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Wrestlers crisscrossed the mat, motioning for partners. Bobby pointed to Kenny Jones, a returning starter at 135 pounds, whose blond hair and freckled skin seemed better suited to a beach than to a Wrestling room. But Kenny was a talented wrestler, who rarely put himself in vulnerable positions on the mat. More than anyone else on the team, he pushed Bobby hard during practice. Bobby liked that.

  "You and me," Bobby said.

  Kenny nodded.

  Bobby then gestured to Anthony Molinaro, hunched over at the side of the mat. "You, me, and Kenny. I'm A"

  "B," said Kenny.

  Anthony nodded, wearily. "Guess I'm C."

  "A and B, on your feet!" Coach Messina barked. "Everybody else off the mat."

  Bobby faced Kenny and shook his hand—a ritual indicating each was ready—then crouched in his stance. Kenny did the same. At the whistle, Bobby shuffled laterally, head up, elbows in tight, hands out in front. An opening for the takedown was a sliver wide, but that was all he needed. He attacked, drop-stepping across the mat, his hands clasping behind Kenny's right knee and pulling it tight to his chest. Before Kenny could react, Bobby stepped up.

  "Run the pike," Anthony said.

  But for Bobby, finishing off a single-leg takedown was as automatic as breathing. He dropped his head from Kenny's chest to Kenny's thigh and stepped back with his left leg, pulling his teammate to the mat and covering on top.

  Kenny slapped the mat.

  Bobby offered a hand, but Kenny pushed at it, stood up, and turned away for a moment, straightening his headgear and tugging at a knee pad. When Kenny turned back, Bobby extended his hand again. "Ya cool?"

  Kenny shook it. "Yeah, sure."

  Immediately, Kenny shot a single deep, catching Bobby flat-footed. But Bobby recovered with a heavy sprawl, leaning every bit of his weight on his teammate, driving Kenny's head to the mat and spinning hard. Kenny hung on until the whistle sounded. The two wrestlers slumped against each other.

  "Didn't know we were goin' all-out, state finals, hundred-and-twenty percent," Anthony said, putting on his headgear.

  "Me ... neither...," Kenny said, between breaths.

  Bobby said nothing. He wanted to stay out on the mat for every shot. No pain, no gain. Still, he was feeling the pain, the exhaustion that sucked every bit of strength out of him until even lifting himself up off the mat was a struggle.

  "B and C, on your feet," Coach Messina said.

  While Kenny and Anthony squared off for the next thirty-second shot, Bobby sat against the wall, gazing beyond the condensation on the windows, catching the last moments of fading daylight. He ignored the brutal heat that rose off his back and the choking humidity that thickened the air.

  Things—bad things, sad things—filled his head, and in a weaker moment, he might have let them bother him. But this was his senior year, and nothing was going to distract him during Wrestling practice, nothing was going to derail his season.

  He stared around the room, feeling little pity for the new wrestlers as they stumbled their way through drills, complaining too much, talking too often, naive to the grueling months that lay ahead. No need to straighten their asses now, he thought. In another week or two—if they hadn't already quit—they'd be as dead serious as the veteran wrestlers who would fill Millburn's varsity lineup.

  Conference champs again, the Millburn Item had predicted. Essex County champs, too, Bobby was sure.

  Still, that wouldn't be good enough, he had decided. An entire wall of Millburn's gymnasium was dedicated to the Wrestling program, honoring the school's finest teams, with their captains' names stenciled in fiery-red letters: Dean Messina, Bob Nuechterlein, Bill Miron, Buzz Wagenseller, John Serruto, Mark Serruto, Mike Kauffman, Paul Finn. They were names that drew wide eyes and reverent words from the Millburn wrestlers who followed.

  That's what Bobby wanted. He wanted his name to stand as prominently as these others, so that in five or ten years, some Millburn wrestler might look up at the wall and say, "Bobby Zane, yeah, I heard about him. One of the best captains the school's ever had."

  The thirty-second shot ended. Bobby's heart was still racing, sweat still flowing. He stood and took in a deep breath, waiting for Kenny and Anthony to separate, so he could step in.

