1 with twelve pins, numbers that hadn't gone unnoticed by the Star-Ledger. He was on an eight-match winning streak since the tie at Rampart—a match that seemed seasons ago. And much like that match, win-loss records meant nothing, from this point on, Bobby knew. All that mattered was who wanted to win more—him or his opponent.

  Heat rose in his warm-up suit, collecting in the hood. The hotter, the better, he thought. Anything to make his muscles ready; anything to keep his heart racing. He stared down at the floor, feeling sweat accumulate on his forehead, then watched the droplets fall to the tiles. He swiped at the starburst shapes with the soles of his Wrestling shoes.

  The locker-room door opened. Kenny raised his head, and Big John sucked the last drops from a water bottle, then tossed it aside. Anthony came in from the bathroom.

  Coach Messina's dress shoes clicked on the locker-room floor. "There's not much for me to say. The four of you are in here, the rest of the team is sitting in the stands. You made it to the district finals; they didn't. You qualified for the regions; their seasons are finished."

  For some that might be enough, Bobby knew. They'd be satisfied as district runner-up. But not him. Not this year. Second place was never a victory, moral or otherwise. It meant he had lost, and that was unacceptable.

  "For four months you've worked your asses off," Coach Messina said. "You've been the ones to come in early and leave late. You've run the miles after practice. You've done the push-ups and sit-ups perfectly. You've drilled twelve or thirteen single-legs when the others did ten.

  "It's not magic, no sleight of hand. Winning means hard work. It always has; it always will. You guys have proved that. By the end of the day, across New Jersey, there will be thirty-two district champs in each weight class." His massive chest expanded with a deep breath. "Promise yourself you'll be one of those thirty-two ... Hands in!"

  Bobby squeezed between Big John and Anthony as the four wrestlers pressed against one another, sharing the same space; sharing the smell of sweat, anxiety, and Coach Messina's cologne; sharing the strength of his confidence.

  "Let's have four district champs," Coach Messina said. He stared at Big John ... Kenny ... Anthony ... and, finally, Bobby.

  "There are no second places today."

  The third period of the 122-pound championship match began, though Bobby paid little attention. He stood, jaw taut, eyes tight in a livid glare.

  Kenny stepped beside him. "You ready?"

  Bobby nodded. "If God came down to wrestle me today," he said, "I'd beat him."

  The world could have been crumbling down around Bobby—and, he knew, in so many ways it was—but he refused to let it enter Millburn's gymnasium. Today, this was his temple, wrestling was his religion, winning the district tide was his prophecy.

  Across the gym, his opponent, Gerald Griffey, warmed up. His muscular black thighs and sculpted chest made his white and gold singlet seem two sizes too small. Teammates in street clothes stood by, patting Griffey on the back, gesturing in Bobby's direction.

  Bobby shook his head, a smile stretching slowly on his lips. He pitied Griffey, a district runner-up at 122 pounds the year before. In a few minutes, Bobby thought, he'll wish he'd stayed at that weight.

  A loud cheer swelled from the bleachers. Union High fans rose to their feet, stomping and whistling as time ran out and their wrestler celebrated an 8–4 victory, pumping his fist. Bobby's heartbeat jumped into high gear. He pulled off his Yankees T-shirt and tossed it to Christopher, then snapped the chin strap of his headgear.

  The referee raised the Union wrestler's arm, then the two wrestlers cleared the mat. The PA system boomed, "Now Wrestling in the 129-pound final ... Bobby Zane, Millburn ... Gerald Griffey, Elizabeth..."

  Bobby shook hands with Coach Messina, then stalked onto the mat, stepping out onto a stage—his stage. Griffey met Bobby in the middle. Bobby put his left foot on his side of the center circle, adjusted his headgear, and set his stance. Right off the whistle.

  The referee directed them to shake hands. "Let's have a good match, fellas. Don't stop Wrestling until I say so." He checked with the timekeeper, then lifted the whistle to his lips. The whistle screamed.

  Bobby shot out from his stance, catching Griffey flat-footed. Before Griffey could react, Bobby sucked his right leg in tight and stepped up to his feet, his head in Griffey's chest. He switched to a double-leg, lifted, and dropped Griffey to the mat. The match would be over shortly, Bobby knew, as he forced in the half.

  Griffey knew it, too. He was a beaten wrestler. Done. Finished. And now, a half minute into the first period, a two-time district runner-up.

  The gold medal sat in Bobby's open palm. He stared at the imprint on the front—two combative wrestlers encircled by the outline of New Jersey—then flipped it over. DISTRICT XI CHAMPIONSHIP 129-LBS FIRST PLACE was engraved on the back. Bobby closed his fist tightly.

  He recalled last year, sitting in nearly the same position on his bed, while his mother and father prepared a celebration dinner in the dining room. That night, Bobby had glanced around his bedroom, jittery from winning the districts for the first time, not knowing what to do next, feeling lik
e the world was his, like he could do anything. He had set the medal on his dresser, then stepped back to check that it could be seen equally well from his bed, closet, and door.

  "I did it," he had whispered.

  The district championship. He had reached his ultimate goal, a goal he had set at the beginning of the season. It felt a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, more glorious than he had ever dreamed. That he would lose in the semifinals of the regions one week later—and not advance to the states—was irrelevant. He had won the districts. Emotions overflowed, filling Bobby's eyes with tears. He had cried.

  Last year's championship medal now had a companion. Same medals; different circumstances. While the first district championship, as an underdog third-seed with a 13–4 record, was unexpected, the second was a mere formality. Everyone—the crowd, Bobby's father, Coach Messina, the local papers, Griffey himself—understood Bobby would win the 129-pound finals this year. Those who didn't were fooling themselves. Perhaps the only raised eyebrows came from the devastating manner in which Bobby wrenched Griffey over and held his back flat to the mat for the pin. Thirty-two seconds into the first period. A television commercial's length of time.

  Bobby heard his parents downstairs. Arguing, as always. He stripped naked, toweled dry his arms and back, and threw on a pair of sweats. He placed the medals side by side on the dresser. They glimmered in the vanishing afternoon light.

  He wasn't satisfied. For four months he had cut weight, run hundreds of miles, done endless push-ups and sit-ups, battled his teammates day in and day out. The effort should add up to more. Instead, the medals reminded him of cheap trinkets he might've won at a Point Pleasant boardwalk arcade. But there was a reason the effort should add up to more, he knew. He hadn't reached the end. There was work yet to be done. It was all one long journey, at times glorious, like this afternoon, his hand raised high in victory, but mostly, as he expected tonight to be, utterly painful. In the end, he vowed, only one medal would hang from his neck: the New Jersey state championship medal.