Jimmy stretches under the spotlight. He checks the scoreboard. Trevor’s win has put the Minute Men up 2 points, 24 to 22. Fans pound the bleachers. Roxanne and her girlfriends chant “Jim-mee, Jim-mee.” His opponent, Rafael Sanchez, twitches his head on his bull neck. He looks thick, impossible to knock down. Jimmy slaps the sides of his headgear. Wake up. He jumps high in the air, touching his knees to his chest. He can feel his muscles tensing in his lower back, neck, and jaw.
The referee signals them to the toe lines in the center circle. Jimmy bites down on his mouthpiece. The whistle blares. Rafael’s stance is staggered, with his right foot forward. He’s surprisingly light on his feet. Jimmy tells himself to be lighter. Which would work better, a low single-leg takedown or a v-pop of the arms to a double-leg takedown? He angles for the double.
They tie up. Jimmy has one hand reaching over Rafael’s neck, the other on Rafael’s wrist. He jerks Rafael to the left and shoots. He wraps his arms around Rafael’s calves trying to yank him off balance. Rafael sprawls hard on top of Jimmy. Caught, stretched out, on his knees, Jimmy fights to stay off his stomach. He pulls his knees under him.
Jimmy slides his hands down to Rafael’s ankles and muscles the legs in. In one quick motion, Jimmy pops up and takes top position over Rafael’s back. Takedown! The referee waves two fingers, awarding Jimmy the points. Now Rafael is on his knees. Jimmy drives his shoulder into Rafael’s back and grabs Rafael’s wrist, sending him to his stomach. Jimmy checks the clock. Twenty-two seconds left in the first period. Damn, that was a hard two points.
Jimmy tries to turn Rafael over to his back, but he slips from under him. The ref awards Rafael one point for the escape. Two seconds left. The buzzer sounds.
Greco grabs Jimmy’s arm. “How did he escape?” he yells. “Come on, work it, wake up!”
“Coach, I got it,” he says.
The ref’s whistle sounds.
Jimmy wins the coin toss for starting position. Top or bottom? Greco points down, so Jimmy has to choose the bottom. He’ll earn a point if he escapes. But Jimmy hates being down against a short, heavy opponent. He has a lot to worry about: legs, cradles, and getting the crap cranked out of him. He kneels on the mat and puts his fingertips lightly on the mat, ready to spring up. Rafael takes top position, on one knee, with his arm around Jimmy’s midsection.
The ref blows the whistle.
Rafael shoves Jimmy forward and coils his body around Jimmy using a spiral breakdown. Jimmy collapses to his stomach, arms tight to his chest. Greco is screaming something, but Jimmy can’t make out the words over the cheering crowd. Jimmy looks into the stands. Behind the cheering Varsity Dads, Jimmy sees Detective Barnes.
Is it possible? Is he seeing things?
Greco yells, “Concentrate!” over the roar of the crowd. Jimmy searches the faces, trying to find the detective again.
His opponent tugs his arms, trying to lift them off the mat.
“What are you doing?” yells Greco. “Get up! Get to work!”
Jimmy rocks his body and pushes up with his free arm. He kicks his left leg free. On his side, he rolls and catches Rafael’s wrist, twisting it. Jimmy’s free. He springs to his feet. One point.
The buzzer sounds. The period is over. Jimmy is winning 3 to 1. He searches the stands for the detective but can’t locate him.
“What’s going on?” Greco’s face is red from yelling. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then focus and wrestle.”
Rafael gives the ref a thumbs-up, picking top position.
“Block the leg,” calls Greco, slamming his hand against his thigh.
Could the police be waiting for me, wonders Jimmy. Could Detective Santos be in the parking lot?
Jimmy is in the down position again. He searches the faces in the stands.
The whistle blows. Rafael’s leg shoots under Jimmy’s body, locking him in, then the other leg follows in and under. Jimmy’s facedown, flat on the mat, with Rafael’s forearm on the back of his neck. The detective could have just come to see the meet, or he could have come for me. He could be waiting for me!
Rafael works in a half nelson. The crowd yells. “Get up, Jim-mee! Up!”
I could be arrested today, thinks Jimmy. Arrested in front of the team, in front of Greco. Rafael cranks Jimmy’s shoulder up, trying to turn him to his back. Jimmy’s arm is on fire, but he won’t go to his back. He won’t allow it. He kicks his legs and rocks side to side. Thirty seconds left.
