The return from Monterrey to Mexicali wasn't the noisy, triumphant victory parade Ángel had imagined in his most ambitious moments. Yes, the national gold medal weighed heavily on his chest, and his name, alongside a photograph of him in mid-landing, appeared in the sports sections of the local newspapers as "The Desert Prodigy." However, once the applause faded and the congratulations from his neighbors in the neighborhood became repetitive, Ángel faced an unexpected reality. After the abrupt end of his schooling and his premature graduation at fifteen, the silence that settled over his daily routine became deafening.
Ángel found himself in a kind of existential limbo, a blank space he didn't know how to fill. While his former middle school classmates grappled with the teenage anxieties of entering high school, choosing backpacks and worrying about who would be in their new groups, he was already a graduate with honors. His brain was brimming with integrals, thermodynamic laws, and classical literature, and his 6-foot-tall body had reached a level of muscular development that intimidated boys his age. He felt like a man trapped in the time of a teenager.
Despite not having classes to attend, his body didn't understand the concept of rest. Ángel still woke up at 4:30 AM, not out of obligation, but because his nervous system was programmed for maximum exertion. He would go for a run through the deserted streets of Mexicali when the sun was just beginning to paint the dusty horizon violet and orange. With his headphones on, letting the rhythm of Linkin Park's "Breaking the Habit" dictate the cadence of his breathing, he covered miles of hot asphalt. He felt his powerful strides and a lung capacity that seemed bottomless, but in the back of his mind, the question lingered: where was he really running? There were no more exams to pass or a state championship to win.
University was there, on the near horizon, but Ángel felt a growing inner resistance. He didn't want to sit in a classroom again so soon; he felt his mind needed a break from the academic rigor of the last two years, and above all, his body craved a battle, an intensity that the Mexican amateur circuit no longer seemed capable of offering him. That void of purpose began to fill one Thursday afternoon when his coach, Víctor, summoned him to the gym at the Sports Complex. The place, with its characteristic smell of burnt rubber, old sweat, and metal, was a more comforting refuge for Ángel than any library or classroom.
"Ángel, the national committee has selected you to represent Mexico in the Cerro Pelado tournament in Cuba," Víctor said without preamble, handing him a cream-colored envelope with the federation's official seals. "It's one of the most prestigious tournaments in the Caribbean and the world. Listen carefully: you won't be fighting talented kids there; you'll be fighting men in their twenties who live for the sport, guys who see wrestling as their only way out of the island. There, technique is the law, but aggression is the religion."
The news ignited a spark Ángel thought had died out. Cuba was the mecca of wrestling in the Americas. Before leaving, Ángel accompanied his father, Roberto, to take care of some legal paperwork downtown. As they walked through the congested streets, they passed the old Arena Nacionalista, a building that exuded history and decay. A poster, torn by the wind and sun, caught Ángel's eye. It advertised a professional wrestling match.
Although his training was that of a purist Olympic wrestler—Greco-Roman and freestyle, where contact is sharp and technical—Ángel had never stopped being a silent fan of masked wrestlers. Since childhood, he would be glued to the old television in the living room, watching the holds, counter-holds, and impossible acrobatics. He noticed the image of a masked wrestler on the poster who seemed to be flying through the air in a suicide dive. With his analytical mind, Ángel couldn't help but dissect the image: he mentally calculated the parabola, the point of impact, and the physics behind that flight. How did they control their bodies with such freedom without the restrictions of Olympic rules? It was a fleeting thought, a small seed of curiosity that he tucked away in the silence of his mind as he followed his father toward the car.
"You like that show, don't you?" Roberto asked, noticing in the rearview mirror that his son's gaze was fixed on the Arena's facade.
"I've always liked it, Dad. It's different from what I do, but there's a lot of strength and physics involved," Ángel replied simply, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.
"Well, for now, focus on what's real, on what will give you a future: Cuba. There will be time for shows and masks when you're a veteran," Roberto declared, though for the first time, he gave him an approving pat on the shoulder that didn't feel like an order, but rather the gesture of a comrade.
Days later, Ángel boarded the plane to Havana carrying only the essentials: his worn wrestling gear, an advanced manual of mechanical physics to distract his hyperactive mind during the flight, and the vivid memory of his last encounter with Mónica. They had said goodbye near her garden, under the shade of the trees, and that kiss now felt like an invisible mark, an anchor that kept him connected to the land of Mexicali as he flew over the Gulf of Mexico into the unknown.
As he landed at José Martí International Airport, the humid, salty air hit him with the force of a blow to the solar plexus. Cuba was not Mexicali. Here, the heat wasn't the dry, radiant fire of the desert he knew; It was a heavy, gray, sticky blanket that clung to your lungs and slowly suffocated you. The air smelled of tobacco, the sea, and a story Ángel was only just beginning to grasp.
He adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, feeling sweat immediately begin to bead up beneath his shirt. He put on his headphones to listen to some Fall Out Boy, searching for a rhythm that would help him focus amidst the chaos of the Cuban airport. He took a deep breath, trying to find his center in this new, dense atmosphere. He knew that on the island he wouldn't be the "child prodigy" who finished high school at fifteen, nor the "national champion" everyone respected. To the Cuban coaches and wrestlers, he would simply be another number, a foreign rival they would try to take down with the ferocity of someone fighting for their life.
He walked toward the airport exit, feeling the solidity of his muscles beneath his skin and the clarity of his mind processing every stimulus. High school was behind him, a chapter closed with a flourish; he had already conquered Mexico on the mat in Monterrey. Now, the salty air of Havana and the stern gaze of the Caribbean wrestling masters welcomed him to the true international arena. Ángel González was no longer just fighting for a medal or a grade; now he was fighting to discover what kind of man he would become in a world that no longer imposed school rules on him.