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Bobby sat down on his bed.

"See?" Carmelina said. "You don't wanna bother. Just go on living your life, forget about me. And don't you worry, Bobby, I'll go next week to the clinic and I'll get the test done. And know what?
Maybe
I'll tell you whether you're gonna be a father or not. It's not your worry."

"Not my worry?"

"I'll deal with it."

"No, no forget it," Bobby said. "I'll take you next week. Tuesday night after practice. After you're done with work. I'll pick you up at the mall. I'll tell my parents I'm going to Kenny's, studying or lifting or something like that. They'll never know. Okay? Carmelina ... Carmelina, are you there?"

"Yeah."

"I'll take you, understand? But you gotta promise me you'll go."

"Bobby, I'm scared."

He rubbed his eyes. "I'm scared, too." And he was—damn scared. "We'll go together."

I'm goin' running, Papa."

"Again tonight?" his father said, pleased. "That is two times."

"For the states, Papa," Ivan answered. "For the states."

Ivan closed the front door, ran down the porch stairs, and ducked into the shadows of the house. From inside his jacket, Ivan pulled out a large envelope. It was stamped and addressed to the admissions committee at Western Arizona. The application was ready to go. Or as much as it would ever be, Ivan knew.

Envelope in hand, Ivan sprinted down the driveway and onto Farmingdale. The application postmark deadline was tomorrow. He had cut it close and it had been a struggle, but Ivan had finally finished the essays and questions. Hastily, he knew. Sloppily, even. It all would have been much better if Shelley had helped. But he got what he deserved.

The fields of grass passed quickly and, soon, Sycamore Creek and Wellington Farms, too. Ivan neither noticed the cold nor the heat under the layers of clothing, nor any of the familiar surroundings. He ran fast, unusually fast. Despite practicing for two horns and having already run once tonight, his legs felt surprisingly light, his lungs large. Ivan didn't think about past matches, or future matches, for that matter. He just ran. Hard.

Streetlights illuminated the shop awnings on Main Street and the blue mailbox in front of Mr. Johnston's Florist Shop. Ivan came to a stop, stared at the envelope one last time, then pulled back the handle and dropped it in. The envelope was out of his hands; now everything was under his control.

Ivan looked around. Across the street, the Evergreen sign blinked. Trees rustled. The town's stoplight changed from red to green. He liked the solitude. Ivan crossed the intersection and jogged home.

Bobby sat hunched over on the locker-room bench—the hood of his warm-up suit draped over his head, his eyes closed—pushing aside worries about Carmelina and his parents and everything going on in his life outside Wrestling.

"Be ready off the whistle...," he whispered. "Be ready off the whistle..."

He looked up. Kenny also straddled the bench, deep in thought. Big John, a black T-shirt stretching across his broad frame, snapped and unsnapped the chin strap of his headgear. In the bathroom, Anthony splashed water on his face, then rolled his neck and shoulders. They were all nervous as hell, Bobby could tell.

Few doubts remained in his own mind. His record was 16–1–1 with twelve pins, numbers that hadn't gone unnoticed by the
Star-Ledger.
He was on an eight-match winning streak since the tie at Rampart—a match that seemed seasons ago. And much like that match, win-loss records meant nothing, from this point on, Bobby knew. All that mattered was who wanted to win more—him or his opponent.

Heat rose in his warm-up suit, collecting in the hood.
The hotter, the better,
he thought. Anything to make his muscles ready; anything to keep his heart racing. He stared down at the floor, feeling sweat accumulate on his forehead, then watched the droplets fall to the tiles. He swiped at the starburst shapes with the soles of his Wrestling shoes.

The locker-room door opened. Kenny raised his head, and Big John sucked the last drops from a water bottle, then tossed it aside. Anthony came in from the bathroom.

Coach Messina's dress shoes clicked on the locker-room floor. "There's not much for me to say. The four of you are in here, the rest of the team is sitting in the stands. You made it to the district finals; they didn't. You qualified for the regions; their seasons are finished."

For some that might be enough, Bobby knew. They'd be satisfied as district runner-up. But not him. Not this year. Second place was
never
a victory, moral or otherwise. It meant he had lost, and
that
was unacceptable.

