each match."
Christopher looked, but blankly. Bobby wasn't sure if it was because his little brother didn't understand or because the silence downstairs had gone on so long. Bobby thumbed through a few more pages, and for a time, it seemed the storm had come to an abrupt end. All was calm. Still, Bobby didn't relax. He waited. Always waited.
"What team's this?" Christopher pointed to a page.
Black marker outlined a half dozen box scores with "February 10" written in heavy black letters at the top. "Remember those mean guys from two years ago?" Bobby said. "That's Rampart. We're gonnaâ"
A crash of thunder. Punctuated with a crack of lightning.
"âbeat them in a few weeks," Bobby finished.
The storm was back. And it was fierce. The faint enraged words Bobby could hardly make out before were now clear, snapping back and forth.
"Robert, goddamn you!"
"Shut up, Maggie!"
Then overlapping each other in one sustained shout.
Christopher's eyes were now wide with fear. Bobby thought of something else to say, but words were pointless.
"They fight too much," Christopher said in a hush, as if worried his mother or father might hear.
"Yeah," Bobby said, "they do."
Incessantly. His mother screaming; his father yelling. Doors slamming. Bobby wanted to blame someone, to know whose fault it was and be able some day, when he had the guts, to confront his mother, or his father. Then the rage, bottled up for so long, could spew out.
"Why're they so mad?" Christopher said.
"Don't know."
"Bobby?"
"Yeah."
"Do ya think Mom and Dad will have a divorce?"
Bobby looked oddly at his little brother. A precocious question, he thought. Then, so as not to give away his own fears, Bobby said, "Don't think about that."
"Stevie says it happens all the time. Then the dad moves away."
"Stevie's wrong. That's not gonna happen."
"Promise, Bobby?"
"Promise."
"Really promise?"
"Yes,
really
promise," Bobby said. "Why don't we watch TV?"
Christopher seemed happy with that. He jumped to his feet, walked over to the television on the dresser, reached up, and pressed the ON button.
"Loud," Bobby said to his little brother. "Put it up loud."
20
Ivan sat with Ellison behind the rest of the team. It was going to be a waste of a practice, he could tell right away, the kind that had to be endured, then forgotten immediately. Lennings was winless in eight matches, with the Hunterdon schools looming on the schedule. Guys were quitting, morale was out the window, and here was McClellan giving another one of his moronic speeches. Ivan thought about walking out the door.
"We've lost a number of matches, I can't sugarcoat that," McClellan said. "We should be in a better position at this point in the season. I expected a few victories. I know you guys did, too." McClellan fixed a hard stare at the team, but Ivan was sure no one gave a damn.
Except one wrestler.
As always, Phillip Hannen sat dead center in front of McClellan, following every word he said. During drills, Hannen often volunteered to practice with Ivan and Ellison, getting thrown around the mat. Yet he never quit, no matter what drill, no matter how late in practice, no matter how much punishment he was taking. It was a quality Ivan usually admired. But to Ivan, Hannen was a kiss-ass, trying too hard, too often, to impress McClellan.
"Just three dual meets left," McClellan said. "We win a couple of these, and all of a sudden, the season is ours again. It's up to you. We have a clean slate. Our new season starts Thursday against North Hunterdon, then Saturday with Hunterdon Central. You guys are familiar with both teams. They're excellent, both ranked in the top twenty..."
His words were quickly drowned out by the churning of the boiler room machinery. But McClellan didn't fight it. He simply waved for the team to spread out on the mats. "Takedowns."
Ivan nodded to Ellison and said, "Let's get this going." They began alternating singles, doubles, hi-crotches. There was a familiar
Christopher looked, but blankly. Bobby wasn't sure if it was because his little brother didn't understand or because the silence downstairs had gone on so long. Bobby thumbed through a few more pages, and for a time, it seemed the storm had come to an abrupt end. All was calm. Still, Bobby didn't relax. He waited. Always waited.
"What team's this?" Christopher pointed to a page.
Black marker outlined a half dozen box scores with "February 10" written in heavy black letters at the top. "Remember those mean guys from two years ago?" Bobby said. "That's Rampart. We're gonnaâ"
A crash of thunder. Punctuated with a crack of lightning.
"âbeat them in a few weeks," Bobby finished.
The storm was back. And it was fierce. The faint enraged words Bobby could hardly make out before were now clear, snapping back and forth.
"Robert, goddamn you!"
"Shut up, Maggie!"
Then overlapping each other in one sustained shout.
Christopher's eyes were now wide with fear. Bobby thought of something else to say, but words were pointless.
"They fight too much," Christopher said in a hush, as if worried his mother or father might hear.
"Yeah," Bobby said, "they do."
Incessantly. His mother screaming; his father yelling. Doors slamming. Bobby wanted to blame someone, to know whose fault it was and be able some day, when he had the guts, to confront his mother, or his father. Then the rage, bottled up for so long, could spew out.
"Why're they so mad?" Christopher said.
"Don't know."
"Bobby?"
"Yeah."
"Do ya think Mom and Dad will have a divorce?"
Bobby looked oddly at his little brother. A precocious question, he thought. Then, so as not to give away his own fears, Bobby said, "Don't think about that."
"Stevie says it happens all the time. Then the dad moves away."
"Stevie's wrong. That's not gonna happen."
"Promise, Bobby?"
"Promise."
"Really promise?"
"Yes,
really
promise," Bobby said. "Why don't we watch TV?"
Christopher seemed happy with that. He jumped to his feet, walked over to the television on the dresser, reached up, and pressed the ON button.
"Loud," Bobby said to his little brother. "Put it up loud."
20
Ivan sat with Ellison behind the rest of the team. It was going to be a waste of a practice, he could tell right away, the kind that had to be endured, then forgotten immediately. Lennings was winless in eight matches, with the Hunterdon schools looming on the schedule. Guys were quitting, morale was out the window, and here was McClellan giving another one of his moronic speeches. Ivan thought about walking out the door.
"We've lost a number of matches, I can't sugarcoat that," McClellan said. "We should be in a better position at this point in the season. I expected a few victories. I know you guys did, too." McClellan fixed a hard stare at the team, but Ivan was sure no one gave a damn.
Except one wrestler.
As always, Phillip Hannen sat dead center in front of McClellan, following every word he said. During drills, Hannen often volunteered to practice with Ivan and Ellison, getting thrown around the mat. Yet he never quit, no matter what drill, no matter how late in practice, no matter how much punishment he was taking. It was a quality Ivan usually admired. But to Ivan, Hannen was a kiss-ass, trying too hard, too often, to impress McClellan.
"Just three dual meets left," McClellan said. "We win a couple of these, and all of a sudden, the season is ours again. It's up to you. We have a clean slate. Our new season starts Thursday against North Hunterdon, then Saturday with Hunterdon Central. You guys are familiar with both teams. They're excellent, both ranked in the top twenty..."
His words were quickly drowned out by the churning of the boiler room machinery. But McClellan didn't fight it. He simply waved for the team to spread out on the mats. "Takedowns."
Ivan nodded to Ellison and said, "Let's get this going." They began alternating singles, doubles, hi-crotches. There was a familiar
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