One Shot Away Read Free Page A

ball is going to happen.
    Diggy and his brother, Nick, call their father Randy. When he put them in wrestling, he told them to call him “Coach Randy” instead of “Dad.” Their mother thought it was ridiculous. “I’m the coach of Team Masters,” he said. After they moved to the Hills, he built a wrestling room in their basement. He put together a library of wrestling and coaching books. Diggy was in the sixth grade. Nick was two grades ahead. So they called him Coach Randy. They forgot that it was a goof. He became their coach. Now his brother doesn’t wrestle anymore and they call him just plain Randy.
    Everything that means anything in the Masters’ family is somehow linked to wrestling. Example: Diggy’s real name is Devon. Nick’s first year on varsity, the team picked a Kid Rock song as their team’s anthem. A dumb song, which was sacked by the team the next season, but that year, Nick and every wrestler chanted the lyrics like shorted-out robots: “Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy said the boogy said up jump the boogy.” Diggy was in seventh grade, already wrestling on the high school freshmen team. Not because he showed great talent, but because Randy convinced Coach Greco it would be better to keep his sons together. So Nick and Diggy wrestled in the same gym. Diggy on freshmen. Nick on varsity. Devon morphed to Diggy and it stuck like a wet paper towel on a locker room ceiling.
    Diggy slips into the bathroom to wash his hands and figures he might as well puke. A lot of wrestlers do this during season. He turns on the sink water for background noise, then kneels in front of the toilet and shoves two fingers into his throat. He gags, waits, then sticks them in farther. His eyes water. Nothing. He washes his face and gives the toilet another look. Maybe he can sneak up on it. He tries again, this time more quickly. He gags. Bingo. The pie and some of his dinner blow into the water.
    â€œDiggy!”
    It’s Randy.
    â€œDiggy!”
    He returns to the kitchen. The pie is on the island.
    â€œWhat’s this?” asks Randy.
    â€œThat?”
    â€œYeah, this.”
    â€œPie.” He’s stalling, trying to figure a way out.
    â€œI know it’s a pie. Why does it look like someone just stuck their fingers in it?”
    Diggy shakes his head and does his best “beats the hell out of me” look.
    â€œCome on, let’s go,” says Randy.
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes, right now.”
    Diggy follows him down the basement stairs. Randy turns on the light. The floor is wall-to-wall wrestling mats, with a separate room for weights. A balance scale is at the foot of the stairs. Not a twenty-five-dollar department store scale, a real black-and-white doctor’s office scale with sliding weights. Randy sets the larger weight at 150, then slides the other weight to two pounds. One-fifty-two, that’s Diggy’s wrestling weight. He wrestled 152 last season, his junior year, and had a winning varsity record. Last winter, it felt good to be Diggy Masters.
    He slips off his sneakers and steps on the scale.
    â€œTake off your shirt.”
    Diggy pulls it over his head. He’s standing in basketball shorts and socks. His body is smooth, not ripped, but not fat. His belly is almost flat, but there’s no six-pack or any signs of muscle. Randy moves the weight along the balance bar: 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161.
    â€œWhat the …?” Randy’s mouth hangs open. At 162, the scale balances. “You’re ten over.”
    â€œI got time.” Diggy is supposed to be weighing himself every day. One-sixty-two is actually a surprise. Not a good surprise, but not a nightmare either. “I can cut.”
    â€œYou can cut? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
    What is he supposed to say? Randy, I just puked. Randy, I have a fat ass just like you . “I won’t