Leave it all on the mat- Part III

The arena was only a short walk from the hotel. I showed my pass at the back entrance of the arena, and walked in and found a changing room. The last practice the day before a weigh in is always the most mentally and physically exhausting. You really need to dig deep to muster the energy to be able to get a good enough work out in so that you can weigh out on weight. Personally I always like to cut around a pound under my weight class, that way I can eat and drink something later on that night. I always hated the idea of working so hard that last night of practice and not eating or drinking something afterwards.
Finding the scales, I checked my weight to compare the weigh-in scale to my own personal scale. Luckily, they were dead even and I was still only two pounds over.
After an exhausting work out, I threw on a thick sweatshirt and my winter coat, and set out to find a secluded spot to sweat out. Wandering around the arena, I passed many wrestlers that I knew from either youth wrestling or from seeing them here year after year. Most were friendly, but since everyone was focused on cutting weight, they were all a bit crabby and there was little room for conversation.
As I rounded the corner, I saw Brock approaching me. He didn’t notice me at first, but when he did his eyes narrowed as he stared me down. I stared right back at him, refusing to look away. He was walking in the middle of the hall, as was I; neither of us was going to move. As we passed our shoulders collided, and I turned and faced him with a menacing scowl on my face. His face was expressionless. He simply nodded his head, backpedaling as he stared me down before turning away and continuing down the hallway.
Brock had always been friendly when we were younger, even when we competed against each other. But as he grew up, his ego grew as broad as his shoulders. A once friendly kid had grown into an egotistical asshole that disrespected anyone who got in his way. His demeanor echoed the way he wrestled, mean and ferocious, and this is why people feared him so much.
Still fuming after my encounter with Brock, I entered one of the private dressing rooms and found it empty. Thankfully it was already warm, but I walked into the shower room and turned them both on to let the steam build up. I grabbed a garbage pail and pulled it over to the corner of the room so that I could spit water into it when I needed to rinse out my mouth. I sat down in the corner, and pulled both of my hoods over my head. To trap the heat within, I pulled them tightly around my head and knotted the drawstrings. To pass the time I closed my eyes and began to think about my rivalry with Brock.
Our childhood rivalry had continued throughout middle school and into our freshman year of high school. Since we were from different areas in New York State, the only other time I had competed against Brock’s high school was at the Kohl Tournament in Suffern my freshman year. Huntington has one of the best high school wrestling programs in New York State history, and more state champions have come from that program than any other. The fact that two state-powerhouses headlined the field at the Kohl made it a very attractive tournament to the wrestling community.
The wrestling community had been eagerly awaiting the start of our wrestling careers; our talents on the mat were no secret in New York. Rumors of a potential match between the “freshmen phenoms” had been circulating since the beginning of the season, but I wanted to bump up and wrestle him for my own personal reasons. To be the best, you need to wrestle the best, and no other opponent was more formidable than Brock the Rock. There was never any doubt in my mind that I would win.
Both Brock and I cruised to the finals of the tournament, leaving dismantled opponents in our wake to battle for third place in the losers’ bracket. I remember being nervous before this match as I waited in the locker room for the Parade of Champions to start. Brock stood to my left, looking fierce as he always did before his matches.
The steam was starting to build up in the dressing room. I could feel the sweat running down my spine. The heat trapped within the layers I was wearing was unbearable, but I ignored it. I felt a bit faint. I ignored that too.
“Alright boys it’s time to start the Parade of Champions. Wait for my signal and follow the man in front of you.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen”, came the voice of the announcer through the speakers surrounding the gym. “Your 26th Annual Khol Tournament finalists!”
The crowd erupted as we began our march around the finals mat. The gymnasium was completely packed this year because my match with Brock was so highly anticipated. Both sets of bleachers were completely full and even more people lined the walls of the gym. North Rockland fans littered one set of the bleachers; Huntington fans lined the opposite set.
“Wrestling for the championship at 125 lbs is a freshman from Huntington High School who is coached by NYS wrestling legend Lou Giani. He boasts an undefeated record of 19-0 and is ranked 2nd in the state. Brock Fortino!”
“His opponent, also a freshman, is from North Rockland High School, and is coached by Luke Montrose. He is ranked 3rd in the state at 119 lbs and has an undefeated record of 17-0. Drew Montrose!”
The crowd went wild as we were announced. This was one of the most anticipated match ups of the season anywhere in the state, and the match everyone had come to witness. I ran to the middle of the mat where Fortino was waiting and shook his hand before running off the mat where I was greeted by my teammate with a hand slap.
The crowd was being treated with many high intensity matches that night, but the main event had yet to come. After the champion at the 119 lb weight class was crowned, I stripped down to my singlet and walked onto the mat.
