Pt 1 The Arrow’s Flight

I stood at the edge of the mat, my feet pressing into its familiar, rubbery surface, feeling its give under my weight. The gym roared and hummed in my ears—not the deafening roar of a packed stadium, but the low, comforting murmur of parents, teammates, and old rivals. The kind of sound that holds memories. The scent of sweat and disinfectant filled my nose, an aroma I hated once but now couldn’t imagine my life without.

This was it. The last match. I knew it. Everyone knew it.

I looked across at my opponent, a kid with fire in his eyes and a hint of fear. He wasn’t ready for the weight of this moment, not like I was. His life was still barreling forward, an arrow taut on a bowstring, ready to be loosed. Mine? Mine was a shaft that had flown true for years and now quivered in the target, waiting to be pulled out, admired, and forgotten.

The whistle blew, sharp and commanding, and I moved before I thought. My body knew the motions, the drills, the rhythm. Duck, pivot, reach, drive. It was a dance older than I could remember, muscle memory dragging me into its flow.

The years unraveled in my head, each step sparking a memory.

I was eight, skinny, and awkward, my ears too big for my head. Coach barked at me for the first time. "You’re not running to second base, kid. This is wrestling. Get low!" I didn’t know then that I’d spend the next twenty years of my life trying to stay low, trying to stay grounded, even as the world tilted and spun.

Another move—a takedown. The crowd cheered. Was it for me? For him? Did it even matter?

Suddenly, I was sixteen. I was invincible. I stood on the podium, gold around my neck, sweat dripping from my hair, and I thought, This is who I am. This is what I was meant to do. My coach clapped my back so hard I almost toppled off the platform, and my dad, holding his camcorder, had tears in his eyes.

Another memory: twenty-two, broken, limping off the mat after losing at Nationals. I swore I’d quit. I swore wrestling had taken everything from me—my social life, my weekends, my sanity. But I came back. Of course, I did. Wrestling didn’t just take. It gave. It gave me the grit to keep going when everything hurt.

The present snapped back as my opponent twisted, countering. I scrambled, fighting for control. The cheers blurred together. For a moment, I thought of the matches I’d won, the times my hand was raised in victory. Those memories felt distant now, like pictures in an old photo album.

The whistle blew again. The match was over.

I stood there, chest heaving, my hands on my knees. The ref raised an arm—not mine. The kid across from me looked ecstatic, and I smiled because he deserved it. He reminded me of myself, years ago, when the mat felt like my whole universe.

The crowd clapped politely. My coach gave me a nod, and my teammates slapped my back, but I felt alone in a way I hadn’t anticipated. My life had revolved around this—these mats, these people, this grind. Now, it was over.

I walked off the mat slowly, my head buzzing. The adrenaline faded, and a strange emptiness crept in. It wasn’t sadness or regret—just a kind of aimlessness. For years, I’d been the arrow. Wrestling had aimed me at goals, tournaments, championships. It gave me purpose. And now?

I stood at the edge of the gym, watching the matches continue without me. Parents cheered, whistles blew, and kids laughed as they rolled around on the mats. Life went on, but mine felt suspended.

What now?

That question echoed louder than the crowd. I felt the weight of it pressing on my chest. I didn’t have an answer, but I knew one thing: Wrestling wasn’t just a sport—it was a foundation. It had taught me to fight, to endure, to adapt. Even without the mat beneath me, those lessons would carry me forward.

As I left the gym for the last time, the sun hit my face, and I felt something stir in my chest—not quite hope, but the faintest promise of it. I wasn’t an arrow anymore. I was something new, something undefined. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.