1. Ben Wolpert
BenjaminWolpert@my.unt.edu
ENGL.003
Prof. Magliocco
11/23/13
I Will Hurt You If I Have To
I was eight years old when I believed that I had just seen someone die, and I could not
stop cheering. Let's back things up, this is not Ancient Rome, it was July 23, 2000. I was not at
the Coliseum; I was at Reunion Arena in Dallas, Texas with my father, Bruce and my older
brother David. We were not watching gladiators kill each other, these were WWF wrestlers for
Fully Loaded, the first ever PPV I have ever seen live.
I and several thousand others watched with stunned disbelief as Rikishi, a four hundred
pound man, was climbing to the top of a fifteen-foot steel cage. I turned to my dad and asked
"He's not going to jump is his?"
My father looked at me with a knowing look in his eye and said, "It sure looks that way."
"That's awesome!"
For an eight year old, that was the epitome of grammatical eloquence at the time. I
watched as Rikishi climbed to the top of the cage, cameras were going off like crazy, probably
several hundred flashed a second, and then it all went quiet when he jumped. I could describe the
impact as thunder, or the footstep of a giant. I was certain that Val Venis was dead, all for the
sake of defending his Intercontinental Championship, and it's not even that great of a title.
Certainly, not enough to cost your own life? This was all in the back of my mind when I joined

2. my screams with the white noise that the crowd had become. Amazingly, Venis survived and
successfully defended his title against Rikishi.
On the car ride, back I could not stop talking about what happened to Venis. "He should
have died dad, how could someone survive that?" I asked.
"It's all part of the show son." Again with that knowing look in his eye.
I could not help thinking what it must have felt like for Rikishi, to have stood on top of
that cage and have thousands of people chanting your name over and over again like a prayer to a
deity. Did he feel like a god? Would it be wrong to think yourself one if people do worship you?
Certainly, only a god could have survived a fifteen-foot drop onto a man, and vice versa for
Venis. Those men were beyond human. I wanted that, the fame and glory of being worshipped.
However, I wanted to earn it like my heroes do. Those people spend countless hours training
their minds and bodies to the peak of human perfection. That could easily kill someone, and I
wanted that as well. I wanted to be dangerous, and leave my enemies broken and bleeding on the
ground begging for my mercy.
I have always been fascinated by violence, especially those who commit it. I was
obsessed with warriors, which is why I always dressed up as one for Halloween. These people
spend so much time, energy, and money on learning how to hurt other people. Not just to hurt
someone, but to kill them. End them forever. Whatever dreams they had, these warriors end
them. It is so simple and yet so complicated. These people spend their lives ending lives, such
cruel irony sat well with me. I wanted to be able to decide who would live and who would die, as
disturbing as that sounds.

3. About a year and a half after Fully Loaded, my father and I had one of our semi-daily
wrestling matches on his bed. RAW was over and it was time to rumble. I had never been able to
defeat my father a single time since we started wrestling each other. Obviously, because he is
much older and stronger than me, this time would be no different. Nevertheless, I was
determined to finally defeat him. We both took off our glasses and placed them on his nightstand
and got to it. For someone of my size, the king sized bed of my parents was about as large as a
WWF ring and my size was the only advantage I had against my father. He lunged for me, and I
scampered out of the way. If he catches me, he is just going to grab my wrists and sit on me until
I beg him to get off, but not tonight. I grabbed a pillow and flung it at him, which he easily
swatted aside.
I was already on top of his back and started slapping him in the head. The sharp cracks as
my tiny hands smacked the graying hair on my father's head were a weird music to my tiny ears.
I knew that I was not hurting my father all that much, just annoying him, like a fly that he has to
spend a lot of money on so that fly can get a good education along with two other flies. I am
talking about my brother and sister, Rachel: they are twins. I was slapping my father as fast as I
could, my hands becoming a blur. All of a sudden, I heard someone shouting my name, then
another, and another, until there were thousands of people chanting my name over and over
again. Suddenly, I was not upstairs in my house play wrestling with my father. I was in a WWF
ring surrounded by thousands of adoring fans worshipping as though I were a god. A high-
pitched scream of bloodlust roared out of my mouth, and I grabbed my father's arm in a
submission hold I had seen earlier that night on RAW. All that mattered to me was winning,
finally winning, and nothing else. It did not matter that my father was shouting at me to get off