Rafael is riding Jimmy’s back. Jimmy has to get off his stomach. In a flash, Rafael pulls Jimmy over onto his back. The referee signals a three-second back turn. Jimmy fights his way back to his stomach. He lies there, no longer hearing the crowd. His head is buzzing. The lights seem to be pulsing. The referee awards three points for Rafael’s back turn. And then the buzzer rings. The match is over. Jimmy lost by one point, 4 to 3. Is it possible?
Jimmy shakes Rafael’s hand. Rafael’s arm is raised.
He staggers off the mat. Greco grabs Jimmy’s shoulder. “I don’t know what you call that,” he says.
Jimmy looks into the stands. Was it the detective? Was it? He can’t find Detective Barnes.
“What the matter?” asks Greco.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I don’t know.” He pulls away. He’s let down Greco, destroyed his chances of being undefeated. He’s 0 and 1. Zero and 1!
“Jimmy, are you all right?” asks Trevor.
Jimmy pushes past him. He jogs to the gym door and sprints down the hall. Outside, it’s snowing. Someone bangs him on the shoulder. Trevor again.
“What happened?”
Jimmy looks across the parking lot at the frozen cars. Nothing. No one. Everything is as it should be. The detective’s car is nowhere in sight.
Diggy
JIMMY LOST! GRECO LOOKS LIKE HE JUST WITNESSED ARMAGEDDON. The score is Minute Men 30, Colts 25. Crap. If Diggy’s pinned, the team will lose by one point. His name is announced over the PA system. Fans thump their feet on the bleachers. He should be warming up, but he doesn’t want to wrestle at 170, doesn’t want to have the crowd whispering that Crow took his weight class, doesn’t want to be the deciding match for the team! He bumps through the doors into the hall.
He paces to the bulletin board. The last thing he needs to see is staring him in the face. “Tan, mixed Lab puppy, answers to ‘Whizzer.’ Under a phone number someone scrawled “REWARD” in red magic marker. He doesn’t want to think about the dog before the match, or about Gino telling someone, but he can’t stop. He pictures the puppy in the unheated pool house with a blanket and a bath towel on the floor and realizes he isn’t treating the puppy much better than Trevor did.
The weird thing is, Diggy really likes the dog. He didn’t think he’d like him so much. The puppy’s wild and stronger than he expected. He runs circles around the yard, quick and agile as a greyhound. For now, he nicknamed him Mr. Burly, after his seventh-grade gym teacher, who played tennis while eating a slice of pizza. Besides, Mr. Burly is a better name than Whizzer.
Beyond the wire-webbed school windows, snow swirls above concrete sidewalks and settles against curbs and car tires. Diggy spots Jimmy and Roxanne sitting on the curb. Steam rises from Jimmy’s bare head. Trevor stands over them as if he’s listening. Diggy feels his face heating up. Trevor. The guy doesn’t know boundaries. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. A guy like Jimmy doesn’t need a loser like Trevor Crow following him around. Diggy wonders what Jimmy and his dad stole. A car? Did they rob a bank? Diggy hopes Jimmy isn’t telling Trevor. That would suck.
“You’re wrestling next,” calls Jane from the gym doors. “Greco is looking for you.” She’s wearing a Santa hat with a white pom-pom that Diggy bought her at the mall. Her name is written in sparkle script on the white furry brim. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I like your hat.” The hat half covers her birthmark and the rest is almost hidden with tan makeup, which makes her look older, like the MILFs
who get their hair cut at his mother’s beauty salon.
She touches the hat. “You don’t think it looks random?”
“No, it looks cute.”
“Thanks.” She smiles. “What’s the matter? Get in there and get psyched. You’re wrestling like in thirty seconds!” She puts her hands on his shoulders, smiling into his face. “Come on Diggy, get pumped!”
“Crow was lucky,” says Diggy.
“I wouldn’t call a pin lucky.”
“I didn’t think he had it in him.” Diggy turns to the window. Bb-sized hail shells the cars. Jimmy, Roxanne, and Trevor are still there.
“Can you believe Jimmy lost?” she asks.
“Yeah, I can believe it.” Diggy wonders if Jane could keep a secret.
“Come on.” She takes his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”
In the gym, Randy is coming down from the bleachers; his features, large as a puppet’s, glow in the sea of faces.
