Wrestling

As many of you know, I wrestled for a good chunk of my life. The piece below was a creative writing assignment for school. It tells a bit about the last tournament I ever wrestled in. Two weeks after this tournament, my wrestling career ended forever. Here is a glimpse into my mind at the height of my wrestling career, a little more than a year before I accepted Christ.
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Whistles ram shackle the gymnasium, backed by thundering bleachers and bolts of flashes hailing down from the crowd. The stage intensifies as the wrestling tournament nears climax with every passing match. The Newark Academy wrestling tournament showcased twenty-one teams, (I know because I counted), nineteen of which had wrestlers weigh-in at 130 lbs., my weight-class.

I repeatedly thought of Rob Delores, and how I loathed his doofus grin. Rob Delores lived in my neighborhood. I swear that kid was smoking in the bathroom since the 2nd grade. On mischief night, Rob hung out with all the neighborhood punks. I watched them loiter on the street corner from my window. I hated Rob Delores. I hated every bus ride, every day, because of Rob Delores. I don’t remember a single insult (there were plenty), but I’ll never forget that dim-witted head bobbing over the back seat of the bus, laughing at himself. My anger imploded like a backwards grenade. Something evil filled my body at the slightest thought of Rob Delores. I dreamt of my knuckles crushing his nose, and feeling his warm blood quench my rage. My parents sensed a need for me to unleash my anger, and encouraged me to play sports.

Ten years passed and I was a senior at Morristown high school. I was eighteen years old, college bound, and a religious zealot ever since the third grade. My religion was wrestling. I meditated on every move, every nuance, and every moment of ten-years of discipline. My meditation would have shamed Buddhist monks. There was no wrestling season for me. Every season was a season for wrestling, every month a wrestling month, every day a wrestling day. My physical hunger was far out-weighed by my hunger for victory, for glory, to be the Pacific of oceans, the Jupiter of planets, to reign over the realm of wrestlers. I whispered to my wrestling god before every match, help me be the best.

Into the semi-finals, I did not care that it had taken me two six-minute matches to do away with my first two opponents. I failed to pin either of them, and had to gain both victories by points. I cared a little bit more that I could not turn my head left, and that spine shrieking pain—my head must have been internally detached, only held on by the skin of my neck. I told my coach. I might as well have told the gymnasium floor. His straight face did not even react to my plea for attention, or medical assistance, or a miracle from the wrestling gods. He wasn’t sure if I was healthy, but he knew I was wrestling. I knew that I was not healthy; however, I also knew that only my grave would cause me to drop out of the tournament, and the coffin lid had better be bolted shut to make it a sure thing. I was going to be the best, or die trying.

Adrenaline transcended everything physical, and brought me to my first gold medal in high school. My game was flawless. I embarrassed the two seed in the semis, and beat the top seed, state-ranked Dan Butcher, by a good margin of 9-2. I remember watching him squirm; his red flashes of brilliance wither under the strength of my will. I stripped him of his pride, his reason for living, and I cashed in at the awards ceremony.

I went home the best. My neck throbbing felt more like a victory massage from the medal and ribbon resting steady as my crown. I was a king in my world: able to demand my will and have it be done.