  The round-robins continued past five o'clock. Bobby's lungs ached; his muscles quivered. Coach Messina had drawn a threshold of exhaustion for each wrestler to cross; Bobby knew he was approaching his own. He saw his teammates looking forlornly at the clock, and even caught himself glancing over once. Then, annoyed, he thought, Keep pushing...

  "Come on, Millburn!" Coach Messina's voice rocked the room.

  The wrestling stopped.

  "You're tired, I know. You're sucking wind, I know." Coach Messina walked among the wrestlers. "Fear is creeping in. Fear of trying new moves when you're tired. Fear of taking chances. Fear of pushing yourself to that very edge. Some of you feel like puking, I'll bet. Arms are dead, legs wobbly, lungs burning. What're you going to do when you start cutting weight? When you haven't had anything to eat in days? When you need to drop that last half pound and still practice hard? How're you going to stop that fear?

  "I see you looking at the clock. Wondering if practice is ever going to end. Push yourselves! Leave everything on the mat! Break that fear today, so we won't have to worry about it tomorrow. Or next week Or the rest of the season!"

  Coach Messina circled the room. "This is Millburn Wrestling, don't forget that. Since 1965, there hasn't been a more respected program in all of New Jersey. Only a few—the chosen—ever get the privilege of wearing a Millburn varsity singlet." He let that idea sink in. "Each of you has a chance to be part of that elite group."

  These were the words Bobby waited to hear each season. Ever since he was third-string on the Millburn Midget team nine years earlier, he had dreamed of a spot on the varsity team. In that time, Wrestling had slowly but unquestioningly become a part of him. He had, at first, tasted it. Then chewed and swallowed it. Until it was inside him and a part of him. To the point where he never questioned tearing his body down practice after practice, or dehydrating himself so he had too little saliva to wet his mouth, or losing so much weight his rib cage cut sharp ridges across his torso.

  It was what a wrestler did.

  After a final stare, Coach Messina said, "Grab a partner for double-legs."

  Bobby and Kenny paired off again, alternating takedowns. Afterward, fifteen minutes of stairwell sprints, then push-ups, sit-ups, and leg lifts, until—finally—three hours after practice had started, Coach Messina put down his whistle. "Everybody up front."

  Bobby sat with his teammates in a semicircle in front of their coach. He had physically given everything. Salty sweat touched the corner of his mouth; some blood, as well. His lips curled into a faint grin. He had stomped all over that threshold.

  "Sit up, or sit on your knees," Coach Messina said. "Never crawl, never he down. Never show you're tired. Not in this room."

  He pointed to a stack of papers by the door. "Schedules. Grab one before you leave. It's pretty simple. A match against Morris Catholic in mid-December, the Hunterdon Central tournament during Christmas break, then matches every Wednesday and Saturday until the district tournament. That's it—that's the season. Of course, there is a notable stop along the way." Coach Messina gestured to Bobby. "February tenth."

  Bobby nodded. "Rampart High."

  "They're back on the schedule," Coach Messina said. "They'll probably be undefeated."

  "So will we," Bobby said.

  Then Coach Messina, an intense man, turned more severe. "During the regular season, we compete as a team. But starting with the districts, you wrestle for your own glory." His voice was unyielding. "Each one of you should be thinking about being a state champ. It's not beyond anyone's ability. It takes a season of absolute dedication. But it starts with a dream. If you can't dream of being a state champ, you won't be a state champ."

  He held his stare. The room remained pin-drop silent.


  "Jumping jacks, then roll up the mats." Coach Messina gave Bobby and Kenny a quick nod. "Captains up front."

  Bobby and Kenny faced the other wrestlers. On Bobby's command, the team shouted the count. "One! Two! Three!..." At fifty, he and his teammates collected their clothing, knee pads, headgear, and schedules, and dragged themselves down the hall, past the empty classrooms and administrative offices, to the locker room near the gymnasium.

  No one spoke.

  The season had begun.

  3

  Black ASICS wrestling shoes dangled over Ivan's shoulders, bouncing against his chest as he walked down the school hallway. "Mr. Korske," he heard from behind him.

  Ivan recognized the voice; how could he not? Garrison Holt, who wore the tide of new school principal as arrogantly as he wore his pin-striped suits. Yet, despite the fancy clothes, mirrored shoes, and air of pomposity, something was always a little askew. Some days, it was his breath. Other days, a slight body odor.

