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Mark said, "The best thing about wrestling’s winning.  I think winning’s the reason people get into the sport to begin with.  They like the thrill of getting out there, getting their hand raised, getting cheered on.  It gives you a high, you get pumped up and, I don’t know, it’s just the greatest feeling in the world to walk off the mat a winner."

"You talked before about the hard work.  You guys just started practicing, right?"

"Yeah."

"What’s that like?"

"Grueling."  Mark said, "There’s a lot of dedication involved in training and losing weight—"

"You wrestle one thirty three?"

"Right."

"Sorry for cutting you off."

"No, I was just saying that it’s hard losing weight and doing lifts, training three or four hours a day, every day.  It drains your body but the rush you get in the end, the one I was telling you about before, that really makes up for everything and makes it all worth it."

"What’s your eventual goal?"

"To be an All-American, maybe a National Champion.  That’s it, I guess."

"Okay.  That’s all the questions I had.  I just need to get some basic stats—other interests, age, favorite food and color, stupid stuff like that."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door.  Mark knew who it was, sprung to his feet.  Opened it.  There, in the hall, were three of his teammates.  Fellow freshmen Chris Fowler, backup one twenty five to senior Ken Seeley; Michael Chin, called Big Mike, one ninety seven, heavy set, replacement for a kid who graduated; and Tim D’Amico, a junior, one forty nine, leader of the posse.

It was he who said, "Ready to go?"

Mark told him, "Yeah," going back in the room and grabbing his coat.  He asked Kitch if they could finish this later.  He said, "I got initiation tonight."

"Initiation?"  Kitch perked up.  "What’s that all about?"

"Just something all the freshmen have to do."

"I wish I could go along."

Mark stopped in his tracks, eyes locked on the scrawny kid.  He said, "Hold on a sec," and went to the hall, pulled D’Amico aside.  "You mind if my roommate comes?"

D’Amico said, "What for?"

"He’s kind of a geek.  It’d be good for him to do something like this."

Fowler said, "Doesn’t he write for the paper?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, hell, no!" D’Amico said.  "There ain’t gonna be no stories about our initiation practices!  It’ll get us all thrown out!"

"He won’t write anything.  I promise."

"How do you know?"

"’Cause if he does I’ll bash his brains out, he knows that.  So y’all cool with this or what?"

There was a long silence before D’Amico let out a hissing breath and said, "Yeah.  Bring him.  But if he does anything stupid it’s on you."

"All right, fine."  Mark went back in the room.  "Come on, Kitch, get off your ass."

Kitch’s eyes widened.  "You serious?"

Mark said, "I’m not gonna tell you twice."

In the stairwell, heading down a flight, running, their footfalls reverberating like crazy.  Big Mike, who was carrying a mini DV camera, went "Whooo!" and that reverberated too.  Along the way they passed a young girl—two, in fact—Lisa Walsh and her roommate, Christy.  Christy was seventeen, as conservative as they come, blonde.  The girls giggled as they brushed past.  They noticed Kitch following along and noted how strange it was to see him tagging along with the athletes.  As the five boys crossed through the lobby and out the front door into the rain, Fowler leaned into Mark and said, "Didja see that Walsh girl on the stairs?"

"I don’t know.  Which one was she?"

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