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Cole Kelly

Composition

Pride and Tradition

“Break! 5 minutes! Get a drink, go to the bathroom! Live wrestling

when you get back!” boomed Sam. Twenty heavily clothed,

sweaty, distraught figures slowly arose around me and shuffled off

of the glistening black and orange wrestling mats. They made their

way onto the hard slick surface of the concrete floor and

descended out of the mat room and into the hallway. The sounds

of their sweat-soaked shoes chirping on the concrete marked their

progress as they slowly made their way. From the far end of the room I took one last moment to

catch my breath as I stood bent over, hands clasped onto my thighs I wiped free the beads of

sweat from my visibly exhausted face and began to follow my teammates out.

This scene and environment was nothing new, not to me, not to anyone in the room.

Practices like this ensued every day, each as painful as the last. This one though, felt different.

The energy in the room was off, and this was evidenced by the lack of camaraderie that we

usually held during this break time. The walk down the long stretch of dimly lit hallway was much

more solemn and quiet than usual. Despite the practice being just as oppressive and intense as

usual, our spirits were much lower. Regardless of this feeling, we trudged on regardless, and

continued to bottle this feeling inside, remaining as unexpressive and headstrong as always.

As we convened at the water fountains, complaints and remarks of our exhaustion were

thrown around about the practice. We were all dreading what was to come. Most of us at the

time were cutting weight, and had to monitor how much water we were drinking. This was

obvious by the vivid sounds of water being gurgled and swish, followed by its immediate frothy
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removal from the mouth back into the dull, chrome-plated fountain. After rinsing my mouth out to

help with the cotton mouth, I took a few sips of water and then began to

head back. By my side walked a stocky blonde kid, standing just about

four inches below me. His name was Austin Johnson, he held the ideal

wrestlers frame. He was short and reflected the characteristics of a bull,

both mentally and physically. Johnson and I were wrestling partners often,

this day being no different. We were good friends, and as we trudged back

to the room, we shamelessly agreed on how tired we were up to this point.

“I just want to do a few matches of live, some sprints, and then go home” I

muttered, despite my pessimism surrounding the likelihood of this thought.

We were both wrapped in heavy sweatshirts and sweatpants, each article

of clothing tucked into another to create a seal that would insulate the heat

and increase how much weight we were losing. The more weight we lost at practice meant the

more food we could eat and water we could drink for the night.

As we pulled back the metal doors to the mat room, a wave of hot air released and

showered our bodies, sobering us up and returning us to reality. My teammates were scattered

and askew around the room. The coaches stood

huddled at the side of the room, discussing with Sam,

the head coach, on what our unusual and peculiar

workout regimen would be. Johnson and I marched

onwards to the back of the room and found an empty

spot on the mat, we collapsed instantly onto the mat,

lying there, awaiting our que to resume practice. In my

comatose state, my eyes wandered and then instantly

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focused onto the bolded words which returned my gaze. “Pride and Tradition”. The sight held

me for a moment as I idled there, mindlessly studying the words. My trance was broken by the

shouting of the coaches. Live wrestling was about to begin.

The hot stale air was permeated throughout the room, apathetic to the struggling bodies

and screams of coaches that toiled through it. Only a few minutes remained and every wrestler

was at their limit. Johnson and I were now pushed to exhaustion. Our movements became

sluggish and less accurate. “Johnson! Cole! Let’s go! MOVE!” yelped Sam next to us. Before I

could react Johnson reached and slapped the back of my head and slammed my head

downward. “Good club Johnson!” I tried to regain my

stance and then retaliated with an equally blunt hit. “Club

him again Cole! Come on Guys! Push yourselves!” As

expected, he returned with the same move, but harder. My

head flung down, and one ear rung with a high pitch tone.

I came back and hit him as hard as I could. As we waged

back and forth, we functioned not out of anger or frustration, but in response to the one thing

that remained in us; Exhaustion. Each malicious hit was derived from our lack of energy and

care. There was no thought or emotion in any of it. My head was devoid of almost all thought as

I continued this struggle. My focus remained only on making it to the end. “Way to Fight! TIME!”

Sam sam yelled, his words crackling throughout the room. “You guys went hard, clap it up.

We’re done for today.”

Johnson and I slowly rose out of our stance and met eyes. Silently we read each other's

expression. There was no contempt. A silent understanding. We paused for a moment and then

Johnson began to walk away. I stood there for a second, recovering. As my breath regained

and my adrenaline lessened, my entire body began to ache. I noticed an odd feeling in my
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head. My scalp felt numb. I folded my hands behind my head and threw my chin upwards to try

and help myself breath. As I walked towards the doors I passed several wrestlers sprawled out

on the floor, lying in puddles of sweat. I glanced up at the wall and read the words again. “Pride

and Tradition”.

This nondescript, very small moment, I felt was very reflective of my time in wrestling as

a whole. Throughout my whole life I’ve heard and read about how sports breed toughness, they

make you stronger, tougher. But these qualities were never something I could define for myself.

Pride isn’t what I felt during these practices. I am not proud of the bones I’ve seen broken,

friends I’ve seen starve themselves, and the dreams I’ve seen shattered. But I will never forget

the bond I have with my teammates. I will never forget the things we went through together. I

will never forget the glance Johnson and I shared.

THE CREW^
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Works Cited
IWCOA Website:
https://iwcoa.net/hall-of-fame-2/sam-hiatt/
TeamUSA website:
https://www.teamusa.org/USA-Wrestling/Features/2019/April/12/Flashback-to-World-Team-Trial
s-finals-between-Jordan-Burroughs-and-Kyle-Dake