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Bettering ourselves can take a toll, but we're not alone

I awake from the refuge that is sleep and smirk with complacency. It is the last day at one of the nation's toughest wrestling camps, the J Robinson 28-day Intensive Wrestling Camp in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Rising at this hour normally would have me hating life, but this is different. In fact, I enjoy walking down flights of stairs and into the 100-degree-plus weather. Nothing could ruin my mood today.

I hurry to the wrestling room, where I can smell the freshly cleaned mats. I had checked the thermometer on my way inside to discover it is an astonishing 103 degrees outside. I emphatically pull on my wrestling shoes, still sweat-soaked from the day before, top off my water bottle, and stroll over to trainer's table to have my broken finger taped up. The trainers work their magic to fashion a padded splint, which offers protection for my recently injured finger.

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I trot back to the mat and sprawl out to try and rest, but any napping will have to wait, for soon will come the booming voice of the counselor, who will be yelling that dreaded wrestling-camp command.

"Line up!" he roars.

I dart to my spot next to Tyler Pruitt, who in just days has gone from a complete stranger to almost like a brother. Today is a Red Flag day, meaning three stations of intense workouts, matches, and drills. We separate into groups based on skill level. I feel privileged to be in the group of state champions and state placers. In my group, when we hear the piercing sound of the whistle, a tortuous day begins.

I seek out Khristian Burke, one of a pair of brothers considered the camp's toughest wrestlers. We slap hands and go to war. I am on his head, snapping and circling, battling for position. I shoot a spear double with my face right in his chest. I can feel the bone at the base of my nose move, the bone that has not properly healed.

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The blood begins to gush down my face and seep into my mouth. I can taste its bitter metallic flavor as my face gets rubbed raw from grinding against my sparring partner's shirt. I run my feet and drive him into the air, his lungs sucking for oxygen. Then I slam him on his back. Still, he rises up with more fight than I had expected, more guts than I have seen in other opponents -- ever. We both know this is our last practice. We both intend to end this practice round the victor.

We fight with a crazed savagery. A fire burns deep inside because we are almost free. The liberating whistle blows 20 minutes later. I slap Burke on the back.

"Good job," I offer, with a respectful nod.

"You too," Burke replies, tenderly touching the black eye I'd just inflicted on him.

Two minutes later, the whistle blows again. We had rotated stations, and now we are back at it again. Next I will go against Jones, from Minnesota. Jones has had it out for me ever since I had embarrassed him in front of the counselors a few days before. I had thrown Jones straight onto his back, making him squeal like a schoolgirl.

As I get into referee's position, Jones jumps on me, his hard-whiskered jaw jabbing into my spine. I cringe inside but cannot give this guy the satisfaction of knowing that hurt. I stand up but am quickly slammed back onto the mat, face first.

Jones slaps legs in and tries to power-half me. I tripod up in response, roll over my opposite shoulder, and face-plant him straight into the mat. He screams in pain, grabbing at his neck.

A counselor spins around and shouts for a trainer. Jones is finished. Then to my astonishment, the counselor himself decides to wrestle me, and the man proceeds to kick my tail for the next 15 minutes, until the whistle finally blows. Completely drenched in sweat and frustrated, I crawl over to my water bottle to suck down as much liquid as possible during the short two-minute break. The whistle blows again. I hear those terrible words.

"Hard drill!" yells the counselor.

I grab a familiar partner, Micah Lopez from Guam, who has already committed, at least verbally, to wrestle at California Baptist University, or "Cal Baptist," a competitive NCAA Division II wrestling school. Micah has become one of my best friends and biggest rivals at this camp.

I shoot in on a double, my arms wrapping around his legs like an octopus, my ear slamming hard against his hip bone. I feel my ear begin to swell just like before. I know I have another cauliflower ear blossoming on my head for the second time at this month-long camp.

Hard drilling ranks as one of the most challenging exercises at this camp. We drill incessantly. I focus solely on hitting the next shot as hard as I can, only to bounce back on my feet as fast as I can.

I can sense my ear has swelled again to about an inch thick. It doesn't help that I had already split my ear open only the week before, but the swelling, unfortunately, has not stopped the blood dribbling from my ear. Still, for Micah and me, we are living in our own world. Neither of us cares. We are living the dream.

The whistle blows to signal the end of that rotation. Next we complete sprints and end our last practice with the chant that J Robinson camps have become famous for.

"I did it! I did it! I did it did it did it!" we all yell, hurtling ourselves into the air.

As we jump around, roaring the chant, I look around at my wrestling buddies and counselors and suddenly turn sad, as we are about to all return home. I will hustle back to Alaska, Lopez to Guam, Pruitt to Indiana, and Burke to Michigan.

Still, we have bled, fought, won, lost, and now are finishing the camp together.

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Joshua Roetman is a two-time Alaska 123A state wrestling champion who was named Outstanding Wrestler in December at the Reno Tournament of Champions, which is billed as "the toughest tournament in the U.S." He plans to be a Division I collegiate wrestler and has been accepted at the U.S. Naval Academy's prep school. Josh recently competed in an international wrestling tournament in Austria.

The preceding essay is part of a series written by volunteer students participating in the Chukchi College Honors Program, a dual-credit partnership between the Northwest Arctic Borough School District and Chukchi College, the Kotzebue branch of the University of Alaska Fairbanks. This essay is distributed by Chukchi News & Information Service, an award-winning publication project of Chukchi College.

The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com.

Joshua Roetman

Joshua Roetman is a two-time Alaska 123A state wrestling champion who was named Outstanding Wrestler in December at the Reno Tournament of Champions, which is billed as “the toughest tournament in the U.S.” He plans to be a Division I collegiate wrestler and has been accepted at the U.S. Naval Academy’s prep school. Josh recently competed in an international wrestling tournament in Austria.

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