Pins: A Novel by Jim Provenzano Read Free Book Online Page A

Buddha Martinez stuck his finger in Lamar’s ear, who swatted him away. Dustin and Raul pulled their hoods up over their heads, pulling the drawstrings out to do the by-now overdone impersonation of Killer Ants. Troy hummed along to a song in his cassette player, fending off the Ants. The Shiver brothers sat together, talking their own secrets. They were nearly twins. Everybody made jokes about them being boyfriends. Brett Shiver had a stutter, so he didn’t talk much. The Shiver brothers were experts at making odds. They’d tally up other school’s points from wins, losses, tabulate what they considered would be the probable point spreads. It was a crazy system, but it sometimes worked.
    Others chuckled, talked with Chrissie Wright and Kimberly Holbrook, the two Mat Maids who volunteered to assist on scorekeeping, timing, stats. Guys liked to flirt with them. Everybody had a pal or someone to talk to.
    Except Anthony. Sitting alone in a seat up front, his head buried in a book, Joey gave him a glance, was about to say at least “Hey,” but Dink called for him, waving him to a seat, where they would spend the morning staring out the window, goofing off, getting nervous about the day to come.
     
    LITTLE   FALLS   COLTS
    103 - Dustin Ely
    112 - Anthony Lambros
    119 - Lamar Stevens
    125 - Joseph Nucci
    130 - Donald Khors
    135 - Troy Hilas
    140 - Raul Klein
    145 - Walter Cryzinski
    152 - Jeff Shiver
    160 - Brett Shiver
    171 - Andrew Hunter
    189 - Benjamin Skaal
    275/HW - Mario Martinez
     
    They’d mispelled his name again. He stuffed the program in his bag, tried to forget about it, get ready.
    Dual matches, while sparsely attended, at least had a simplicity, us against them.   Invitationals were more relaxed.   Since five or six teams competed, three mats were rolled out in the gymnasium with competitions going on like a circus. Clusters of guys herded around the outskirts in teams, shouting suggested moves, sitting, stretching, jumping rope.
    There were few outside people at tournaments. Half-filled with parents, family, wrestlers who weren’t competing, the bleachers were also cluttered with gym bags, coats, coolers, crumpled bags of bagels, half-empty plastic soda bottles, assorted headgear. People walked up and down the aisles, across the three mats with a casual comfort while boys twisted and turned amid them. Boys leaned or lay on the extra rolled mat along the wall of receded bleachers.
    Behind each mat at a table sat a timer, statistician and scorekeeper, mostly boys either not competing, or mat maids. Sometimes guys watched out for the girls before changing in a corner. A few snuck off to the locker room.
    Joey’s headgear dangled from the shoulder strap of his pulled-down singlet. Over that he wore one of his usual baggy sweat shirts, his favorite from St. Augustine’s.
    Joey and most of the Colts lounged around one corner of the gym floor, gear half-spilled out of their gym bags. Raul and Troy did push-ups. Anthony passed them, considered sitting with the rest of the team, then darted his glance away, sat in a corner.
    “Damn. That loser is bringin’ us down,” grumbled Hunter.
    “Aw, give him a break,” Raul said, huffing between push-ups. “Even if he’s lousy, you gotta give him points for trying.”
    “There is no try. There is only do.” Hunter blurted out the quote from Yoda.   Coach Cleshun did it better, though.
    “Mercy is for the weak,” Bennie added as he stuck his earphones in, deposited Megadeth’s latest into his small CD player, walking off to the bleachers. Only after he was well out of range did Joey see Raul swirl his finger toward his own temple, as if silently saying, “Certified Nut Job.”
    At another mat, Coach Cleshun barked out commands to Walt, who seemed to be doing pretty well against a kid from Haledon.
    Over the loudspeaker, a voice announced, “All one-twenty-six, cadet. Please report.”
    Joey trotted to the table on the other side of the mats, away from