they're in one position too long. It's good to muck up the water a bit. I think you understand."
"There's something to be said for continuity."
Holt chuckled. "Continuity means complacency. It means undeserved privilege. An organization needs its people to be hungry. When that desire wanes, the organization weakens..."
"And?" McClellan said.
"And it's time for practice," Holt said. "Mustn't sit on our laurels with an 0â4 season."
Ivan drew back from the door and kneeled down, pretending to rummage through his gym bag. The door opened and Holt stepped out. Then he stopped and turned back. "It's only mid-January, Lewis. Still early in the season. Enthusiasm abounds, right?"
"Sure," McClellan answered from inside the locker room.
Holt turned to Ivan. "Thanks for your patience. Good luck on Saturday. Maybe we'll get a win." He looked back inside the locker room.
Ivan watched as Holt strode down the hallway, head up, checking his lapels and the crease of his slacks as he continued away. So choreographed, so flamboyant. Ivan picked up his gym bag and was about to enter the locker room, when the door opened again.
McClellan didn't look at Ivan. He was clearly shamed. Ivan allowed a moment of pity, but that was all. McClellan's dress shirt stuck to his sweaty back and he shuffled down the corridor, head bowed slightly.
"I'll, uh, see you at practice in a few minutes," McClellan said.
19
It always started the same way.
Bobby sat on his bedroom floor, sports sections spread out around him. He had heard his parents like this before. Too many times before. Like a rumble of thunder, an ominous warning of a gathering storm. Bobby put down a pair of scissors and box-score clippings of his opponents and, for the moment, forgot about Millburn's undefeated record. He tried to close his mind to his parents' voices.
It didn't work Never did.
There was a second rumble. Louder than the first. Then another. Gaining momentum within the walls of the house, rolling in with fury, like the storms at the family's summer house down at the Shore, filling the sky with black clouds, unleashing sheets of coarse rain. There, Bobby would lean against the bay window, feeling the thunder through the glass, the walls, his body. And wait for it to be over.
It was like that now.
Bobby stared around the room, not sure what he was looking forâsomething to throw, something to hit, something to shelter him from the fury. There was nothing. It'll be over, he told himself. Soon. Someday.
"Bobby?"
In the doorway, Christopher stood, head lowered, nervously rolling the bottom of his pajama top in his fingers.
"Can I come in?" He pointed at the notebooks and newspaper clippings. "I could help ... maybe."
Bobby nodded. He was worried and scared, too. Christopher didn't say anything more, though Bobby knew questions would eventually make their way to his mouth. He wasn't sure how he'd answer. He couldn't explain the incessant arguments and vicious fighting, the detached coldness when it was over. His parents had been married twenty-three yearsâa goddamn lifetimeâwhy now?
I can't make them stop,
he wanted to say to his little brother.
I wish I could, but I can't.
But Christopher's eyes were welling and tears were not far off. His little brother needed comfort.
"Yeah, I can use some help," Bobby said, waving Christopher over. He pushed the newspapers aside so they could sit shoulder to shoulder. Christopher settled under his arm. Bobby held him tightly.
Downstairs, the storm quieted. Bobby opened a notebook in which he had marked the teams Millburn would face during the season. Under each, he had pasted relevant box scores and articles, and he had jotted notes in the margins.
"Why do ya do all this stuff?" Christopher asked.
"So I know about the guys I'm gonna wrestle," Bobby said. "I wanna know their records, how good they are." He ran his finger down the page to a box score. "Here are the weight classes. This says what happened in
"There's something to be said for continuity."
Holt chuckled. "Continuity means complacency. It means undeserved privilege. An organization needs its people to be hungry. When that desire wanes, the organization weakens..."
"And?" McClellan said.
"And it's time for practice," Holt said. "Mustn't sit on our laurels with an 0â4 season."
Ivan drew back from the door and kneeled down, pretending to rummage through his gym bag. The door opened and Holt stepped out. Then he stopped and turned back. "It's only mid-January, Lewis. Still early in the season. Enthusiasm abounds, right?"
"Sure," McClellan answered from inside the locker room.
Holt turned to Ivan. "Thanks for your patience. Good luck on Saturday. Maybe we'll get a win." He looked back inside the locker room.
Ivan watched as Holt strode down the hallway, head up, checking his lapels and the crease of his slacks as he continued away. So choreographed, so flamboyant. Ivan picked up his gym bag and was about to enter the locker room, when the door opened again.
McClellan didn't look at Ivan. He was clearly shamed. Ivan allowed a moment of pity, but that was all. McClellan's dress shirt stuck to his sweaty back and he shuffled down the corridor, head bowed slightly.
"I'll, uh, see you at practice in a few minutes," McClellan said.
19
It always started the same way.
Bobby sat on his bedroom floor, sports sections spread out around him. He had heard his parents like this before. Too many times before. Like a rumble of thunder, an ominous warning of a gathering storm. Bobby put down a pair of scissors and box-score clippings of his opponents and, for the moment, forgot about Millburn's undefeated record. He tried to close his mind to his parents' voices.
It didn't work Never did.
There was a second rumble. Louder than the first. Then another. Gaining momentum within the walls of the house, rolling in with fury, like the storms at the family's summer house down at the Shore, filling the sky with black clouds, unleashing sheets of coarse rain. There, Bobby would lean against the bay window, feeling the thunder through the glass, the walls, his body. And wait for it to be over.
It was like that now.
Bobby stared around the room, not sure what he was looking forâsomething to throw, something to hit, something to shelter him from the fury. There was nothing. It'll be over, he told himself. Soon. Someday.
"Bobby?"
In the doorway, Christopher stood, head lowered, nervously rolling the bottom of his pajama top in his fingers.
"Can I come in?" He pointed at the notebooks and newspaper clippings. "I could help ... maybe."
Bobby nodded. He was worried and scared, too. Christopher didn't say anything more, though Bobby knew questions would eventually make their way to his mouth. He wasn't sure how he'd answer. He couldn't explain the incessant arguments and vicious fighting, the detached coldness when it was over. His parents had been married twenty-three yearsâa goddamn lifetimeâwhy now?
I can't make them stop,
he wanted to say to his little brother.
I wish I could, but I can't.
But Christopher's eyes were welling and tears were not far off. His little brother needed comfort.
"Yeah, I can use some help," Bobby said, waving Christopher over. He pushed the newspapers aside so they could sit shoulder to shoulder. Christopher settled under his arm. Bobby held him tightly.
Downstairs, the storm quieted. Bobby opened a notebook in which he had marked the teams Millburn would face during the season. Under each, he had pasted relevant box scores and articles, and he had jotted notes in the margins.
"Why do ya do all this stuff?" Christopher asked.
"So I know about the guys I'm gonna wrestle," Bobby said. "I wanna know their records, how good they are." He ran his finger down the page to a box score. "Here are the weight classes. This says what happened in
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