I bounce up and down, trying to relax and mentally prepare for battle, for my opponent. When the match before mine reaches the third round, I approach the mat. I am ready.

I run my hands along the straps of my headgear and shoes to make sure they’re secured. Then I fearlessly march onto the mat and await the referee to appoint me a red or green ankle bracelet. I step into the inner circle and shake my opponent’s hand. I can hear the crowd screaming at the top of their lungs, but my headgear and my thoughts begin to drown the noise out of my ears and my mind. All I’m focused on is beating my opponent.

The whistle blows. I attack. Head snap, to a single, to a double, to a high crotch. I try not to give him any space or time to breathe. As soon as I finish a single-leg takedown, I attack on top, controlling him, riding him out and throwing a half or arm bar to pry him to his back.

My opponent is beginning to break down on bottom; he is bunched up like a turtle trying not to be turned. I finally turn him. Now his shoulders are parallel to the mat. I’m getting back points and am close to pinning him when the ref blows the whistle. Round one is over.

The ref flips the coin, and it’s my choice. I defer. My opponent chooses down, and I cover. I look up at the ref, ready to wrestle on the blow of the whistle. I break him down immediately as he tries to scramble away. He can’t.

By the end of the second round, my opponent finally gets an escape followed by a quick shot. He headbutts me, and I taste metallic blood from my lip. This only fuels my anger. I still have the major, ahead by eight points, and my coaches encourage me to choose down for the third round. I try to catch my breath before signaling down with my finger to the ref. As soon as the whistle blows, I’m up and free. Then I go back into attack mode, setting up any possible shot. I look at the clock, which is counting down from 10. I know I have won this match.

When the clock hits zero, I am relieved, because I know as soon as those six minutes are over there is nothing else I need to do. I shake the hand of the opposing coaches, then high-five my coaches and sign on the dotted line at the head table to confirm my win.

As long as I can tell myself that I didn’t give up and I used everything in me, every ounce of energy and determination on the mat, then I am content. Every competitor has morning practices, everyone lifts, everyone does cardio, everyone works on their technique, but the one thing that separates the great wrestlers from the average is their heart.