Brock was already on the mat in his white finals singlet; the word “HUNTINGTON” boldly printed across the front in navy blue. He was imposing as he bounced on the edge of the mat. I knew he was just as ready as I was. I wore my North Rockland finals singlet, the front and back of which was white, with a stripe of red running down the sides from my ribs to my thigh. The letters “NR” were printed on the front in red. Wearing the finals singlet is a privilege and an honor because it is only worn for the finals of a tournament, and it is much nicer than our regular competition singlets.
The crowd was ready for the main event. The bleachers thundered as fans in both sets stomped their feet, causing the structure to shake like a skyscraper in an earthquake. They rained their cheers down upon Brock and me, their arms swaying back and forth as they clapped, like tree branches blowing in a hurricane.
As I paced my side of the mat, my mind was all over the place. I was so nervous that I couldn’t focus on my game plan. I kept nervously glancing over at Brock. His expressionless and calm demeanor was unnerving. Wasn’t he at all nervous to wrestle me? I shook my head, as if doing so could shake the funk from my mind. This was so unlike me.
The heat in the dressing room made it hard to think. Why had I been so nervous? I guess it had to do with the fact that this match was different than any other time I had wrestled Brock. In the past, the wins and losses didn’t count for anything significant. But in high school, this match would count towards my record, leaving a permanent etch in my win or loss column. I felt dizzy underneath all the layers. I ignored it still.
“Drew, are you ready, son?” The sound of my father’s voice snapped me out of the funk. “Yes sir.” “Six minutes hard. Take it to him and set the tone right away. Leave it all on the mat.”
“Set the tone right away” I thought to myself. “OK, I can do that.”
I walked towards the middle of the mat where Brock was already waiting with his foot on the line, crouched in a half wrestling stance with his forearms resting on his knees. The referee made sure the timer was set, and wished us both good luck. The noise from the crowd swirled around the gym but I was deaf to it. I was in the zone now. My game plan was pristine. I stepped to the line, and shook Brock’s hand. The ref blew the whistle, and I immediately shot a lightning quick low single at his lead leg, getting in deep on his ankle.
Brock countered with a whizzer and his defense was very effective. The pressure it caused made it impossible for me to finish my shot, forcing a stalemate that stopped the action and brought us back to our feet.
Although I controlled the action on our feet in the first period, getting in deep on three different shots, it ended scoreless. I felt confident after the first period because my offense was working well. I knew that if I kept the pressure on Brock I would eventually score.
The ref flipped a coin and I won the toss. I chose the bottom position to start the second period, and went down on all fours in the center of the mat, my butt sitting on my heels. Brock crouched behind me, one arm on my stomach, the other on my elbow. The ref blew the whistle and I sprang up to my feet with explosive speed, trying to earn a one-point escape. Brock countered by following me to my feet and using his strong hips and back, he lifted me into the air to try to return me to the mat. As I landed, I instantaneously executed a “granby flip”, a flashy yet very effective move that looks like a front flip from a tripod position; a definite a crowd-pleaser. I was able to free myself from Brock and went up 1-0.
The action in the second period continued on our feet as I looked to set up my single leg takedown. Pressuring Brock’s head down with my left arm, I was able to break his position momentarily and fire off a nice inside single leg shot, but Brock sprawled back with enormous hip pressure. Brock’s sprawl was devastating, and it knocked me to my own hip, putting me in terrible position. He was able to free his leg and spin behind me for a quick two-point takedown with ten seconds to go in the period. The Huntington crowd cheered madly at the change in momentum.
Now I was pissed. I had been wrestling a very solid period and one little mistake had cost me the lead. In a match between such even skilled wrestlers, one little mistake is all it takes to lose the match.
I got up, shaking my head in frustration as I did so, and looked at my father. “Relax, Relax. Keep your composure. There’s plenty of match left. You have two minutes to get the point back.”
Entering the third period it was Brock’s choice. He chose bottom, which put me in my best position, top. Wrestlers feared wrestling me in this position because I was good enough to turn anyone to their back. When the whistle blew I took control and began to work a variety of moves, attempting to expose Brock’s back to the mat. After working for a minute and a half, the anxious cheers from the North Rockland crowd suggested that they were beginning to get nervous that I would fail to turn Fortino and lose the match 2-1. But I was determined not to fail, and at that moment used the cross-wrist to execute a roll through tilt. Catching him in my lap, I secured Fortino there with his back exposed past a forty-five degree angle.
The North Rockland fans erupted in wild cheers. I held Brock securely for three seconds, enough to earn two back points. I remember thinking to myself “Just hang on. Don’t you dare let him up.” I knew I had to ride him out for a 3-2 win, but Brock kicked hard, creating a scramble that allowed him to extricate himself out of my lap for an escape! The buzzer rang signifying the end of regulation, and with the score knotted at 3-3: we were headed to sudden victory over time.
The crowd was ecstatic. Both sets of bleachers trembled under the cheering masses. The match was undoubtedly living up to the hype and expectation. Most wrestlers would be gassing heading into overtime, but Brock and I were exceptionally conditioned athletes. We knew that the mind tires before the body does and that we could push through the exhaustion.
