Pinned

by Alfred C. Martino

  Bobby walked into the family room.

  40

  A lightbulb illuminated the end of the corridor. Ivan passed the storage closet and turned toward the practice room. McClellan's footsteps echoed behind him. "We'll go an hour," McClellan said.

  As Ivan drew closer to the pumping, whooshing boilers, he muttered, "You'll never make it."

  For the third year in a row, Ivan was the lone Lennings wrestler to advance to the region tournament. Rumors were swirling around the team about a new coach—someone from a rival school—and the blowout Holt and McClellan had in the principal's office two days earlier. Everyone in school said McClellan's fate was now sealed. The body's not cold, Ivan thought, and the vultures are circling.

  "I want you to be sharp today," McClellan said. "Singles, doubles—they all have to be crisp."

  Ivan entered the practice room and switched on the ceiling lights, then dropped his headgear to the mat and sat down. He warmed up methodically, stretching his legs out front, slowly touching his forehead, then chest, to his left knee. Then his right knee. He didn't look up; he didn't say anything.

  "The seeding meeting was last night. You're a first seed, which was obviously a given," McClellan said. "I have the brackets. You can look at them if you want."

  Ivan didn't give a damn who was in his weight class—they were all competing for second place. The gap between him and the others was never more apparent. As was the tradition, wrestlers in the area preparing for the regions practiced at North Hunterdon High School on Monday and Tuesday. Hunterdon Central had eight wrestlers moving on; Delaware Valley, seven; Voorhees and North Hunterdon, six each; and Bridgewater West, five. Wrestlers from a few other schools were invited, as well.

  The practices had the kind of competition that Ivan eagerly awaited, an opportunity to drill with the best talent in western New Jersey, something he never came close to experiencing in the Lennings wrestling room. As usual, he had been a closely watched participant, and as usual, he had dominated.

  And now, McClellan was insisting on practicing an hour with him. He's gotta be reminded he's thirty-three, not seventeen. A weekend-warrior jog on Saturday or Sunday wasn't going to cut it against the state tide favorite, 20–0 with sixteen pins, coining off a district tournament in which he dismantled his three opponents.

  "You had good practices the past two days," McClellan said. "But I saw things we need to work on. Maybe you're tired, maybe a little distracted. Today should get you back on track."

  Ivan's stoic demeanor gave way to an intimidating seriousness. His eyes narrowed. The muscles along his temples twitched. He watched McClellan on the other side of the room. It was one thing for McClellan to be a passive partner during drills; it was entirely something else to expect to go sixty minutes of live Wrestling.

  "Why we doing this?" Ivan felt like saying. There were other ways to hold practice. McClellan could have asked Ellison and some of the other Lennings wrestlers, whose seasons were already finished, to come in and train. Maybe a couple of juniors would've been interested in getting a few more practices before the spring track and baseball seasons began.

  But Ivan knew the answer. McClellan wanted a piece of him. McClellan wanted to step back a decade and a half, when he was a Lennings team captain and one-time district champ, and prove that he had been good enough to wrestle with the best. Ivan laughed to himself. I'm gonna wreck you, McClellan.

  "We goin' easy today?" Ivan said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. "I'm runnin' later, anyway."

  McClellan looked at him. "You think this might be some kind of BS practice? Trust me, Ivan. It won't be."

  Ivan bounced on his toes, his eyes alive, piercing—a glisten of sweat shone under the lights above. An intimidating sight. A singular focus. Thick veins ran on the undersides of his forearms, the paleness of his skin in stark contrast to his black shorts and black ASICS.

  "Ready?" McClellan said.

  Intensity ignited within Ivan, fueled by a chance to exact some revenge. McClellan had toyed with his Wrestling destiny, holding it out like a precious gift to be given, or taken away. But no longer. They had come to an understanding, a truce, temporary at best, as if each held a knife at the other's neck until the season was finished. You get outta my way, Ivan thought, and I'll make you coach of a state champ.

  "Takedowns," McClellan said.

  Ivan adjusted his chin strap, then stood in his stance. They slapped hands.

