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Bobby stared at the television, idly pressing channels on the cable remote, one after the other. Finding nothing to distract him, he said, finally, "I better drive you home."

Ivan opened the locker-room door. He saw McClellan standing at the far wall, his arms folded. McClellan stopped mid-sentence and turned. "You're early, Ivan."

"Came to check my weight," he said.

"Mr. Holt and I were just—"

"Discussing the season," Holt said, stepping into Ivan's view. "We need a few more minutes."

Ivan studied McClellan, then Holt. Each was pathetic in his own way.

"We should move this to your office," McClellan said.

"That won't be necessary," said Holt. "Wait outside, Ivan."

Ivan stepped back and closed the door. He thought about going back to class, but the chance to hear Holt and McClellan going at it was too tempting to ignore. Ivan looked down the empty hallway, then inched the door open so that the muffled discussion was clear.

"Lewis," Holt said, "this year, Lennings High has a unique opportunity to shake its backwoods reputation."

"I know all about our reputation," McClellan said. "I've lived here twenty-five years of my life. You know what? Lennings
is
in the backwoods."

"That's what you think, Lewis. I don't. I see a school that's been overshadowed by the rival schools around us. We have no identity. No soul."

McClellan half laughed. "'Soul'?"

"Yes, soul. Some people see a school as walls and ceilings, the building and so on. Others believe a school is the administrators, faculty, students, and the learning that goes on. Still others point to the pomp and splendor, the music assemblies, the sports events, the people in a school, functioning like a living, breathing organism. I'm one of those people. I believe in the sophomore who plays magnificent piano recitals, the poet published in local magazines, the athlete who scores the touchdowns, makes the baskets, and, yes, pins every opponent. That builds self-esteem. That builds pride. That builds
soul.
I built it at my last school; I'll build it here."

"Lennings
has
that."

"Sometimes," Holt said. "Most of the time, not. I covet that soul. I want to nurture it. Bottle it and sell it, if I could. Lewis, I understand we've never had a state champ at Lennings. Nothing even close, for that matter. Until Ivan, of course."

Ivan smiled. He could almost hear McClellan's slow burn—the breaths rushing in and out his nostrils, the aborted first word of his response as he thought better of telling off Holt. It was pure delight for Ivan and would only have been better if he could have stepped inside to actually see McClellan's face, his anxious twitch.
Watch him like he watches me.

"You're right, Garrison," McClellan said. "Guess I just never thought about it that way. After growing up in this town, Wrestling here for seven years, coaching the last six, some things just elude me."

Gutless. The kind of sarcastic response Ivan expected from McClellan.
Don't go toe-to-toe with Holt; just lie down and let him slap you around.
Ivan shook his head.
No wonder we lose.

"It's the big picture," Holt said. "Sometimes the staff members—bless their souls—lose sight of that. What happens in the classroom is only part of what makes up this school. That's why I can't emphasize enough how important Ivan is."

"He's just one athlete," McClellan said. "Just one of hundreds at Lennings. He's not bigger than the school. He's not bigger than our team."

Screw you, McClellan.

"No, no, he's more than that," Holt said. "I'm hoping we'll have a number of newspapers doing features on him. Very sad about his mother. It'll make a good human interest story. Get the Lennings name out there."

Screw you, Holt.

"And Lewis," Holt said, "I'll bet you'll get some good publicity yourself."

"Publicity?" McClellan laughed. "I don't need publicity."

"You do. Why deny it? We might go this entire season without a win. We're the laughingstock of the conference, the district, the county, maybe the whole state. But you do know the one glimmer of hope we have."

McClellan didn't answer.

"Ivan Korske," Holt said. "He keeps Lennings's wrestling from being an absolute, unmitigated disaster. And the irony of all this is that his success benefits you, Lewis, more than anyone else. You are redeemed. Exonerated. Pardoned."

There was silence. McClellan was beaten, Ivan knew; on his last legs; his mind scrambling for answers, surely, and, at the same time, begging for the battle to be over.

