On Monday morning, Mexicali awoke under a dome of heat that was already nearing 40°C by nine o'clock. The air felt like a solid, dry wall hitting his face as he stepped outside. For Ángel, that day marked "the big leap." Having graduated from high school with honors in record time, he now faced the CENEVAL exam to enter the accelerated high school program. It was a risky gamble he had devised himself: if he succeeded, he would enter an independent study program with Saturday tutoring sessions, allowing him to compress three years of high school into just two, freeing up the rest of his week for what truly mattered: his high-performance training and personal time.
The exam center was a gray UABC building, with long hallways that smelled of floor wax and the accumulated anxiety of hundreds of students. Upon crossing the threshold, Ángel felt like a biological intruder. He was surrounded by 15- and 16-year-olds who looked at him with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment. His 5'6" frame and his upright, wrestler-like posture made him seem older than he was, but his face still retained the softness of childhood.
"You're going to high school too, kid?" a tall boy, half a head taller than him, asked. "You didn't go to the wrong classroom, did you? The elementary school one is on the next block."
"I'm here for the proficiency exam," Ángel replied curtly, without even looking him in the eye. He took out his number two pencils and his kneaded eraser with a calmness that unsettled the other boy.
"Good luck, you're going to need it. They say the math and physics section is brutal this year. Half of us will fail," the boy declared before entering the classroom. Ángel didn't reply. For him, studying was no longer an exciting intellectual challenge, but an obligation he had to execute with surgical precision so that no one would have any excuse to stop him. When the proctor gave the signal and the timer started counting down, he immersed himself in the question sheets. He solved advanced algebra and trigonometry with the same coldness with which he analyzed a video of Russian wrestling. While other applicants sighed in frustration or bit their nails, he drew vector diagrams and solved quadratic equations as if he were executing an armbar: with pure technique and without wasting any energy. He finished the exam an hour ahead of schedule, handed in the papers, and left the building without looking back.
Upon reaching the parking lot, where Roberto's car was already waiting for him under the sparse shade of a tree, Ángel put on his headphones. The explosive sound of Linkin Park's "In the End" filled his ears; the distorted guitars and driving rhythm served to reset his mind after the mental exertion. For Ángel, the music of bands like Skillet or Imagine Dragons was the fuel that kept his engine running when his body begged him to stop.
"Let's go get that Chinese food I promised you if you finished on time," Roberto said as he started the car, noticing that his son was lost in his own musical world.
As they savored the fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, and noodles at a restaurant in Chinatown alley—a cool refuge with dim lighting and blasting air conditioning—Roberto pulled an envelope from his briefcase. The logo of the Sports Institute shone in the upper corner.
"This arrived today. It's the official invitation for the Pre-Nationals in Sonora," Roberto said, holding out the paper. "But there's a change. Coach Víctor says you're moving up a weight class because of your growth." Ángel put down his chopsticks and read the document carefully. His heart skipped a beat.
"70 kilos, Dad? That's a huge jump." Right now I weigh 62 kilos wet.
"You're going to get bigger, Ángel. You're at the stage where your body is going to demand more fuel," Roberto explained in his usual pragmatic tone. "Víctor wants you to start a formal weight training regimen, functional hypertrophy. It's not enough to just move your own body weight anymore; now you're going up against guys who are built like men. If you want the national gold, you have to become a beast of strength and technique." Ángel nodded, feeling a mixture of vertigo and adrenaline. High school would just be a Saturday formality, but the gym would become his true home. He understood that the era of being "the skillful kid" was over. Now he was entering the world of powerlifting.
That afternoon, when he got home, he locked himself in his room. He didn't open a book to study; that quota had already been met. Instead, he turned on his computer and started a Naruto Shippuden marathon while Green Day's "American Idiot" played in the background. For Ángel, those moments were sacred. He enjoyed losing himself in the stories of overcoming adversity in anime or Marvel movies, finding parallels between fictional heroes and the discipline he imposed on himself every morning at five.
Carla came in for a moment to give him a t-shirt she had fixed up in his workshop.
"Ángel, you look very thoughtful. Did you do badly on the exam?" she asked, worried.
"No, Mom. The exam was easy. I'm just thinking about the 70 kilos. I have to eat a lot and train harder," he replied, taking a sip of a protein shake that Don Beto had helped him plan.
Carla stroked his hair, noticing that he wasn't the boy he'd been a year ago. His arms had prominent veins, and his neck had broadened.
"As long as you don't neglect your things, we'll support you. But don't forget to rest; even the superheroes in your movies sleep," she said with a smile before returning to her sewing machine.
When Carla left, Ángel turned up the volume on Skillet's "Hero." He looked at his calloused hands and then at the wrestling poster on the wall. The high school exam was just a piece of paper that bought him freedom. The real test was in Sonora, on the mat, in front of guys who didn't know who the kid from Mexicali who studied on his own was.
He closed his eyes and visualized the Pre-National competition. He saw himself in the 70-kilo category, stronger, faster, heavier. He knew that the observant boy who used to hide in his books was definitely dead; now only the elite athlete remained, the young man who listened to alternative rock to ignore the pain in his muscles and who understood that in the Mexicali desert, the world isn't inherited, it's conquered one inch at a time.