Pins: A Novel

by Jim Provenzano

  “Mister Skaal, will you honor us with a prayer?”

  Bennie stood, nodded to Lamar, who held a small boombox, his other arm in a scribble-coated cast, then headed out to the gym.

  The team went to their knees in the damp quiet of the locker room. Joey bowed his head, glancing at a crack in the cement floor before shutting his eyes. There was no request, no demand. They simply went to their knees in prayer. That was how it was done. It was a rare moment, when Joey actually felt as if he might be talking to God and Jesus and everybody.

  Silently, secretively, Joey slipped his crucifix, which he had removed from around his neck, dropped it between his right sock and ankle.

  Bennie paused a moment, surveying the sight of all his teammates kneeling below him.

  “Lord, please help us in our mission tonight to defeat our enemies from Bayonne. Give us strength that we may be victorious and not cause great harm to our foes. Let us bring honor to our school, our team and our teammates, who are our brothers, and our friends, for a man that hath friends must show himself friendly, and there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Amen.”

  After the mumbled Amens, the Catholic boys –Tommy, Dustin, Anthony, Joey, and Dink– crossed themselves. Everybody opened their eyes, slowly stood, as if waking from a nap.

  Coach said softly, “Remember gentlemen; it’s on the mat that counts. Let’s go.”

  The rumble of the boys standing was followed by a low growl that rose higher and higher as they huddled in a tight circle, each with an arm extended to the center. Joey loved the moment, feeling his arm as only a part of another creature. They gripped their fists tightly, aiming them low, layered, a tight chrysanthemum of teen rage.

  As their growl became a medium yell, then a high howl, the arms rose and rose, raised high to the ceiling. Their singular howl dispersed into a round of doglike hoots reverberating into the lockers.

  Joey kept his hood up, as did the others through their opening entrance and run-around. They jogged around the circle while the Mat Maids clapped to the music, leading the crowd in the chant, “Colts! Colts! Colts! Colts!”

  Tommy Infranca led them. The team marched in by weight, growing in size as each boy trotted out. Lamar sat proudly by the tape recorder at the announcer’s mike. Music blasted the gym.

  The basketball team had the whole stage band to pump up their entrances through a big paper banner emblazoned with a life-size drawing of a Colt. At the Homecoming football game, they even had a real horse that some guy rode around the playing field.

  The wrestlers had a Panasonic and guts.

  The boys had convinced their coaches it was a very healthy psyche-up, since other schools did it too, with other music, even on the PA sometime. “Eye of the Tiger” was called “way eighties” by Dink. Walt had suggested “Lunatic Fringe,” from Vision Quest, but that was considered sacred. They didn’t tell Coach Cleshun the name of the Stone Temple Pilots song that Bennie chose: “Sin.”

  Joey shot a dopey pretending-to-flirt grin at Chrissie, showing off how easy their little dance was, even though it had taken Assistant Coach Fiasole hours of practice to get them all in synch.

  Joey’s favorite part was sidesteps, because it reminded him of the ride at Great Adventure that spun around until the floor dropped out. The boys whirled about the perimeter of the circle, facing in. Across from him, Joey grinned to Hunter, who spotted him between darted glances to each side. With Anthony to his left, Dink on his right, Joey maintained the space. The faces and bodies of his teammates, the twelve chosen, remained focused. Behind them, outside the circle, the gym walls, the bleachers, opponents, scorekeepers, coaches whirled by in a blur.

  Usually Assistant Coach Fiasole turned down the tape at the right moment, but he let Lamar have the honor. The team ended their warm-ups standing in a row, pointing across the mat, shouting the chorus lyrics once, loudly to their opponents, “Down You Go!”

  Assistant Coach Fiasole had edited the music to cut to the song’s end. Their opponents, who stood or sat, slightly stunned by the display, watched as the Colts bowed reverently like young Samurai warriors.

  Despite their roar of adrenaline, the small yet appreciative crowd brought them down to reality. Despite the Mat Maids’ posters in the halls, kids didn’t want to go out on a cold night just to go back to school. Despite the bake sales, T-shirts, Booster Club meetings, some parents had jobs, or other kids to feed, pick up, drop off. The gym echoed, near-empty.

