Cary-Grove Matmen: The Wrestler

THE WRESTLER
He was a man of flesh and blood. He wasn't made of rock.
Angel, Devil, child - a man of ordinary stock.
But some how he was different-true athletes always are.
For though he cursed, and bled, and sweat, his pride did not 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 he turned around and said: "It's okay, son, you tried...",
He clenched his headgear in his fist, and like a man he cried.

And so he worked relentlessly; he struggled and he strained.
His conscience whipped him mercilessly for every ounce he gained.
He ran on legs like pistons; his muscled arms grew sore;
He'd tell himself, "I have to", then he'd ask himself, "What for?"

And then, at last, the reckoning; the final hour was here.
His stomch lightened dangerously, his muscled tensed with fear.
Weak-kneed, he shook the challengers hand - and then as one possessed,
His instincts gave him power, and his body did the rest.

It was suddenly ended. His body seemed to scatter.
A crowd was cheering somewhere, but to him it didn't matter.
A thought was gleaming in his brain, a thought that made him smile,
He'd given all he had, and that is what made it all 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 called him the wrestler, and some called him a man.
But he called himself a winner, and the ref held up his hand.