Ángel returned to Mexicali a changed man. The scar above his left eyebrow, though healed, had become his first war tattoo; a physical mark that reminded him that even under the rigor of the purest technique, there is always room for chaos and bloodshed. But the return home was more bittersweet than he had expected. Boredom, that old enemy that often haunts those who achieve their goals too soon, awaited him, sitting on his couch.
Without the pressure of school, having finished high school with honors and a national and international title under his belt, the days in the desert grew monotonous. Ángel woke up with the same energy as always, but he no longer had an exam to pass or a new tournament on the immediate horizon. He spent hours in the city's public library, sheltered by the air conditioning while he read about civil engineering and architecture. He enjoyed understanding how large bridges were supported, but the words on the page no longer gave him the same adrenaline rush as analyzing a real battle.
He started looking for work, not so much for the money—his sports scholarships and Roberto and Carla's support covered the basics—but for the need to occupy his mind. He tried working as a math tutor at a local academy, but the experience was a disaster. He didn't have the patience to explain concepts that were obvious to him to kids his own age. He despaired when he saw that others couldn't grasp vectors and functions with the clarity he did.
It was on one of those frustrating afternoons, while walking through the "La Cachanilla" shopping center looking for a bit of distraction, that fate brought wrestling back into his life. In the parking lot, under a sun that melted the asphalt, a small ring had been set up for a promotional exhibition of a local show.
Ángel stayed on the sidelines, hidden behind the hood of his sweatshirt despite the heat. He watched the local wrestlers: to his eye, trained in Greco-Roman wrestling, their movements were clumsy, sometimes slow, and technically sloppy. But something held him there, motionless, for almost an hour. It was the narrative. Every fall, every exaggerated gesture, and every "flight" from the ropes told a story of overcoming adversity, of hatred, or of triumph. His analytical mind instinctively began to dissect the falls.
"If that guy rotated the axis of rotation ten degrees more on that somersault, the fall would be less painful and look much more impressive," he whispered to himself, evaluating the parabola of the jump as if it were a problem of mechanical physics.
That night, insomnia—his other constant companion—led him to wander through downtown until he reached the Arena Nacionalista. He slipped in through the back door, the one used by the equipment managers and the beer vendors. The place was empty, dimly lit, illuminated only by a yellowish light that hung directly above the ring. Ángel approached and climbed onto the boards. The creaking of the wood and the elasticity of the ropes were a world apart from the firmness of the Olympic mat. He braced himself against the turnbuckles and jumped a little, feeling the rebound.
"National gold in a place as worn out as this... it seems like a waste, don't you think?" a deep voice emerged from the darkness of the stands. Ángel instinctively got into a fighting stance, lowering his center of gravity. From the shadows stepped an older man, his back slightly hunched but his arms still boasting impressive musculature, the kind you only get after decades of carrying people. It was "Maestro" Cárdenas, a retired legend of local wrestling, about whom his father, Roberto, had once told him.
"I was just looking at the structure of the ring, sir," Ángel lied, though he felt his heart pounding in his chest with a force he hadn't felt even in Cuba.
"Don't lie to me, kid. I've seen you in the newspapers. You have a know-it-all face but the hands of a warrior. You were looking at the ropes like they were an emergency exit." Cárdenas approached the edge of the ring and stared at him intently. The Olympic wrestling you do is for honor, for the medals that end up in a drawer. But this ring... this ring is for the spirit. Here there are no judges keeping score with an electronic board. Here there's a mass of people demanding that you be a god or a demon. What do you want to be, Ángel? A medalist no one will remember in ten years or a legend who will live forever behind a mask?
Ángel didn't answer. He stared at his calloused hands. The idea of the mask, the total anonymity that would allow him to stop being "the child prodigy from Mexicali" or "Carla and Roberto's pride," began to take on a dangerous shape in his mind. Under a mask, he wouldn't have to explain why he knew so much about physics or why he finished school so quickly. Under a mask, it would only be his strength and technique against he knew perfectly well that if Coach Victor or his parents found out he was even thinking about turning pro, his amateur career and college dreams would be ruined. In the world of Olympic wrestling, "pro-wrestling" was seen almost as a betrayal.
He walked home in silence through the streets of Mexicali, under a starry sky that seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. Entering his room, he saw his medal from Cuba and his high school diploma on his desk. They were trophies from a life he already felt was over, despite being only fifteen years old. He put on his headphones and listened to Linkin Park's "Points of Authority."
That night, Ángel understood that boredom was nothing more than a warning that he needed a change. He wanted to enter that world where the physics of bodies met the fantasy of masks. He wanted to see if he could dominate that wooden ring with the same coolness with which he dominated the rubber mat. The seed of rebellion had sprouted. In the silence of his room, while the air conditioner hummed softly, Ángel González began to design, in his mind, not a bridge or a building, but the mask that would conceal the next monarch of the Nationalist Arena.