  The coaches often told Joey it didn’t matter so much who showed up. “Wait till finals,” Hunter had said. “It’s on the mat that counts,” Coach had said. But Joey had too often tasted victory with near-empty bleachers as his witness. In the wrestling room, the practice mats covered the floors, comforting and soft. But in the gym, with the polished wood floor spreading out and shiny as a lake, the mat was a lonely island.

  Sitting by themselves, expectant, Joey’s father and Mike sat amid the sparse audience. Mike waved. Joey grinned wide, baring his teeth. Fine, they’d showed up. Now he had to win.

  Tommy Infranca got pinned, more nervous than unskilled. Dustin did well, winning by a technical fall. Just before Anthony stepped out, Assistant Coach Fiasole whispered something to him, and he took off.

  “Come on, Anthony!” Joey yelled. Along the bench, a few Colts gave him a strange glance. He kept his attention on Anthony, but from the side, he half-saw, half-felt their glare, even Dink’s.

  Anthony got pinned before Joey even took his sweats off. The shock of seeing Anthony slumping back to his seat so soon distracted him.

  “What a fish.” Troy made his lips pop open and shut like a trout.

  Joey had seen movies with silent slow motion sports scenes, the hero making the snap decision at the moment, all the voices fading away into a muffled silence, followed by music rising to the roar of victory at the last moment.

  This was not his experience.

  When he saw the pair-up, he tried his best to keep his eyes off the opponent, a slightly buff blond with a sleek nose and big blue eyes. Joey tried not to think too much about him, see him, or else he’d see him as a person, humanize him, and then all would be lost. He sought out his opponent’s glance, seeking a trace of innocence, a hint of respect or fear or arrogance, something to start with.

  Bayonne had an average record, and their lower weight guys were giving a good fight. Joey waited for Coach Fiasole’s pat on the butt and the magic word, “Colto,” then stepped over the line and into the circle for his three two-minute battles.

  “Take charge right off,” Coach had said a hundred times. Joey half heard it through his headgear, his ears muffled from most sounds.

  He thought his upper body weakness would peg him, since the Bayonne guy was a bit buff. The guy nestled his head under Joey’s armpit, shoving through his arm lock. Then he used his head like a battering ram, shoving him back. Joey looked to the guy’s feet, distracted while trying to get a takedown, an arm slapped over the side of his head, clutching, grabbing. Joey responded by ripping away, shifting around him, back in again.

  He grabbed the arm, twisted, dropped with a small yank, the guy’s body hurled over his shoulder. He sprawled, his body sprung taut over his opponent. Get him on his back, get him on his back.

  “C’mon, Joey-eee!” a high-pitched voice. Chrissie. Suddenly she was all for him.

  He got distracted again. The school photographer, out of nowhere, lay sprawled at the rim of the mat, elbows up, clicking a shot of Joey gritting his teeth. Cool, he thought. Hope it gets in the yearboo–

  Wham! A crossface nearly punched him. Joey pressed up, pushing himself up on one elbow, yanking away an attempted arm bar. He pressed away from the floor. The ref whipped into his sight, whistle at his mouth, palm poised over the mat. No, he was not going just yet. Joey released a thick grunt, reaching under, pulling his arm free.

  A tweet and they released. Choosing ref’s position, Joey knelt. He saw his dad out in the audience. Think, think, not about him
, not about what he thinks, win for you, not him.

  “Flank!” Coach shouted. Joey felt weight descend behind him as the hands were set in place, the back of his opponent warm, pressing against his butt.

  He felt the Bayonne guy edge to the left, thought it might be a fake-out to get him to twist left. The guy wouldn’t try something so cheesy, so he faked a nudge left, twisted right, lunging his left leg out, digging the heel of his shoe deep into the mat. He pivoted on it, wriggled out of the arm lock to face his opponent.

  Great, he was fine at squeezing out, now how about dealing with the guy? How about getting a pin instead of just points?

  Joey glanced a brief moment at the blue glint in his opponent’s eyes, then down. Watch the hands. He dove, shooting down, grabbing for torso, exhaling as he went down, grabbing a leg, tying it, thinking of wrapping it with a hand, grunting up the strength to keep him down.