4. him, I was not going to stop until I had won. "Get off your father this instant!" my mother
screamed at me.
All of a sudden, I felt arms around me and I was pulled off my dad, and thrown off the
bed. I rolled onto the floor and looked up into the angry face of my mother. Reality came
crashing down around me. I was not a professional wrestler, certainly not a god, I was a nine-
year-old boy trying to break the arm of the man who gave birth to me, and the woman who bore
me in her womb had to pry me off him. Needless to say, I felt like a complete idiot.
"I-I-I'm so sor-ry dad!" I stammered out as I felt my face burning in embarrassment.
My dad only looked and me and said, "You do know that you are grounded this
weekend?"
"Yes sir."
"Good now go to your room and go to sleep."
"Yes sir."
I really did feel bad about what I did to my father. Yet, there was a part of me that liked
seeing him in pain and begging for my mercy.
I have always loved wrestling, and just wrestling. Other sports just seemed like they
lasted excessively long. A long wrestling match is about thirty minutes at the least, and a short
football game is two hours at the very least. That is far too long for my attention span, and the
ADHD, can't forget about that. You also have to remember complicated plays, and screw that
noise. I also do not like it that my own personal skills do not mean much in a team sport. Again, I
am probably talking out of my ass here. I know about the 'only as strong as the weakest link,' and

5. 'united we are strong,' shtick and I acknowledge it. Wrestling is just a far more personal sport,
and that is no bullshit. It is a martial art and you can only rely upon yourself when it is actually
time to step onto the mat. That is why I have always wanted to be a wrestler.
Seven years later and I was attending Shepton High School as a freshman. I was
incredibly excited about Shepton because they have a wrestling team. Finally, I could learn how
to wrestle, to become stronger. Moreover, maybe, I could find out it would feel like to hurt
someone, to defeat someone and have my hand raised in GLORIOUS VICTORY! I tend to
exaggerate a lot. The wrestling coach was, and still probably is Shawn Smith. He was not that
tall but I knew he was a strong man. Even if he had a bit of a gut, most of that was probably
muscle. He really did look like a brick shit house. And, this human brick shit house was going to
teach me how to hurt someone. I first started out wrestling at the one hundred and thirteen pound
class, and I could not remember having so much fun getting my ass kicked. Outside trips,
takedowns, chicken wings, Oklahoma rolls, inside trip, fireman's carry, cradles, we learned them
all and practiced them over and over again.
I could not even begin to explain how to perform each of these moves in written form. I
guess that was why Coach always made us write down how to perform three moves for our finals
each semester. Cruel, funny, and some more cruel, with just a tiny bit more funny. That would be
how I would describe Coach, provided that I knew that he was several miles away from me so he
could not hunt me down and make me kiss my own anus. I am certain he could do that to me.
I was far from being the best wrestler that went to Jimmy Kennigton, another freshman. I
asked him how he got so good once. "Jimmy, how are you so good all the time?"

6. He shrugged and said, "I have been wrestling since I was eight, and I never stop
practicing. You'll get it Ben."
"You think so Jimmy?"
"Sure, everyone sucks when they first start something."
"Are you saying that I suck?"
"Yes."
I just looked at him, and even though he was right, it still pissed me off a bit.
Several weeks later, and it was time for our first wrestling meet. I forgot who we were
wrestled, but I remembered how nervous I was. I was only a little bit better than when I first
started but it was not saying much. My friend Ashton Ferguson came up to me and said, "Don't
be nervous, just remember what Coach taught us and you'll be fine."
Ashton always had a way of calming me down. We almost always practice with each
other and we go well together as partners. The meet was being held in the main gym of Shepton
and there were only about forty or so parents there. Not a horde of fans, but it was something.
My singlet was tight on me, my headgear was strapped on tight, and I laced up my wrestling
shoes as tight as I could. Finally, they called my name and I went up to the referee to confirm
who I was along with my opponent. We went to the center of the mat, shook hands, I took up my
stance and so did my opponent, the referee blew his whistle and the world fell away around me.
When you wrestle, there is no time to think or to plan out your next move. There is only
action and reaction. Nothing else in the world matters because there is no world. There is only
the mat and your opponent. You do not hear your teammates or your coach. You only hear your

