So Bobby settled into the top position, knowing the most important fifty-one seconds of his life to date would pass quickly and uneventfully until the referee raised Bobby's hand in victory. And then he could look toward some other "most important" period or minutes or seconds of his life, and he would be a region finalist and he would be going to the states.
Going to Jadwin, Bobby thought, a moment before the referee blew the whistle. He liked that. He liked that very much.
The gold medal, slightly larger than a half-dollar, sat in Bobby's hand. He stared at the front—two wrestlers encircled by the outline of New Jersey—then flipped it over: REGION III CHAMPION—129 LBS. Bobby closed his fist, then tossed the medal into a drawer, where it careened against the other medals, then fell silent.
44
Ivan flicked on the ceiling light. The basement was cold and drafty. He tied the laces of his Wrestling shoes, swept dirt off the soles, stepped onto the mat, and began.
On his feet, he did singles and doubles, hi-crotches, ankle picks, duck-unders, and snap-downs. He used different setups: dropping his level, tap-and-go, moving side to side. Then combinations: arm drags and stepping in for the double, faking an ankle pick and coming with a hi-crotch to the opposite leg, shooting the single and switching to a double.
Despite the chill, despite the dehydration, Ivan was soon sweating.
The basement walls pushed outward and the ceiling rose toward the lights of Princeton's Jadwin Gymnasium....
Ivan finished on his feet, with hip throws, headlock hip throws, pancakes, leg sweeps, duck-unders to a lift, singles to a lift, bear hugs, Japanese wizzers, and the fireman's carry.
The sound of hot water rushing through the house's piping grew louder, rising to a crescendo of screaming fans, the stands shaking under their weight....
Down on the mat, Ivan sat out and turned in, sat out and turned out, sat out and did switches to both sides. He did wrist rolls, wing rolls, inside stands, outside stands, switches.
Under the gymnasium lights, Ivan stood on the center mat, waiting for the start of the 129-pound state finals. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, measuring his opponent. The instant their eyes met, he knew it was over; he smelled the fear.
They poised. The whistle blew. Ivan lunged forward and took his opponent down, threw in a half nelson, and squeezed. Closer ... closer ... closer ... Until it was over.
His opponent lay motionless at his feet. The state championship was his. The roar of the Jadwin crowd was deafening. Looking out at screaming fans, Ivan lifted his arms. Behind eyes shut tightly, the image of victory remained etched in his mind.
"Ivan?" his father called from the top of the basement stairs. "Are you there?"
Ivan opened his eyes to silence. No crowd, no cheers, no state championship victory. He stood chained to an unfulfilled dream and haunted by the nightmare of last year's semifinal loss.
"Yes, Papa. I'll be up soon."
The door shut. Ivan walked across the floor and sat down on a wooden chair. It creaked under the weight of his body.
There wouldn't be anyone at the states more prepared than he was, he promised. And though Ivan figured, by the state finals, he might face someone equally tough—someone who might be Ivan Korske with another name, someone as starved to win as he was—he doubted it completely.
45
Coach Messina lay down a sheet of paper, the bracket for the 129-pound weight class. Sixteen wrestlers, the champions and runners-up from each of the eight region tournaments. "You got your wish," he said. "You're seeded third. You wrestle Schnell, from Paulsboro, in the first round on Wednesday night."
But Bobby was already looking ahead. "Korske's seeded first."
"You won't face him until the finals," Coach Messina said. "If he makes it that far."
Coach Messina was serious about that. Talent brought you to the states, he always said. But it was the wrestler who "caught fire" that made it through Wednesday's first round and Friday's quarterfinals to the semifinal and championship matches on Saturday afternoon.
Bobby looked at the bracket again, reading the names of the other 129-pounders, thinking how remarkable it was to see his own name alongside the talented wrestlers he had read about all season in the newspapers. And he must have looked, he hated to think, too respectful of the other wrestlers, because Coach Messina picked up the paper and tore it in half.
