The Wrestlers
by Adam Palumbo
Grappling—
eloquence in torsion, a language
of bodies and mastered agility.
Two opponents fighting like lithe
jungle cats for dominance, like
generals plotting their attacks,
their feints—this is no playtime thing.
Theirs' is a transcendent labor.
Pulling and pressuring position,
trapping and taking advantage.
Reduced to proficient instinct
and aggression, with the arena
laid bare beneath their feet,
centered in a ring of pure struggle.
They have practiced and drilled
their strength of body and will.
Bottled rage, uncorked here,
if only here. Spurred, fueled
by the admixture of dedication,
tortured repitition, and vaunted ego,
they fight.
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Author's Note
I spent nearly half my life competing as a wrestler, and I am still somewhat involved in the sport. To me, it is one of the most rewarding and brutal pursuits anyone can undertake. This is my attempt to put a little bit of the struggle and sweat onto the page.
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In winter I worked out in the gym, readying for track season while the wrestlers practiced. I didn't have the build or, perhaps, instincts for the grappling art. You've reinforced this impression with your vivid and reflective descriptions here. Might this be wrestling's answer to "The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"? *