February 22nd, 2014

One two three four five six seven eight nine, right turn, one two three four five six seven eight nine—second floor, I keep running, climbing, sweating. One two three four five six seven eight nine—I found it’s beneficial when cutting weight to focus on each individual step or rep and not on the exercise itself. These workouts’ purposes aren’t to make you stronger or faster or even condition endurance. No—when shedding the last couple of pounds before weigh-ins, the workouts are meant to make you sweat. I am determined to distract my mind from deteriorating under the pressure. One two three four five six seven eight nine—I make it to the tenth floor, again. Dropping into a burnout set of pushups, I watch as a puddle forms under my nose. Drip. Drip. Drip. My arms shaking, I collapse to the floor. I am exhausted physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally; I feel broken. I try to see the positives; four pounds isn’t too much to lose tonight; I didn’t lather my body with Vaseline, under my trash-bag-vest; wearing all three hoodies is worse than the two I’m wearing. It could be so much hotter. Plus, I ate today. I lose my sight. I’m crying; the Holiday Inn’s whitecinderblock-staircase walls fade to black. The tears must weigh something; I add it to the list. Positive consciousness becomes impossible. My mind suffocates under the facts. It’s midnight, and I’m cutting weight. Tomorrow is the third (and final) day of the North Carolina High School Wrestling State Championships, and I’m in the morning session—the loser’s session. Thirty—thirty-one—thirty-two— thirty-three—counting no longer holds off the pain, all my energy focuses on it. My abdominal muscles taste each sit-up’s distinct flavor. I appreciate the simple pain-reward relationship of cutting weight. It’s “easy”—just do it. I’m lacking spring in my steps but gather myself and slink back down the stairs. Left right left right left right—I picture the night further matured: I will be lying in bed, on top of the covers, wearing nothing; shivering, to tap into my metabolized energy, forcing my body to work while I “sleep”. The blasting air conditioner and cotton-dry mouth aren’t to blame for my restlessness. Once endorphins no longer dictate my brain, my thoughts will release and rush through reality—I will wish I am here. I value sports; especially competition, as an outlet from the real world, as a place where I am liberated to focus consciousness toward goals of personal growth, improving performance. Meditation—using performance as a shield, blocking negative mental vibrations. One two three four five six seven eight nine, left turn, one two three four five six seven eight nine—maybe my focus will outrun the grief. The left side of my forehead throbs and calls for my attention. The sweat becomes too heavy for the hood and drips into the wound from the match. It isn’t real pain. Each drip is an individual annoyance; nothing compared to the stitch named hunger, lodging in my stomach. It’s still a side stitch though. “To be a good distance runner, ignore the pain in your side. Everyone feels the same stitch. The winners don’t mind the pain.” This is the oldest advice to my recollection—a lifechanging decision. I always ran in the “slow group” during gym glass in elementary school. I wanted to run on “the project fitness team” like my older brother did before me. My father’s solution—run the mile. As a one-hundred and twelve-pound third grader, he and I didn’t agree at the time. I did however win gold, in both the mile and the eight hundred meters, every race of my eighth-grade track season. My father’s advice still weighs heavily on my consciousness, but all pains aren’t as dismissible as a runner’s cramp. Pain, beyond physical or emotional comprehension. One two three four five, I hold a plank position on my palms and toes as I witness my phone strike midnight. The timer alarms, and the new date takes positioning across the screen, a reminder of the date that will never happen. I wipe my eyes with the drenched, right sleeve of my hoodie. February 22nd, 2014: the date I will never forget. One two three four five, one two three four five, hopefully pushups will refocus my wayward mind. Not tonight—I’m drowning. Last year, I placed third, but my fan section was light by a couple people, my grandparents on my mother’s side. Grandpa was battling type-four melanoma and did so for more than twenty years. However, the tumors became aggressive again, and he was receiving heavy treatment and therefore couldn’t make it. Against his doctor’s requests, Grandpa didn’t rest until he first spoke with me on the phone. Mom leaned from the stands and passed me the phone, with Grandpa on the other end, while I was still on the corner of the mat. He apologized for his absence from the tournament and congratulated my accomplishments. I told him not to worry, and we made the deal for my senior season: on February 22nd, 2014, at five o’clock p.m., he would sit front and center to watch me wrestle for my state title. My problem: I once again secluded myself from the Walk of Champions. While I’m walking to my room to check my weight, my mind reaches back to the beginning of November. My last conversation with my grandpa was a day before his inevitable, never-ending sleep. Mustering up the correct words for my thoughts felt impossible, so we sat in silence. Grandpa said, “I love you BZ.” He placed his hand over mine. I spilled my heart to him, articulating how much I considered him the greatest. After kissing his cheek, on my way from the room, I smiled and said, “Front row—February 22nd—I’ll see you there!” He left me with the same eight words he always did, as far back as I remember. “I’m glad you got to see me, BZ.” “I’m glad you got to see me too, Grandpa.” Three-nineteen—three-seventeen—three-fifteen—threethirteen—three-eleven—I find my room number. I open the door, turn on the scale, drop trout, and step on. I’m half a pound heavy. To create a personal sauna, I wedge a towel under the bathroom door and turn the shower water to high heat. I sit in the corner on the moist floor and tuck my head between my knees: steam encompasses my view. I am alone. I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. The bout replays in my palms as they press against my eye sockets.

