It smelled of a strong scent of bleach, sweat, rubber, and popcorn. It felt stuffy, cramped, people stood shoulder to shoulder. Being six foot tall was helpful as people looked like ants in a nest, they were so close you could feel the breath coming from them. As I push my way to the mat, the ref invited my opponent and I to meet at a table with an older girl and a man these two would be keeping track of time. My opponent stood at roughly five foot  six which was going to be a problem. He had a five o’clock shadow. His hands were small but meaty.

I remember the sound of the crowd, screams of fans, the feeling like I weighed nothing, that nothing could hold me down. I remember sauntering onto the mat, slow, purposeful. 

The ref asked us to shake hands. I could feel his nerves, he was shaking, just slightly. I gripped his hand tight, almost strangling it.

After the whistle blew, the only thought in going through my head was, this is my time, you can’t take it from me. I made my move. I shot my body at his hip with malicious intent. The shot doesn’t land where I intended it too. My shoulder is under his chin, hesprawls on top of me with enough weight for me to stumble. I pull out of the shot, I get back to my feet and tie up with him.

Someone after the match said, “ Scott, everyone could tell you were pissed that he stopped the shot. YOU THREW HIM!” which was true I was very upset, and I did throw him. This was a match that I would not lose, I was scared.

I hip tossed him, slamming him into the ground. Pinning his forehead into the mat with my forearm. I managed to put him into enough pain to open his arms enough for me to run a half. I sunk the half, squeezing him so tight i could hear him wheezing.

The only thing I heard was a thud. The refs had struck the mat, ending the match.

My favorite part of the night was how it had been so quiet and erupted in a hurricane of panther screams.

I won the match...