Leave it all on the mat- Part I

Leave It All on the Mat
“Don’t relax Drew! Don’t relax!” I could hear my father screaming from my corner as Brock drove me to the edge of the mat with a double leg takedown. I tried to scramble as I landed on the mat, but Brock’s position was too good. He easily thwarted my attempts, and I looked up in shock as the ref awarded Brock two points for the takedown. “No!” I screamed as I shot up in my bed. Breathing heavily, I looked at the alarm clock in the hotel room. It was four in the morning and I would be at the arena in three and a half hours, ready to weigh in for the biggest tournament of my life.
Pulling the covers off as quietly as I could, I got up and walked over to the window. I tried to lick my chapped lips, but my mouth lacked any kind of moisture. The dehydration leeched the energy from my body, leaving me feeling drained. I would have given anything to have been able to chug a bottle of water and pass out in the hotel bed, but my discipline would never allow it.
Gazing out into the night, I could see the outline of the beast against the moonlit sky. Tomorrow it would be alive with the energy of thousands of wrestling fans, but right now it slumbered peacefully.
I was envious of its sleep. I had been tossing and turning for hours before I had finally drifted off. That dream had been tormenting me every night this week. Lately, there had been no refuge from wrestling. Getting sleep this week had been hard enough; when you’re sucking weight it’s hard to come by. But even when I did get sleep, I was haunted by the loss to Brock.
I let the water run in the sink for a few seconds so it would be as cold as possible. I filled up a cup and put it to my lips. I let it enter my mouth slowly, and swished it around until the coldness numbed my mouth. I desperately wanted to swallow it, and take another gulp. My body longed to quench my thirst and end the dehydration I had been subjecting myself to. I spit it out. The moisture was very refreshing, but it wouldn’t last too long.
I stripped down as I turned the scale on. I could see my reflection in the mirror despite the darkness. I was as lean as I’d ever been and every muscle was well defined. The scale read 147.2. I was only two tenths of a pound over, which was not surprising because I was always very good with my weight. Those extra two tenths would be gone within the next couple of hours and I would be right on weight for weigh-ins.
As I lay in my bed again, my mind was uneasy. I was feeling nervous about tomorrow. The opportunity I had been waiting for would finally become a reality tomorrow, but there was so much at stake. I wasn’t sure who was a tougher opponent, Brock or the weight cut. I closed my eyes and tried to let my mind go blank. Dawn was soon approaching and I needed my rest.
* * * *
It’s unbelievable how quiet and tranquil the warm up area was as I silently jumped rope within the deeper underbelly of the arena. On the other side of the walls that enclosed me within the beast’s belly, the atmosphere was chaotic. Sweat glistened on my brow as I jumped to get my body warm for the most important six minutes of my life.
I had weighed in for the last time in my high school career earlier that morning. Now, I was right back up to 159 lbs, and I felt refreshed, rehydrated, and replenished. The earlier rounds of the tournament had been a breeze; anyone tough had bumped away from the 145 lb weight class to avoid the two-man race. Brock and I had cruised to the finals, and I had pinned all three of my opponents in the first period.
A handsome, well built middle aged man walked over to where I was warming up to tell me that the 140lb bout had just ended, and that it was my time to get on the mat. He was my father; legendary North Rockland coach Luke Montrose. He patted me on the back as I picked up my headgear and strapped it on. I followed him through the intestines of the monster and into the dark tunnel that was its throat. Out through its gaping jaws, an explosion of noise and energy greeted me. The beast’s roar was tumultuous as I walked onto the floor.
It was the match people had waited four years to see. The rarity and grandeur of a match like this could have packed half of the arena. Seemingly everyone in attendance was on their feet cheering, clapping their hands, impatiently waiting for it to start. We’re talking about 9,000 people jumping like it’s the Super Bowl, which is appropriate; this was the Super Bowl of New York wrestling. The finals of the New York State wrestling championships are a prestigious event to attend, but this was no ordinary state final. A state final of this caliber is a spectacle. It is a privilege for those in attendance to witness two three-time New York State champions engage in combat on the mat, but it is a greater privilege for such a highly touted match to occur in the state final. You don’t realize what is at stake here. One of us will make history by becoming only the 4th wrestler in New York State history to win four state titles, enjoying the glory that comes from such an accomplishment. The other will resent the failure and the agony of the defeat for the rest of his life.