I could hear my father screaming from my corner, “Your offense Drew! Attack, Attack, Attack! Take him down and end this match!” “Come on, dig deep” demanded my conscience.
Breathing heavily, we stepped to the line, back on our feet. Ready to use every last bit of energy we had left in us. Ready to leave it all on the mat. “One minute overtime”, came the voice of the announcer over the loud speaker. The ref blew the whistle and we sprung into action.
Brock was really pushing the pace, trying to break my position and get me out of my wrestling stance. I was able to get in on two good shots, but Brock’s defense was too tough and the ref called a quick stalemate both times. With about twenty seconds left in the match I snapped Brock’s head hard and attempted a “duck-under”, but he down-blocked with his arms and head very well. The down-block exposed my position and Fortino was able to hit a smooth sweep single.
Getting in deep on my leg, I whizzered in defense, but Brock used his brute strength to lift my leg in the air so that I was balancing on one leg. He tried stepping back to sit me to my butt, then immediately shot his head outside to my near hip, driving across and sweeping my legs out with his arms in a perfectly executed double leg take down. I landed on my far hip as he drove me right to the edge of the outer circle and kept his toes in bounds.
The Huntington fans exhaled, “TWO!”, as the ref threw two fingers in the air to signal a two point takedown and end the sudden victory over time. Brock jumped up to his feet and thumped his fist into his chest before pointing with both index fingers at his frenzied Huntington fans.
Defeat knocked the wind out of me. I sat on the mat on my knees for a few seconds, my head on the mat and my hands covering my face in the agony. How could I have lost? Gathering myself, I got up and, keeping my chin held high, walked to the center of the mat where Brock waited with the referee. My father had always taught me to handle my losses like a man, and to never make a scene that would embarrass our program and myself. “Great match”, I said to Brock and shook his hand. I turned my back as the referee raised Brock’s hand to the content of the Huntington fan section. I ran over and shook coach Giani’s hand and then ran back across the mat to my own corner. My dad patted me on the back as I grabbed my stuff and sprinted out of the gymnasium.
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I didn’t let anyone see. I sprinted until I found myself alone in the trainer’s office. I felt empty at first. I felt crushed and deflated. Chills ran down my back as tears streamed down my face; the aftermath of what had just happened was setting in. I was sitting shirtless on the trainer’s table, the straps of my singlet dangling at my sides, sweat still glistening all over my body. My adrenaline was still pumping hard, my blood coursing through my veins as my anger began to surge. I kept replaying the end of the match like a mental movie reel over and over. I kept picturing Brock driving me out of bounds, and looking up at the ref as he signaled two points for the takedown. The roar of the crowd, Brock’s jubilation, and the agony of defeat pierced my heart. The grief spurred my anger. I wanted to scream as loudly as I could, rip down the posters that covered the walls, and throw medical supplies all over the place. I wanted to flip the table I was sitting on, and shatter the glass cabinets with my fists until they dripped with my boiling blood. I left the room.
Wandering down the hallways in no particular direction, my mind was flooded with thoughts. I trained too hard to lose like that. I needed to wrestle Brock again, and I needed to beat him. If I didn’t set the score straight, I knew that my loss to Fortino would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I rounded the corner as I walked back towards the gym to find my father walking towards me. When he caught up to me he hugged me tightly and told me he was proud of me.
“You wrestled a hell of a match Drew. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He was just a little bit better than you today, and capitalized on your mistakes. Well break down the video and see where you went wrong, so we can learn from it. You’ll get another shot at him, don’t worry.”
He faced me, took me by the shoulders, and shook me hard. “Drew, wake up.” He shook me again. “Wake up Drew.”
I opened my eyes to find my father shaking me by the shoulders. “How long have you been in here?” “I don’t know. I guess I feel asleep.” “Come on Drew you know this is very dangerous. Go check your weight so we can get back to the hotel room.”
As I walked back to the hotel I kept thinking about that dream. I had dreamt it so many times this week, reliving the agony of the loss every time. The loss was one of the best things that ever happened to me. From that day on, I used that feeling of defeat as motivation to push myself beyond my limits when I trained.
Whenever I was tired, I would think about what Brock was doing at that moment. I would picture him training as hard as he could, or replay the memory of that takedown. It would motivate me to push through the exhaustion and train harder.
That season, the loss guided me to my first state title. It motivated me to annihilate the returning state-runner up in the semi-finals, and then knock off the returning state champion in the 119 lb final. But my feelings of vengeance never ceased and I knew that I needed to put myself in a position that would enable me to wrestle Brock and even the score. That’s why I was torturing myself to make weight this season. I chased him to the 145 lb weight class for my senior year and was willing to put everything on the line. Only one of us would walk off the mat Saturday night a four-time state champion.

-Marc Zurla