  Ivan stepped toward McClellan and struck. The execution of his drop step was precise, slipping underneath McClellan's arms, his shoulder slamming into his gut, stealing a breath from McClellan's throat, his arms instantly holding control of his legs. Ivan lifted, went head-side-around, and dumped McClellan to the mat.

  That was the first takedown.

  McClellan got to his feet, and again Ivan took him down with little effort, hitting a hi-crotch, then switching to a single and running the pike. A half-dozen more times, McClellan fell victim to Ivan's speed and strength.

  Five minutes passed.

  Then ten.

  Then fifteen minutes of continuous Wrestling.

  Ivan's single-leg takedown shot out like a bayonet. His hip throws and leg sweeps were devastating. In the top position, he was smothering; on bottom, elusive. And when he was tired of Wrestling with finesse, Ivan simply overpowered McClellan.

  McClellan wheezed, and at every opportunity took an extra moment or two to catch his breath. Sweat washed down his pained, old face. Ivan shook his head. Just give in and stop wasting my time.

  But McClellan wouldn't, so Ivan waited impatiently for him to be set. And then he dismantled him some more.

  Then, as the room warmed and minutes passed, something unexpected happened, something Ivan couldn't have imagined in a hundred, maybe a thousand, years. McClellan held his own.

  Soon, McClellan was pressing Ivan, countering moves ably, if just a half-step slow, and, at times, dictating the tempo. Perhaps it was years of Wrestling coming back, the thousands of shots and drills over hundreds of practices and matches. Or perhaps McClellan was compelled by something deeper. A wrestler's disdain for being controlled, a wrestler's thirst for physical competition. After each shot, he picked himself up when it would have been so easy and reasonable to call it a day.

  Forty-five minutes passed, drilling sit-outs, stand-ups, and pinning combinations; working takedowns. Ivan felt himself growing stronger. He'd tie up with McClellan, move him to one side or the other, then hit a hi-crotch to the opposite leg, switch to a double, lift, and drop him to the mat.

  Again and again. Perfect technique, enviable execution.

  McClellan climbed back to his feet, brushed the sweat from his eyes. Hunched over, he held on to the bottom of his shorts. His white shirt, now gray with sweat, was glued to his shoulders, chest, and back.

  Ivan glanced at the clock, then at McClellan, a gesture that perhaps it was time for McClellan to quit.

  Instead, McClellan snapped, "Let's keep going," taking in a deep breath before getting set in his stance.

  Ivan reached out to tie up. But in a burst, McClellan faked an arm drag, dropped low, and dived in for Ivan's leg. He was in deep for a split second, holding the leg tight to his chest, head up, in a position that, years ago—when he was a high school senior Wrestling a weaker opponent—would undoubtedly have resulted in a takedown.

  But this was Ivan Korske. And this was fifteen years later.

  Bearing all his weight down on McClellan, Ivan kicked his leg back, slipping from his loosened arms ... then outstretched fingers ... until McClellan was on his hands and knees, reaching helplessly. Ivan spun to McClellan's left, looking for the easy two points. But McClellan hit a duck-under and half sat to the right side, driving his shoulder into Ivan's hip and lifting up on his ankle. Still, Ivan was too quick. He kicked his leg through and squared off with McClellan.

  Then Ivan set up a fireman's carry so beautifully, so picture-perfect, faking an ankle pick to the right side and coming back wit
h a drop step to the left. He had his arm up the crotch, deep, and McClellan draped over his shoulders.

  "Step up and throw me!" McClellan said.

  But Ivan didn't. Instead of lifting McClellan high for a dirow, Ivan rolled through, tight on the arm and leg, as he did against his opponent in the first period of last year's state semifinals. The same move, the same position. And just like his opponent did, McClellan hooked Ivan's arms with his right arm and right leg, flattening himself to the mat, hoping to expose Ivan's back long enough for what would have been a takedown and two near-fall points.