My opponent and I stood on our respective sides of the mat bouncing from toe to toe to stay warm, although the tension in the arena was an inferno. Brock Fortino wore the navy blue Suffolk County singlet as he had done every year for the past four. He was on a familiar stage, on familiar ground. The tournament was hosted by Long Island that season and the venue was the Nassau Coliseum. Long Island is arguably the hotbed for New York wrestling, so to crown a four-timer on home soil seemed appropriate enough. Fortino was a celebrity amongst the vast “Strong Island” wrestling community, and half the island was there supporting its local prodigy. “Brock the Rock” they called him, an undefeated three timer, was built like a brick shithouse. True to wrestler stereotype, he was 5’5 and appeared just as wide. A huge well-defined chest, a thick neck, chiseled arms, and tree trunk legs made up his 145 pounds. The weight seems light, but he was cutting around 15 lbs to make the weight class. This boy was a one man wrecking crew, and had steamrolled 223 opponents. Brock was a friendly and humble young man off the mat, but on the mat he was relentless and ferocious. Every wrestler in the state feared him, except me.
I wore the traditional Section 1 Columbia blue singlet, but I was the pride of the North Rockland Red Raiders. I had fire in my eyes. This match was something I had dreamed about for four years. Two hundred and fifteen times I had walked out onto a high school wrestling mat, and two hundred and fourteen times I had been victorious. The one opponent who had slaughtered my perfect record now stood bouncing across from me. Fortino was the only wrestler to ever deal me a loss in my high school career, and it burned deep within my soul. It had been four years since that loss in my freshman season, and I had sworn that I would never lose again. I would avenge the loss and set the score straight. Three state titles and not a single loss followed that nightmarish day, but I still hadn’t gotten my chance at redemption; until now.
“My time” I whispered to myself, baring my teeth as I bounced in place. “Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop me.” “Drew” someone called out. Hearing my name momentarily snapped me out of my zone, and I turned to see my dad calling me from my corner. His eyes pierced mine. I could see the intensity in them. “This is it son. This is what you’ve been training for your entire life. Go out there and leave it all on the mat. Everything you’ve got for six minutes. Get it done.”
I didn’t answer. Seventeen years of relentless training and pushing myself beyond my limits had prepared me for this very moment. I lived and breathed wrestling. It’s in my blood. I was ready.
As I began to pace my side of the mat, I glanced into the crowd where the North Rockland fans and the rest of the Section One supporters sat. They began to cheer ecstatically, jumping up out of their seats. I nodded in approval, and continued to scan the crowd until I made eye contact with my mother. I always liked to seek her out in the crowd before a big match. Knowing that she was there was a comfort in such an intense atmosphere. She was wearing the same white button up sweater she had worn every year since I won my first state title freshman year. She said it was lucky, and she refused to wear anything different the next three years at the state tournament. Making eye contact with me, she smiled and stroked the white sleeve covering her right arm.
Pacing was a part of my usual pre-match routine. I would look down at the mat and walk from corner to corner along my side. It helped me focus and visualize what I was setting out to do; I could see myself executing the moves in my game plan. I would picture myself getting my hand raised in victory at the end of the match. I had been in these “big match” situations dozens of times before this. I was composed, and ready to engage in battle. The crowd was deafening as the excitement soared, but I heard nothing. Nothing could break my focus right now.
I looked across the mat at Brock, who was talking to his coaches. He shook their hands and walked towards the center, turning his gaze to me. I stared him directly in the eyes so he could see the fire in mine. Right now, we weren’t friends. I could not wait to be unleashed upon him.
The NYS Officials Association was not going to chance having any kind of controversy regarding the officiating of the match, and for this reason they assigned John Tolden to oversee it. Tolden was the top rated referee in the state, and had a reputation for his impeccable understanding of the rules of wrestling.
Brock and I were hovering just outside the inner circle of the mat, waiting for Tolden to walk over. I was sweating slightly, so I knew my body was ready. I bounced in place as I stared down my opponent. He stared right back.
“Gentlemen, toes on the line”, said Tolden. We stepped to our lines, two feet apart, still staring into each other’s eyes. The crowd was in frenzy. “Shake hands and good luck to the both of you.” The whistle blew.

-Marc Zurla