As my feet carried me unwillingly to the center of the gym, I glanced back nervously to my coach , for the first time noticing the red, twenty foot circle which surrounded me.  Beads of sweat began to creep on to my forehead, a result of terror rather than exertion.  My opponent darted onto the mat, and the home crowd went wild.  It was the captain of Auroras varsity wrestling team.  My use of the word "it" in this instance is not a grammatical error as it may seem, for either this creature was a missing link or I was about to face a 30 year old man who's wife and kids were cheering him on from the stands.  Suddenly, a whistle blew, and this maniac charged at me with a low snarl.  His hairy arms clamped around my neck, and as I fought to free myself, i noticed, somewhat to my dismay, that my feet were off the ground.  An instant later the room swirled past my eyes as my body was tossed over the ape's hip.  There was a strange hollow sound that seemed to reverberate from the walls of the arena, and the compassionate crowd moaned in a simultaneous "oooohhhhh."  I listened as the referee called off back points with a diabolical and almost robotic tone.  The headlock only grew tighter, and I soon noticed the absence of blood flowing to my head.  The pin came three seconds later.
    An enjoyable experience?  No way.  It was the last wrestling match of my freshman year, and I stumbled off the mat feeling embarrassed and ashamed.  A few weeks later, the bitter taste of defeat still remained, but my feelings about that match and the entire season were slowly evolving into a new and and strange emotion, one of anger.  This difference in attitude merely marked the beginning of a much greater and more important change, which, over a period of a year, would completely alter my character and performance as a competitor.  This change was marked throughout by a surge of motivation, a discovery of dedication, and eventually the exhibition of confidence.
    After suck a disappointing season and final match my freshman year, I marveled at the surge of motivation which accompanied the months that followed.  My situation as a varsity wrestler seemed discouraging to most people at this time, who witnessed only my frustration and losses.  Somewhere within, however, great changes were taking place, for all that frustration and anger kindled a desire.  I wanted to win.  Thinking back on my last match, I vowed never to be embarrassed on the wrestling mat again.  One of my coached once said, "It takes guts to win a close match."  I took this expression to my heart, but realized it would be worthless without physical improvement in my wrestling.  Sometime during the early summer of that year, I discovered a bizarre place filled with monstrous looking machines and returned to venture into this "weight room"  a few times over vacation.  I even found my way to the track, where I hoped to improve upon that thing which they call stamina.  My desire and hoped drove me, but in effect, i was merely "putting in my time."  My sophomore year, which approached quickly, was plagued from injury and I encountered little more success than from the previous season.  I was confused in the fact that I had "lifted" in the off season and still lost on a regular basis.  In simply "wanting to win" I overcame one obstacle on my way to success, but I soon realized that motivation alone brought little reward.
    Again frustrated with the results of my season, I discovered dedication; a supplement to the motivation which still teemed inside me.  Throughout my sophomore year, I had learned an important lesson.  The weight room and track were not mystic places blessed with the power of victory.  They were elements in a potion, but I still needed the magic words to make it work.  The phrase was not discovered in a dusty book, but was found somewhere near my heart.  "HARD WORK".  With these words there was no brilliant flash or even smoke, just six months of devotion.  Instead of visiting the weight room once a week I was there once a day.  I spent my summer evenings not simply wishing for victory, but working for it.  Training became a priority instead of a chore, at times almost seeming to be an obsession.  My dedication to work carried me right into the wrestling season, and continued throughout November, our first month of practice.  I tried at all times to "give a little more" and rarely failed to enjoy a little bit of extra work after the day's final whistle.    My first match and tournament were approaching quickly, and despite my efforts, i still felt a great deal of uncertainty.  I fears losing but it would be little all that I had accomplished, and as a result, I approached the upcoming meets with apprehension.
    As we traveled to Hawken for its annual wrestling tournament, my attitude was marked by uncertainty, bringing into light my need for confidence.  The profits and rewards for my motivation and dedication of the previous months were obvious as victories arrived with my first two matches.  Stepping out to meet my opponent in the finals, however, my anxiety was indescribable.  "This guy is gonna be good," I thought, knowing that a tough match was inevitable.  Six minutes passed and I watched triumphantly as the referee raised my hand high into the air.  The contest was finished with a 5-3 decision, proving to myself and everyone around that I had the "guts" that it took to win.  Later, as I stood upon the first place stand, I knew that the award was much more than a simple trophy, it was my first tournament championship.  The eight inch piece of shiny plastic which I grasped proudly in my hand was the culmination of months of hard work.  From that moment on, I had not only the ability, but also the confidence to succeed.  As the season continued, I never allowed myself to forget the three virtues which I had obtained, and approached every match with a hunger for victory.
    As I darted onto the mat to face my last opponent at home for the year, I can only say that I was starving.  Having dropped yet another weight class, pizza was high on my list for consumption, but the 140 pound freshman turkey nervously bouncing opposite me looked even more appetizing.  Suddenly, a whistle blew, and I charged at my opponent with a low snarl.  My hairy arms clamped about his neck, and with a twist and hard toss over my hip, the poor boy was airborne.  I glanced upward as his feet seemed to brush the ceiling, and then winced as his limp body hit the thin layer of resilite covering the floor.  I listened carefully for the dull sound which immediately escaped was bound to return in a triumphant echo.  The referee's voice, however, was already flowing meticulously with the call of back points, and my attention was distracted.  I stared down into the bright red face of my opponent, always tightening my squeeze in the headlock.  The blades of his shoulders soon touched, and the match was over.  As we stood and shook hands, I looked into the eyes of the dejected wrestler, wanting to give him encouragement despite his loss.  Something made me stop, however, for I suddenly realized that success was up to HIM, and nothing I could say would change that.