One Shot Away

by T. Glen Coughlin

  “Hey, wait up!”

  Ricky chases after him. Jimmy’s hand-me-down soccer shirt flaps above Ricky’s knees. “Jimmy, wait for Ma.”

  “Can’t we walk in like a family?” yells Trish, crossing the parking lot in high heels, a black skirt, and a puffy vinyl jacket.

  Jimmy stops and Ricky catches up to him.

  “I want to take pictures for your father,” she says.

  “Here?” asks Ricky.

  “Yes, in front of the fountain. We took pictures there last year.”

  Trish asks a waitress on her way into the hall to take their picture. Jimmy buttons his sport jacket in front of a six-foot-tall concrete Poseidon with one arm raised at the dark sky. The jacket is an Italian wool blend. A closeout, but a name brand, and he feels good in it.

  “Closer,” says the waitress holding the camera.

  Jimmy puts his arm around his mother and brother.

  “Say cheese,” calls the waitress.

  “Butt cheese,” says Ricky.

  Everyone smiles. The waitress snaps the photo.

  The Olympian Room is classy: gold drapes, red carpeting, white tablecloths with red napkins, and fresh-cut flowers. A warm feeling floods Jimmy’s fingers and face. He crosses the dance floor to the gleaming gold trophies and row of silver and bronze medals. Ricky dashes off toward the pitchers of soda on the bar. Jimmy won last year’s “Most Valuable Wrestler” trophy, and he doesn’t care if he wins it again. He’s already earned a scholarship and is the only wrestler in his district who qualified for the State Tournament in Atlantic City. The other two trophies are for “Best Sportsman” and “Most Improved Wrestler.” Jimmy’s sure Trevor will receive “Most Improved.” The medals are for “Most Exciting Match” and “Most Promising Wrestler.” Thick red-and-white varsity letters are placed in front of the trophies.

  Greco folds white cards for the nameplates on the dais. “Here he is,” he says, “first one to arrive.”

  Jimmy smiles broadly.

  “You look snazzy.” Greco squeezes Jimmy’s shoulder.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It used to be.” He swats him with a nameplate.

  “So this is the big night,” says Trish.

  “The end of a wrestling dynasty.” Greco winks at Jimmy. “All Jimmy has to do now is take a little ride down the Garden State to Atlantic City and win.”

  “That’s all,” says Jimmy, playing along.

  Little Gino comes across the hall in a tight blue suit that looks like he wore it to his First Communion. He tugs Jimmy’s arm. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

  Jimmy rolls his eyes at Greco and heads away.

  “I heard Diggy’s in the parking lot.” Gino’s eyes are wide with fear.

  Diggy

  FROM INSIDE HIS MUSTANG, DIGGY WATCHES THE WRESTLERS enter the hall with their parents. Trevor passes in a stiff new suit. “Chief Big Shit,” says Diggy.

  Jane dials in her lipstick and snaps on the top. “Leave him alone, he’s harmless.”

  “More like my kryptonite,” says Diggy.

  “I’ll call you when it’s over,” she says. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  Diggy isn’t sure. He’s sweating and his hands are moist on the steering wheel. It’s not missing the dinner that bothers him. It’s everything else. Greco passes him in the hall like he doesn’t exist. Gino and Bones don’t return his texts. Trevor Crow has a fan club. And Diggy didn’t get into Springfield. Randy said Diggy had no one to blame but himself. His class rank is in the lower bottom third. “Let me put it this way,” said Randy, “if the school was a skyscraper, you’d be just above the trees.” The guidance counselor told him not to worry and recommended a refrigeration trade school or community college. His mother enrolled him in a college entrance refresher course, hoping he could raise his SAT scores, but Diggy didn’t have the energy to even copy from the blackboard. Ninth-grade algebra and tenth-grade geometry theorems, stuff he once knew—gone.

  “I don’t have to go.” Jane studies his face.