  McClellan was trying to hold him down, using all his weight, using every bit of his strength. And it occurred to Ivan that he was actually being controlled, by McClellan. The idea of that made something in his mind go berserk. He arched mightily and turned. McClellan did his best to hold tight, but the battle was a short one. In the end, Ivan finished off the fireman's carry, covering on top for the takedown.

  "Time," McClellan said, his face wrinkled with exhaustion. "You can't roll in that position," he said, between breaths. "You have to throw the man."

  "It worked, didn't it?" Ivan snapped.

  McClellan stood wearily against a wall, refusing to sit or to take a knee, or in any way show he was beaten physically. He had proved his point. He had wrestled with Ivan. He had shown he could do it.

  That disgusted Ivan.

  The short break ended, and soon the clock clicked to 4:15. They went another fifteen minutes, then called it quits.

  Afterward, Ivan had time—plenty of time—to wonder, and worry, about how McClellan had nearly taken him to his back.

  41

  Bobby knocked on the bedroom door.

  "Yes," his mother answered.

  He turned the knob. His mother faced away from him, wiped her eyes, then looked over her shoulder. He hated when she cried; it always meant hard times had become impossible times. Only the worst could wear her down. Had this? Had she come to the end of what she could tolerate? He didn't cross the door's threshold.

  "Ma?"

  For a moment, she didn't answer. She dabbed her eyes again, then looked at him. "I'll..." A sob caught her breath. "I'll be fine."

  "Need anything?"

  She shook her head. "No."

  "Can I borrow the car?" he asked. "I'll be back. Not too late."

  His mother, seeming so frail, nodded slightly.

  That was it. There was nothing else to say. So Bobby pulled the door shut, closing out his mother's hurt. Leaving her. He didn't mean to be uncaring. Or selfish. Just rational, his father might have said. What had happened to his parents, and as a consequence, his family, happened outside his control. And what couldn't be controlled, couldn't be worried about. At least not now.

  It was almost seven o'clock. The escalator lifted Bobby to the second floor of the Livingston Mall. Carmelina would be finished with work, and together they would go to the clinic. Then we'll know, Bobby thought. No more waiting. No more guessing.

  In the women's department, behind a mirrored pillar, he found a moment of privacy, where he made the sign of the cross, then continued toward the cosmetics counters.

  Carmelina stood behind a glass display case, busily arranging perfume bottles in neat rows. A customer stepped away, and for a moment, the entire department seemed to open up for his entrance.

  His eyes caught hers and Carmelina straightened up. Let's get this over with, he thought. He walked to the counter. "Ready?"

  Carmelina pursed her lips. "Hello to you, too."

  "You done?"

  "Don't worry," she said.

  Carmelina grabbed her purse and handed a register key to another saleswoman. She led Bobby through the department, back into the open atrium of the mall. She hinted at a smile—something Bobby hadn't seen from her in weeks.

  "Thanks for showing up," she said.

  "We gotta get going."

  "Give me a minute."

  Bobby sighed. "What do you wanna talk about now?"

  "Just give me a minute ... please."

  Carmelina sat down on a bench outside Macy's. Bobby looked at his watch, then reluctantly sat down, too. She seemed too damn casual. He waited for her to say something.

  "Bobby, we're not going."

  He shot to his feet. "Carmelina, you can't do this. We gotta know. I can't keep worrying every moment of the day and night. It's driving me crazy!"

  She patted the bench with her hand. "Bobby, sit."

  He shook his head.

  "Bobby—"

  "No, listen to me for a second. I feel really awful, and I feel even worse for you. I know what's going on in there." He nodded toward her stomach. "And I know what's going on in your head, and I'm sorry that I'm part of what made this whole mess happen. But we can't wait. Not knowing is worse. At least if we know..."

  Carmelina stood up and put her finger to his lips. "Bobby, I'm not."

  He looked at her. "Not what?"

  "Not pregnant."

  "What?"

  "I'm not pregnant. I got my period last night."

  "You did?"

  "Yeah."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, Bobby," she said. "I'm sure."

  Bobby eyed her, warily. "You're not joking, are you? Tell me you're not."

