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."
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."