Im next. My stomach growls with hunger and the precipitously, stabbing hunger pangs argon straight off most unbearable. As one of my opponents steps onto the scale, I stress his physique. He doesnt look that strong, I tell myself. In reality, I secretly hope he doesnt make weight. My substance abuse are off as I step on the scale. One eighty-seven point four, says the referee as he writes my weight down. The room is frigid and I sluice to put clothes back on after gracelessness in. The disgusting smell of locker room fades and is replaced by the fresh, sharp scent of mat cleaner. The basketball court has been transformed into a wrestling arena. There are six mats on which on that point give be 12 wrestlers wrestling simultaneously in less than an hour. I sit down to eat a short distance from my teammates, close enough to be stand as part of the team, but distant enough to approach to restrain peace. Their chatter annoys me and makes me even more nervous. The only chat I wish to hear is the calm soothing talk of my coach. He always has the right words to calm me down. Im about shaking from nervousness as I eat my tempestuous bean butter sandwich. Its been a whole day since I have tasted food; my sandwich tastes like a feast.
erstwhile again, Im next. There is round a minute left in the match sooner mine, and then my opponent and I will wrestle on this mat. The salty taste of my own crease is in my mouthpiece and my body is exhausted from my last flipper matches. My arms odour like they have been pounded by baseball bats. There are matches going on all nearly me. The bright lights, the bum hollering of par! ents, fans, and coaches... If you want to get a full essay, fiat it on our website:
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