They were men of flesh and blood, they were made of rock. Angel, devil, and child. A team of ordinary stock.
But somehow they were different.
True athletes always are, for though they cursed, and bled, and sweat, they prided in the scar. They told them to win like men, no matter what the cost; so many times they ventured forth; so many times they lost. And when they turned around, they said, “it’s ok, guy’s you tried,” they clenched their headgear in their fist’s, and like men, they cried.
But from their tears came anger: then, when it ceased to spin,then one by one they rose again, determined that the next time, they would win. Their trembling bodies strengthened; their hearts soared in the sky, and their darkened souls stood flaming with the fire in their eyes. And so they worked relentlessly; they struggled and he strained. Their conscience whipped them mercilessly for every ounce they gained but determind to win they won. They ran on legs like pistons; their muscled arms grew sore; they would tell themselves, “I have to win,” then asked themselves, “what for?” and then, at last, the reckoning: the final hour was here.
Their stomach’s lightened dangerously, their muscles tensed with fear. Weak kneed, they shook their challenger’s hand and then, as one possessed, their instincts gave them power, and their bodies did the rest. It suddenly was ended. Their bodies seemed to scatter. A crowd was cheering somewhere, but to them, it didn’t matter. One thought was gleaming in their brains a thought that made them smile:
They’d given all they had, and that’s what made it all worthwhile. They stood and faced their teammates, with pride. They knew not that they’d won or lost, but they’d played the game. And some call them the wrestlers, and some call them men, but they called themselves winner’s.