  Carmelina didn't say anything, and Bobby knew she was telling the truth. A stream of shoppers continued past them, though Bobby forgot for a moment where he was. He suddenly felt tremendously weak but tremendously light, and he thought that something wonderful had happened—or not happened—and it made him want to cry. He looked over at Carmelina again, catching the tears in her eyes, and suddenly there might as well have been a valley a mall wide between the two of them because he knew this would be the last he saw of her, and he believed she knew the same thing.

  "God smiled on us, I guess," she said.

  He nodded. What else was there to say?

  42

  Ivan pressed the doorbell and stepped back. He held the bouquet of flowers. He was thankful to be placing them in someone's hands, instead of at the base of a tombstone. If Shelley would take them.

  He heard a voice and could see Shelley's figure approach, through the tiny door window. "Shelley," he said.

  The door opened. Just a little. "Yes?" Shelley said.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Fine," Shelley said, then began to close the door.

  "Other than my papa," Ivan said, "you're the most important person in my life."

  Shelley hesitated.

  "I'm not real good with words, you know that. I was an asshole, and I'll apologize for a week, or a month, or a year straight, if you'll forgive me."

  Shelley then opened the door and stood, arms crossed. She shivered but said nothing. Ivan held out the flowers, which she took but did not embrace.

  "I was outta my mind. McClellan, Wrestling, Hannen—"

  "It's cold out," Shelley interrupted.

  "I'm trying to tell ya."

  "No excuses, Ivan," she said.

  "Everything coming at me—," he started, then stopped. "No ... No more excuses."

  "I probably shouldn't tell you this," Shelley said. Her eyes welled. "But I've been sick, really sick, the past few days, wondering how you could've done that to me. I wanted to do something nice for the team because you're part of that team and I'm proud of you. And you go and destroy it. Who are you to do something like that?" She shook her head. "No one's ever made me feel this horrible. Flowers aren't gonna make it better, Ivan." She handed him the bouquet.

  Ivan gently nudged the flowers back. "Please..."

  "I've always been there for you," she said.

  "I know," Ivan said. "More than I have for you."

  "This one hurt."

  "In a million years, I never meant to hurt you. Especially you. You're family to me. Even more because you know me better than anyone in the world. You mean more than the state championship or Western Arizona or anything."

  He let out a long breath, then said, with as mu
ch conviction as he had in his heart, "There's nothing else I can do but promise you that for as long as I live, it'll never happen again."

  Then Ivan wished her good night and walked home.

  43

  Bobby's opponent was wiry and powerful and just a quick cut from escaping from his control when momentum carried both wrestlers outside the circle.

  "Out of bounds!" the referee yelled. "Back in the center!"

  Bobby ended up on his back. His chest rose and sank rapidly. He closed his eyes, feeling calm, given the circumstances—leading 7–1 in the third period of the Region 3 semifinals before nearly a thousand spectators in the Union High School gymnasium. He sat up, adjusted his headgear, climbed to his feet, and gave a nod to Coach Messina.

  Coach Messina also stood, tugged at the pleats of his slacks, and said, as if it were just the two of them having a quiet conversation, "Fifty-one seconds and you're going to the states."

  Going to the states ... Bobby nearly smiled.

  His opponent had proved to be formidable, and perhaps on a morning when Bobby had been wrestling less than his best, the match might have been a toss-up. But Bobby had taken him down easily with a leg sweep for an early 2–0 first-period lead. Then he'd let him up and taken him down again for a 4–1 margin at the end of two minutes. He followed that with an escape and takedown in the second period.

  Bobby waited for his opponent to be set in the bottom position. It felt odd not being anxious that disaster might strike, that his opponent might find some way to reverse him to his back and capture the lead. But that simply wasn't a possibility, not with the way he had plowed through the districts, manhandled his teammates in practice all week, and scored a second-period pin in his region tournament first-round match.

  His opponent was a beaten wrestler, frustrated that his attack from the top position hadn't materialized. Bobby smelled it, felt it, sensed it on a level beyond what fans could see. Wrestling was sometimes too subtle to be just visual, he knew.