Read Online Pins: A Novel by Jim Provenzano - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim Provenzano
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got one ankle, but he got a takedown, refusing to let go. He’s hairy down there, just like me, Joey thought with a sliver of pleasure, noticing a few blue-green thigh bruises Pauly must have gotten from previous matches or practices.
Before lunging further up Pauly’s body to go for a cross-face, they were out of the mat. The ref stopped them to come back to center.
Pauly dropped down to bottom position. Joey placed his hands on Pauly’s back, ready. He expected the quick escape, but he got hold of Pauly’s torso. They gripped, tugged, figuring each other out, panting, his heart jabbing against his ribs, his thigh jolting with shards of pain.
There weren’t any more ace moves, no outstanding throws. They were equally matched and exhausted. Neither could overpower the other. Their indecision, their stalemate, seemed to bore the onlookers, who were screaming about some other match beside them, maybe one of the Shivers. Joey concentrated on thinking of an escape, just getting through the period, then just breathing.
Pauly’s body pressing down the length of Joey’s, twisting sideways around Joey’s waist, gripping, torquing, his other hand forcing Joey’s head down to the mat sideways. Joey’s nose flattened against the mat. Pauly’s hips ground against his back. Drips of Pauly’s sweat fell onto Joey’s neck as Pauly pried him –using his own arm, slowly, almost tearing a few shoulder muscles– open like a clam.
Like the other boys, he tried to be nonchalant about being up on the winner’s stand, the little steps with 1st, 2nd and 3rd painted below their levels. He’d put his ice bag away, but his shoulder still felt cold.
Joey watched a moment as Pauly, at Second, raised his hand. Dink’s father stood right in front, videotaping it. Joey realized he felt glad he could at least see a tape of Pauly anytime he wanted, if he could just convince his dad to add a working VCR to the pile of necessities.
While he shook hands with some kid from Wayne, then Pauly, he heard scattered applause. “Good match, man,” Joey said.
“You too.” Pauly jumped down, but then some guy waved him back, they all posed again.
Stepping down, Pauly gave Joey a pat on the back. “See ya next time, huh?”
“Sure.” As he walked off, Joey muttered to himself, “When?”
Kids and parents milled about, eager to go home. They knew who’d won. It was no surprise. People cheered for the team scores. Little Falls came in fourth. This was just a formality. Besides, getting wins like these were similar to the results board; lateral. It was moving on, not up.
Even so, he received his small ribbon for Third Place, wrapped it in his empty sandwich bag, just to make sure it wouldn’t get wet or smelly from his wrestling clothes. He would put it with the other awards, on the shelf in his room, where his mother sometimes dusted, keeping his little shrine to himself clean. He took a breath in as the final awards, hubbub of team points, best player, other trophies went to other boys.
He took it in, the humming, laughing families trundling down bleachers, the hugs, the last of the Gatorade. Caught in a bar of light that angled through the upper windows of the gymnasium, even floating dust shimmered like particles of gold.
7
“My stomach is eating itself.”
Joey received merely a scowl from Dink, who’d warned him about attempting humor without trained supervision.
Driven to a nice restaurant in Fair Lawn, Mr. Khors kept trying to cheer up his pouting son. It wasn’t working. Dink’s father kept talking while Dink didn’t, so Mr. Khors quizzed Joey about school, about wrestling, what his plans were.
“College, maybe,” Joey shrugged.
“Maybe? Smart kid like you? You could get a scholarship.”
“Yeah. Coach says a few schools are good for that. Trenton’s top in the division.”
“So, you hope to get a scholarship?”
“Yeah, maybe in art if not for wrestling, but if not, then Rutgers or
Before lunging further up Pauly’s body to go for a cross-face, they were out of the mat. The ref stopped them to come back to center.
Pauly dropped down to bottom position. Joey placed his hands on Pauly’s back, ready. He expected the quick escape, but he got hold of Pauly’s torso. They gripped, tugged, figuring each other out, panting, his heart jabbing against his ribs, his thigh jolting with shards of pain.
There weren’t any more ace moves, no outstanding throws. They were equally matched and exhausted. Neither could overpower the other. Their indecision, their stalemate, seemed to bore the onlookers, who were screaming about some other match beside them, maybe one of the Shivers. Joey concentrated on thinking of an escape, just getting through the period, then just breathing.
Pauly’s body pressing down the length of Joey’s, twisting sideways around Joey’s waist, gripping, torquing, his other hand forcing Joey’s head down to the mat sideways. Joey’s nose flattened against the mat. Pauly’s hips ground against his back. Drips of Pauly’s sweat fell onto Joey’s neck as Pauly pried him –using his own arm, slowly, almost tearing a few shoulder muscles– open like a clam.
Like the other boys, he tried to be nonchalant about being up on the winner’s stand, the little steps with 1st, 2nd and 3rd painted below their levels. He’d put his ice bag away, but his shoulder still felt cold.
Joey watched a moment as Pauly, at Second, raised his hand. Dink’s father stood right in front, videotaping it. Joey realized he felt glad he could at least see a tape of Pauly anytime he wanted, if he could just convince his dad to add a working VCR to the pile of necessities.
While he shook hands with some kid from Wayne, then Pauly, he heard scattered applause. “Good match, man,” Joey said.
“You too.” Pauly jumped down, but then some guy waved him back, they all posed again.
Stepping down, Pauly gave Joey a pat on the back. “See ya next time, huh?”
“Sure.” As he walked off, Joey muttered to himself, “When?”
Kids and parents milled about, eager to go home. They knew who’d won. It was no surprise. People cheered for the team scores. Little Falls came in fourth. This was just a formality. Besides, getting wins like these were similar to the results board; lateral. It was moving on, not up.
Even so, he received his small ribbon for Third Place, wrapped it in his empty sandwich bag, just to make sure it wouldn’t get wet or smelly from his wrestling clothes. He would put it with the other awards, on the shelf in his room, where his mother sometimes dusted, keeping his little shrine to himself clean. He took a breath in as the final awards, hubbub of team points, best player, other trophies went to other boys.
He took it in, the humming, laughing families trundling down bleachers, the hugs, the last of the Gatorade. Caught in a bar of light that angled through the upper windows of the gymnasium, even floating dust shimmered like particles of gold.
7
“My stomach is eating itself.”
Joey received merely a scowl from Dink, who’d warned him about attempting humor without trained supervision.
Driven to a nice restaurant in Fair Lawn, Mr. Khors kept trying to cheer up his pouting son. It wasn’t working. Dink’s father kept talking while Dink didn’t, so Mr. Khors quizzed Joey about school, about wrestling, what his plans were.
“College, maybe,” Joey shrugged.
“Maybe? Smart kid like you? You could get a scholarship.”
“Yeah. Coach says a few schools are good for that. Trenton’s top in the division.”
“So, you hope to get a scholarship?”
“Yeah, maybe in art if not for wrestling, but if not, then Rutgers or
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