  "I'd like to speak with you," Holt said.

  Ivan continued down the hallway. "Gotta get to practice."

  "Mr. Korske," Holt said. "I understand it's almost three o'clock, but you can—and will—spare a minute of your time. We both know very well, practice won't start without you."

  Ivan stopped.

  Holt put a hand on Ivan's shoulder and turned him, semi-politely and abruptly. Then he stood, fists at his waist, with the lapels of his suit jacket flared out, material bunched at his elbows—the superhero pose students at school mocked in private.

  "We're expecting big things this season," Holt said. "The school, the town—everyone's looking forward to victory after victory. I think there'll be plenty of articles written about you this season. Newspaper reporters, cable TV people, college scouts all visiting Lennings High." Holt grinned. "So," he said, "are you ready?"

  Of course I'm friggin' ready, Ivan felt like saying. But he didn't bother opening his mouth. Instead he pretended to be distracted by someone down the hall.

  Holt furrowed his brow, annoyed, expecting Ivan to answer. Neither said anything. Students, leaving for the day, walked around them.

  "Well, you let me know if you need anything," Holt said, finally. "Anything at all. When this is said and done, I want to be able to say we've crowned our first wrestling state champion. That's very, very important. Understand?"

  "I gotta get to practice now," Ivan answered.

  Ivan descended the auxiliary stairs to the school basement, turned the corner, and continued through a musty corridor. At the end of a second hallway, past a storage closet, he entered the practice room.

  The ceiling was low. A maroon mat covered the floor from brick wall to brick wall. There were no chairs. No benches. No windows. Inside the door hung a board with the twelve Wrestling weight classes stenciled at the top—101, 108, 115, 122, 129, 135, 141, 148, 158, 170, 188, and heavyweight—and below each were two hooks for the names of the Lennings starters and second-stringers.

  In an adjacent room, a boiler began to groan and thump in a powerful rhythm, growing in intensity....

  Getting louder...

  When it seemed the machinery might break through the brick wall, the boiler suddenly fell silent. Momentarily. And the cycle began again.

  Ivan, wearing his customary black shorts, no socks, and white T-shirt, breathed in the familiar odor of stale sweat. He tossed his Wrestling shoes to the side and began stretching. Other wrestlers filed into the room and spread out on the mats. Only one wrestler sat next to Ivan.

  "Missed you this weekend," said Ellison Ward, combing his fingers through his spiked reddish hair. "I got wasted. Figured it'd be the last time until March. Ended up at the old graveyard, tossin' beer bottles." He half laughed, then looked at Ivan and nodded dismissively toward a group of wrestlers at a corner of the room. "Freshmen."

  Ivan stretched both legs out and reached for the soles of his feet. "They'll be gone by January."

  "Think so?"

  "We start droppin' matches, they sure as hell will quit." He stared at one in particular, a midsized wrestler with thin arms and a slight gut, his face blotched with acne. "What's your name, freshman?"

  Ivan's voice brought an immediate silence to the room. The wrestler looked up from the corner of the room but did not answer, as if he were taking a few moments to pray that Ivan Korske was, in fact, not addressing him.

  "You," Ivan snapped.

  "H-hannen," the wrestler said.

  "H-h-hannen?"

  Then in a clearer voice, "Phillip Han—"

  "Kid, I don't need your life story," Ivan interrupted. "You're not gonna be here long enough for it to matter." He glanced at the clock, then barked. "Tell your girlfriends they better be warmed up. We're startin' practice at three sharp!"

  The freshmen wrestlers watched Ivan in awe, while the others looked at him with contempt. Ivan was familiar with both looks. Three years ago, early in his freshman season, Ivan beat—dismantled, really—-Johan Mills, a senior captain and the most popular athlete at Lennings, in a challenge match for the starting spot. While Ivan's name would remain on the top hook at 108 pounds for the rest of the season, his outcast status at Lennings was cemented that afternoon.

  Ivan was ignored at practice, before matches, even away from the Wrestling room. Out of spite and jealousy, he was sure. The team's coach, Lewis McClellan, saw it and said nothing—something Ivan would never forget. It was only when Ivan won that the team acknowledged him—and then it was only halfheartedly and begrudgingly. He learned the importance of winning for himself, and did so often, setting school records for victories and pins by a freshman. Then as a sophomore. And as a junior. He had learned his four-year quest for a state tide would be a solitary one.

