The 2015 national final didn't feel like a simple sporting competition; for Ángel González, it was the culmination of a long, grueling cycle, filled with sacrifices that few his age could truly understand. The atmosphere in the Nuevo León Unido Gymnasium had reached a boiling point. The air was thick with a mixture of Monterrey humidity, magnesium powder, and the electricity of hundreds of people waiting to see the young desert prodigy fall. His rival awaiting him in the center of the ring was the defending champion from Mexico City, a seventeen-year-old who was already a legend in the junior categories. He had competed in international tournaments in Cuba and the United States, and the sports press had declared him the undisputed winner.
The Mexico City native was the physical opposite of Ángel. While the Mexicali native was tall, wiry, and elegant in his movements, his opponent was made of pure, compact muscle. He had a chest as broad as a gladiator's shield and a strength in his hands that, according to the rumors circulating in the halls of the Athletic Village, could crush the will of any rival the moment he managed to close his fingers on their wrists. He was a relentless attack dog who knew no turning back.
The gymnasium was a cacophony of sound. The Baja California delegation, though smaller in number, occupied a strategic end of the stands. His teammates, led by the shouts of Ángel and Tony—who had been following their friend's every move—roared "BAJA, BAJA!" with a power that at times drowned out the numerous supporters from the capital. When the opening whistle tore through the air, the fight erupted with breathtaking technical violence. The man from the capital wasted no time with feints; he launched himself at Ángel with a series of neck pulls and brutal shoves that forced him back to the very edge of the mat. In the first two minutes of action, the scoreboard already showed a worrying 0-4 against Ángel. For the first time in his career, the 6-foot-tall young man felt that his physical strength wasn't enough to stem the tide of aggression before him.
"Ángel, move! Don't give him your neck, use your distance!" Víctor shouted from the corner. The coach was in a trance, his face flushed with blood and the veins in his neck standing out like steel cables.
Ángel tasted the warm, metallic flavor of blood in his mouth; his lip, damaged in previous fights, had split open again after a clash of heads. He looked at the digital clock: just over a minute remained in the fight. At that precise moment, something clicked inside him. He forced himself to empty his mind of the noise and pain. It was the same feeling of absolute peace he experienced when he was alone in the high school library and a complex calculus problem eluded him. He knew it wasn't a matter of despairing or responding to force with more force; it was a matter of finding the opening, the flaw in his opponent's structure. If he wanted the gold he had promised Mónica and his father's ultimate respect, he had to risk everything in a single masterstroke.
In an extremely close exchange of holds, Ángel made what seemed like a rookie mistake: he let the man from the capital lock in a full waist lock. It was a suicidal move; from that position, the defending champion was lethal. The crowd roared, anticipating the end. His opponent prepared to lift him and throw him backward in a final suplex. But just as Ángel's feet left the mat and gravity ceased to exist for a millisecond, he used his long, powerful legs to hook his opponent's inner thigh with surgical precision, while simultaneously twisting his torso in a helical motion mid-air.
Both bodies, weighing nearly 150 kilos of muscle mass, slammed against the mat with a sharp thud that echoed off the ceiling beams. Silence fell over the gym for a fraction of a second. When the dust settled, Ángel was on top, pressing the Mexico City native's shoulders down with his full weight and reach, preventing any attempt at escape.
"One... two... THREE!" the referee slammed his palm to the floor.
"Pinfall!" The verdict was absolute. Ángel González was the new National Champion. The gym erupted in a chaotic, Baja Californian jubilation. His teammates jumped the barriers, flooded the mat, and hoisted him onto their shoulders as he raised his fists to the ceiling, eyes closed, heart pounding. He wore the gold medal around his neck and held the overall champion's trophy. Amid the sea of congratulatory people, his gaze searched for a single figure. Roberto was standing at the edge of the competition area, his arms crossed over his chest. Ángel could see, despite the distance was such that his father's eyes, glistening under the gym lights, were almost invisible. It was the first time in fifteen years that he had seen this man of stone break with pride. In that exchange of glances, all the shortcomings of the past were forgiven.
The return to Mexicali was a parade of glory. After the official honors at the airport and the hugs from his teammates, the adrenaline began to subside, giving way to a deeper need. Around eleven at night, Ángel asked his father to drop him off at the corner near Mónica's house. The city's nighttime warmth welcomed him like an old friend. She was there, sitting on the same sidewalk as always, under the same streetlight that had illuminated their high school conversations. When she saw him get out of the car, seeing him older, with a confidence that was no longer that of a child, and with the national gold medal shining brightly on his chest, Mónica didn't say a word. She simply ran to him and wrapped him in a hug so fierce it ached in his ribs, still bandaged under his shirt. But that pain, compared to victory, meant nothing.
"You did it... you're the best in Mexico, Ángel," she whispered in his ear, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "And now, champion. No more books to study, no more exams to keep you up at night, no more categories to compete in... it's just us."
Mónica pulled back slightly, took his hand, and led him into the shadows of the side garden of her house, away from the intrusive streetlights. Her eyes searched for his with an intensity Ángel had never seen before.
"I said that if you brought home the gold, the 'not yet' would be over forever," she said, speaking with a maturity that surprised him. "My parents are going to San Diego tomorrow; they leave early and won't be back until late. I'll be alone from two in the afternoon." Come see me. Bring your medal... and bring everything you've been keeping under lock and key all these years of discipline. The pact of fire is fulfilled tomorrow.
Ángel walked back home feeling that the air of Mexicali, however dense and hot it was, had never been so easy to breathe. He had won in sports, he had defeated the education system by finishing ahead of everyone else, but he knew that what followed was a challenge of a much more personal and definitive nature. As he entered his home, the smell of home-cooked food enveloped him. Carla was waiting for him in the kitchen with a special dinner that included everything he had been forbidden during his tournament diet.
"Congratulations, my champion," his mother said, giving him a tender kiss on the forehead. "I don't want to see you up before noon tomorrow. You don't have to rush to the gym, or go to the library, or stress about a grade. You earned your rest fair and square."
Ángel went up to his room, the sanctuary where he had spent so many sleepless nights surrounded by calculus books and videotapes of Russian wrestlers. He placed his gold medal on his desk, right next to his high school diploma. He turned on his music player and put on Linkin Park's "Crawling" at a very low volume, letting Chester Bennington's voice fill the space. He looked at himself in the mirror: the scars on his lip and the bruises on his torso were the marks of his transition. He felt different, heavier, more real. Tomorrow, under the relentless desert sun and in the complicity of a silent house, Ángel González would cease to be the prodigy of books and sports to face his own maturity and the fulfillment of a promise that would change him forever. He lay down on his bed, knowing that tomorrow didn't bring an exam, but the beginning of his life as a man.