Pinned Read online

  Pinned

  Alfred C. Martino

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  ...

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

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  HARCOURT, INC.

  Orlando Austin New York

  San Diego Toronto London

  Copyright © 2005 by Alfred C. Martino

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

  system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should

  be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the

  following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  First Harcourt paperback edition 2006

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Martino, Alfred C.

  Pinned/by Alfred C. Martino.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Dealing with family problems, girls, and their own competitive

  natures, high school seniors Ivan Korske and Bobby Zane face each other

  in the final match of the New Jersey State Wrestling Championship.

  [1. Wrestling—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.

  4. Competition (Psychology)—Fiction. 5. New Jersey—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M3674Pi 2005

  [Fic]—dc22 2004014444

  ISBN-13: 978-0-15-205355-0 ISBN-10: 0-15-205355-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-15-205631-5 pb ISBN-10: 0-15-205631-9 pb

  Text set in Janson

  Designed by Cathy Riggs

  DOM C E G H F D B

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, organizations,

  and events portrayed in this book an the products of the author's imagination

  or are used fictitiously to lend a sense of realism to the story. Any resemblance to

  any organization, event, or actual person, living or dead, is unintentional.

  For every young wrestler with the guts

  to step out on a mat and compete

  Acknowledgments

  I have had much good fortune and been touched by many wonderful people in my forty years.

  I am humbled by the gift of wonderful parents who adopted me as an infant, and who, two years later, graced our family with my adopted little sister. My mother and father instilled in us the idea that we were "chosen," and I have held this belief, not as a sense of entitlement, but with humility and pride. I thank my parents, especially my mother, for a remarkably happy youth and for providing me with the confidence to move forward through the rest of my life regardless of what difficulties I might face.

  There are many others who have had an important influence on me, including (but certainly not limited to) my grandparents, my aunt Mary, my aunts, uncles, and cousins, Elizabeth (a best friend for as long as I can remember), Alisa (the best business partner anyone would want), Cheryl (who believed in me at times when I didn't believe in myself), and my friends from Short Hills whose families, wives, and children are a source of love and support.

  I thank my three high school coaches—Mr. Sachsel, Mr. McSorley, and Mr. Miron—each of whom inspired me to embrace the sport of wrestling, and who taught me that sportsmanship was always more important than wins or losses.

  I am also grateful to my California writing group—Alexes, Janet, Mary Lou, and Cathi—all fabulous writers themselves, who helped refine and improve Pinned. And to author Natalie Goldberg—though we've never met, it was through your books that I came to understand why writing would always be a part of my fife.

  And, finally, a huge thanks to Karen Grove and Susan Schulman. Without the expertise of both, Pinned would have never made it to print. For making this dream (and it is a really big dream) a reality, I am forever indebted.

  ALFRED C. MARTINO

  AUGUST 2004

  1

  Wind rapped against the bedroom window. Ivan Korske stared beyond his reflection, into the shadowy woods that surrounded the family's farmhouse. November, and its chilly prelude to winter, had long arrived. Ivan stretched a thermal shirt over his back, then pulled long johns up his thighs. A plastic rubber-suit top that crinkled when he slipped it over his head came next. Sweatpants and a sweatshirt followed.

  Downstairs, a grandfather clock chimed eleven. Ivan vaguely noticed, grabbing a pair of weathered running shoes on the floor of his closet. While most Lennings High School seniors spent Sunday night on the phone, piecing together memories of the weekend's parties, Ivan prepared for his evening run.

  Every night, regardless of how tired or hungry he was, Ivan ran. When his running shoes were soaked from rain, he ran. When his fingers were numb from the cold, he ran. The night his mother died last April, he ran.

  The final judgment of his high school Wrestling career hinged on whether he stood victorious in Jadwin Gymnasium, site of the New Jersey State Championships, the second Saturday of March. Each run, Ivan was certain, brought him that much closer to the dream of being a state champ and a chance to get away—far away—from Lennings.

  Anything less would be failure.

  Ivan sat at the end of his bed in the sparsely furnished room, dog tired from an afternoon of splitting logs behind the shed out back There was a dresser and bookshelf, a wooden chair to his left, and the red and white of a small Polish flag coloring one of four otherwise bare walls. Ivan leaned over to tie the laces of his running shoes, then looked up at the photograph of his mother as a teenager in the old country—a sturdy young woman with soft, rounded cheeks and bright hazel eyes. Ivan was proud to have the same. The silver frame glinted from his meticulous care, even under the dim light of the bedroom lamp.

  Ivan imagined his mother sitting beside him, as she often had the last months she was alive. "Too many chores for you," she would say. "Your father forgets you are only seventeen. I will speak with him. I know you have other interests..." She would smile and give a knowing nod toward the house across the street. "Even besides this Wrestling sport."

