Pinned (26 page)

Coach Messina held his shoulders. "Are you ready for the state championship?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"It's mine," Bobby said.

Ivan did indeed lift his arms high. He pumped his fist and let out a sharp, "Hell yeah!" There would be no timekeeper's mistake, no early whistle, no semifinal loss this time. Ivan stood at the center of the mat—his Boonton opponent hunched in disappointment—waiting for the referee to raise his arm in victory. Then Ivan stalked off the mat, nodding approval for another devastating win.

"Good job, Ivan, good job," McClellan said. "The monkey's off your back."

"Goddamn right," Ivan said, surprised he even answered McClellan.

He scooped up his warm-ups, gave Holt an obligatory nod, high-fived Ellison, and found a spot where everyone in Jadwin could see him. He hugged his father, then Shelley. His record now stood at 23–0. Twenty-three wins, no losses, one match away. He pulled down the straps of his singlet, his bare chest heaving, his muscles swelled with blood. He gulped down some water. Ellison stood next to him.

"Who won the other semifinal?" Ivan said.

"The guy from Millburn. He looked tough. He's got a good single."

Ivan looked over at Zane and the crowd of people around him. "Someone's gotta tell Cinderella it's midnight."

Ellison smiled. "That's your job."

A11 that was left was time.

The season would end, win or lose, after the next match—the state finals. Bobby looked over at Christopher, curled up, head resting against his father's knee. His mother had gone out into the lobby to buy a hot chocolate. Big John and Kenny sat a few rows behind Bobby. He heard them laughing and joking with Anthony and the others.

Some of the senior girls had driven down to Princeton. A few teachers and coaches, as well. When they caught his eye, they waved, or smiled, or nodded. None dared say anything.

A few minutes earlier, Bobby had looked at the 129-pound bracket. A tournament official had filled in:
Zane, Millburn, decisioned Brandel, Pennsville, 6–5.
A simple notation. He saw the other semifinal.
Korske, Lennings, decisioned Marshall, Boonton, 10–3.

Space for the finals result was blank.

So Bobby sat back, allowing himself a few moments to remember his semifinal match, which finished only an hour ago, but which seemed like days or weeks ago. And he remembered looking up at the scoreboard, seeing forty-nine seconds left in the third period. He had been Wrestling well, perhaps the best of his life, yet was losing 5–2.

"Keep wrestling," the referee instructed both wrestlers.

Even holding the lead, Bobby knew his Pennsville opponent wouldn't stall. There was no honor in that. On their feet, they circled each other. Brandel looked ragged; Bobby felt worse. At the edge of the mat, Bobby stepped in to tie up. Instantly, he lifted Brandel's elbow, slipping his head under and past his opponent's armpit, then arched. But Brandel turned sharply and squared off, and again the two wrestlers faced each other.

"Twenty seconds left," Bobby vaguely heard Coach Messina yell.

Time was running out. And somehow Bobby sensed that even in fifty years, even if he managed to be someone significant and do something important with his life, he had had one chance for Wrestling immortality—and it was slipping away. He was sure a loss right then would haunt him for as long as he lived. He would never get his chance for a state tide.

Brandel reached his arms out, and Bobby saw an opening. He stepped left, then shot to the right side, posting Brandel's elbows and drop-stepping under. Before the Pennsville wrestler could react, Bobby was in low on the knee, quickly gaining control.

"Takedown!" the referee yelled. "Two points, Millburn!"

Fueled by the desperation of each passing second, Bobby bulled forward, breaking Brandel down to the mat, working his hand under his opponent's arm and onto his head.

The Jadwin stands shook, and Coach Messina was shouting, "Half, half, half!"

Bobby came out to the side, driving with his legs, his Wrestling shoes digging into the mat. He heard Brandel's grunts as Bobby inched his back closer to perpendicular. The referee poised to count back points. Bobby's arm and wrist were aching, his thighs were burning, but Brandel was going over.

Closer...

And closer...

Brandel bridged frantically, lifting his shoulders off the mat. Turning ... Still, the referee hadn't called back points. Bobby knew the buzzer would sound any second. The crowd roared. The stands rocked. Coach Messina was shouting, his father howling, Christopher screaming.