I lost the biggest match of my career by two points, while leaving upward of ten or eleven points on the table. I stood with my opponent’s leg in the air, under my arm, but did not finish; I snapped him by the back of his neck, putting his face on the mat, but did not finish; I wrapped him in a body lock, elbows tight, but did not finish; I had him loaded on my shoulder, off the ground, but did not finish for points.

Regardless, I trailed by one, with a minute left. The match’s outcome frustrated me; my opponent stalled. I shot hard—leading with my forehead, to his face—hoping he fell off his game, allowing me to score. Not quite, I was given an unnecessary-roughness warning, and it was I who flustered. When the match restarted with 15 seconds left, my State Championship dreams were fleeting. I shot again, this time, with malicious intent. I threw my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

Discombobulated—when the referee stopped the match and awarded a point in the other direction, I was oblivious.

Three—two—one—I’m sure his fans erupted with joy, but all I heard was deafening silence. Time stood still, and I felt the earth quit rotating, when I reached to shake his hand. I didn’t catch my parents’ faces or my coaches’ disappointment. I didn’t grab my clothes, or phone, or water bottle, from beside the mat.

I walked out of the arena.

I heard faint footsteps jog up behind me before someone grabbed my shoulder. Deandre—the future champion of my division, and the only opponent I had faced from North Carolina, who was in my weight class, to beat me this year. He had torn me apart in the regional finals a week earlier with one move (a slick slide-by). All week, I practiced defending his style slide every day and became confident that I held the upper hand going into round two between us.

Now—sitting naked in my make-shift sauna, what haunts my thoughts is what he chased me down to say, “Tough loss man. But thanks—you were the one person I worried about beating.” He thanked me for losing; what kind of backhanded compliment did I receive? Mere minutes after allowing my dream to slip between my grasps.

Before wrestling season began my junior year, my reputation preceded me as “the wrestler” around campus. When the season got under way, people praised my love for the sport. I was the only junior team captain—I led my team in points scored, matches won, and finished third in the state.

I committed to wrestle for Davidson College early, allowing my energy to focus on one thing. One dream: winning the state championship. I wrestled the entire season to honor Grandpa’s promise and with two matches left—I needed a motive.

The following morning, my legs, back, chest, shoulders, and abdominal muscles all felt like I strapped each limb to a separate horse and was accused of medieval witchcraft.

I motion through a long, groggy warm up, stretching each muscle, never really breaking a sweat. When I feel I’m ready enough, I go to the seats early. I meet my Dad halfway.

“You know it’s hard to beat someone who truly wants to win.” He opened with a statement-question.

I pretended my headphones were on and didn’t give him a response.

“These are the blood rounds,” he reminded me the legitimacy of everyone left still wrestling on the third day. Their win-or-go-home attitude is worn in abundance.

“I have two matches left—I might as well win. I enjoy it more.”

As the clock strikes five and the Walk of Champions begins, my eyes surf the crowd (just in case).

I am once again no more than a spectator, holding my third-place victory, my second in two years. Pride and heartbreak packaged together—I’m glad you got to see me.