  Diggy’s sure if he tells her not to go, she’ll stay with him. “You’re the team’s manager,” he says. “You earned it. The guys always chip in for flowers, and you know Greco got you a plaque.”

  “I know.” She sighs.

  “Just see if you can bring the guys out for a toast, or something.” He pats a brown paper bag on the floor in the backseat of the car. “I’ve been to plenty of those dinners. Do you think I need another plate of limp broccoli and rubber chicken?”

  “What if they won’t come?” asks Jane.

  “I didn’t do anything to Jimmy or Bones. But if they don’t want to”—he shrugs—“I’ll have a party by myself.”

  “So you’re going to wait here the whole time?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Randy gave me the night off. I’ll have a couple of beers and you can drive me home.” Saying this makes him feel like he’s not Diggy Masters anymore, but some poser. Why should Randy have any control over his life? Randy, who barely talks to him, Randy, who told him “you’re dead to me” after he quit the team, has him interning at the dealership. Stretched across the leather sofa, Diggy listened to Randy’s speech about responsibility and earning a living in “the real world.” Diggy ignored him and continued channel surfing. Randy grabbed the remote from his hand, smashed it on the fireplace bricks, and yelled, “You’re not lying on the goddamn couch every afternoon!”

  Diggy goes to the dealership after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays and stays till closing time. He wears a tie and a bright blue blazer with the Range Rover insignia on his breast pocket. His mother, trying to keep the peace, says he’s got to give it a month. “You have to get used to it,” she says. Diggy hasn’t told Nick. And yes, it’s boring as hell. The other salesmen won’t let him near a customer. Diggy wanders around the shiny square cars thinking about Jane and what she might be doing. He misses the pin-or-be-pinned pressure of the wrestling season, the feeling of urgency. After a fast-food dinner in the break room, he sneaks to the back of the lot, gets in a car, and plays video games on his iPhone or talks to Jane. Randy’s too busy to care. He keeps saying, “Shadow someone, keep your eyes open and your mouth zipped.”

  Diggy takes Jane’s hand. She’s wearing a silver friendship ring with a heart-shaped blue topaz on her right index finger. Diggy put the ring box in four larger boxes and wrapped each with different paper. She had no idea what was inside and kept ripping the paper on each box.

  “I did tell you I love it, right?” she says maybe for the hundredth time that week.

  He wants to kiss her but watches Pancakes cross in front of the Mustang. He’s wearing a plaid jacket and baggy jeans. He doesn’t notice Diggy and Jane in the car’s dark interior.

  “I think I saw him in ‘Night of the Walking Couch,’” says Jane.

  Diggy thinks about making a scene, just showing up at the dinner as Jane’s guest. He could stroll in with her hooked on his arm, like a full-fledged couple. But no one would talk to him and he’d ruin Jane’s night. Greco would ask him to leave because he didn’t buy a guest ticket. Greco wouldn’t make an exception.

  Bones passes by with his mother trailing. He’s wearing a baggy white buttondown shirt with the tails out and a tie with jeans and white unlaced Nikes. Diggy is tempted to yell, “Where’s your bass?” But he’s afraid Bones would look at him like he’s some loser sitting in the parking lot with nothing better to do.

  “You should get going,” he says to Jane.

  “Well, if you’re sure you’re going to be all right....” She climbs from the car slowly, with her eyes on him. “I’ll text you.”

  She steps in front of the car and poses like a dancer with one hand raised, her knee lifted, and her head tilted to her shoulder. She’s pushing a pop star-at-the-MTV-Video-Music-Awards look in fur-topped boots, miniskirt, and blouse with a leopard collar and cuffs. She’s going to blow them away.

  Jimmy

  JANE TAPS ON DI
GGY’S WINDOW. “LOOK WHO I FOUND,” SHE singsongs.

  The door locks snap up. Jane folds the front seat forward and climbs into the back of the Mustang. Jimmy takes shotgun. Diggy smiles in the interior light. Between his legs is an open bottle of beer. “I was starting to think you guys were dissing me,” he says.