In a single moment, Bobby summoned every bit of strength he had in himself from the years of drilling and practicing and weight lifting and running, and he remembered in a flash the anger he had for his parents and the pain he felt for his little brother and all the storms they had both endured and the utter mess with Carmelina, and he knew that another moment like this would never pass his way again. So he funneled all the energy and emotion and passion, and he squeezed Brandel's shoulders close to the mat.

"Back points!" the referee shouted, as the buzzer went off. He gestured with his fingers. "Two points, Millburn!"

They were the most beautiful words Bobby had ever heard. In an instant, everything he could see, hear, and feel floated and bobbed like ripples on a pond. Imperfect, distorted, colorful. Seeing what was happening through his own eyes, yet seeing it all from somewhere way above.

Bobby was on his feet, raising his arms—but not fully—waiting for confirmation. Sweat stinging his eyes, he looked over at the referee.

"Did I do it?"

And the referee nodded. Bobby's arms shot skyward, head back, body arched. His mind swirled as he succumbed to the flood of victory, not thinking any thoughts, not hearing, not seeing. Pleasure and relief washed over him, and he was suddenly exhausted but somehow stayed upright because his body was floating, rising, and the championship medal, he knew, would later sit in his hand, lifted skyward, glinting in the Jadwin ceiling lights, then draped around his neck for the world to see.

Through tight eyes, he saw Brandel at his feet, the referee nodding, Coach Messina clapping, his teammates jumping up and down, adding to the thunderous applause from the thousands in attendance, stomping their feet, cheering at the tops of their lungs. Jadwin Gym seemed tiny. And through it all, Bobby heard one voice force its way through the rest.

"That's my son, that's my son! That's him! He's going to the finals!"

Bobby saw his father at the corner of the mat, a smile as wide as the gymnasium, a smile Bobby hadn't seen for many months. Beside him, Christopher jumped around, arms swinging, Bobby's warm-up suit whipping around. Bobby's eyes caught his—excited, bulged—and he could read Christopher's lips. "My big brother won! My big brother won!" He also saw his mother. She was crying....

Amid the madness, Bobby looked over. Brandel still hadn't moved, his eyes shut tight. He remained on his hands and knees, head on the mat.

The referee tapped Brandel on the shoulder.

Brandel struggled to his feet. He hadn't looked up yet, and still didn't when the referee raised Bobby's arm in victory and the crowd roared again when Bobby leaped into Coach Messina's arms.

Bobby had reached the end—the state finals—and he felt alone. Alone among people. In the crowded hallway of Millburn High. In the standing-room-only gymnasiums of the past three weekends. On the phone with Carmelina. At the kitchen table. Sitting in Jadwin Gym next to his father, mother, Christopher, and teammates.

No matter how hard anyone tried, no matter what they said, the feeling of solitude didn't change. None of them could step into his shoes. None of them could pass the burden on to themselves. None of them could step onto the mat with Korske for the state finals. He had to.

Bobby was alone. And all that was left was time.

Ivan glanced up. In bright red lights, the scoreboard clock counted down the time left in the 122-pound championship match.

41 ... 40 ... 39...

He paced and stretched and bounced on his toes, but as much as he tried he couldn't control the anxiety that roiled his gut. In thirty or so seconds, he would reach the edge of that destiny to which his entire being had been dedicated.

His stomach tightened. His muscles jerked tight.
Hold it together,
Ivan told himself, knowing shortly he would be exposed for all the gymnasium to see, and that might as well be the whole world because nothing of any relevance existed outside Jadwin Gymnasium.

There were perhaps twenty seconds left in the match, but Ivan would not glance at the clock anymore. To do so would make him a slave to the clock, and Ivan would not be a slave to that, or anything else. Or anyone else.

McClellan moved beside him. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Just in case," McClellan said, "when you're in deep on the fireman's carry, remember to make it a throw."

"I know."

"If you roll, he'll hook your arms and legs."

"I got it," Ivan snapped.

"Good."

As the clock ticked toward zero, fans for the soon-to-be 122-pound champion stirred, then rose.