"For four months you've worked your asses off," Coach Messina said. "You've been the ones to come in early and leave late. You've run the miles after practice. You've done the push-ups and sit-ups perfectly. You've drilled twelve or thirteen single-legs when the others did ten.

"It's not magic, no sleight of hand. Winning means hard work. It always has; it always will. You guys have proved that. By the end of the day, across New Jersey, there will be thirty-two district champs in each weight class." His massive chest expanded with a deep breath. "Promise yourself you'll be one of those thirty-two ... Hands in!"

Bobby squeezed between Big John and Anthony as the four wrestlers pressed against one another, sharing the same space; sharing the smell of sweat, anxiety, and Coach Messina's cologne; sharing the strength of his confidence.

"Let's have four district champs," Coach Messina said. He stared at Big John ... Kenny ... Anthony ... and, finally, Bobby.

"There are
no
second places today."

The third period of the 122-pound championship match began, though Bobby paid little attention. He stood, jaw taut, eyes tight in a livid glare.

Kenny stepped beside him. "You ready?"

Bobby nodded. "If God came down to wrestle me today," he said, "I'd beat him."

The world could have been crumbling down around Bobby—and, he knew, in so many ways it was—but he refused to let it enter Millburn's gymnasium. Today, this was his temple, wrestling was his religion, winning the district tide was his prophecy.

Across the gym, his opponent, Gerald Griffey, warmed up. His muscular black thighs and sculpted chest made his white and gold singlet seem two sizes too small. Teammates in street clothes stood by, patting Griffey on the back, gesturing in Bobby's direction.

Bobby shook his head, a smile stretching slowly on his lips. He pitied Griffey, a district runner-up at 122 pounds the year before.
In a few minutes,
Bobby thought,
he'll wish he'd stayed at that weight.

A loud cheer swelled from the bleachers. Union High fans rose to their feet, stomping and whistling as time ran out and their wrestler celebrated an 8–4 victory, pumping his fist. Bobby's heartbeat jumped into high gear. He pulled off his Yankees T-shirt and tossed it to Christopher, then snapped the chin strap of his headgear.

The referee raised the Union wrestler's arm, then the two wrestlers cleared the mat. The PA system boomed, "Now Wrestling in the 129-pound final ... Bobby Zane, Millburn ... Gerald Griffey, Elizabeth..."

Bobby shook hands with Coach Messina, then stalked onto the mat, stepping out onto a stage—his stage. Griffey met Bobby in the middle. Bobby put his left foot on his side of the center circle, adjusted his headgear, and set his stance.
Right off the whistle.

The referee directed them to shake hands. "Let's have a good match, fellas. Don't stop Wrestling until I say so." He checked with the timekeeper, then lifted the whistle to his lips. The whistle screamed.

Bobby shot out from his stance, catching Griffey flat-footed. Before Griffey could react, Bobby sucked his right leg in tight and stepped up to his feet, his head in Griffey's chest. He switched to a double-leg, lifted, and dropped Griffey to the mat. The match would be over shortly, Bobby knew, as he forced in the half.

Griffey knew it, too. He was a beaten wrestler. Done. Finished. And now, a half minute into the first period, a
two
-time district runner-up.

The gold medal sat in Bobby's open palm. He stared at the imprint on the front—two combative wrestlers encircled by the outline of New Jersey—then flipped it over.
DISTRICT XI CHAMPIONSHIP
129-
LBS FIRST PLACE
was engraved on the back. Bobby closed his fist tightly.

He recalled last year, sitting in nearly the same position on his bed, while his mother and father prepared a celebration dinner in the dining room. That night, Bobby had glanced around his bedroom, jittery from winning the districts for the first time, not knowing what to do next, feeling like the world was his, like he could do
anything.
He had set the medal on his dresser, then stepped back to check that it could be seen equally well from his bed, closet, and door.

"I did it," he had whispered.

The district championship.
He had reached his ultimate goal, a goal he had set at the beginning of the season. It felt a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, more glorious than he had ever dreamed. That he would lose in the semifinals of the regions one week later—and not advance to the states—was irrelevant. He had won the districts. Emotions overflowed, filling Bobby's eyes with tears. He had cried.