  Twisting out of his hold, the blond backsided over him, took one arm around Joey’s neck, another to the crotch in a near-nutpull. Don’t you dare, he thought.

  Joey wriggled about, his arms useless, his hamstring spasming in a frenzy, his throat wheezing, sweat stinging his eyes, his headgear mashed against his temples at a wrong angle. His opponent squeezed, shoved. Joey’s face flattened sideways against the mat, his cheek smashed against his teeth. He gasped, gulping air, feeding his little heart.

  Looking at the gymnasium sideways, his arm feeling like a chicken wing about to be dismembered, Joey could see each light of the ceiling reflected in the glasses of someone’s mother. Nearly all the bleachers were empty, the long rows of warm blond wood. Chrissie and Kimberly kept their seats, cheering him on from behind the scorecards. 11-8. What color was he again?

  Somewhere behind them his dad must have been cheering. He heard his name sprinkled in among the shouts. Coach Cleshun paced over to face him. “Get out of there!” he screamed. Yeah, easy for you to say. He twisted his head to try another grip, then bit his lip.

  Tasting his own blood, he swallowed, took a deep breath in, then relaxed a tiny moment. So did his opponent, as if they were both agreeing: This is crazy, who are we doing this for? The guy’s grip on him loosened, the ref stood back, not thumping around, Cleshun stood silent. As often happened in matches, where not a lot of people attended, nobody cheered. A fraction of near-silence filled the gym.

  Joey’s opponent broke it as he let out a little sigh. Nobody heard it but the two boys, the grunt lost under the tangle of their bodies. Joey wriggled out of his opponent’s hold, noticed a faint smell of deodorant.

  Almost charmed, instead of weakening, as he usually did when a sliver of desire forced its way into a match, he made it the other guy’s weakness, his fault. He could win, even if he liked this guy. He drew breath in, sucking in another trace of sweetness from the guy’s armpit. It fueled his last lunge in what he sensed as his few remaining seconds of energy. He fully tensed every muscle, let out an anguished bellow, imagined himself exploding.

  The noise of the gym rose with him as he twisted out, grabbed the guy in a cradle, picked him up fully off the mat for a small moment, squeezed in. Joey shoved his chest into him, pushing, digging with his feet, pushing like a snow shovel, until he ground his torso up, over, shoving his belly against the guy’s crotch, clamping his arm under a knee, forcing the leg up, the Bayonne guy onto his back, until he locked in, groin to groin, between the guy’s upraised legs.

  The ref spun around in his range of vision, arm raised, then slammed his palm onto the mat.

  He’d done it.

  Joey glanced up at the ref to see a slight nod of assurance, then released the guy, pulling his arms out from the tangle of their bodies. He crawled up to standing, turning away, looked out to see who was cheering. The hooting and applause rose.

  His posse was on its feet, high-fiving, his coaches strutting away in satisfaction.

  Yes.

  They crouched before the ref, whose belly nearly poked out under the striped shirt. They both shook hands, glanced at each other. More hoorays. He looked out, too exhausted to manage a grin. His dad stood, clapping. Good. That’ll shut him up for a while.

  They shared a glance between pants for air, when the Bayonne guy leaned in, gave him the briefest hug, a pat on the back.

  As he returned to the bench, hands high-fived him. Coach Cleshun patted his butt, then Assistant Coach Fiasole too, the double seal of approval.

  “Good goin’, dude,” Bennie patted him.

  “Awright, Neech, my man.” Hunter chucked him on the arm. Joey sat on the bench, dropped his headgear between his legs. He licked his lips, the salt of his blood and sweat mixing.

  Joey merely high-fived Dink, who was up next, always after him. He hoped the energy of his win would magically pass over into Dink’s body from their brief touch.

  As he sat in a dizzy state, wiping down, his sweats clung to his skin and singlet. He sucked in air as the spasms and quivers in his muscles calmed, the sweat drying to a light salty crust. His hamstring throbbed. Somewhere in there his wrist got crunched a bit.

  Sitting to his left, Anthony hadn’t said a word, but sat with his arms crossed, furious.

  Joey tried to reassure him. “Hey, man, I lost my whole first season.”

  “You did not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You brag about your record all the time, like it’s some kind of–”

  “Stow it.”