7. breathing and your opponent's. You see nothing but your opponent. You smell nothing, taste
nothing. You have to go when that whistle is blown, and I went.
We tied up and each of us tried to get the advantage over the other. I realized
immediately that my opponent was stronger than me, and he shrugged me off and shot for my
legs. I sprawled as quickly as possible but it was not fast enough. He had my legs, and I took
everything to not let him get me on my back. I kept trying to escape when the referee blew his
whistle, signaling the end of the first round.
The rest of the match was a blur of motion for me. I do remember being on my back,
seconds away from defeat; I got my feet under me and pushed with all of my strength. I managed
to flip my opponent off me and I remembered hearing someone being impressed with what I just
did. In the end, I lost in the last round because time ran out. He dominated me the entire time. I
did get my ass kicked. And, I really did not feel all that bad about it. Like Jimmy said, we all
suck the first time at something and I did suck. At least he did not pin me in the first ten seconds
of the first round that would have been embarrassing.
I remembered that loss humbling me at home. I started swearing less because I knew that
my parents did not like it when I swore a lot. I also got along better with my brother and sister.
My brother started being nicer to me because he knew that I would eventually be able to beat
him up. I did ask him to wrestle with me a few times, but he always said no.
Three months later and them team was at Jasper High School for another meet. I still had
not won a match, and I did get pinned by someone in the first ten seconds of the first round. It
made me feel better when the rest of the team lost just as quickly. Needless to say, it was
bugging me, the losing streak I had. This is not what I had imagined my career as a wrestler to

8. turn out as. My teammates helpfully pointed out that my Jasper opponent did look a lot like me
in both appearance and build, so I could have a shot at beating him. Thanks guys, you
motherfuckers. The sad thing is is that my opponent did look a lot like me. So much so that when
our names were called and we both were in the center of the mat. The ref looks at both of us and
said, "Goddamnit."
Now even the fucking refs thought we looked alike. I get enough of that shit whenever
people look at my brother and me. They think we are the twins even though I am taller than him.
That little part of me that likes hurting people took complete control at that point. And. I. wanted.
To. Fucking. Win.
The ref blew the whistle and I slammed my forearm as hard as I possibly could right into
his head. That is called a club, and I grabbed him right and locked it to my side. I then outside
tripped him, put him in a headlock, and won the match in the first round. That was it, I won. The
rage left me as quickly as it came, its job was done. I felt great that I finally won and could show
that my training was paying off. But, I did not feel like a god, just felt like someone who won. I
was superior to him and I felt a lot of pride in that. I wasn't even all that tired; the adrenaline was
still coursing through my veins.
After my freshman year, I went to OU for a ten day wrestling camp. It was great, and I
learned a lot from all of the coaches and wrestlers there. I did get shoes stolen but that is nothing
important. I will say that the guy, who took them, let me borrow his shoes as a way of saying
sorry. I completely took them back with me to Dallas, with the encouragement of everyone on
our floor. Karma's a bitch. That and I was constipated the entire time there. I could not have

