Number Three

I haven’t cut my hair for over six months. Technically that’s against the rules since my hair isn’t allowed to be below my earlobes or past the collar of my shirt. I can get away with it though; I have curly hair so it doesn’t really grow down. No matter how long it gets it will never pass my collar. Growing my hair out like this is kind of like a tradition for me. Once wrestling season starts I don’t cut it. I like to think I’m a kind of Nazarene, like Samson: as long as I don’t cut my hair I am invincible.
Wrestling is who I am. Without wrestling I am nothing. I am nothing. All summer I prepare for it, all fall I wrestle like mad, and all winter I recover from it. I don’t let anything get in the way, no girls, no parties. Just wrestling.
This is my fourth year, my senior year. I’ve made it to the state championships all four years, and the last two I lost the championship by three points. This year is my last chance. This is my last shot at redemption, my last opportunity to show everyone that I have what it takes to walk off the mat a champion.
Being a Wrestling State Champion is a lot different than being a State Champ in any other sport. In team sports you have to share your glory, or your defeat, with your team. If you lose you can blame it on the guy who dropped the ball, or threw away the pass. If you won you can’t claim that you did it alone; you have to share with the guy who made the pass, or guarded your back. In wrestling win or lose it is all up to you. It’s just you, the mat, and your opponent. There is nothing out there but two minds and two bodies. If you fail then you failed, and you cannot blame anyone but yourself. Whoever wants it the most, whoever knows the most moves, whoever is the best will win, and that’s all there is to it.
So far this has been my best year; I’ve only lost one match, and it was early on in the season. I have beaten all of the other wrestlers in my weight class. I’ve blown through state this year like it is the easiest tournament of the year. I’ve wrestled twice already, and only spent forty five seconds in the ring. A typical match consists of three two minute rounds. I’ve wrestled two matches and I haven’t spent an entire round in the ring yet. I don’t like to waste time when I’m winning.
The hardest part of this sport is losing. Because it is such a personal sport you put your soul into it. If you don’t win it means you weren’t good enough, to a wrestler’s mind it means that he is worthless. I’ve been there, I know. That’s why I spend every winter recovering from what I put myself through. It tears me apart every time I lose. I’ve held the championship in my hands twice, and twice I’ve failed to grasp it. Of course it isn’t just emotional pain to lose there is definitely physical pain involved too. I’d never broken a bone before I started wrestling. Now I have a bad knee, I’ve broken my sternum, I’ve broken several fingers, I’ve broken my foot, I’ve broken the cartilage in my right ear, I’ve broken my nose, and I’ve had both my shoulders pulled out of socket. I’d break them all over again in a second.
I hear my name over the speaker. “Piute High School, 3.0 grade point average, 112 pounds will be wrestling Sky Marshal, Panguitch High School, 3.5 grade point average, 112 pounds.” Smoke blows from a machine as we both trot out of the tunnel that leads from the lockers to the arena. Lights flash above us, and music tries in vain to drown out the roar of the fans. Thousands of people watch intently as I trot out to the middle of the ring and shake my opponent’s hand. I look him in the eye, and I can already taste my victory.
I trot over to my coaches, strip off my warm ups, and stand there in front of thousands in nothing but my wrestling singlet and tights. I’m a shy kid, and normally I would be a bit self conscious, but my blood is boiling and adrenaline is making me bold. I could take on the whole world right now with my bare hands. I block out all the voices and the noise. My world becomes that circle, and Sky Marshal; my sole purpose in it to defeat him. I know what I have to do. I’ve done it to this kid before, and to countless others.
My coach gives me some last words of advice, and the referee motions for me to join him at the center of the ring. I shake hands with Sky again.
The referee blows the whistle.
I lunge at Sky’s leg, and he blocks me. Muscles strain against each other as we fight for the best position, the best angle. Wrestling is more about angles than anything else. I can, and have, beaten a lot of guys who were clearly stronger than me.
Sky is clearly stronger than me.
I can feel his weight advantage too. We both wrestle at 112 pounds, but he probably weighs 115 pounds compared to my 108. I regret the lost pounds as I feel him begin to overpower me. He’s got a few inches on me, which means that he has better leverage than me right now. He gains control. That’s two points for him, none for me.
The rest of the round I try every trick I have to get back my advantage. Nothing works. For two minutes we are straining against each other. Each move blocked skillfully by another move, a perfectly choreographed dance. The referee blows the whistle.
Round two.
