A Japanese wrestler's story of defeat

Journal Entry: October 15, 2023 

Today was a day I’ll never forget—both for the thrill of the match and the taste of unexpected defeat. 

As I step back, the events of the day flood my mind, a mixture of excitement and humility clashing within me like two wrestlers on a mat. 

The sun had barely risen when I made my way to the Waseda university gym, the crisp morning air filled with the scent of autumn leaves. I could smell the wood varnish that lined the wrestling mats, the faint musk of sweat and chalk, all reminders of countless tussles that had graced this arena. 

The gym was alive, bustling with students stretching, chatting, and already breaking a sweat. 

Most of us were buzzing with anticipation, ready to face the fierce team from Senshu University.

However, I never expected my opponent to be an American woman—Sarah, I believe her name was. Tall and strong, she seemed to exude confidence, a daunting sight for anyone who thought wrestling was a male-dominated sport. 

 As we stepped onto the mat, I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The rough texture of the mat beneath my feet grounded me, my heart pounding not only from anticipation but sheer determination. 

I had trained hard for this match, watching videos of various wrestling techniques, and had envisioned myself winning against Waseda—against her. 

As the whistle blew, I charged forward, fueled by the conviction that victory was within my grasp. The initial moments of the match were exhilarating. 

I quickly closed the gap, attempting to secure a grip on her arm. But to my surprise, Sarah countered swiftly, twisting out of my reach, her movements agile and deliberate. 

The crowd gasped as she sidestepped my first attempt, her eyes locked onto mine, a spark of challenge dancing in them. 

The scent of the sweating crowd, mixed with the energy in the air, invigorated me for a moment, and I lunged for her again. 

This time, our bodies collided with enough force to knock the wind out of both of us. 

I felt the heat radiating off her skin, her muscles flexed tightly against mine. I was reminded of my own training, days spent pushing past my limits, but she was relentless. 

The way she shifted her weight, the deftness with which she maneuvered around me, was astonishing. My confidence began to waver as she effortlessly took control, flipping me onto my back and pinning my shoulders to the mat. 

I could feel the pressure of her body, the strength in her grip, and for the first time, I realized I had underestimated her. 

As the match continued, my chest burned with exertion. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, the cheers from teammates ringing in my ears. 

I tried various techniques—grappling, a feigned reverse maneuver—but she anticipated my every move. It was humbling; I thought I had mastered my craft, yet here I was struggling against someone I had pre-judged. With each passing minute, a sense of despair began to settle in. 

My muscles screamed for a break, my mind racing with frustration and doubt. I saw the crowd—some rooting for me, others appreciating the skill of my opponent—blurring together as I focused solely on the match. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sarah gained the upper hand. She executed a flawless move, flipping me and securing the pin. 

The whistle blew, signaling my defeat. 

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I felt a cascade of emotions wash over me. Disappointment surged like a tidal wave. I had anticipated standing victorious, yet here I was—a humbled warrior. 

The taste of defeat was bitter, a reminder of the unpredictability of competition. The cheers for Sarah felt distant, almost ethereal, as if they belonged to a different world.