Pins: A Novel by Jim Provenzano Read Free Book Online

He figured it couldn’t hurt. Might as well keep in touch.
    Saint Sebastian’s body looked strange to him, not a modern body at all. He needed to work on his shoulders, abs. Joey had always been oddly fascinated by the light shining down on him while tied to the tree, the arrow in his neck, all of it arranged for eternity. The saints always looked as if they knew all along they would suffer, like they had appointments with God, who was detained, and would they mind waiting?

 
    6
    The best thing about invitationals; guys from a lot of different schools competed. The worst thing; weigh-ins started at dawn, on Saturdays.
    Fair Lawn was less than half an hour away, but Coach Cleshun had made a six a.m. call for the bus, just to be sure.
    Due to the new job and all its unspoken pressures, Dino Nicci worked Saturdays. “Leaky sinks never take weekends off,” he’d said too many times, so Joey didn’t even ask him to come. He knew the real reason. He’d heard his father say something about having to impress his new boss, “being in debt up to our asses,” then grinning like it was beyond hopeless.
    His mom had packed a lunch, given him money “just in case,” even though Mr. Khors had called the night before to ask if it was all right if he “took the boys out to dinner” after the invitational. Of course he would pay for it. Parents always paid.
    She also tried to get him to eat the eggs and toast she’d made appear out of nowhere, but he had to explain weigh-ins again while fishing through his gym bag to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything; jock strap, extra singlet, fingernail clippers, towel, lock, with the combination secretly written inside his worn-out wrestling shoes.
    “I’m just barely over one-twenny-seven, Ma.   I gotta be one-twenny-six. I’ll eat after.”
    “Have some juice at least.”
    “Okay,” he relented, knowing he’d have to sweat every ounce off before weigh-ins.
    “I still don’t understand why this weight thing is so important. Can’t you–”
    “You know how we don’t have breakfast on Sunday until after Mass? After we take communion?”
    “Yeah.” She looked confused.
    “It’s like that.”
    “Joseph!”
    The doorbell rang.   Joey gulped his juice down.   “I’ll get it,” he raced past his mother to the foyer, embarrassed that Dink would see her in a nightgown.
    “C’mon,” Dink said, shivered on the porch, his hands in his pockets.
    “Just a sec.” He dashed back in the kitchen, grabbed his lunch, stuffed it in his gym bag.
    “Do well,” his mother said.
    “Thanks,” he muttered, then turned back, gave her a kiss.
    Joey got in the back with Dink, buckled up. The man at the wheel reached over, shook hands. “Hi, Mr. Khors.”
    “Good morning, Joseph.”
    Dink’s father wore glasses, had hair the color of Dink’s, but not much of it. “You boys ready for today?”
    “Better be,” Joey said.
    “I’ll drop you off at the bus, then I’ll see you in Fair Lawn.”
    Then he got it. This was what divorced dads did, had weekends with kids. He thought it was special, but then realized how awful it must be to get dropped off in both directions. He felt a sense of camaraderie that Dink was sharing this time.
     
    Parked in the nearly vacant school lot, the driver chatted by the bus door with Assistant Coach Fiasole, waiting. Fiasole waved to Dink’s dad as he drove off.
    Dink hopped up the steps of the bus, called out, “Window seat,” but Joey didn’t mind.
    “Neech!”
    “The Dinkster!”
    They high- and low-fived. Some guys were still trying to doze, despite the uncomfortable seats, the morning sun glaring through smudged windows. Most others chatted away expectantly, bursting out with jokes, laughter, grunts, hoots.
    Bennie and Hunter took the two back rows, laid out flat, faking sleep. Buddha Martinez sat behind little Lamar, the team’s only African-American kid. Guys sometimes called them Laurel and Hardy. Stevens curled up, half asleep.