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?” The photographer seemed frightened for a moment, but became slightly more relaxed as Joey talked with him. He wore a too-long flannel shirt. The strap of his camera made it bunch up.

  “You got some pictures a me, huh?”

  “Yeah, some pretty good ones, I think.”

  “Well, how’s about makin’ me some copies?”

  “You. . .you want some prints?”

  “Sure, if it’s not, I mean if they let ya.”

  “Sure. No problem. No problem at all.” The photographer adjusted his glasses, awkwardly fumbling with his square-shaped photo pack.

  “I’m Joe.”

  “I know. Tom.”

  “Nice ta meetcha.”

  “We’re in History together.”

  “Oh, really?” Joey’d never noticed him. He didn’t even remember the guy ever speaking in class. “Oh, yeah, in the back.”

  Anthony approached the photographer. Did he want photos to remember his pathetic loss?

  “Right,” Tom said. Seeing Anthony, he blurted a soft, “Hi,” as if they were friends. “Well, I should have the photos done in a few days.”

  “No rush. Just thought I’d ask. Good for the ego, ya know.” Joey backed away.

  “Sure.”

  Joey saw his father and brother waiting by the bleachers. “Well, gotta go. See ya in class.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, kid, good job.” His father’s arm came around him, patted his back while hugging him.

  Mike jumped off a bleacher, landing on the floor, eying two other young boys who were already playing on the mat.

  “Take your shoes off.”

  “We gotta go,” their dad said.

  “It’s awright,” Joey said as a few other younger kids rolled around on the mat, terrorizing each other while the coaches chatted with parents, shaking hands. Chrissie Wright walked by. “Hello, Mister Nicci.”

  They both watched her go by, then Joey watched his father watch her. “I’ll just be a few minutes.” Joey said.

  “Okay,” his dad, said, turning back. “We’ll be out in the parking lot.”

  “Go talk to my coaches.” Joey steered his father to other side of the gym.

  “Awright, awright.”

  Walt asked one of the Shiver brothers a question in the showers. Joey crossed between them, and because of the conversation bouncing back and forth, he got to steal a few choice glances at his buddies. In previous years, Joey would count what he called Sightings, which were merely seeing another guy’s dick. Th
at got replaced with Maybe Bigger than Last Time, which got replaced by Butt Shots.

  But Joey felt less than amiable scoping his teammates’ bodies when he realized what their conversation was about.

  “No, it’s a part of their brains.”

  “What’s that called again?”

  “The fag part.”

  Everybody laughed, but then shut up when Brett Shiver said, without stuttering at all, “The Hypothalamus!”

  Hunter broke the silence with, “Hypothalamoose.” Everybody started making what they thought were moose calls.

  He’d already memorized every detail of their bodies, the way soap suds slid down their muscled curves, the freckles on Walt’s back, Raul Klein’s appendix scar where his oblique met his hip bone. None of that felt very sexy when he figured they’d hate him if they knew he could do a better moose call.

  Still, Joey mooed his way back to his locker when he saw Anthony sneak out quickly. Joey dressed in a rush to catch up to him.

  “Nine-ish. Saturday,” Bennie said with a fake British sneer. He dropped his gym bag on the bench next to Joey, began combing his wet tangle of hair into the look of an AWOL marine.

  “What?” Joey fumbled with his laces, tied them in front of Bennie, who stood before the mirror. Joey stole a long glance at Bennie’s dick. Bennie never raced through the showers like other guys, but stood, slowly rinsed off, back to the wall. He was very comfortable watching guys notice him, notice It. When he put his pants on, he stood up on the bench, claiming it prevented his pants from getting wet, but everyone knew. He showed off like the statue he thought should be made in his honor.

  “Saturday. Party at Hunter’s.” It began swaying as Bennie toweled his back.

  Joey had to look up, Bennie’s cock at his eye level. Bennie caught him looking. “Hunter’s havin’ a party?”

  “Firm grasp of the obvious. Bring brews.”

  “As if! I’m fifteen.”

  “So bring munchies.”

  “I gotta ask my parents.”

  “Sure.”

  It excited him, getting together with them, but he couldn’t help wondering why Hunter hadn’t invited him. “The guys on the team coming?”