  Lying on his back, Ellison bridged up on the crown of his head. He rolled forward and backward, then side to side. "Got a letter from the coach at Montclair State," he said. "Gonna visit the campus Thanksgiving weekend. My pop wants me staying close. Coaches must be calling you all the time."

  Ivan put on his Wrestling shoes. "Too many, too often."

  Ellison walked his feet closer to his head, his back arched severely, bluish veins rising from his freckled skin. "Where ya looking?"

  "Nowhere around here."

  Ivan stood up and began bouncing on the balls of his feet. Immediately, the other wrestlers followed his lead. He saw the hope in their eyes, the hope that this would be the year Lennings surprised teams in Hunterdon County and won a handful of dual meets. He shook his head. They were fooled by the optimism of a new season, when a glimmer of promise still existed.

  Don't fool yourselves, he thought. Nothing's different from last year. Or the year before. Or the year before that.

  Ellison turned to his stomach and began doing push-ups. "How's your weight?"

  "A little under 143."

  "What weight ya going?"

  Ivan shrugged. "One-thirty-five for Hillsborough and the Hunterdon Central tournament. Maybe cut to twenty-nine after. I'll see." He offered a hand to Ellison and pulled him to his feet. "Takedowns."

  Ellison nodded, and the two wrestlers faced each other. Behind Ivan, the boiler chugged to life again. His legs sizzled along the mat and his arms knifed into position as he finished off a double-leg takedown, lifting Ellison high off his feet and down to the mat. Ellison did the same. Back and forth they continued.

  The practice room door shut.

  Ivan turned. The sight of Lewis McClellan knotted his stomach. Another season of him staring, watching every move he made. On and off the mats. In the locker room, in the hallways. It didn't matter, McClellan was always there. The intrusive eyes, the paunch of neglect, the undeserved authority of a mediocre wrestler fifteen years past his time.

  McClellan moved to the center of the room. "Okay, Lennings, let's start the season." The wrestlers spread out slowly. "I know those of you returning to the team are all too familiar with the lack of success we've had."

  As if on cue, the boiler kicked into high
gear, sending a thumping through the room so strong Ivan could feel the vibrations through his Wrestling shoes. McClellan raised his voice.

  "But there's no reason why we shouldn't be able to change what's happened to this program over the past few years. This season, we're not going to fall into the trap of expecting to lose. We are going to be better." He pumped his fist. "Of course, I want each of you to understand there's more to being a Lennings wrestler than simply winning or losing."

  The incessant pounding grew even louder. McClellan's voice kept up, until he was shouting. "Each of you will learn teamwork, respect for your teammates, referees, opponents, and—"

  There was silence.

  McClellan's voice quieted. "And coach. I won't ask for everything, but I will ask for this."

  4

  Outside the gymnasium, cars of waiting parents lined the school driveway. Bobby climbed into the back of a black Lexus, offering a tired hello to Kenny's mother. The smell of new leather and perfume filled his head as he set down his backpack and slumped against the seat. Kenny pulled the passenger door shut.

  "Your coach kept you boys late," Mrs. Jones said, her voice tinged with impatience.

  "It's like this every season, Ma," Kenny said.

  Mrs. Jones pulled the Lexus to the end of the school driveway, glanced one way, then the other. "Seems later this season." The Lexus darted into the traffic on Millburn Avenue. "Your coach needs to understand there's homework that needs to be done."

  "I think he understands," Kenny said.

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Yeah, yeah...," Kenny said.

  "College applications to fill out," Mrs. Jones said. In the rearview mirror, she caught Bobby's eye. "How'd you do on the SATs?"

  "Okay."

  "Where're you applying?"

  "Not sure," Bobby said. "Dad has that covered."

  He was much too tired to get into a conversation about his future when his future didn't seem any further away than tomorrow's practice. He figured Mrs. Jones knew he wasn't going to offer much more. The car was quiet, and as they passed under the stone trestle of the Short Hills train station, up Highland Avenue, then eventually onto Lake Road, Bobby stared out the side window, fighting off the typical early-season exhaustion that left him light-headed after each practice.