My coach explains to me how important this round is, as if I don’t already know. Five seconds go by and the ref blows the whistle again. I’m more cautious this time, and I watch Sky’s every move. We circle each other like two pit bulls. And then we are locked again, locking then breaking. We are both waiting for a hole in the others defense. We both know that a single mistake can make the difference. Each time I try something I am blocked and retreat before he can get an advantage. There is no room for mistakes, not this time, I can feel his sweat dripping onto me every time we touch, and it makes it hard to keep a hold of anything.
The ref blows the whistle. End of round two.
Only two more minutes remain. I hear my coach yelling encouragement to me from the side. My lungs feel like the inside of a volcano, I can taste blood in my mouth, and I have to use all of my self control not to just drop to the ground. I trot over to the center of the ring again, pretending that I am just as fresh as when we started four minutes ago, but I know I look just as tired as Sky.
The ref blows the whistle. Round three.
I attack with everything I still have, with every shred of strength left in my trembling body, and I trip. Not one of those trips that make you fall straight on your face no, just a slight trip, a nanosecond of overbalance. When I recover he’s already behind me and I’m down on the mat. That’s four points for him, zero for me. I can hear the crowd screaming, and I struggle with everything I’ve got. I could still win this. I could still make it happen. There’s still time. Sky has me in a dead lock, he’s not even trying anything, and I know it’s because he’s too tired. Finally, with strength and speed I shouldn’t still have, I break free. One point me.
We circle again, and I push him out of bounds, the referee blows the whistle and we walk to the center. I try to shake off the pain, try to make Sky believe I have more energy than I really do. Try to look strong even though my whole body is screaming in protest of what I am doing.
The ref blows the whistle.
I have a hold of Sky before he can even react. The muscles in my arms stand out like wire under the skin as I strain to put him on his back. Our positions are such that I won’t get any points until his back is on the mat. Much too slowly I force his body around like a bulldozer against the side of a house. If I just have five more seconds I’ll have him. Four more seconds and I will win. I can see it in Sky’s face he knows it’s over.
The ref blows his whistle.
I look up at the scoreboard; it’s over, time’s up, the score stands at four for him, one for me. Three points difference. I lose again for the third time by three measly points.
I feel the adrenaline leach out of me, and the burning in the muscles that it leaves behind. I let go of Sky. This was it. This was supposed to be my time to show what I was worth. I can feel tears coming to my eyes, and all I want to do is disappear. I don’t want to be out there in front of thousands as a loser. I don’t want to be the guy that tried, and lost, and can never try again. I want to just lie there, and die. My world is gone forever.
Then I remember. I remember why I’m here at all. I came here to show what I was. I came here to prove my worth. I stand up, and reach my hand down to help Sky to his feet. We walk to the center of the mat, to the place it all began. My head held high, my shoulders square I shake hands with my opponent for the last time. I stifle tears as the ref lifts Sky’s arm…the arm of a champion.
With absolute dignity I watch my dream shatter. I refuse to break down as I’ve seen so many wrestlers in my same place do. I’ve seen kids throw head gear, I’ve seen them refuse to shake the other coaches hand. I turn and walk away from the center of the mat, the place where it all came to an end. With my head held high, and a smile I walk to his coaches. “He’s a good wrestler” I say. It’s true, and it’s the dignified thing to do. I see tears in their eyes when they look at me. They’ve seen me wrestle for years. They know me. They know what I am doing. They understand what I have just lost.
I walk over to my coaches and get the customary pat on the back. They’re both crying to. In a way their world has shattered too. They stopped coaching the next year.
It’s always struck me as funny that even though wrestling is such a macho, masculine sport, crying is perfectly acceptable. I feel my lower lip tremble, but I refuse to give in. I won’t break down in front of everyone. I refuse to destroy the image of an amazing wrestler that hundreds of people have of me. Most of those thousands of people watching me walk away will never see me again. I want their last sight of me to be of a champion. I want them to ask why every wrestler can’t be as courteous, as noble as I am right now. I turn towards the crowd that will never see me wrestle again. I hear a few cheers of my name and some clapping. I lift up my right arm. When a wrestler wins he holds up his arm and points one finger up. It means he’s the best. Slowly I raise three fingers in the air. Then I lift my other arm up to join it. I stand there for a second or two. Just to let them take me in. I want the crowd to eat up the wrestler that I will never be again. I flash them my crooked smile, shake my curly head, and bring down my arms.
Then I trot back into the same tunnel I ran out of just minutes ago.
I can still hear them yelling my name as I walk out of sight, and it makes the tears falling from my eyes a little less bitter, the burn of my muscles a little less painful.