  Jimmy could say I wanted to, but says, “I can’t stay long. The guys were lining up for eats.”

  Jane leans between the seats. “Bones was grabbing chicken like a crazed zombie.” She laughs.

  “Every year the food blows,” says Diggy. “Catering by White Castle would be better.”

  “Come off it,” says Jimmy. “It’s not that bad.”

  “That’s because no one on the Minute Men knows better.”

  Jimmy doesn’t care what Diggy thinks. If he were on the team, he’d be at the buffet fighting over the last banana pudding.

  Diggy tugs a bag from the backseat and slings it on Jimmy’s lap. “There’s beer in there with your names on them.”

  Jimmy removes a beer and twists off the cap. He hands the bottle to Jane. He cracks another for himself. He doesn’t want to drink but doesn’t want to be a buzzkill. He’s only in the car because Jane asked him five times. “Some of the guys are saying you’re going to crash the dinner,” he says.

  “Some of the guys talk more crap than the radio.” Diggy’s eyes flash, then his face softens. “I guess Crow’s going to win Most Improved.”

  “He’s this year’s supernova,” says Jane sarcastically.

  “From scrub to golden boy.” Diggy laughs. “You want to know what’s really whacked? I was four pounds away, four pounds from one-fifty-two. Do you know what I weigh now?”

  Jimmy’s seen his fat face in the halls.

  “One-eighty. Can you believe that?”

  Jimmy has to laugh. “Dude, come on, twenty L-Bs in two months!”

  “He’s my cuddly bear,” says Jane in a baby voice.

  Diggy looks at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  “Okay, sorry.” She puts her hands up.

  “All I know is, I could have wrestled one-fifty-two if I really wanted it,” says Diggy. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who quit. Greco wanted me to stay on the team. If anyone—”

  “It’s spent, okay? Over,” says Jimmy, cutting him off. “No one gives a rat’s ass anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe they should. All I did was pull a prank that went bad. It was nothing more than that.”

  Jimmy knows Diggy doesn’t really believe this. How many pranks put your teammate in the hospital and get his dog run over?

  “We should have a toast.” Diggy inhales deeply and raises his bottle. “To the first Masters NOT getting his senior-year letter and NOT making the Wall. Let’s drink to that.”

  Jane reaches for him. “I’m not drinking to that.”

  He pushes her hand away. “Why not, it’s true.” The hurt in Diggy’s voice is naked, completely unconcealed. He still cares. Every wrestler cares. You have to earn the Wall and Diggy didn’t come close. In one week, Jimmy will have his chance to make the Wall as a State Champion.

  “Jimmy, I hope Greco’s letting you give Jane her flowers. You’re the captain.”

  “Chill out,” says Jimmy. “You’re sabotaging the surprise.” He’s sure Diggy would give anything to be in his place, presenting the bouquet to his girlfriend.

  “It’ll be the first time anyone ever gives me flowers,” says Jane.

  “Diggy, are you going to Springfield with Nick?” asks Jimmy.

  “I was, but I’m putting in some hours at my old man’s dealership.” Diggy sighs. “I mean, I’m not brain dead. Randy has a good thing going. What am I supposed to do, act like he doesn’t own the largest dealership in the county?” Diggy finishes his beer and drops the bottle in the bag. “I heard about your scholarship. If I stayed on the team, I could be looking at a full ride too.”

  Jimmy smirks. Even Jane remains quiet. Man, Diggy is so full of crap.

  “I’m going on cruise control for a while,” he continues. “I just have to get the monkeys off my back. That’s what Greco would say. You come to practice with a dozen monkeys on your back and you leave with none.”

  “That’s a good practice,” they say together.

  Diggy turns to Jimmy. His eyes are intense. “Remember when you told me about you being in trouble with your old man? I never snitched to anyone. You blew that match against the Colts, and I still never ratted.”

