The trip from Mexicali to Tijuana is a dizzying transition that tests the mettle of any traveler. To get from one city to the other, you have to cross "La Rumorosa," a mountainous region of gigantic rocks, hairpin turns, and winds that can overturn cargo trucks. It's a place where the temperature drops dramatically in a matter of minutes. For Ángel, seeing the landscape change from the flat, scorching desert to the rugged mountains and, finally, to the humid, salty gray of the Pacific Ocean, was like traveling to another planet.
At thirteen, this was his first time officially representing Mexicali in a major state tournament. He wasn't alone; the INDE wrestling team was traveling in a school bus that smelled of ham sandwiches, sweaty feet, foot warmer, and barely contained nerves.
"Don't sit too close to the window, González, you'll get dizzy, and I want you to be at 100 percent for the weigh-in," Víctor told him from the seat in front, without turning around. Ángel moved forward and focused his attention on the book "Socioeconomic Structure of Mexico" on his lap. It was his last big exam to finish the high school term. The exam would be on Monday, just after returning from Tijuana. While his teammates listened to loud music, threw papers, or joked around loudly, he underlined concepts about the import substitution model and the inflation of the 1970s.
"Seriously, are you studying right now?" Rodri "El Tanque" leaned over the back seat, incredulous. "Relax, shorty. If you go in with your head full of dates and history, you won't see the Tijuana guys' punches coming. They don't study, they just eat and train."
"It's just that if I don't take advantage of these three hours of travel, I won't have time to review the Porfiriato," Ángel replied, though he closed the book for a moment to rest his eyes. "Aren't you nervous about the tournament?" Rodri shrugged, but his fingers nervously fiddling with the zipper of his gym bag betrayed him.
"A little. The guys from Tijuana train at the High-Performance Center (CAR) with new equipment and nutritionists. We train in an oven without air conditioning. But Víctor says that gives us 'grit.' That we're desert dogs." When they arrived at the High-Performance Center (CAR) in Tijuana, the culture shock was immediate. The weather was cool and misty, an incredible relief compared to the dry sun of Mexicali, but the facilities were imposing. There were fencers in their white suits, swimmers in long parkas, and gymnasts moving with unreal grace. Ángel felt small in his somewhat worn athletic uniform, but he remembered the words of Don Beto the butcher: "We have the sun." There was a toughness in the guys from Mexicali that couldn't be bought with new equipment.
The weigh-in was the first real obstacle. Angel undressed and stepped onto the scale in front of the association's judges.
"Exactly 42 kilos. You pass," the official declared in a monotone.
Angel sighed with relief. He had been watching every gram of his diet for weeks, measuring his water and salt intake. As he walked toward the bleachers to eat an apple and some honey to regain his energy, he saw the competitors from other municipalities. They were tall, wearing designer uniforms, and had an arrogant attitude. In the corner of the gymnasium, he saw a girl who looked familiar; it was Monica. She was there among the upperclassmen with what appeared to be her family. She saw him, stood up, and raised a fist in support. Angel felt a strange warmth in his cheeks and quickly glanced down at his history book, though he could no longer focus on the dates.
The competition began Saturday morning. The Greco-Roman wrestling system is unforgiving: in a tournament like this, one loss can knock you off the podium. Ángel won his first match by a simple pin against a guy from Rosarito. He won the second with a technical takedown in under two minutes, displaying a speed of execution that would surprise the judges. But in the semifinals, he faced a guy from Ensenada who was all muscle and malice.
The match was a war of attrition. The guy from Ensenada kept pushing him out of the ring, trying to frustrate him and draw a foul. Ángel felt the cold coastal sweat clinging to his skin, a sensation very different from the sweat that evaporated instantly in the warmth of his home. In the second period, Ángel was down 4-2.
"Think, Ángel! It's not strength, it's angle! Use your head!" Víctor yelled from the corner, pounding the mat.
Ángel took a deep breath. His mind, accustomed to solving complex equations under time pressure, analyzed his opponent's attack pattern. The boy from Ensenada always attacked with his right shoulder forward after a header feint. Ángel waited for the exact moment when the opponent launched himself with all his weight, but Ángel didn't back down; he dived, caught the opponent's arm, and executed a perfect arm spin. The opponent flew through the air in a kinetic arc and landed on his back. The impact was sharp. The whistle signaled the pinfall. Victory for Mexicali.
At the end of the day, Ángel had a silver medal around his neck. He had lost the final by a single point against a national team member with two more years of experience, but his performance had everyone talking about the "bookish kid" from Mexicali.
On Sunday night, back on the bus, the atmosphere was celebratory. Rodri had won bronze, and other teammates were also bringing home medals. Ángel, however, had his reading light on above his seat as the bus descended La Rumorosa in the darkness. He had his final high school exam on Monday at 8:00 AM.
When they arrived at the Mexicali Sports Complex at 2:00 AM, the city's lingering heat greeted them like an old friend. Roberto was there, waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his car.
"So?" his father asked as he helped Ángel put his backpack in the trunk.
"Silver, Dad. I almost beat the national champion," Ángel said, handing over the silver medal. Roberto examined it in the yellowish light of the streetlamp. It was heavy and shiny. He weighed it in his hand and then gave it back to his son with a nod of approval.
"That's a good medal. But remember, tomorrow that medal won't answer your economics or civics questions. Did you review enough on the way?"
"I reviewed on the way there and back. I'm ready."
"Get in the car. Your mother left you a light dinner on the table." Get four hours of sleep; it's better than nothing before an exam. —
—And son… I'm proud of you, always, never forget that.— He told him as they went upstairs.
The next morning, Ángel entered the accreditation offices. Dark circles under his eyes and his right shoulder ached from the semifinal match, but his hand didn't tremble as he picked up the pen. The exam lasted four hours. It consisted of three years' worth of study compressed onto multiple-choice sheets and short analytical essays.
When he handed in the exam, the secretary looked at him with obvious curiosity.
—You're the youngest person to have taken this middle school section all year, Ángel. If you pass, you'll officially have finished basic education. What's next for you? Vacation?
—Starting high school—he replied with a tired but satisfied smile—. And training for gold at the nationals.
As they left, the Mexicali sun was at its zenith, scorching the pavement and creating mirages of water on the road.
Here's the continuation, expanding the narrative into her mid-teens, the start of high school, and her physical transformation.