"Seeds mean nothing."
Then he ripped it in half again.
"The bracket means nothing. What matters is that you win four matches in a row. Four. That's all you need to think about."
46
The bedroom light remained on, while the clock on the dresser clicked past eleven ... twelve ... and one o'clock ... Bobby stared at the ceiling, old matches rolling through his mind, thinking about how he would adjust for one opponent or another. He was dead tired. Still, Bobby wouldn't turn off the bedroom light because the moment after he fell asleep, it would be morning and the first round of the states would face him.
So Bobby stared into the darkness beyond the windows, and he studied the ceiling, and he looked toward Christopher's room. And he lay there, his mind racing. Very anxious. A little lonely. Thinking. No escape; no time out. The endgame approaching.
"What if I lose?" he said out loud.
It wasn't as if he hadn't ever tasted defeat. Once this season, five times last season. Before then, often enough. Bobby knew what it was like to have an opponent's arm raised by the referee, while he sulked at the side of the mat, wondering what went wrong in the match, what he could have done differently, more quickly, better.
Winning was different. He didn't think after he won; he just soaked it in. Like an August breeze down the Shore. Like a smoldering fire in the dead of winter. The feelings melted inside him.
"Losing isn't possible," Bobby told himself. Softly, at first. Then he said it again, more forcefully. And again. Until, finally, as if he were speaking to someone sitting at the edge of his bed.
Of course, losing was a possibility. It was real; it was life. Parents divorcing never seemed like a possibility, yet that had become reality. Life wasn't sugarcoated; there was no sound track to somehow soothe the pain. Bobby had learned that, had experienced it intimately.
For a moment, he entertained the thought of going downstairs, opening the refrigerator, and throwing down as much food as his stomach could hold. So what if he didn't make weight and forfeited away his chances? Shit happens sometimes. Sure Coach Messina would be pissed as all hell, but he's not the one who has to deal with all this. It is my family that's a mess. It's my dad who doesn't live in the house anymore, my mother who's a crying wreck, my little brother who's crushed. A person can only take so much.
Just go eat. The thought of eating was mesmerizing—the smell of food filling Bobby's nose, the taste washing over his tongue. His stomach quivered and he felt like throwing up.
But that passed.
Bobby managed a laugh. One minute, thinking about how much food he could shove down his throat and eat away his chances for the state championship; the next, so focused on a tide he was sure he would win. Insanity is what it is, he thought. A roller coaster of utter confidence and deep panic, twisting and turning between giving in and stepping forward. If people only knew, he thought. If they had any idea how screwed up I feel.
So Bobby weighed himself a half-dozen times for no good reason except that he was comforted standing on the scale; knowing it was okay to remain motionless, holding his breath; it was okay to hear only the tap of his finger on the counterbalance until the scale arm floated and his weight was good.
Then he climbed back into bed. His stomach rocked, but he ignored it, concentrating on the beat of his heart moving through his thighs and shoulders, feet and hands, toes and fingers.
Then visualizing dozens of Wrestling situations. On bottom, down by two with twenty seconds left. On top, behind by five, needing a pin in the last period. On his feet, score tied...
E
ventually his eyes became heavy. His mind slowed. Bobby reached over and turned off the bedroom light. With the final whistle of the last match, he drifted asleep.
47
Shelley turned her head slightly, her eyes hiding in the moon's shadow. "Nice night ... Too bad it's late," she said, her voice soft. "After everything's over tomorrow, maybe we can take a walk back to Layaree's Wall. Maybe get lost. Maybe the moon will be out again."
"Maybe," Ivan said.
"I'd say good luck, but I'm sure everyone's already told you that. I'd say, 'Hit that single-leg takedown well,' or, 'Don't forget to wizzer,' but I'm sure you have that covered, too."
Ivan smiled. He wondered if Shelley had any idea how he really felt about her. He had nearly thrown away their friendship. He would make it his life's promise that it never happened again.