Diggy feels like running.
“Did you see the score?” barks Randy. “You get pinned, your team loses. All you have to do is stay off your back.”
“Like I don’t know that,” says Diggy. He walks to a dark corner with Randy following.
“So pull your head out of your ass.” Randy’s lips are thin and white.
Spectators stamp their feet on the bleachers, louder and louder. His teammates line up for a clap-tunnel. “Give me some space,” says Diggy, pushing Randy in the chest. “Like, now!”
“Just stay off your back,” says Randy.
Greco, ignoring Randy, places his arm around Diggy’s shoulders. “You ready?”
“I think.”
“It’s just another match,” says Greco. “Don’t think about the weight difference or the score.”
“I won’t.”
“That’s Rudy Hunter, he likes to tie up. You ride the clock down and stay off your back,” he says. “You’re lower than he is. Use it. Go in low, and take him down. Use your hips.”
Diggy sneaks a sidelong glance at Rudy Hunter waiting on the mat in a sphere of light. Hunter is big, manlike, and ripped. His cheeks are sucked out and hollow, his eyes two caves in his skull.
Diggy jogs between his clapping teammates, then to the center of the mat. Just another match, he repeats in his head. Just another match.
“Go Diggy!” yells Jane above the roaring fans.
The whistle blows and Hunter comes at him like a two-armed octopus, sucking him in. His grip is impossible to break. They struggle for position. Hunter shoots under him. Diggy throws his legs behind him in a sprawl, but Hunter has hooked his knee. Diggy is dragged in and under. It’s like being hit by a tremendous undertow. Takedown. The ref signals two points.
Diggy is flat on his stomach with Hunter on his back. Hunter wraps his legs around Diggy’s calves and twists Diggy’s arm behind his back. Diggy knows an assortment of moves to deal with an arm bar, but there isn’t any wiggle room. Hunter is overpowering him. Above the cheering, Diggy hears Randy’s booming voice: “Get to your base, to your base.” But with Hunter riding him, all 170 pounds of him, Diggy feels powerless. So this is what it’s like to jump two weight classes. Impossible. The Minute Men cheer, yell, their necks strain with their mouths open. Hunter pushes Diggy’s arm higher up his back. Diggy’s shoulder is on fire. Greco calls it a first-class ticket on the pain train. Hunter is the conductor.
With the arm bar locked in place, Hunter works an Excalibur. Diggy knows the move. He’s executed it a hundred times. The arm becomes the sword, Excalibur. The idea is to drive the arm across your opponent’s back until he flips over on his stomach. Diggy can only suffer the pain, experience the burn, the humiliation. He fights, but knows Hunter will never release his arm. Instead, Hunter pushes it higher and higher, so that it feels like his arm will pop like a cork from a bottle. If Diggy fights, he could rip his arm from the socket. He’s trapped. Hunter ratchets the torque on his arm. “The move is all physics,” Greco explained. “There’s only one place to go—on your back.” Hunter is forcing Diggy over. Get pinned and the team loses. But Diggy can’t stand the pain. In an instant, the ceiling light is in his eyes. A glaring, ugly white sun. Diggy’s on his back.
“Bridge,” yells Greco. “Bridge!”
Diggy’s neck and feet brace, lifting his body off the mat, holding his shoulders inches away from a pin. The referee is on his knees, waving his open palm. The buzzer could save him. But how long can he hold this bridge?
The gym grows quiet. No one, not Randy or Greco, screams directions, because there’s no way out. The clock ticks down from 50 seconds. Diggy shoves his fingers into Hunter’s face. He gives Diggy a quick jerk and scoops his head with his arm, taking any hope away. Diggy rocks his shoulder blades. The seconds tick. 45, 44, 43 … The referee watches for that moment when his shoulders are in contact with the mat for two full seconds.
Randy’s standard speech goes through Diggy’s mind. “You may occasionally lose, but you don’t get pinned. A pin is a complete breakdown in discipline and will. It means that you have lost your concentration, your desire, and given up on your technique.”
40, 39, 38 … Diggy squirms from side to side. Hunter is in good position. Chest on chest. On his toes. Head up. The fans in the visitor’s bleachers stamp their feet on the wooden planks and chant, “Hunter, Hunter.”
