My Thought Processes
May 23 2004

Shortly before the world championships in Iran in 2002, I wrote a diary entry entitled "My State of Mind". I have never received more emails from friends, admirers, and detractors about that diary than any other diary entry. Many people wanted to know whether it was a way of absolving myself of blame if I failed to perform well. However, on the whole, the majority of emails expressed gratitude for my honesty in dealing with "my state of mind" in such public fora. Many wondered if I thought I was giving tonic to my opponents who would have noticed that I was unprepared for the world championships. "Wouldn't that give a boost to your opponents who read the diary?" a young high school wrestler asked me. Many younger athletes felt at ease knowing that high performance athletes faced the same pressures and self-confidence issues at some point in their careers and preparations. For one, I am not worried that my opponents would read my diaries, and if they do, all the power to them! It would only mean I have a broader audience. I write not to satisfy people or absolve myself of blame for losing. I write because it is therapeutic for me.

As I write this diary entry in the early hours of the morning on the 23rd of May, the fact that every ticking second draws the Olympic Games nearer has not been lost on me. With every passing hour, I brace myself for the decision God has in his infinite mercy already ordained. As the days draw nearer, my mind strays. Disappointments about half-truths that need not have been 'taken seriously' consume a man's soul, but a nursing smile saves the day. That such an unassuming quietude can douse a fire so immersed in flame? Can be so gentle, loving and caring? That all talk about being tough is only, as they say, shallow and skin deep. This is about the loneliness of a mansion uninhabited, except by numerous shadows and the flowers that discolor by the day and me. Computer games are an obsession, replacing academic exercises; strict deadlines are ignored and the cruelty of lonesomeness stares ever so real. That feasting on skeletons of past performances, now a drag, means that the unintended consequences of pressure and expectations might be taking a toll. When I hear questions about "winning that gold' as the most important goal; that being a politician need not be in the resume, I flinch for want of some trust. Will I ever get to sit among the gang of bureaucrats? Why does the 'strategist' worry so much about my preoccupation with the political elite? But I still remember that tape of the national anthem stuck away so deep in the belly of my traveling bag in Iran, that regardless of doubt, I still believe the team is in sync.

When these arms ache, the breathing continues unabated, the heart rate is a town crier sending rhythm to far away corners of the dungeon, and one wonders how this play will unfold at the dusk of the 8th month. Do I fear the unknown? When I hear that I am 'dragging my feet', the part that is still conscious to touch? When the thinking process is protracted and demands a breakdown of meaning and the inner man still does the rationing of the misdiagnosis. "Why do you breathe so hard?" Could it be because I am working hard? Does the Titan Games beckon? And if it does, does the man harbor fears of being slaughtered? It has been said time and time again that repetitive coupling goes to the athletic among many. Do I, unbeknownst to me, crave the attention of the still moment; the frozen seconds that will only matter with time? I wonder!

So, as the labyrinth of a week so enclosed in explanations near the mid point, we are still finding our ground. The shots are slowly beginning to take shape. The 'enforcer' moves over once every little while to make adjustments to the drop down high crotch. We have to move our feet; we do not have anytime to be lazy. True enough, less than three months; we need to exploit all training sessions to our best advantage. More so now that there is a paucity of partners, that the ten-dollar price tag is no longer a scare and the gladiators have been avoiding the dungeon. There is ample room to move around now that there are no fears of people crashing into you and causing a slippery mess all over the place, except it still is the Persian with the towel. Arm drags, head pinches, the arm throws and leg shots are handy, but the inside trip is still a month or so away. Confidence in my attacks is gradually creeping into the mesh, but another week or so, and I'd have to do with or without it.

What do I think about when I am severely exhausted in the middle of a hard training session? What crosses my mind in those fleeting seconds when I see stars and rotate in a spot, think about quitting, giving up that last point, gasp for breath, or want to simply hit stop on that thread mill, stair master, or elliptical machine? I remember that I will not pass out, and that if I do, I'd be dying while doing what I love. In circumstances such as that, I rejoice to the thought that I have no zebras with hand gestures and screeching blasts. I rejoice because the gym, for the past ten years has been my workplace, my house; it is where I am most comfortable, the only place where everything else does not matter, but me, the thoughts in my head, and the instructions and praises from the bosses and partners. The dungeon is the only place, where, if I had my choice, I'd build a house and take residence and never let go. Dying on the mats is the ideal gift any gladiator can ever ask for, especially if that happens at a ripe old age.

Until next week when I tell you about my chances in Athens, keep sweating.

Dynamite Daniel Igali