The trip to Monterrey for the National Olympics represented a complete paradigm shift in Ángel González's life. Gone were the years of traveling in cramped school vans, crisscrossing the Baja California highways amidst the smell of gasoline and the endless desert. This time, the Baja delegation traveled with the status of a sporting powerhouse, flying over the jagged peaks of the Sierra Madre Oriental. Ángel, seated by the airplane window, observed the jagged mountain peaks with an analytical, almost clinical, focus. At fifteen, his physical presence was imposing: his 1.82 meters of height and such dense, defined musculature made the airplane seat feel small, forcing him to adjust his long, athletic arms with some difficulty.
His travel backpack no longer carried the heavy textbooks from high school; his high school diploma now rested in a wooden frame in the living room of his home in Mexicali. Instead, he carried applied anatomy and biomechanics textbooks he had bought himself with his savings. He had decided to wait a year before entering university, and he planned to use that time to dissect wrestling as if it were an exact science, a series of levers, force vectors, and points of equilibrium. As the plane began its descent, Ángel put on his headphones and let the notes of Linkin Park's "Numb" isolate him from the din of his teammates, who were celebrating the trip with laughter and jokes, as if it were a paid vacation and not a sports war mission.
Upon landing in the "Sultana of the North," the air of Monterrey greeted them with a stifling humidity that clung to their skin like a second layer of clothing. The city was a natural coliseum, surrounded by the unmistakable and majestic silhouette of Cerro de la Silla, and it vibrated with an industrial and competitive energy quite different from that of Mexicali. The Nuevo León Unido Gymnasium, the event's venue, was a concrete behemoth already roaring with the activity of hundreds of athletes from every corner of Mexico.
"Welcome to the real test," declared Coach Víctor as they stepped off the bus in front of the Athletic Village. "Here, you're not just fighting the opponent in front of you; you're fighting against the prestige of the central states, against the altitude, and against the noise of the Monterrey fans in their own backyard. Baja California has a target painted on its back; everyone wants to defeat the desert champion to prove that our success is just heat and luck."
Ángel settled into his room, which he shared with a weightlifting partner, but his mind was elsewhere. Before turning off the lights, he checked his phone. He had a message from Mónica that brought back a glimmer of humanity amidst all the competitive rigidity:
"I saw the weigh-in photos the Institute posted on social media. You look imposing, Ángel, but your eyes reflect a seriousness that's frightening. Don't forget to breathe. Monterrey is the last step before the world knows who you are. I'll be waiting for you here, and remember what we agreed about the surprise."
Ángel smiled slightly and put his phone under his pillow. That night he didn't review derivatives, historical dates, or literature. He dedicated himself to deep visualization: he mentally reviewed the force vectors of a fireman's carry, visualizing the exact point where the opponent's center of gravity became vulnerable to a hip rotation.
The first day of competition was an exhibition of systematic elimination. Ángel advanced through the 70-kilo category with the cool composure of a seasoned professional. In the round of 32, he dispatched a competitor from Veracruz in under a minute. He executed a fireman's takedown with such explosive speed that even the referee and judges blinked, surprised by the technical precision of the move. Ángel didn't celebrate; he simply shook his opponent's hand and walked to the rest area, keeping his adrenaline levels under absolute control.
However, in the quarterfinals, the situation turned intense and hostile. He was up against the local favorite, a young man from Nuevo León who had the entire gymnasium on his side. The noise was deafening, a sonic mass of thousands of people shouting, "Nuevo León! Nuevo León!" making the wooden floor seem to vibrate beneath the athletes' feet. Ángel closed his eyes for a split second before stepping into the center circle of the mat. In that moment of darkness, he remembered the silence of his room in Mexicali during afternoons spent studying in the 50°C heat, where the only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the throbbing of his own blood in his ears. That inner silence, forged in solitary discipline, was his shield against the pressure of the crowd.
The fight was a masterclass in technical superiority over brute force. Ángel didn't need to engage in a pointless exchange of shoves; he turned the Monterrey native's aggression against him. He capitalized on every attack to throw his opponent off balance, using feints that sent his rival flailing. He won with a resounding 8-0 score, gradually silencing the stands with each clean takedown. As he stepped off the mat, he didn't look at the crowd booing him for defeating their local favorite; he looked at his hands, which remained steady, without a single trace of trembling or doubt.
He walked toward the warm-up area where Víctor was waiting for him with a towel over his shoulder and a bottle of cold water. The trainer wore a cautious expression.
"Tomorrow is the semifinal and the final, Ángel." "The coaches from the State of Mexico and Jalisco were recording you the whole time," Víctor warned him seriously. "They already know you're 'the graduate,' the one who fights with technique and biomechanics. They're going to try to make the fight dirty tomorrow, they're going to look for hard physical contact to throw you off your rhythm."
"Let them try," Ángel replied, pulling the official Baja California sweatshirt over his sweaty shoulders. "My head is clearer than ever. I don't have to think about tomorrow's exam or school credits anymore. It's just me and the mat."
That night, while having a light dinner at the Villa with a portion of pasta and protein, Ángel put on his headphones and selected a Green Day album. He felt light, not only because of the weight he had lost to make the weight class, but because he was no longer carrying the burden of high school academic expectations. For the first time in his life, he was a full-time warrior, a specialist dedicated to a single discipline.
He was at the pinnacle of national glory, and he knew that hundreds of kilometers away, in a small house in Mexicali, Roberto, Carla, and Mónica would be glued to their computer screens, following the live results, waiting to see the gold medal around the neck of the young man who had decided to become a man before his time. He lay down on his bed in the Olympic Village, listening to the distant echo of Monterrey, knowing that the next day he wasn't just playing for a medal, but for the validation of the entire journey he had undertaken since deciding that the desert wouldn't be his limit, but rather his training ground.
Ángel closed his eyes, visualizing the podium. It wasn't vanity; it was a logical conclusion based on the work he had done. The "Monarch of Baja" was ready to claim his territory in the heart of the country.