First loss to a girl

I can still feel the softness of the mat under my feet as I walk out to face her. My chest tight with a cocktail of nerves and adrenaline. White singlet crisp, straps snug, I try to look composed. But inside, I’m replaying everything I know about her. My first female opponent in competition. People keep telling me a match is a match, but I’d be lying if I said this didn’t feel different—not because she’s a girl, but because of her reputation. Fast. Technical. Relentless.

Her grip surprises me—firm, confident, no hesitation. I’ve seen that look in her eyes before, but on other wrestlers—people who live for the grind. I nod, trying to match the intensity. Part of me wants to prove something. Part of me hopes I don’t get embarrassed.

The whistle blows. We lock up immediately. She’s quicker than I expected, slipping under my arm and forcing me to sprawl hard. The sound of our shoes squeaking on the mat, the short bursts of breath, the referee circling us—it all blurs together into instinct. I manage the first takedown, two points, and for a moment I feel a surge of confidence. Maybe I can control this match. But then she reverses it—clean, sudden, like she saw my weight shift before I even knew I was off balance. Two points for her. My lungs burn as we reset. I’m thinking, Alright… she’s good. Really good. The middle of the match is a war. Every move I attempt, she counters. Every angle she tries, I block—barely. There’s a moment, I’m sure, where the camera caught my eyes wide in disbelief as she nearly rolls me into a pin. For a second, genuine fear sparks through me. Not fear of pain—fear of being completely outmatched. But I fight out of it. We scramble. We reset. We clash again. Points go back and forth. Sweat drips into my eyes, and my legs are heavy, but I refuse to give an inch. She refuses too. Then the final seconds come. I hear the crowd yelling, coaches shouting advice I’m too exhausted to process. She shoots low, lightning-fast, catches my ankle. I try to hop out, defend, anything—but she drives through, finishes it clean. Two points. The whistle blows. Match over. I lost to a girl!

We shake hands again. Her face is flushed, breathing hard, but she smiles—small, respectful, victorious. I nod and return the smile, the sting of defeat settling into something calmer. Yeah, she beat me. Fair and square. She earned every point, outworked me, outmaneuvered me, outmuscled me. And as I step off the mat, I realize there’s no shame in that. If anything, I’m grateful. She pushed me harder than anyone has all season. And next time… I’ll be ready.