  Alone, in the chill of his bedroom, Ivan closed his eyes. He could hear her words, soothing and familiar, and see her face, robust and healthy, as they once were. He remained that way for some time.

  "Ivan." His father's voice bellowed from the first floor. "Are you running now?"

  Ivan held back the sadnes
s and hardened his face with unflinching resolve, the same glare he gave opponents before a match. "I'm going."

  "Now?"

  "Yeah, Papa, now."

  He grabbed his jacket from the chair, walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs, its floorboards creaking and the radiator clanking from the rush of hot water through the metal piping. The scent of chimney embers lingered. At the bottom of the staircase, Ivan zipped his jacket and stepped out the front door.

  It was a clear night. A crescent moon hung just above the tree line. Ivan looked across the street at the Petersons' house. In a second-floor corner window, he saw Shelley's silhouette, head propped on an elbow, at her desk. Finishing her homework, he knew. Ivan breathed in deeply. Cold wind pressed against his body and slipped beneath his clothing. He felt alive, intensely aware of every inch of his skin, nostrils, and the full expansion of his lungs.

  This is gonna be a good run.

  With a shiver, Ivan started down Farmingdale Road. His running shoes bounced off the pavement edged by fields of withered grass, beyond which miles of woodlands passed in darkness. Ivan traveled back in time, as he did during every evening rim.

  ...Lennings' first freshman varsity starter—108-pound weight class. Going against the captain from Westfield—fourth in the state the year before. Everyone talking about me. Lots of articles. Always spelling my name wrong ... Scared to death in the locker room before the match...

  Forgetting what to do for the fifty-four seconds it took the guy to toss me all over the mat. Struggling to get off my back, while he squeezed the half. So tight my lungs couldn't expand. Can't breathe! Can't breathe! Panic scrambling my head until, finally, giving in. Letting my shoulder blades touch the mat. The referee calling the pin, ending the nightmare...

  I gave up...

  Quit...

  Never again...

  To Ivan's right, Sycamore Creek snaked its way through the woods before emptying into a pond, a stone's throw wide, where he and the Scott brothers, Josh and Timmy, played ice hockey as kids. Six years ago, the township's new irrigation system began siphoning off water for a nearby corn farm, leaving the pond a bed of damp silt. Not that it mattered to Ivan. Shortly after, the Scotts moved away. He never heard from them again. No letters or postcards, no phone calls. They were just gone. To somewhere in Minnesota was all he knew.

  A car came up behind him—illuminating the road ahead, stretching his shadow—then passed by, leaving the crimson of its taillights and the hum of its engine fading into the night.

  And his Wrestling memories, still raw years later, continued.

  ...first sophomore region champ at Lennings. Dreams of going farther. Riding a nine-match winning streak—all by pins ... Quarterfinals of the states—122 pounds. Whipped by some guy from Newton. Hit a switch, and hit it hard. But the guy steps across and catches me. On my back. Fighting to get out. Then finally do. I score a reversal, later a takedown, but nothing else.

  Time runs out. The humiliation of getting beat 11–4. Walking off the mat, the crowd staring at me like Vm some loser. No escape. Freezing-cold nights running. Drilling moves for hours and hours and hours. Thousands of push-ups. Thousands of sit-ups.

  But I lost...

  Losing tastes like crap...

  Passing Wellington Farms, Ivan counted 564 steps along the length of the wooden fence. The night before it had been 573. He had logged so many miles on this road, he could run, eyes closed, and avoid all the potholes and broken pavement. Sweat coated his body, while heat trapped within the layers of his clothing insulated him from the cold. Ahead, a row of street lamps shone on Main Street.

  The center of town was desolate. Ivan passed Mr. Johnston's Florist Shop, a fixture in town for decades; Burley's Automotive; and the Starlite Deli. In the deli's front window a poster read: IVAN—BRING HOME THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP! A little farther, Ivan passed Hometown Hardware, then, at the corner, a neon sign blinked above Evergreen Tavern. The gravel parking lot was nearly fall. Drinking away the last hours before another dreary week of fife began, Ivan figured. He crossed the intersection, and soon, the center of Lennings was behind him. All Ivan could hear was the beat of his running shoes on the pavement and his steady, comfortable breathing.

  ...junior year, undefeated after twenty-four matches—fifteen by pins. Named one of the top 129-pounders by the Star-Ledger... Gonna be Lennings' first state champ. Everyone says so.

  Too many newspaper articles. Too many interviews. Too many people wanting me. Too many distractions. Semifinals of the states, against last year's champ, from Highland Regional. So damn close...

  Got caught in the first period, but came back in the third. Time running out. Needing a two-point reversal. Sat out, then hit the switch. Leaning back hard against the guy. He's gonna collapse. Ten seconds left... nine ...

  Eight...

