In the seventh grade, I faced a large transition in life. The previous year I had experienced middle school for the first time, but I would make that entrance again. I moved from Texas to North Dakota, where seventh grade was the first year of middle school. I took on those same fears and hopes that I had faced before, but in an unfamiliar place where I had no one except for family to give me support. I tried a lot of new things that year, mainly wrestling. As a sport, it was entirely new to me. It had previously only been a staged festival of well-muscled actors. Now, I faced it as a challenge. I was entering a field of athletes that had been learning pins since their infancy, and I felt that immediately. I faced impossible match-ups not only
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He told me where I had missed a roll, how I could work on my grip. Then he met my eye. He would always say the same thing: I didn't lose because of my wrestling. I lost before the first whistle was blown. I failed in my head. I was adamant not to waste another year of three to seven o'clock practices and grueling work on wrestling. I was done. I tried, I did poorly, I didn't quit until the end. My goal had been accomplished. Fortunately, my coach would have none of it. He would ask every day when I was signing up for wrestling and I could never answer him. Didn't have it in me to tell him I was soft. I gave in, eventually. I decided that I would give it one more year. Eighth grade was different in one way only: my nerves were gone. I talked to no one before a match. I emptied my thoughts. That year I learned to breath in fresh air and exhale every negative rumble in my stomach. To this day, that breathing brings me a calm power I can tap when I feel like giving up. In the short term, it had brought me three tournament wins and a seventeen to three win-loss record. At the time, it was far more important to me to win than anything else. What I didn't quite understand at the time was that I was actually learning how to not
He told me where I had missed a roll, how I could work on my grip. Then he met my eye. He would always say the same thing: I didn't lose because of my wrestling. I lost before the first whistle was blown. I failed in my head. I was adamant not to waste another year of three to seven o'clock practices and grueling work on wrestling. I was done. I tried, I did poorly, I didn't quit until the end. My goal had been accomplished. Fortunately, my coach would have none of it. He would ask every day when I was signing up for wrestling and I could never answer him. Didn't have it in me to tell him I was soft. I gave in, eventually. I decided that I would give it one more year. Eighth grade was different in one way only: my nerves were gone. I talked to no one before a match. I emptied my thoughts. That year I learned to breath in fresh air and exhale every negative rumble in my stomach. To this day, that breathing brings me a calm power I can tap when I feel like giving up. In the short term, it had brought me three tournament wins and a seventeen to three win-loss record. At the time, it was far more important to me to win than anything else. What I didn't quite understand at the time was that I was actually learning how to not