On Wednesday, just before the lunch bell, she had walked up to him in the school hallway, sighed, then said breathlessly, "I can't fight with you anymore and I can't not be best friends with you. The past week has been horrible for me, just horrible; I accept your apology and I hope you accept mine for being so damn pigheaded."
And he did. Her timing was perfect. On the day of the first round of the states, it was exactly what he needed to hear. Later that night, Ivan put away his Fairlawn opponent, with a near side cradle, in the third period.
"And thank your papa for giving me a ride to Jadwin," Shelley said. "He was so proud of you today."
In the quarterfinals, just hours earlier, Ivan worked his Absegami opponent over for back points twice in the second period and followed that with an escape and takedown in the final two minutes, for a 9–0 win. Two matches down, two to go.
Shelley wanted to say something more, Ivan was sure. His stomach knotted, and it occurred to Ivan that he was only twelve hours or so from Wrestling in the state semifinals in Jadwin Gym in front of thousands of spectators, all eyes on him, with everything in life that he wanted in the balance, and yet here was this beautiful girl whom he had known for so long, stealing his thoughts, making him wish that he really did have all night to spend with her.
"You're a very important person to me, Ivan."
"You sound serious."
"It's been a serious night. Tomorrow will be even more serious. I just want you to know how I feel."
Ivan realized Shelley had closed the gap between the two of them and was coming closer. Right in front of him, hands touching his. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, her head tilted slightly. Shelley went up on the toes of her boots, her hands pulling him into her.
It was a moment that seemed to move slowly, allowing Ivan time to consider what was happening and remind him that nothing had ever happened between them. Ever. Though he had dreamed of her and fantasized about her and wished to be with her. And now that wall was about to crumble. Maybe. Maybe she'd kiss the corner of his mouth and it might be a kiss of good luck, or it might be the beginning of something more.
She was only a few inches from him, rising to his height. Then, just a breath away, about to kiss the corner of his mouth, delivering whatever message she might. Everything seemed right. So Ivan leaned toward her. His mouth parted, too, meeting her mouth full-on. Shelley relaxed against him, as he pulled her into his arms.
And they kissed.
"Sweet dreams," Shelley said, before leaving. "I'll be there tomorrow. To watch you win."
48
• • • and I knew you could do it," Bobby's father said. "People were yelling and screaming that there was only a few seconds left. And you scored that takedown. Beautiful, just beautiful. I knew you had him, just knew it."
Bobby sat halfway up the stairs to his bedroom, wondering if his father was talking just loud enough so that his mother, down in the foyer, might hear. And was she listening, wishing to push open the bedroom door, step into the foyer, and make amends? Or was she indifferently staring at the television, setting the volume loud enough to drown out voices in the hallway, while his father was posturing, his signal that this was still his house?
Bobby pushed those thoughts out of his head. His mother had spent too much of the past few days crying, and his father had done his best to set aside his own problems and spend time with his son who now was just a dozen or so hours from the semifinals of the states.
Bobby repeated that again—semifinals of the states. He repeated it a third time just to make sure that his family's demise wasn't somehow distorting his Wrestling reality.
His father suddenly stepped up and put his hand on Bobby's knee. "When you got that takedown, well I just..." He seemed at a loss for words, then shook his head. "Well, I yelled louder than I have in a long, long time."
And it had been a memorable match in the quarterfinals, with three lead changes and a last-second takedown to snatch the 7–6 come-from-behind victory over last year's state runner-up. Bobby jumped up to have his arm raised. He saw Coach Messina pumping his fist. Then he was mobbed by his teammates and classmates who had driven down to Princeton. Yet Bobby hardly remembered, or felt, anything about the victory. He had been, and still was, numb. It was a wonderful feeling.
He looked up at his father, who was beaming, the hunch of his tired body straightened.
"You were really focused tonight," his father said. "There's been so much for you to worry about..." His voice faded. He looked embarrassed, even guilty. Then his voice raised. "But you overcame it all. I'm so proud of you."
