Bobby's opponent was wiry and powerful and just a quick cut from escaping from his control when momentum carried both wrestlers outside the circle.
"Out of bounds!" the referee yelled. "Back in the center!"
Bobby ended up on his back. His chest rose and sank rapidly. He closed his eyes, feeling calm, given the circumstances—leading 7–1 in the third period of the Region 3 semifinals before nearly a thousand spectators in the Union High School gymnasium. He sat up, adjusted his headgear, climbed to his feet, and gave a nod to Coach Messina.
Coach Messina also stood, tugged at the pleats of his slacks, and said, as if it were just the two of them having a quiet conversation, "Fifty-one seconds and you're going to the states."
Going to the states ... Bobby nearly smiled.
His opponent had proved to be formidable, and perhaps on a morning when Bobby had been wrestling less than his best, the match might have been a toss-up. But Bobby had taken him down easily with a leg sweep for an early 2–0 first-period lead. Then he'd let him up and taken him down again for a 4–1 margin at the end of two minutes. He followed that with an escape and takedown in the second period.
Bobby waited for his opponent to be set in the bottom position. It felt odd not being anxious that disaster might strike, that his opponent might find some way to reverse him to his back and capture the lead. But that simply wasn't a possibility, not with the way he had plowed through the districts, manhandled his teammates in practice all week, and scored a second-period pin in his region tournament first-round match.
His opponent was a beaten wrestler, frustrated that his attack from the top position hadn't materialized. Bobby smelled it, felt it, sensed it on a level beyond what fans could see. Wrestling was sometimes too subtle to be just visual, he knew.
So Bobby settled into the top position, knowing the most important fifty-one seconds of his life to date would pass quickly and uneventfully until the referee raised Bobby's hand in victory. And then he could look toward some other "most important" period or minutes or seconds of his life, and he would be a region finalist and he would be going to the states.
Going to Jadwin, Bobby thought, a moment before the referee blew the whistle. He liked that. He liked that very much.
The gold medal, slightly larger than a half-dollar, sat in Bobby's hand. He stared at the front—two wrestlers encircled by the outline of New Jersey—then flipped it over: REGION III CHAMPION—129 LBS. Bobby closed his fist, then tossed the medal into a drawer, where it careened against the other medals, then fell silent.