What began as a simple way to kill time during a scorching summer quickly transformed, with a speed that surprised even his parents, into Ángel's silent obsession. By the time he turned eleven, his life had ceased to be the chaotic jumble of childhood and had become a perfect equilateral triangle, its vertices being high school, the wrestling gym at the Sports Complex, and his study desk.
However, for Ángel, this order wasn't a prison imposed by Roberto or Carla; it was the scaffolding he himself had built to support his dreams. While his classmates spent their afternoons in the neighborhood's internet cafes, enveloped in the smoke of contraband cigarettes and the glare of monitors as they played video games or gossiped about the girls in their class, Ángel was in the gym, where the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. There, he repeated the "neck bridge" over and over, arching his back on the mat and resting all his weight on the crown of his head until he felt his vertebrae fuse into a single, resilient unit.
Coach Víctor, true to form, wasn't one for motivational speeches. His corrections were brief, sharp, and cutting like a whip.
"Lower your hips, González!" Víctor roared, his voice rising above the whir of the extractors. "In Greco-Roman wrestling, if you lose your center of gravity, you lose your life! The mat doesn't forgive those who think they can wrestle standing upright as if they were in a bank row. Sink!"
Ángel soon learned that Greco-Roman wrestling was, in essence, a battle of applied geometry under extreme pressure. Since attacking the opponent's legs was prohibited, the sport demanded a different kind of technical sophistication: the torso, arms, and back had to be used to create leverage. Every time Ángel opened his physics books in his room, he didn't see Newton's laws as boring formulas meant to fill out an exam; he saw them as combat instructions. Inertia was the opponent's weight that he had to take advantage of; centripetal force was the necessary rotation for a perfect throw. For him, studying wasn't a passion, but an obligation he dispatched with surgical efficiency to free up space in his real schedule.
One day, while driving home with his father, the air conditioning blasting to combat the 43°C of a particularly sweltering afternoon, Ángel blurted out the idea he'd been mulling over between sets of push-ups.
"Dad, I've been looking into the proficiency exams at the Ministry of Education," he said, looking out the window at how the heat made the palm trees on the avenue sway.
"I've been researching the proficiency exams at the Ministry of Education." Roberto kept his eyes fixed on the road, though his hands tightened slightly on the plastic steering wheel. He knew that look on his son's face; it was the same look he wore before attempting a takedown at the gym.
"So, what did you find out?" Roberto asked neutrally.
"That if I take the comprehensive exams, I can graduate middle school in one year instead of three. And then I can do the same with high school. If I study on my own, I can finish everything by fifteen."
Roberto braked gently at a red light and turned his head to look at his son. He noticed the small calluses beginning to harden the palms of his hands and the reddish mark, almost a friction burn, that the tarp had left on his neck. He saw a boy who no longer spoke like a boy.
"Those exams aren't a gift, Ángel," Roberto said, starting to drive again when the light turned green. "They're mass testing for people who didn't have another choice." You'll have to demonstrate in one afternoon what others learn in a semester. And let me be clear: I'm not going to lift a finger to help you with the paperwork. You'll have to go to the accreditation offices yourself, request the course materials, and study in your free time. If you fail a single subject, the experiment is over, and you'll go back to regular school with your classmates. Understood?
"Understood," Ángel replied with an unwavering certainty.
From that moment on, his life took on a spartan tone, but not without those small pleasures his parents jealously guarded. Carla, his mother, was the balance in that home of quiet men. She made sure that, amidst all the training and studying, Ángel didn't forget how to be a child.
"Ángel, that's enough with the books for today," Carla would say some nights, entering his room with a plate of chopped fruit or a glass of lemonade. "Come out to the living room; your father put on one of those alien movies you like."
Carla y Roberto no lo presionaban para que fuera un genio; solo le exigían responsabilidad. Mientras sus calificaciones fueran excelentes y su comportamiento en el gimnasio fuera ejemplar, no se oponían a lo que hiciera con su tiempo. Así, Ángel found refuge in science fiction. He was fascinated by stories of distant worlds and impossible technologies; he spent hours watching anime, identifying with characters who, like him, had to train tirelessly to overcome monumental obstacles. And of course, he remained a devoted fan of professional wrestling. Sundays were still sacred: whether it was WWE, AAA, or CMLL, Ángel analyzed the moves, though now with the critical eye of someone who knows what it truly takes to throw a man to the mat.
His routine began at 5:00 AM. He ran through the empty streets of Mexicali, when the air was still breathable and the city retained a trace of the night's coolness. These were the only minutes of the day when the sun didn't claim absolute ownership of every inch of asphalt. Then he attended regular high school, where he paid absolute, almost ferocious, attention. He didn't do it out of a love for academic knowledge, but to save time: if he learned everything in class, he wouldn't have to waste a single minute reviewing at home. Upon leaving school, he would walk under the scorching sun, his backpack heavy and sweat trickling down his neck, to the Sports City for his three hours of training under Víctor's watchful eye. And finally, from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM, after dinner with his parents and discussing a scene from Evangelion or criticizing the latest pay-per-view wrestling event, he would lock himself away to study the upper-grade textbooks he bought secondhand at the flea market.
His first major challenge came at the end of that year: the accreditation exam for the first block of secondary school. The testing center was a gray government building with high ceilings and noisy fans, filled with adults seeking a second chance at life. Ángel was the only child in the room. For four hours, he answered questions on history, biology, and mathematics. His hand ached from so much writing, a dull, constant fatigue very different from the explosiveness of the gym, but requiring the same kind of stamina.
Two weeks later, the official envelope arrived. Carla was the first to see it and placed it on the dinner table with a restrained smile. Roberto glanced at it as he sat down. Ángel opened it with hands that, despite the training, still trembled slightly.
Awarded with distinction.
Ángel looked up at his father. Roberto didn't get up to give him a big hug, nor were there any loud celebrations. He simply nodded with a slight, proud smile and continued eating his soup.
"Good job, son," Roberto said calmly. "I'll get you your second-year books tomorrow. But remember what we talked about: don't get too distracted. The fight on the mat is physical, but the fight against time is what truly defines a man."
Ángel smiled to himself and looked at Carla, who winked at him before serving him a warm tortilla. He didn't need grand praise or celebrations. For him, each exam he passed wasn't an academic trophy, but a strategic victory: it was one more hour he wrested from the system to dedicate to his true passion. In the relentless heat of Mexicali, amidst used textbooks, anime marathons, and the smell of magnesium from the gym, Ángel González was forging his own steel, a steel tempered by the discipline of study and sharpened by the sweat on the mat.