Ivan watched, while at the other side of the gymnasium Zane knelt down in prayer.
Pray all you want; it's not gonna help.
Then Zane adjusted the chin strap of his headgear, slipped it over his hair, brushing aside a lock before snapping the halo secure. Ivan continued to stare, waiting to see if Zane looked at him.

He did. And it angered Ivan. But he relished that anger, knowing it would push away any fatigue or hunger or thirst that might derail his quest. So he fixed his eyes on Zane until his vision narrowed and there was no gymnasium, no teammates, no coaches, no family. Just Zane and him. Two warriors. Two enemies.

And Zane still stared, pulling off his T-shirt, slipping the singlet straps over his shoulders. On another day, at another time, Ivan might have acknowledged Zane's impressive run to the finals, but now he hated Zane. He wanted to hurt him, to deliver him pain, to make him regret the moment he stepped on a Wrestling mat with him.

"Three ... two ... one..." the crowd chanted, then exploded as the buzzer sounded, ending the 122-pound state championship match.

Bobby's heart beat so powerfully, so rapidly that he could hardly sense when one beat ended and the next began. His body churned, muscle against bone, muscle against muscle, skin seemingly ready to tear at the seams.

Bobby watched Korske rolling his neck and ankles, whipping his arms behind his back, then rotating them in circles, and all the while his muscles quivered under his skin. Korske looked like a menace, like a pissed-off bully. Not any different than what Bobby had seen at the Hunterdon Central tournament in December. Bobby pulled off his warm-up pants and tossed them to Christopher.

"Win, Bobby!" Christopher yelled, fumbling with the water bottle, Bobby's clothing draped over his shoulders.

Bobby slapped hands with Kenny, Big John, Anthony, then nodded to his father. He faced Coach Messina for their last prematch handshake. The man who had taught Bobby how to wrestle, who had taught him how to be a great captain, and who then helped merge the two together.

Coach Messina's massive hands held Bobby's shoulders. He nodded with confidence as he spoke, as if intending to chase away any lingering doubts in Bobby's mind. "Time to win the states," he said, simply, then re-leased Bobby.

Bobby walked to the center of the mat, where the referee stood waiting.

"Stay focused," McClellan snapped.

Ivan looked at him, really looked at him, not with hatred in his heart, not with the usual disdain he felt, not with the pity he always had for McClellan. Everything in his life was riding on this match, there was no time to waste on McClellan. And, Ivan figured, if McClellan gained something because he won the state championship, so be it.

"I know how painful your mother's death was, but you're not doing this for her, Ivan. You're not doing this for your father, or the school, or the town. You're doing this for one person: Ivan Korske."

McClellan pressed a finger to his chest. "You deserve this more than anyone. You've worked harder than anyone here. You've sacrificed too much, pained too much, given of your soul too much to lose. No one's going to beat you on that mat. Not today."

Ivan snapped his chin strap. He had lived these six minutes in his mind a thousand times, now it was time to live them in real life.

A voice came over the arena PA system. "Now wrestling for the state championship in the one hundred and twenty-nine pound weight class ... Ivan Korske of Lennings Township and Bobby Zane of Millburn Township..."

***

A roar filled the gymnasium. Bobby looked at Coach Messina, barely able to make out his words. "It's your time!" Coach Messina was shouting.

Under the cascade of ceiling lights, Bobby nodded, then he stepped onto the mat. At the center circle, the referee shook Bobby's hand, then his opponent's.

"Gentlemen, follow my instructions and keep wrestling until the final whistle," the referee said. He motioned for Bobby and Korske to place a foot on the center circle. "Ready," he said, raising the whistle to his lips.

Only an arm's length separated them. Bobby stood in his stance, left foot forward, knees flexed, hands forward, elbows tight against his body; Korske did the same.

The waiting—months, weeks, days, hours, minutes—had passed. The state championship, all that they each had hoped and dreamed for, would await the winner at the end of the next six minutes. Six impossibly long minutes. Then absolute bliss. Or complete devastation. The dream was before them. Immediate. Inescapable.

"Wrestle!" the referee barked, punctuating it with the whistle's shrill.

And the state championship match at 129 pounds began....