Читать книгу Wrestling with Angels - John Hanrahan - Страница 11

LOOKING DOWN ON MYSELF

What the hell had I done?

I was looking at the beautiful bird’s-eye view picture of my final home match at Penn State as a senior, covered in the local paper.

What the hell had I done?

For the first time in my wrestling life, I had done cocaine before a match.

That’s what the hell I did.

I had been doing coke for years, and had even done it before training sometimes, but until my last match, I’d always kept myself cocaine-free on the mat—kept my healthy addiction to wrestling separate from my drug addiction to cocaine. It was my church and state. The wrestling mat was my temple, where I felt the power I had since second grade. Where I didn’t need drugs to get high. Now I’d broken the wall between my worlds. Ducked behind the bleachers just before they announced my name and done it.

Why?

It had nothing to do with my confidence. In fact, my confidence was peaking. I was the defending national bronze medalist, an NCAA All-American, and the first wrestler in Penn State history to win over one hundred matches. I wasn’t nervous at the pre-match ceremony honoring my career. I never shied away from the spotlight on the mat. And it wasn’t my opponent. He was a three-time New Jersey state champion, but I wasn’t going to let him beat me.

It wasn’t my lack of spiritual strength. I didn’t pray before my battles, but I had learned to quiet my mind before matches, thanks to a sports psychologist who worked with us Penn State wrestlers on relaxation and visualization techniques. I pictured myself winning the fight in every position. Overrode worst-case scenarios with positive imagery. Replayed painful losses so I’d never make the same mistake twice. Made myself aware of any limitations I had: injuries, aches, pains. I heightened all of them in my mind before a match—my way of telling my body to save every ounce of power and aggression for after the whistle was blown.

It wasn’t my pre-match anxiety. That was typical. I loved the stress, which helped fuel my exhilaration once the match started. Unlike the anxiety I felt as a teenager worrying about the future, I had always controlled my pre-match anxiety and used it to empower myself. I took the seeds of self-doubt and sowed them so I never got overconfident, no matter how high my opponent was ranked before we entered the ring. My anxiety kept me grounded.

That was the exact opposite of what cocaine filled me with: fear. Fear I had never felt before. Fear, not of losing, but of having no control in the one place I had felt I controlled my destiny since I was seven years old.

What the hell had I done?

I kept saying that to myself as I paced behind the bleachers like a trapped animal. There was no way out of this. I was going to be found out. The fear overwhelmed me. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I was going to be wheeled out of here on a stretcher to end my career.

What the hell had I done?

I had no explanation. There was no explanation, except that I was an addict, which I refused to admit. I had refused to let this bring me down in my battle arena. That would make me weak. That would make me vulnerable. That would make me a loser. I had refused to feel that way on the mat since I had lost and fought back tears in the third grade. Until now.

I heard my name called. I walked out to an extended standing ovation, the drugs coursing through my veins. I was sick inside but had to perform. The cheers turned into the Nittany Lion chant: We are Penn State.

Yes, “we.” There were two people in front of the crowd right then: John the wrestler and John the addict. I had no idea which one would survive. Wrestling had been my anchor, and now my addiction was pulling it up in front of thousands of cheering fans, all celebrating me being the winningest wrestler in Penn State’s storied history.