TWF

The referees hand was so close to the mat for the 3 count there was not a single spectator in their seat. Every single throat in the arena starts to cheer only to realize its not over, I'm not done yet. I crawl to the corner and pull myself up. My opponent sprints at me and I duck just in time, he bounces off the turnbuckle and I grab him by the waist and snap my hips forward throwing him over my head onto his neck. Finally, a chance to catch my breath, to shake some fog out of my head. It's been 46 minutes of back and forth, admittedly more back than forth for me, and I attempt to dig deeper than ever before. I reach down into myself, to an untouched reservoir of stamina. I get to my feet, my opponent attempting the same but with a hand on the back of his head. I choose not to rush in like he did, I calculate, I measure, then I strike. The moment he comes to his feet I throw up my foot and connect with his jaw. He crumbles. My body, now a secondary opponent I have to fight, gives up as well. Exhaustion is now the most dangerous attacker I'm facing. He falls slightly faster than me and I land on top of him. The referee begins the count: his hand hits the mat once; I'm not even sure I can feel the heap of sweaty muscle beneath me breathing. His hand comes down the second time; I feel a faint twitch, assume its just a spasm. As the referee’s hand comes down a third time I'm already breathing a sigh exhaustion/relief when my opponent brings his shoulder up of the mat just a hair, but the referee sees it. This match isn't over. We both lay motionless, me running the possible scenarios of being able to move again; him breathing so heavy I hear a rasp. The referee is starting the 10 count that would end the match in a draw if neither of us can rise. As I roll over trying to get back to my feet, my opponent and I are staring each other dead in the eyes. The eye contact is like a shot of pure adrenalin for both of us. We both jump up and just start swinging wildly, making even the most brutal hockey fight look like a pillow fight. Hard and fast the blows connect over and over again. Time seems to slow as the raining of strikes speed up. I see an opening, with everything I have left I bring my knee straight up towards his chin. Either I'm not quick enough or he had me scouted. He grabs my leg, hooks my head under his other arm and suplexes me. Arching his back and coming up on his toes he keeps a tight grip on the cradle. The refs count is already at two before I even realize I'm being pinned. I have nothing left in the tank, this is over...

"I said let's go! Dinner is ready!" I hear my mom's voice through the roaring of the crowd. Just a whisper behind the chants willing me to kick out or cheering my opponents victory. "Put your dolls away and come eat." She sounds so clear its like she's in the ring. I open my eyes and she's standing just off the back porch, holding a Capri-Sun. I grab my Sting wrestling pillow buddy and climb off the trampoline. Today was not my day to become champion. I put up a hell of a fight, but I'm still young. At the ripe age of 11 my time as Trampoline Wrestling Federation champion is approaching, I know it is. For now, though, I'm going to eat some spaghetti.