The High-Performance Center (CAR) in Tijuana was, that Saturday afternoon, a veritable cauldron of noise, humidity, and human heat. The echo of the coaches' shouts and the referees' whistles bounced off the concrete walls, creating a dense atmosphere that numbed the senses of the less experienced. It was the state final, the match that would determine who would represent Baja California in the National Olympics. Fate, with its usual irony, pitted Ángel against an old acquaintance from the lower categories: "The Shark" from Ensenada.
That wrestler had snatched glory from him years before, beating him by a single point in a controversial match that Ángel could never quite forget. But time had not stood still for either of them. The Shark was now seventeen; he was heavier, with shoulders as broad as a steel beam, and possessed an attitude brimming with excessive confidence that bordered on arrogance. He paced the edge of the mat as if the gold medal already hung around his neck, casting defiant glances at the Mexicali corner.
"This is the moment, Ángel," Víctor said in a husky voice, slapping him hard on the shoulders so hard the sound echoed throughout the gym. He finished adjusting Ángel's wrestling boots, making sure the straps were tucked in. "All the training under the 113-degree sun of Mexicali, all those early mornings studying, and every drop of sweat in the gym boils down to these six minutes. Be smart. He's strong and he'll try to intimidate you with illegal blows or shoves, but you have no distractions. Your mind is clear, there are no exams keeping you up at night. Use it like a weapon."
The match began with an aggression that brought the crowd, divided between the Ensenada and Mexicali supporters, to their feet. From the first contact, it was clear that El Tiburón wasn't just looking for points, but to punish. He tried to use his superior physical strength to push Ángel out of the protective circle, subtly headbutting him during clinches to throw him off his game and squeezing Ángel's wrists with such force that he tried to cut off his circulation to frustrate him.
It was a constant struggle, a violent dance where every inch of ground was hard-won. However, the Ángel on the mat today was different from the one in previous years. He didn't despair at his opponent's tricks. He used his 6-foot frame to maintain distance, employing quick hand attacks to the torso to test his reaction time and maintaining such a solid hip defense that it thwarted every attempt to attack the Ensenada native's legs. Ángel's physical maturity was combined with astonishing mental clarity; every time El Tiburón attempted a charge, Ángel met him with a sharp block that reminded him who was in control.
Entering the final three-minute period, the score was tied 4-4. The fatigue was evident: sweat made their bodies seem like glass, and the air in the High-Performance Center felt increasingly thin. With only thirty seconds remaining, desperation gripped the Shark. Unable to break through Ángel's defense, the man from Ensenada launched himself into a high-risk hip throw (a suplex) in a desperate gamble.
It was then that Ángel's reflexes, honed in the solitude of his training, shone brightly. He reacted with a speed that left the spectators speechless: he didn't resist the opponent's push, but rather, in a display of pure technique, used the Shark's momentum to twist his own torso in mid-air. In a movement that seemed to unfold in slow motion, he caught Shark's body before he fell and, using his own weight like a sledgehammer, slammed him to the mat with a thud that echoed through the stands.
"Pinfall!" yelled the referee, diving to the floor to check that both of Shark's shoulders were flat on the mat. He slammed his palm down hard on the canvas.
Angel rose slowly, breathing heavily. His lip was split from an accidental blow and his uniform was soaked, but his eyes weren't searching for glory, but rather the scoreboard to confirm what was already a fact. He had won. He was the State Champion.
As he stepped off the podium, the heavy gold medal gleaming on his chest, Angel spotted his father in the crowd. Roberto wasn't one for grand speeches or effusive hugs in public, but when Angel reached him, the man extended his hand. The handshake was so firm, and Roberto's gaze so clear and devoid of its usual harshness, that Ángel knew immediately: his father finally recognized him as an equal, as a man of his own will who had kept his word.
Back in Mexicali that same night, the city's heat felt like a warm welcome after the chill of the coast. The team bus was a party of shouts and music, but Ángel remained in a state of reflective calm. He didn't go straight to sleep when he arrived. He asked his father to drop him off at the corner of Mónica's street before going home.
She was waiting for him, sitting on the sidewalk under the yellowish, flickering light of a lamppost, as if she knew exactly what time he would arrive. Seeing Ángel's figure approaching and the glint of gold in the night light, she jumped up and ran to him, hugging him with a force that almost took his breath away.
"You did it, my champion," she whispered against his neck, as the scent of her perfume mingled with the night air, finally calming Ángel's nerves.
"I told you I was going to win, Mónica," he replied, closing his eyes. At fifteen, he felt that the pieces of the puzzle of his life, which had once seemed scattered and confusing, were finally falling into place into a perfect design.
They went into Monica's living room for a moment to escape the heat. Knowing his tastes well, she put on Linkin Park's Hybrid Theory album on a small player they had in the room. The distorted, powerful sound of Papercut filled the room as they shared a cold soda, the glass of the bottle sweating in their hands. Monica, with a mischievous smile, took out a small box wrapped in simple gift paper.
"This is for two things: for being a genius and finishing high school before anyone else, and for bringing me that gold you promised," she said, handing him the gift.
Inside the box was a black t-shirt from one of his favorite rock bands and a special edition Marvel comic that Angel had mentioned months before, almost in passing, while studying for his exams. It was a gesture that reminded him that she really did listen to him. They spent some time talking, but for the first time in years, the conversation didn't revolve around wrestling tactics, wrist grabs, or calculus derivatives. They talked about trivial things, movies, their friends Ángel and Tony, and what they would do when he returned from the Nationals in Monterrey. Ángel allowed himself to simply enjoy the present, without the weight of the next school assignment or the next weightlifting session.
When they finally arrived home, silence reigned on the street, but a light was still on in the distance: Carla's workshop. His mother was still awake, finishing hemming a quinceañera dress that was due on Monday. When she saw her son walk in with the medal hanging from his neck, Carla put down her needle and stood up, her eyes shining with pride. She approached him and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek, caressing the gold metal.
"I knew you could do it, son. I never doubted it," she said softly. "I already put your high school diploma in the folder of important documents, next to your transcripts." Tomorrow, I don't want you to put a foot out of bed if you don't want to. I made your favorite dinner; it's on the stove.
Ángel went back to his room, carrying his backpack and his new victory. He took off his medal and placed it on his desk, right on top of the physics and calculus books that now seemed like relics from another life, objects that had served their purpose and now rested in peace. He lay down on his bed, put on his headphones, and let the alternative rock music immerse him in a state of deep relaxation.
Monterrey was now on the horizon, and Ángel knew that the level of competition at the National Olympiad would be a much more difficult mountain to climb. The best in the country would be there, kids with government support and international coaches. But he wasn't afraid anymore. He felt invulnerable because he had no more weaknesses: he had finished his basic education with honors, he was the undisputed champion of his state, and he had his mother's love, his father's respect, and Mónica's loyalty.
He fell asleep with rhythmic breathing and the satisfaction of someone who knows he has fulfilled his duty. He was no longer just the boy reading under the scorching sun; he was Ángel González, the champion of Baja California, and this was only the beginning of his true journey to the top.