And it occurred to Bobby as he sat there, partway to the comfort of his bedroom, partway down to the first floor—or what had been his parents' floor—that on the verge of the most important day of his life, he was not feeling particularly nervous. He was exhausted, to be sure, and maybe that was part of the reason, though Bobby didn't think so. It was more than that. Somehow, over the past half day, he had reached a narrow-mindedness that made little else matter. There was a semifinal match to be wrestled tomorrow against a wrestler from Pennsville. And when he won that, there'd be another match, the state championship, afterward. It was that clear-cut.
"This is no time to be nervous, or distracted," Bobby heard his father say. "If you've made it this far, damn it, you deserve to be there as much as Korske or anyone else."
Bobby yawned. He didn't mean to, but his attempt to muffle the yawn was slow, at best. His father stopped. "Tired?"
"Yeah, Dad, I am."
His father nodded. "I'll pick you up at quarter to eight."
"The semis start at ten. Coach wants me in the Jadwin locker room early."
His father grabbed the overcoat hanging over the banister, then glanced down the foyer at his bedroom. "Time for you to get some sleep." He started away.
"Dad?"
His father turned. Bobby lifted himself up and stepped down the stairs. He wanted to ask his father if he really had to leave. It just didn't make sense. This was his house. Just around the corner was his bedroom. He shouldn't have to go anywhere.
Bobby reached out and held his father. "I'm gonna win this for you."
His father squeezed, then let go. He walked into the kitchen, then the lights went off and the back door slammed shut. Soon, the Jaguar's engine rumbled to life, fading as his father backed out of the driveway. Bobby moved to the living room, watching the car's headlights through the windows.
Then his father drove away.
Bobby opened his eyes, ending a restless sleep. He lifted the comforters and blankets off, the chilly air raising goose bumps. He looked at the clock: 6:54 A.M.
A day of reckoning. Only three months earlier, the dream of making it to the state semifinals hadn't even been in the realm of possibility. It would have been almost silly to even consider.
But he had made it.
Usually on a Saturday morning, he would hear Christopher in his bedroom, playing with his Matchbox cars. Instead, all Bobby could hear was the patter of drizzle on the bedroom window, faint yet comforting, and his own deep, rhythmic breathing.
Bobby rolled his neck slowly, feeling a twinge on the rig
ht side. He struggled to stand, then walked to the window. The dreary morning looked so damn appropriate.
In the silence of the house, Bobby shrugged off his clothes, peed a little, then stepped into the shower.
49
Clouds had rolled in overnight, carrying a thick mist that blanketed Lennings. Ivan stepped in on the passenger's side of the car and pulled the door. It creaked, then slammed shut. The Nova hadn't yet warmed up and wouldn't until they were well on their way to Princeton.
"Have everything?" his father asked, a wisp of breath curling from his mouth.
Ivan patted his equipment bag.
His father set the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway, then drove down Farmingdale, through the center of town, eventually turning south onto Route 31. Towns passed quickly. Destiny rushed forward.
For any New Jersey high school wrestler, advancing to the state semis would be a supreme accomplishment, undoubtedly the pinnacle of his life. To advance in consecutive seasons was a distinction worthy of the highest praise and a volume of pride. For Ivan there was little of either.
It was at this point last year when a chance at the state finals had been taken from him. This morning's match against his Boonton opponent wouldn't be close, he promised. He'd leave no chance for some timekeeper's screwup.
"Did you sleep?" his father said.
"Long enough."
Soon, mist became rain. His father turned on the wipers. Warm air was finally blowing from the heater vents. Ivan closed his eyes and settled back.
"You had a call yesterday," his father said. "From this Coach Riker."
Ivan opened his eyes. We gonna fight now, Papa?
But his father was calm. "He explained the problem with their scholarships. You have been very anxious for the past weeks. You are not like that. I always expect you to have much confidence. Now, you are angry, like the world is against you."
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