  “Diggy didn’t even tell me until the article was in the paper,” says Jane.

  Jimmy knows Diggy’s waiting for him to say thank you. But should he have expected anything else?

  “I’m just saying, keeping that on the down low, it should mean something.”

  “I only told you because I trusted you,” says Jimmy with exasperation.

  “How is your old man holding up?” asks Diggy.

  Jimmy can’t admit he hasn’t visited him yet. It sounds heartless. After a pause, he says, “My father knows how to take care of himself.”

  “I always liked your father,” says Jane. “He was the only one who bought me a soda at the matches.”

  Jimmy didn’t know this. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He was kinda cool, with the blond hair thing going on,” she says. “I know one thing, he was always giving you props and—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my father.” His words were supposed to come off as light and casual, but Diggy’s eyes drift to Jane’s, then back to him. “I mean, I do miss him and everything.” Jimmy searches for words. “It’s just that he …” What? Almost put me in jail? Got our door knocked off the hinges? All of the above?

  “Forget it,” says Jane. “It’s like all fathers have the same disease, terminal assholeness.”

  Diggy puts his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “We should hang out again, like the old days. Remember we used to do that Slip ’N Slide on the side of your house? If you went off the end, your butt got smeared with mud.”

  Jimmy wants to laugh. “That was like in the seventh grade.”

  “Yeah, but we still did it.”

  “I’m not saying we didn’t.” Jimmy looks toward the stucco hall, with its corny fountain. He wants to be free of the car and back inside.

  “We could hit the raceway on monster trunk night,” suggests Diggy.

  “My brother knows someone at the gate,” says Jane with enthusiasm. “He could sneak us in for free.”

  Jimmy’s sure they are never going anywhere together and doesn’t feel like pretending. He wants to be with the wrestlers returning from the buffet, his plate stacked with veggies, salad, and chicken.

  “Here’s another toast,” says Diggy.

  “I really have to get back inside,” says Jimmy.

  “How about to our graduation?” says Jane, raising her bottle.

  “Sure. To graduation.” They clink, then Jimmy hands back the beer. He opens the door and puts one foot on the asphalt. “Jane, you coming?”

  “Nah, go ahead. I’ll be in later.”

  Jimmy holds the door as Jane moves into the front seat. He gets this strange feeling that he’s never going to see them again, like the two of them are already like that Slip ’N Slide on the side of his house. A cool but faded memory. “Stay chill,” he says. “I’m outta here.”

  He jogs across the parking lot into the lobby, then sprints the carpeted hallway into the banquet room. Guys are already seated and digging in. He snatches a plate and gets behind Greco, who’s last on the buffet line.

  “You’re not on line for seconds already?” asks Greco.

  Jimmy releases a long, slow, calming breath. “You think they have any of those five-pound oranges left?”

  Greco smiles and squeezes his arm.

  About the Author

  T. GLEN COUGHLIN is the acclaimed author of two novels, THE HERO OF NEW YORK and STEADY EDDIE, as well as a number of short stories. An avid wrestling enthusiast, Glen began attending matches and tournam
ents in 2002 when his son started wrestling as a high school freshman. He still actively follows high school and college wrestling. He was raised in New York and currently lives in New Jersey with his family.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors and artists.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2012 Steve Hockstein/Star-Ledger/Corbis

  Cover design by Tom Forget

  Copyright

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  One Shot Away: A Wrestling Story

  Copyright © 2012 by T. Glen Coughlin

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Coughlin, T. Glen.

  One shot away : a wrestling story / by T. Glen Coughlin.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Audience: 13 up.

  Summary: “Three high school seniors face mounting pressures, at home and school, as they start their last season on the varsity wrestling team”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-06-208323-4 (hardback)

  EPub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062083258

  [1. Wrestling—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C83045One 2012

  2012019091

  [Fic]—dc23

  CIP

  AC