*Untitled* Wrestling Story

Prologue

         “Hey there champ, how you doing today?” An older man asked, extending his small, plump hand towards me.
         “Well, I’m pretty good sir, and you?” I asked, shaking the man’s hand and patting him on the shoulder.
         “Me? Oh, I’m doing excellent!” The man said, pulling off his wire-rim glasses and putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not every day you get to meet the ‘career-killer’ himself!”
         I flinched at the words “career-killer”, pulling away from the man. I took him in – he was short, bald, and plump, standing about five foot six with a thick, silver beard and a deep voice. He was very much like a short, white Isaac Hayes. I looked deep into his hazel eyes, letting my own eyes burn a hole into his soul for a minute.
         “What do you want?” I asked with an animosity normal of a wrestler like me.
         “Well son, I coach at Milford High School and—”
         “And what? You’ll give me five thousand, no, seventy-five hundred, to coach your snot-nosed middle school team this year?” I said, stepping closer to the man, bending down so I was almost nose to nose with him. “Or, you know some of the best college recruiters, and you can get me a shot? Wait, wait, my personal favorite: you know a guy that knows a guy, and you can get me into UFC training camp? Guess what – OLD NEWS! I’ve heard it all!”
         “No…no…well, maybe.” The old man said, pulling away and backing towards the door.
         “Get out of here! These open mats are for D7 district kids and coaches only!” I yelled as the man got into his car and drove off, doing well over the 25-mile per hour speed limit.
         “I’m tired of this shit.” I said as I grabbed my wrestling shoes and headed out the door.
         “Campbell, where are you going? We’ve got work to do! D-1 baby!” Josh Stevens said, talking about our Division 1 college dreams.
         “No Stevens, not tonight.” I said, turning around and dropping my shoes on the floor. “Not tonight…this just hasn’t been the best week ever.”
         “Pussy!” Stevens yelled at me. “Is this the Isaiah Campbell that defeated Taylor Besswine? No, this is the Isaiah Campbell that pussed out last year and lost the state championship that should’ve been his!”
         Stevens looked at me, standing up and pulling off his shirt, and motioned for me to come at him. He flexed his muscular 165 pound frame and smacked his arms a couple of times.
         “C’mon Campbell! C’mon Prophet! Don’t you want to know what it’s like to be there, on that first place podium, when they put your half-pound state championship medal around your neck,” he said, alluding to his own experiences, “and then at school the next week, when they give you your five carat state championship ring? Don’t you want to know? ‘Cause I know…and it’s friggin’ great!!”
         “Forget you Josh.” I said, turning out the door – but I knew he was right. I knew that if I ever wanted to be a state champion, it meant standing here and taking the physical – and emotional – punishment, no matter how tired or fed up I was.
         I stopped in the doorway and put my shoes on as quickly as possible, not even bothering to tie them. I walked towards Stevens, who was standing in the middle of the wrestling room, waiting for me to accept his challenge.
         “That’s right Campbell. Take it! Embrace it! Make it yours!” Josh said, shooting in on me before I ever got set.
         And so it was. As always, my best friend and fellow captain on the B.L. Smote wrestling team kept me going in the midst of defeat. If only I had listened to him at states last year; I would have won. I could say that with all the confidence in the world because it was with Stevens prodding me on that I scored in the final seconds of an exhibition match and defeated Taylor Besswine, NCAA All-American wrestler from University of Michigan. And, as Stevens had promised me that night, amidst the girls, booze, and music, he would be there at the state finals this year. And then I would know what it was like to stand on the podium.