The year 2015 presented itself to Ángel as a double trial by fire, a threshold where adolescence and adulthood collided with the force of a freight train. He turned fifteen at the height of the Mexicali summer, an age that for many young people in the city signified the beginning of parties, the first nights out, and the gradual abandonment of childhood responsibilities. However, for Ángel, fifteen was not a celebration, but the year to finish what he had begun with such discipline.
His body gave one last sign of growth, a definitive growth spurt that placed him at 1.82 meters. His physique no longer bore any trace of the roundness of childhood; now it was that of a high-performance athlete sculpted by the desert heat and the sweat of the gym. He possessed a wrestler's narrow waist that allowed for explosive spins and hands that, after thousands of repetitions of grappling, had become pincers of bone and tendon. When they closed around an opponent's wrist, they simply wouldn't let go. But the real challenge that year wasn't just on the rubber mat, but in the cold pamphlets of final paperwork that lay on his desk. Ángel was about to take the comprehensive exams to graduate high school in just two years through the open enrollment system. It was a risky gamble he had taken on himself to secure his future. He spent his early mornings studying under the dim light of his desk lamp, while the rest of Mexicali slept to the constant hum of air conditioners. The silence of his room was only broken by the turning of pages in books on world literature, calculus, and advanced physics.
Carla, his mother, was the only witness to this silent sacrifice. She would come in from time to time, after finishing her urgent tasks at the sewing workshop, her eyes tired but full of pride. She would leave him a glass of natural juice or a plate of fruit to keep him awake. "Son, get some rest," she told him one Tuesday night, noticing that Ángel's shoulders were rigid and his jaw was tense even when he was only holding a pen. "Roberto says you're doing very well, that your scores on the practice exams are perfect, but I don't want you to get sick from lack of sleep. No degree is worth your health."
"I'm almost finished, Mom," he replied without taking his eyes off a diagram of the laws of thermodynamics. "If I pass these exams, I'll be free when I'm fifteen. I won't have to worry about homework, class schedules, or absences when I have to travel. If I gain this academic freedom, I can dedicate myself fully to training for the Nationals. It's a deal I made with myself." The discipline he had learned with Víctor in the gym was fully transferred to his books. Ángel didn't read; he dissected the information. His mind, accustomed to anticipating an opponent's moves, now anticipated the exam questions.
The day of his high school graduation exam was an eight-hour marathon in a government building belonging to the Ministry of Education, surrounded by adults who looked at him with curiosity and distrust. What was a fifteen-year-old boy doing sitting there, back straight and with an iron gaze? Ángel answered each section with analytical coolness. When he got to the math section, his fingers moved with the speed of someone executing a leg takedown. When he finished, he stepped out into the blinding afternoon sun, feeling an invisible weight, a slab of academic expectations, lift from his shoulders.
Two weeks later, the official envelope with the state seal arrived at his house. Roberto, always sparing with words but profound in his actions, placed the envelope on the table during dinner, right next to Ángel's plate.
"Accredited with Academic Excellence," his father read with a tone of satisfaction he rarely showed. "You've finished high school, Ángel. At fifteen. It's an achievement few can boast of in this family or any other." Ángel nodded with a slight smile as he continued eating his portion of chicken and broccoli. There were no big celebrations or cakes; in the González household, success was seen as a natural consequence of hard work. Besides, there was no time for celebrations. The State Championship qualifier in Tijuana was just days away, and the pressure was different than in previous years. He was no longer the "dark horse," the new kid who surprised the veterans with his polished technique; now he was the target. He was the rival every coach in Baja California had studied on video. Everyone wanted to defeat him to prove that his meteoric rise was nothing more than a lucky streak.
On the day of their departure for the coastal region, the air in Mexicali was unusually humid. Mónica, who had become his emotional anchor during those months of confinement and study, him to the bus terminal. They sat on the worn plastic benches in the waiting room, surrounded by the blaring noise of departure announcements and the smell of burnt coffee from the food stalls.
"If you win this state championship, Ángel..." Mónica whispered, leaning in to adjust the collar of his official state track jacket, the one with "Baja" emblazoned across the back. "I have a surprise planned for you when you get back. But there's one condition: you have to bring home that gold. I don't want to see any consolation prizes or bronze medals for mere participation. I want you to win the way you know how, dominating from the first second." Ángel stared at her. Mónica's eyes reflected absolute faith in him. She gave him a goodbye kiss, a gesture that felt much more real, weighty, and serious than the flirtations of months past. They weren't children playing at love anymore; they were two people supporting each other in the pursuit of a shared ambition.
He boarded the bus carrying his training bag, which contained his mascot costumes, wrestling shoes, and a worn mouthguard. He put on his headphones and selected "Centuries" by Fall Out Boy. The volume of the music created a wall of sound that blocked out the noise of his teammates, who were joking and playing in the back seats, oblivious to the introspection Ángel needed.
As the bus climbed the treacherous curves of La Rumorosa, flanked by gigantic boulders and deep ravines, Ángel didn't take any books out of his bag. For the first time in almost three years, he didn't have to review historical dates or chemical formulas. He simply watched the desert landscape transform into mountains, thinking exclusively about the holds Víctor had taught him that past week: how to use arm leverage to neutralize heavier opponents. His mind was free of schoolwork, and his body was in peak physical condition. He felt, at last, like a professional.
Tijuana welcomed him with its characteristic cool breeze and that grayish fog that always seemed somewhat strange and melancholic to the people of Mexicali. The team settled into a hotel in the city center, near the gym where the fights would take place. The atmosphere in the hotel was electric; hundreds of young people from Ensenada, Rosarito, Tecate, and Tijuana itself filled the hallways. Ángel, however, remained in his own little world.
The next day, during the weigh-in ceremony, he stripped down and stepped onto the scale in front of the judges. The digital display stopped exactly at the limit of his weight class. Not a gram more, not a gram less.
"You're at your peak, González," Víctor told him, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder after he stepped off the platform. "Tomorrow there's no room for error. Just go out there and do what we've practiced in the dark of the gym when no one was watching. Don't complicate things with fancy moves; Use your reach, maintain your distance, and don't let them get within waist-deep. If you control the distance, you control the fight.
Ángel nodded silently. That night, while the rest of the team shared laughs in the lobby, he retired early to his room. He checked his phone one last time before turning it off. He had a message from Mónica that read, "Be the best," and a photo his mother had sent him: it was Carla in the workshop, holding a small Baja California flag with a thumbs-up and a tired but unconditionally supportive smile.
He closed his eyes and began his visualization ritual. In his mind, the Tijuana mat wasn't a strange place, but his territory. He saw himself walking in, smelling the disinfectant and sweat, hearing the referee's whistle. He visualized every takedown, every defense, every moment the referee raised his right hand, declaring him the winner.
He knew that winning in Tijuana was the final step before reaching the big stage: the National Championship in Monterrey. But beyond the medals, Ángel felt an inner satisfaction that no trophy could match. For the first time in his life, he wasn't a student stealing hours from sleep to fight; he was a fighter who had already conquered his studies and who now, with a clear mind and a tempered heart, had nothing to lose and a whole world of glory to win. The desert had forged him, school had tested him, and now the mat would deliver his final verdict.