  Seven ...

  Six...

  Five...

  Four—The buzzer goes off as the guy collapses.

  No, there's three seconds left! How'd the buzzer go off too soon? They said the timekeeper made a mistake. That's it. End of discussion.

  The timekeeper screwed up.

  Lost in the state semifinals.

  Lost 8–7.

  Miles later, Ivan turned off Vernon Avenue and started up the hill past the Wallens' house. His thighs stiffened, then burned, but he kept pumping. His heart hammered his rib cage. Ivan kept pushing, pushing beyond the pain, beyond any normal threshold, until he was overcome with numbness, still moving, still breathing furiously, but no longer feeling the impact of his feet against the road.

  Finally, the hill crested and Ivan was back home. Chilled air rushed in and out of his lungs while baking heat in his body dizzied his thoughts. Ivan staggered a few yards, then stopped at the stone wall that surrounded his house, and bent over. A swell of nausea rose from his gut. His diaphragm jerked tight, and he vomited.

  Good run. Damn good run.

  A wisp of steam rose from the liquid. Ivan moved farther along the wall, then down the driveway. He glanced back at Shelley's window—a light was still on—then braced again. His stomach jerked a second time. He wiped vomit from his nose, spit the rest from his mouth, and continued around the house.

  The back door slapped against its wooden frame. Ivan's father stood in the kitchen with a Daily Record in his hand. He was old, silver-haired long ago, but still a bull of a man. Ivan stepped inside, sat on the floor, and began untying his running shoes. His father unfolded the newspaper, nodded, and tapped a page. "Did you see today's paper? There is an article about you." He set his glasses and began reading, "'The township of Lennings—'"

  "Papa, not now."

  "You will listen," his father said. He again looked down at the newspaper. "'The township of Lennings is nearly invisible on a map of western New Jersey. Hidden on the southern shore of Round Valley Reservoir, fifteen miles from the Pennsylvania border, it is a world away from the bright lights of Philadelphia and New York City. A blue-collar community with small-town ideals, Lennings is again buzzing with excitement for one of its own, Ivan Korske, the odds-on favorite to win the 135-pound state title.'" Then his father said, with a firm nod, "Very nice."

  Ivan said nothing. He pulled off his running shoes, tossing them to the corner, then stripped to his underwear. His sleeved shirt and long johns fell to the floor with a wet slap. Sweat glistened on his skin.

  "It says teams start practice tomorrow," his father said. "But not Lennings?"

  "Remember the tradition?"

  His father did not.

  "That stupid-ass tradition," Ivan muttered, "where we start practicing a few days after everyone else—as a handicap to our opponents." He rolled his eyes. "Someone forgot to remind us we've had four straight losing seasons."

  His father sat down heavy in the chair, as if he, too, was very tired. "Are you ready?"

  "Ready?" Ivan said, annoyed. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

  "Good," his father said, "very good." He then went on. "The coach fro
m Bloomsburg telephoned earlier."

  Ivan looked up for a moment, then away.

  "He wished you good luck for the season," his father said. "He would like us to drive out for a visit. We will take a campus tour. Before Christmas, perhaps. I think this would be a very good university for you."

  A drop of sweat gathered at the end of Ivan's nose, quivered, then dropped to the kitchen floor. "I'm gonna shower," he said, bending down to gather the wet clothing into his arms. Without another word, he slipped into the dark of the dining room and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

  2

  His heart pounding, Bobby Zane stood. The thirty-second rest between round-robin shots was hardly enough time to sit down and get up again, let alone catch his breath. But Bobby understood no amount of weight lifting or miles of running would have prepared him enough for the first practice of the season. He slipped the plastic headgear over his head, shifting the halo and earpieces into place, then snapped the chin strap secure. Sweat ran down his cheeks. A drenched long-sleeved shirt clung to his body like a second skin.

  "Time!" Coach Dean Messina's voice boomed from the front of the Millburn High practice room. "Look up front!"

  Bobby and his teammates turned toward their coach, the most celebrated wrestler in school history, a two-time New Jersey state champion whose wrestling legend crossed county lines as far north as Sussex and as far south as Cape May.

  "You guys are not executing on your feet," Coach Messina said. He cleared space on the mat. "There are four parts to a single-leg. Stance. Setup. Drop step. Finish."

  Coach Messina recoiled in a powerful stance, then lunged forward with his left leg, down to his left knee for a split second, sweeping his right leg under his body and forward along the mat. In an instant, he was back on his feet with the lower leg of an imaginary opponent secure, in a perfect position to finish off the two-point takedown. "Any questions?"

  There were none. Or perhaps, Bobby thought, no one dared ask.

  "Another set of round-robins, new partners," Coach Messina said. "Seventy-five percent for right now. I want you guys working technique. Perfect technique, understand?"