"I appreciate your interest, Garrison," McClellan said, finally. "But this is my Wrestling program, and Ivan is one member of that program. Just one. No more, or less, important than anyone else."

"Don't be foolish," Holt said. "He's special. Damn special."

"No, absolutely
no
single wrestler is more important than the
team
" McClellan said, his voice on edge.

And again the locker room was silent.

It was the way McClellan had said it, desperate, as a humiliated opponent might wave a hand weakly in resignation. But Ivan knew, as much as he hated to admit it, that hadn't been the true intent of McClellan's words. McClellan had spoken with an unwavering dedication to the team and the program. His passion was undeniable.
But how could he? Ivan wondered. How could McClellan, in the face of five straight years of losing, still care?

Holt's shoes clicked on the tiled floor, then stopped. Ivan heard tapping on glass—the cracked window that looked out onto the school driveway, he figured.

"Too many cars at the front entrance," Holt said. "The damn buses won't be able to get out on time. I'm going to have to change the pickup system. That accident we had last month looks bad for the school. Maybe a few heads'll have to roll. People get complacent when they're in one position too long. It's good to muck up the water a bit. I think you understand."

"There's something to be said for continuity."

Holt chuckled. "Continuity means complacency. It means undeserved privilege. An organization needs its people to be hungry. When that desire wanes, the organization weakens..."

"And?" McClellan said.

"And it's time for practice," Holt said. "Mustn't sit on our laurels with an 0–4 season."

Ivan drew back from the door and kneeled down, pretending to rummage through his gym bag. The door opened and Holt stepped out. Then he stopped and turned back. "It's only mid-January, Lewis. Still early in the season. Enthusiasm abounds, right?"

"Sure," McClellan answered from inside the locker room.

Holt turned to Ivan. "Thanks for your patience. Good luck on Saturday. Maybe we'll get a win." He looked back inside the locker room.

Ivan watched as Holt strode down the hallway, head up, checking his lapels and the crease of his slacks as he continued away. So choreographed, so flamboyant. Ivan picked up his gym bag and was about to enter the locker room, when the door opened again.

McClellan didn't look at Ivan. He was clearly shamed. Ivan allowed a moment of pity, but that was all. McClellan's dress shirt stuck to his sweaty back and he shuffled down the corridor, head bowed slightly.

"I'll, uh, see you at practice in a few minutes," McClellan said.

It always started the same way.

Bobby sat on his bedroom floor, sports sections spread out around him. He had heard his parents like this before. Too many times before. Like a rumble of thunder, an ominous warning of a gathering storm. Bobby put down a pair of scissors and box-score clippings of his opponents and, for the moment, forgot about Millburn's undefeated record. He tried to close his mind to his parents' voices.

It didn't work Never did.

There was a second rumble. Louder than the first. Then another. Gaining momentum within the walls of the house, rolling in with fury, like the storms at the family's summer house down at the Shore, filling the sky with black clouds, unleashing sheets of coarse rain. There, Bobby would lean against the bay window, feeling the thunder through the glass, the walls, his body. And wait for it to be over.

It was like that now.

Bobby stared around the room, not sure what he was looking for—something to throw, something to hit, something to shelter him from the fury. There was nothing. It'll be over, he told himself. Soon. Someday.

"Bobby?"

In the doorway, Christopher stood, head lowered, nervously rolling the bottom of his pajama top in his fingers.

"Can I come in?" He pointed at the notebooks and newspaper clippings. "I could help ... maybe."

Bobby nodded. He was worried and scared, too. Christopher didn't say anything more, though Bobby knew questions would eventually make their way to his mouth. He wasn't sure how he'd answer. He couldn't explain the incessant arguments and vicious fighting, the detached coldness when it was over. His parents had been married twenty-three years—a goddamn lifetime—why now?

I can't make them stop,
he wanted to say to his little brother.
I wish I could, but I can't.
But Christopher's eyes were welling and tears were not far off. His little brother needed comfort.

"Yeah, I can use some help," Bobby said, waving Christopher over. He pushed the newspapers aside so they could sit shoulder to shoulder. Christopher settled under his arm. Bobby held him tightly.