The clock’s upside down seconds fall, 35, 34, 33. Diggy thinks of Trevor’s dog in the pool house. It’s time to return him. I shouldn’t have taken him.
The referee slaps the mat and blows his whistle. Pinned. The audience roars, hoots, and claps. The scoreboard moves the Colts up 6 points. Hunter stands and pumps his fist. Diggy scrambles to his feet. He shakes Hunter’s hand. The referee raises Hunter’s arm by the wrist.
Diggy pushes through his teammates toward the locker room.
Randy blocks his way. “Pinned! Pinned! You could have just lost,” he fumes. “You had to get pinned like a cheerleader on prom night!” He shakes his head. “Fer Christ’s sake, Diggy, come on!”
The guys hear him, everyone hears him.
Diggy shoves Randy aside. He hurls his headgear into the locker room and peels the straps of his singlet off his shoulders. Hunter overpowered him. First Crow and now Hunter.
“What was that?”
Diggy recognizes the voice and looks up. Nick is smiling under the brim of a beat-up Mets hat. He’s wearing an untucked buttondown shirt, threadbare around the collar. The brothers hug hard. Nick feels like concrete, still larger than me, thinks Diggy. He smells like Diggy remembers. Aftershave and the woods. “What the hell was that?” asks Nick.
“That was me at one-seventy.”
“I don’t think you went balls out. I mean, who was that on the mat?”
Diggy can’t answer.
“You’ve got to go back to basics.”
“What are you doing home?” asks Diggy.
“It’s a surprise. I came to see you wrestle.”
“To see me get slaughtered.”
“Don’t worry. It’s one match.” He grabs Diggy around the shoulders.
“Does Randy know you’re home?” he asks.
“Sure, he knows,” says Nick.
“You gained weight.”
“I’m lifting, even with a bad back.”
They sit on a bench. The crowd in the gym continues to roar. “You don’t know how good it is to see you,” says Diggy. “Randy’s out of control.” He thinks of stealing the dog. I’m out of control too, he’d like to say.
Jimmy
THE GAS LAMPS IN FRONT OF ROXANNE’S HOUSE REFLECT OFF the snow. Jimmy cuts across her lawn, then up her driveway, past her Volvo, her father’s Mercedes, her mother’s Pathfinder, and climbs the stoop. He needs to see her, hear her voice, and hold her. At practice today he waited for the guys to say something about his loss. No one said a word. Everyone was mumbling that Diggy shouldn’t have been pinned. Jimmy felt for him, but what could he say?
Greco met Jimmy’s eye and
said, “That’s your last loss, you got that?”
Jimmy nodded.
It had to be the last loss. He couldn’t recover from two losses at the beginning of the season. He could kiss his hopes of a scholarship good-bye. Diggy is the only one who knows what’s really bothering him. And Jimmy has to keep it that way. If word spread, he’d be looked at like, what? A criminal?
Mr. Sweetapple holds the doorknob. His wide belly pulls his shirt stiff at the shoulders. He removes his glasses.
“Hi, could I talk to Roxanne?” Jimmy enters their foyer. Instead of his mother’s supermarket calendar and half-dead houseplants, the Sweetapples have real paintings on the walls and a tree with tiny yellow fruit growing in a ceramic pot at the foot of their oak staircase.
“Jimmy!” Roxanne leans over the rail on the second-floor landing. She hurries down the staircase in sweatpants turned down low on her hips, a tight shirt, and suede mid-calf boots. Her large green eyes shine.
“Jim, let’s talk for a moment.” Mr. Sweetapple’s voice is deep and sure of itself, like one of the Republican fatheads on talk radio that Jimmy’s mother listens to when she irons.
“Dad, Jimmy came over here to see me,” says Roxanne.
Roxanne’s mother comes in drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Hello, Mrs. Sweetapple,” he says.
“Hello, Jimmy.” Her words sound like ice water.
“Why can’t we talk? Right, Jim?” Mr. Sweetapple cracks a smile.
Jimmy sits on the edge of their couch. He’s wondering if he’s being set up for an ambush. Maybe her father had a camera planted in his office.
“Dad, could I at least talk to Jimmy first?” asks Roxanne.
“We’re all here, we might as well talk.” He sits opposite Jimmy wearing this phony smirk. Between them is a coffee table with a cut-glass dish filled with clear marbles with ice-blue centers.
“Dad!” says Roxanne loudly.
One Shot Away Page 13