Pinned by Alfred C. Martino

who plays magnificent piano recitals, the poet published in local magazines, the athlete who scores the touchdowns, makes the baskets, and, yes, pins every opponent. That builds self-esteem. That builds pride. That builds
soul.
I built it at my last school; I'll build it here."
    "Lennings
has
that."
    "Sometimes," Holt said. "Most of the time, not. I covet that soul. I want to nurture it. Bottle it and sell it, if I could. Lewis, I understand we've never had a state champ at Lennings. Nothing even close, for that matter. Until Ivan, of course."
    Ivan smiled. He could almost hear McClellan's slow burn—the breaths rushing in and out his nostrils, the aborted first word of his response as he thought better of telling off Holt. It was pure delight for Ivan and would only have been better if he could have stepped inside to actually see McClellan's face, his anxious twitch.
Watch him like he watches me.
    "You're right, Garrison," McClellan said. "Guess I just never thought about it that way. After growing up in this town, Wrestling here for seven years, coaching the last six, some things just elude me."
    Gutless. The kind of sarcastic response Ivan expected from McClellan.
Don't go toe-to-toe with Holt; just lie down and let him slap you around.
Ivan shook his head.
No wonder we lose.
    "It's the big picture," Holt said. "Sometimes the staff members—bless their souls—lose sight of that. What happens in the classroom is only part of what makes up this school. That's why I can't emphasize enough how important Ivan is."
    "He's just one athlete," McClellan said. "Just one of hundreds at Lennings. He's not bigger than the school. He's not bigger than our team."
    Screw you, McClellan.
    "No, no, he's more than that," Holt said. "I'm hoping we'll have a number of newspapers doing features on him. Very sad about his mother. It'll make a good human interest story. Get the Lennings name out there."
    Screw you, Holt.
    "And Lewis," Holt said, "I'll bet you'll get some good publicity yourself."
    "Publicity?" McClellan laughed. "I don't need publicity."
    "You do. Why deny it? We might go this entire season without a win. We're the laughingstock of the conference, the district, the county, maybe the whole state. But you do know the one glimmer of hope we have."
    McClellan didn't answer.
    "Ivan Korske," Holt said. "He keeps Lennings's wrestling from being an absolute, unmitigated disaster. And the irony of all this is that his success benefits you, Lewis, more than anyone else. You are redeemed. Exonerated. Pardoned."
    There was silence. McClellan was beaten, Ivan knew; on his last legs; his mind scrambling for answers, surely, and, at the same time, begging for the battle to be over.
    "I appreciate your interest, Garrison," McClellan said, finally. "But this is my Wrestling program, and Ivan is one member of that program. Just one. No more, or less, important than anyone else."
    "Don't be foolish," Holt said. "He's special. Damn special."
    "No, absolutely
no
single wrestler is more important than the
team
" McClellan said, his voice on edge.
    And again the locker room was silent.
    It was the way McClellan had said it, desperate, as a humiliated opponent might wave a hand weakly in resignation. But Ivan knew, as much as he hated to admit it, that hadn't been the true intent of McClellan's words. McClellan had spoken with an unwavering dedication to the team and the program. His passion was undeniable.
But how could he? Ivan wondered. How could McClellan, in the face of five straight years of losing, still care?
    Holt's shoes clicked on the tiled floor, then stopped. Ivan heard tapping on glass—the cracked window that looked out onto the school driveway, he figured.
    "Too many cars at the front entrance," Holt said. "The damn buses won't be able to get out on time. I'm going to have to change the pickup system. That accident we had last month looks bad for the school. Maybe a few heads'll have to roll. People get complacent when