Last year's championship medal now had a companion. Same medals; different circumstances. While the first district championship, as an underdog third-seed with a 13–4 record, was unexpected, the second was a mere formality. Everyone—the crowd, Bobby's father, Coach Messina, the local papers, Griffey himself—understood Bobby would win the 129-pound finals this year. Those who didn't were fooling themselves. Perhaps the only raised eyebrows came from the devastating manner in which Bobby wrenched Griffey over and held his back flat to the mat for the pin. Thirty-two seconds into the first period. A television commercial's length of time.

Bobby heard his parents downstairs. Arguing, as always. He stripped naked, toweled dry his arms and back, and threw on a pair of sweats. He placed the medals side by side on the dresser. They glimmered in the vanishing afternoon light.

He wasn't satisfied. For four months he had cut weight, run hundreds of miles, done endless push-ups and sit-ups, battled his teammates day in and day out. The effort should add up to more. Instead, the medals reminded him of cheap trinkets he might've won at a Point Pleasant boardwalk arcade. But there was a reason the effort should add up to more, he knew. He hadn't reached the end. There was work yet to be done. It was all one long journey, at times glorious, like this afternoon, his hand raised high in victory, but mostly, as he expected tonight to be, utterly painful. In the end, he vowed, only one medal would hang from his neck: the New Jersey state championship medal.

The telephone rang.
Carmelina?
Bobby thought. He stepped to his nightstand.
Why would she call?
They had already agreed on when he would pick her up at the mall on Tuesday night. There was nothing else to discuss. He felt a nervous chill.
What if she's backing out?
He palmed the receiver but the second ring cut short.

Bobby expected his mother to call out with contempt, "Pick up the phone; it's her." But she didn't. Instead, he heard heavy footsteps move down the foyer.

"Are you coming down?" his father said.

"In a second," Bobby answered.

With a swipe, the two medals disappeared into his hand. The districts were over. Time to put them in the past. The state championship was the goal. He dropped the medals into a drawer with letters and cards from Carmelina, and photographs of the two of them together, then slammed it shut.

Last year's celebration had been spontaneous and genuine, a chance for him and his family to pull out their finest silverware and china, dress up, and enjoy dinner together. The day before, his mother had closed on a house in the Hartshorn section of town. Her smile that night matched the black slacks, white blouse, and Italian gold bracelets she wore. Bobby remembered—and always would—how wonderful dinner was, how proud his father was, how Christopher had said he wanted to be just like his older brother. It was his finest moment.

Stepping down the stairs, Bobby wished he could go back in time, already sensing the anger between his parents carried over from an argument at the districts.
In the
stands, no less. Why are we even doing this?
he wondered.
We could've had Chinese take-out. I would've been happy, Christopher would've been happy. At least two of us would've been.

After his first district tide, a warm hug and kiss from his father greeted Bobby when he had walked into the kitchen.

"Son, I'm so very proud of you," his father had said, wrapping his arms around him. All of the aches in Bobby's arms and shoulders had come to life, yet, he remembered, nothing felt better.

Christopher had jumped up from the kitchen table, hugged him around the waist, and said, "You're the best wrestler in the whole wide world."

His mother had followed with a kiss on his forehead. "Fix your collar." She'd stepped back and smiled. "My son, the district winner." She held out a wooden spoon with just a touch of tomato sauce on the end. "Try a taste." She tilted the spoon, letting him slurp a dribble of sauce into his mouth.

Now, at the bottom of the stairs, Bobby caught his reflection in the foyer mirror. A baggy sweatshirt draped off his shoulders, pants hung from his bony hips, his hair was a mess. The disheveled look went well with the scowl on his face.
It's permanent
, Bobby thought,
a Zane trademark nowadays.

His socks squeaked on the tiled foyer floor. He held a sliver of hope that his mother, father, and brother would immediately stop what they were doing to greet him, as they had last year. Part of him, though, didn't give a damn.

He stepped into the kitchen.

"Put these on the dining-room table," his mother said, handing him a stack of plates. Shaking her head, she slipped by him. "Damn it, I made a mess of this sleeve."