He was a man of flesh and blood. He wasn't made of rock. Angel, Devil, Child--a man of ordinary stock. But somehow he was different...True athletes always are. For though he cursed, and bled, and sweated, he prided in the scar.
They told him to win like a man, no matter what the cost. So many times he ventured forth. So many times he lost. And when they turned around and said, "it's okay son...you tried.' He'd grip his headgear in his fist, and like a man, he cried.
But from his tears came anger, then when it ceased to spin, he rose again, determined that next time he would win. His trembling body strengthened. His heart soared in the sky, and his sould stood flaming with fire in his eyes.
And so he worked relentlessly. He struggled and he strained. His conscience whipped him mercilessly for every pound he gained. He ran on legs like pistons; his muscled arms grew sore; he'd tell himself "I have to" and never asked 'what for?'
And then at last the reckoning; the final hour was here. His stomach lightened dangerously, his muscles tensed with fear. Weak-kneed he shook the challenger's hand...and then as one possessed, his instincts gave him power, and his body did the rest.
It suddenly was ended. His body seemed to scatter. A crowd was cheering somewhere, but to him it didn't matter. One thought was gleaming in his brain--a thought that made him smile. He'd given all he had, and that's what made it worthwhile.
He stood and faced his teammates, with pride instead of shame. He knew not that he'd won or lost, but that he'd played the game. And some call him the Wrestler, and some call him the Man, but he calls himself a winner, and the ref raised up his hand.