9. taken a shit to save my life. Probably some type of shyness about being away from home for an
extended period of time. Anyways, back to the story.
I was a Junior at the Lake Highlands two-day tournament. Schools from all over the
region had shown up. I was no longer the one hundred and thirteen pounds wrestler anymore. I
was wrestling at one hundred and forty pounds now. I gained almost twenty-seven pounds in
muscle in two years, not bad. I was a much better wrestler, but I still lost more than I won. But, I
did win. It was the second day and I was in the JV brackets, I had already won one match but lost
my next one. Now, I was wrestling for third place and first medal. My mother was with and she
had brought some McDonald's to eat while I waited for my next match. The first match I won
with an outside trip in the second round. The next match I won with brute force, no technique, I
got on top of him and pinned him. It was sloppy but it worked for me.
Then comes the final round, I found who I would be wrestling about an hour before and
we got to know each other. Just because he was, my opponent does not mean he could not be my
friend. He was around my height of six foot and had a Middle Eastern look to him. He was a nice
person and we learned from another wrestler that because the tournament was so large, they gave
out fourth place medals as well. So that I was relieved would have been an understatement. Even
though I was going to get a medal no matter what, I still wanted it to be the third place medal.
My opponent was actually thinking the same thing and we joked about that. Anyways, they
called our names and we walked over to the officials to confirm who we were. We shook hands
and the match began.
He shot for my legs and I was able to smear my forearm across his face in order to get
him off of me, it worked and I got two points for an escape. I then shot for his legs and was able

10. to grab the back of his knees and get a takedown, but he rolled and got off of me for an escape as
well. I do remember smiling then, this was a worthy opponent. We were about equal in physical
strength so in the end it would come down to technique. The match and back and forth, each of
us countering the other and our points remained the same through most of the match.
We got to the last round and one look at my opponent confirmed that we were both
running on fumes at this point. I was so tired, and I knew that I had just enough left for one big
move. We tied up and struggled for a good fifteen seconds before I went for a fireman's carry on
him, it worked but he was able to escape before I could pin him. He shot for my legs and got me
in a takedown, and I started fighting with everything I had to get him off of me. In desperation, I
started grinding my knuckles into his groin, and any homophobic thoughts I would have had
were gone the first time I had to take a shower with the team. There was nothing homoerotic
about this, and coach said that it was not illegal if the ref does not see it. I could hear him
growing in pain but, he was still able to pin me.
I laid there on the mat for a good five seconds before I got to my feet and hugged my
opponent, a hug that was returned. His hand was raised and we walked over to get our medals. I
noticed that he was holding his crotch and did look to be in pain so I said, "Sorry about your
balls."
"No problem man, my coach taught me to do the same thing." He replied.
We laughed and got our medals. Even though they were the exact same medal, still wore
it around my neck with pride. I had earned that medal, I fought long and hard against someone
who was my equal in both skill and strength. I felt like I had deserved that medal because of how

11. long and had both of us fought. My mother came up to me, took one look at me and said,
"Fucking hell Ben."
"What?" I asked.
"You look like you have just been in a fight."
I took out my phone and looked at my reflection. She was right, my face was red from the
adrenaline and from being thrown onto the mat so many times. There was a mark on my cheek
from being grinded on the mat so many times. I thought that I had never looked so good before
in my entire life. This is what I wanted, to be in pain and to cause pain in others. But, it really
was all in good fun.
About two months later and we were once again at another school for another
tournament. I think we were at Plano East this time, or was it Senior? I can't remember.
Anyways these were round robin tournaments, where everyone fights everyone and the one with
the most wins, gets first place. There were only first place medals for JV. Weirdly enough, two
people in my bracket of four did not show up, so that meant that all I had to was win one match,
and I get my first gold medal. As Ricky Bobby would say, "If you ain't first, you're last!"
Words to have lived by at the time. Ben wants a fucking gold medal! My match was
called and we do the usual stuff and the match starts. I shot for his legs and got a takedown, but
he was able to escape and got behind me as a result. I escaped as well, went for another
takedown, but he countered my and got me on my back. I was able to roll him over and get to my
feet once more. The rest of the match was once again a blur of action and reaction, or dimly
remembering that I was taught certain moves and tying to do them on someone who was not a
teammate. I wanted victory, which was all that mattered. I wanted to pin his shoulders on the