Downstairs, the storm quieted. Bobby opened a notebook in which he had marked the teams Millburn would face during the season. Under each, he had pasted relevant box scores and articles, and he had jotted notes in the margins.

"Why do ya do all this stuff?" Christopher asked.

"So I know about the guys I'm gonna wrestle," Bobby said. "I wanna know their records, how good they are." He ran his finger down the page to a box score. "Here are the weight classes. This says what happened in each match."

Christopher looked, but blankly. Bobby wasn't sure if it was because his little brother didn't understand or because the silence downstairs had gone on so long. Bobby thumbed through a few more pages, and for a time, it seemed the storm had come to an abrupt end. All was calm. Still, Bobby didn't relax. He waited. Always waited.

"What team's this?" Christopher pointed to a page.

Black marker outlined a half dozen box scores with "February 10" written in heavy black letters at the top. "Remember those mean guys from two years ago?" Bobby said. "That's Rampart. We're gonna—"

A crash of thunder. Punctuated with a crack of lightning.

"—beat them in a few weeks," Bobby finished.

The storm was back. And it was fierce. The faint enraged words Bobby could hardly make out before were now clear, snapping back and forth.

"Robert, goddamn you!"

"Shut up, Maggie!"

Then overlapping each other in one sustained shout.

Christopher's eyes were now wide with fear. Bobby thought of something else to say, but words were pointless.

"They fight too much," Christopher said in a hush, as if worried his mother or father might hear.

"Yeah," Bobby said, "they do."

Incessantly. His mother screaming; his father yelling. Doors slamming. Bobby wanted to blame someone, to know whose fault it was and be able some day, when he had the guts, to confront his mother, or his father. Then the rage, bottled up for so long, could spew out.

"Why're they so mad?" Christopher said.

"Don't know."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"Do ya think Mom and Dad will have a divorce?"

Bobby looked oddly at his little brother. A precocious question, he thought. Then, so as not to give away his own fears, Bobby said, "Don't think about that."

"Stevie says it happens all the time. Then the dad moves away."

"Stevie's wrong. That's not gonna happen."

"Promise, Bobby?"

"Promise."

"Really promise?"

"Yes,
really
promise," Bobby said. "Why don't we watch TV?"

Christopher seemed happy with that. He jumped to his feet, walked over to the television on the dresser, reached up, and pressed the
ON
button.

"Loud," Bobby said to his little brother. "Put it up loud."

Ivan sat with Ellison behind the rest of the team. It was going to be a waste of a practice, he could tell right away, the kind that had to be endured, then forgotten immediately. Lennings was winless in eight matches, with the Hunterdon schools looming on the schedule. Guys were quitting, morale was out the window, and here was McClellan giving another one of his moronic speeches. Ivan thought about walking out the door.

"We've lost a number of matches, I can't sugarcoat that," McClellan said. "We should be in a better position at this point in the season. I expected a few victories. I know you guys did, too." McClellan fixed a hard stare at the team, but Ivan was sure no one gave a damn.

Except one wrestler.

As always, Phillip Hannen sat dead center in front of McClellan, following every word he said. During drills, Hannen often volunteered to practice with Ivan and Ellison, getting thrown around the mat. Yet he never quit, no matter what drill, no matter how late in practice, no matter how much punishment he was taking. It was a quality Ivan usually admired. But to Ivan, Hannen was a kiss-ass, trying too hard, too often, to impress McClellan.

"Just three dual meets left," McClellan said. "We win a couple of these, and all of a sudden, the season is ours again. It's up to you. We have a clean slate. Our new season starts Thursday against North Hunterdon, then Saturday with Hunterdon Central. You guys are familiar with both teams. They're excellent, both ranked in the top twenty..."

His words were quickly drowned out by the churning of the boiler room machinery. But McClellan didn't fight it. He simply waved for the team to spread out on the mats. "Takedowns."

Ivan nodded to Ellison and said, "Let's get this going." They began alternating singles, doubles, hi-crotches. There was a familiar listless mood to the room. Ivan even felt sluggish himself.