Read the First Chapter of "The Oldest Sport"

The Oldest Sport has an updated release date of November 17th, 2023! Keep reading to get a preview of the first chapter!

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CHAPTER 1

“…Next up at 145 pounds, New Valley’s Tryton Williamson vs. East Hamilton’s Alan Martinez!”

My heart leaps into my throat as the announcer’s amplified voice booms and echoes throughout the gymnasium. A pulsing roar erupts from the crowd as I step up to check in at the center table.

Coach Rhinehart slaps me hard on both of my shoulders before I go out there. I’m so keyed into the moment, I barely feel the light sting on my skin.

“You got this,” he says. “Fear and excitement are the same chemical in your brain.”

I bounce in place on the balls of my feet. There are at least twice as many people here than there were for our last dual meet. They’ve heard the rumors that the drought was over. This year, the East Hamilton Red Devils have a team that will finally defeat the New Valley Titans. This is the team that maybe, just maybe, could make it happen.

My ears are ringing. My stomach is a pit of rocks.

Piercing through the noise of the crowd are the shouts of my teammates at the edge of the mat. As I talk to the table workers to check in, Holden, Humvee, Taters, and the rest are cheering out my name and charging my spirit.

“Let’s go, Alan!”

“Yeah, you got this, Ankle Biter!”

In spite of my anxiety, I snicker when I hear the nickname, which was awarded to me in honor of my vertically challenged stature. I am 5’5, still far from the smallest kid on the team, but definitely not the biggest. Luckily, I have chosen a sport where my height is not necessarily a disadvantage.

I glance over to the south end of the gym, where I see the East Hamilton Red Devils Radio and TV teacher, Mr. McKenna, focusing the camera to the center of the mat where the action will happen. Kiara sits in a chair next to him, clutching a microphone close to her chest. She’s wearing that form-fitting yet classy red and white dress that matches our school colors. Her ebony hair is braided and clumped in a bun. When I unintentionally catch her eye, her entire face lights up, and she gives me a thumbs up and a stunning smile. My face burns red hot. I do my best to smile back at her, but I quickly look away, willing my mind to refocus on the battle ahead.

“Tryton Williamson, 145,” a voice calls next to me, addressing the table workers.

I whirl around and try not to visibly wince when I see my opponent. Crap. I’d almost forgotten how intimidating this kid looked without his warm ups on over his singlet. He is a monster.

Tryton is one of New Valley’s seniors and a returning semi state qualifier. He and I may be in the same weight class, but I look nothing like him.

Since the season started, I have become fitter than I ever have in my life. All the baby fat that accumulated on my face and sides after middle school has been shaved off. Hours of drills, weights, and laps around the track have forged my body into that of an athlete, something I myself wouldn’t believe if the evidence wasn’t staring back at me in the mirror.

Yet in comparison to me, Tryton stands taller, stronger, and more confident in posture. His singlet is stretching out over his frame, giving him the appearance of a walking steel block of lean muscle. Now that we stand next to one another, I look like a kid who is about to wrestle his dad.

“Okay, guys, you’re set,” says the table worker running the scoreboard.

Tryton and I jog out to the center of the mat and tie on our ankle bands, his red, mine green. As I fasten the Velcro strip around my leg, the noise of the crowd dulls down ahead of the starting whistle. It’s like someone turned the volume way down on a TV broadcast. My pounding heart sends blood rushing to my ears; I have become hyper aware of every single movement my body is making, my brain razor-focused on this moment. It is a moment that I have been anticipating for the past week.

“Sometimes all it takes is a few crucial moments of courage to change your life,” I can hear Coach Rhinehart say in my head. “It’s a small window. Minutes. Seconds, sometimes. But if you can choose to be brave in those moments, it can change everything.”

Tryton and I step to the mat’s center circle and shake hands. The referee blows his whistle, and the match is on.

Tryton comes out of the gate with raw aggression unlike anything that I’ve ever faced before. I scarcely have a chance to react as Tryton posts, then clubs my head with a collar tie, sending a paralyzing jolt down my spine. I feel as though I’ve been struck on the neck by a baseball bat. I grit my teeth and force myself not to overreact to his takedown set up. When Tryton changes levels, threatening a shot, I down block desperately and force myself into a position to keep him out in front of me. But when I do, I lean too far forward; he wrenches me into a front headlock and snaps me down to the mat, face first.

WHOOMP.

He is squeezing my arm and neck in a vice as my knees hit the mat. My fingers claw at his grip, but I am helpless to free myself from the hold. In a flash, Tryton blocks my arm and whirls around my body to secure control.

Takedown, two points.

I grimace. At that moment, I feel him attempt to chop my arm and break me down flat. I desperately seize control of one of his hands with both of mine, and in a single explosive movement, I blast upward, ripping myself free of his grasp. It takes a huge burst of energy, but I manage to scramble to my feet.

Escape, one point.

I see my opponent smirk and give a slight nod that seems to say “Touché.”

My eyes involuntarily flick over to the clock on the scoreboard. Twenty seconds have passed into the first period, and I am already losing 2-1. I remember what Holden said to me on my first day of practice. A wrestling match is the longest six minutes of your life.

Tryton is faster than me. He is stronger than me. He is a better technician than me. But I did not arrive at this moment to lay down like a wounded dog. I can just hear the war cries of encouragement radiating from my team’s edge of the gym. Regardless of the end result, I promise myself that I will go down swinging. It will be a struggle, but in these minutes of courage, I will embrace that struggle. I don’t need to win. I only need to survive.

I grin in the face of danger. Five minutes and 40 seconds to go.

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The Oldest Sport will be available on Amazon in ebook and paperback November 17th. Pre order your ebook copy today!

Pre-Order your Ebook today!