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Facts & Arguments

When I found out I couldn't wrestle any more, I felt incomplete, Matthew Nuguid writes, but I soon found fulfillment again

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

It's funny how life hits you, smack-dab in the head. There's no warning, no yellow light, no "slippery when wet" sign. It just happens. Have you ever had something so integral to your life that it practically defines who you are? For me, it was wrestling.

And here I was, in January 2016, at a weekend-long high-school wrestling tournament in Niagara Falls, Ont. Competing in tournaments for wrestling, jiujitsu and mixed martial arts was a bi-weekly routine I've done since I was six. This one was no different. Or so I thought. Little did I know that it would be my last.

Initially, everything went according to script. I easily won my first three matches to qualify for the tournament semi-finals. Confident and psyched, there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to advance to the finals with my next victory.

So the fight began and I slammed my opponent and quickly got the pin. However, as the whistle blew, all I heard were gasps, not the cheers I expected. First-aid trainers rushed toward the mat and, as they did, I thought, "How badly did I slam this kid?"

I glanced down to check on him, his face blurry and tinted almost black-red. Then,suddenly, it was just black. That's when I realized I couldn't see out of my right eye.

I still don't remember how it happened. Doctors said that with the blunt force of the slam, my eye could have bounced off a bone of my opponent and that may have been what caused the deep, jagged cut.

"You're one lucky kid," my doctor said later. If it had happened even one millimetre lower, my right eye would've been completely crushed. The injury amounted to a concussion and a deep laceration into my right eye socket below the brow bone, just missing my actual eye. The laceration required stitches but, because the cut was extremely close to my eye, the skin was too thin and sensitive, so the cut was glued shut instead.

I didn't take notice of this horror because of the adrenaline that surged through my body. However, adrenaline subsides – and boy did I feel it. The shooting pain lasted a couple of days and I was in constant discomfort for two weeks. Every time I blinked was a nightmare. Yet, all that paled to the mental anguish I experienced afterward. More on that in a minute.

Of course, there was the call to my parents, who were at home, a two-hour drive away. I told them I was being rushed to a hospital emergency room and I found it oddly funny to see the confused expression on the trainer's face as she wondered why I was having such a casual conversation with my parents while blood poured from my eye. My parents were deeply concerned, but I successfully played down the injury – calling an inch-deep laceration into my right eye socket a "paper cut" helped to ease their nerves.

The most agonizing discussion would happen when I returned home. I watched, from a corner like a scared puppy, as my parents and coach talked about, not only my injury, but also what it meant for my future. "I'll be back to the mat on Monday," I chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. They never responded.

I returned to school the next day, my eye bandaged, only to suffer an endless assault of questions from school chums: "What happened? Are you okay?" I repeated the story ad nauseam. And finally, the school day done, I went to the gym to watch practice.

That's where I was asked a question I didn't have an answer for: "When are you coming back?" So I asked my parents that same question. Over and over again. Days passed and my father finally replied: "Never," he said. I was stunned.

Doctors said I couldn't afford another concussion; after all, this was my third: My first occurred when I was 12, the second when I was 14, both from jiujitsu.

What followed was hours of pointed debate. "You don't understand," I pleaded.

It was no use.

Wrestling wasn't just a sport to me. It was where I made my closest friends, had my best moments; it was my escape. Each time I stepped on the mat, all my problems disappeared, as if the ring was a force-field only I could enter. Then it was gone.

Everything around me felt empty; only then did I realize how all-consuming this sport was. Wrestling had been a part of me for so long. I felt incomplete, and that was a feeling adrenaline couldn't mask.

Suddenly, I had so much free time. The concept of not having practice was foreign; I couldn't remember the last time I had gone straight home when classes actually ended. To make matters worse, this was the year I had been named team captain. I felt as though I had let down not only myself, but also my teammates and coaches. I wallowed in self-pity.

However, I soon realized how selfish I was being. When I was made captain, I promised to lead, and now I was failing everyone. So, instead, I began showing up to practices and tournaments, not to compete, but to coach. With that, I found fulfilment again.

Now a junior coach, I'm in the corner of my teammates like my coach was always in mine. Seeing teammates execute flawless moves that we worked on in practice – whether they win their matches or not – is more satisfying than any gold medal.

If it wasn't for this injury, I would never have taken up this supporting role, a position that I wouldn't trade for anything.

And it took almost losing my eye to finally open it.

Matthew Nuguid lives in Mississauga, Ont.