12. mat, hold him there, and look into his eyes when I hear the ref slamming his hand on the mat,
signaling my victory. Third and final round and we tied up once more. I got him in a fireman's
carry and slam his back onto the mat with as much force as I possibly could. I held his right
forearm with my left hand, encircled his right arm and neck with my right arm, and held him in
that headlock for a good twenty seconds. While he kept struggling, I just wanted that fucking
gold medal and I remembered myself saying, "Come on already!"
Turns out it was enough, and the ref slammed his hand on the mat, signaling my victory. I
did not look into his eyes while it happened; they were looking at the rafters as I kept squeezing
him. I could have broken his neck if I wanted to, I just had to twist my arms and it would have
been over. I had the power to decide if he was going to live or die, and it both excited and scared
me. Excited that I could do it, and scared that I could do it. I did not want to hurt this guy, I did
not know him and he was probably a cool guy. I felt great that I finally won a gold medal.
My friends told me how impressed they were with my match. Even a new kid who did
not like me all that much, the feeling was mutual, told me how impressed he was my how hard I
fought and told me that I earned that medal. The rest of the team agreed and said that it was a
well-earned victory. We shook hands, he and I, and I was elated to hear that I had won the
respect of someone who did not like me with only one match. In less than ten minutes, that guy's
views about me changed from negative to positive. It was amazing. I walked over to an official
and explained to him that I won my bracket. He reached into a brown paper bag and handed me
my gold medal. I felt like raising it in the air and screaming in victory but, I knew that I would
have looked like a moron, so I just walked over to Coach, who was with the Varsity team. I
showed him my gold medal and he told me how proud he was of me. I knew that he truly meant
it.

13. Once again, I was at another tournament, wrestling for JV. I had wrestled for Varsity for
the first time in a previous tournament, but I did not do all that well. Still, I won one match, and
got a letterman's jacket for my efforts. I wore that thing almost every single day at school. I even
had my last name custom stitched on the back. Looking back, it did look like a waste of money
for something I would never wear again after high school was over. However, I did not give a
shit at the time. Anyways, we were at Texas Christian Academy, which was about three miles
from my house. Oddly enough, my first two opponents were no shows, so that meant that all I
had to do was win two matches and I would get my second gold medal. These were also single
elimination matches. My first opponent was wrestling for TCA, and he was much shorter than
me, pale skin, freckles, short red hair, and looked to have a slight advantage in sheer physical
strength. I had seen him wrestle earlier and he looked like he used brute force more than
wrestling technique to win his match.
The match starts and we tied up, and I threw his arms up and to the right in order to get
behind him. I wrapped my left arm around his waist and drove my forearm up into his crotch and
lifted him clear off his feet and about two feet into the air before I slammed him back onto the
mat. The grunt of pain he made was a sublime music to my ears. I got on top of him and tried for
a half nelson to no avail. He escaped but, I quickly got another takedown on him and the ref
blows the whistle. The rest of the match was nothing but me dominating him repeatedly. He
never got a single take down on me and I countered every one of his moves. This is what I
wanted when I first started wrestling, to be superior to someone in every way. I easily pinned
him in the third and final round, and not once did it look like he had a chance of pulling an upset
and beating me. My father actually came up to me and said, "You kicked his ass."
I grinned and said, "You damn right I did."

14. The rest of the team agreed with my father. I really did leave my opponent utterly
defeated at my feet. I felt like a god, I really did. As stupid as that sounds, I did. Then the next
match came around and my opponent, who was also from TCA, kicked the shit out of me. That
knocked my off my fucking high horse. I then felt embarrassed for feeling so superior to
someone when I myself lose most of my matches. Still, I got my first silver medal and that was
something.
It has been over three years since I stepped on a mat. High school was over, and Collin
College did not have a wrestling team so that was it for me. Also, I did not know where I could
get my own singlet. I wanted to wrestle because I want to know what it feels like to hurt
someone. I now know what that feels like, terrible. I did not like to hurt people, even if it was for
a medal. Still, there will always be that disturbing part of me that revels is inflicting pain but I
have learned to ignore it for a long time now.