By Coach Manny A.
This past week, I had the opportunity to compete at the U.S. Wrestling Open in Las Vegas. I’ve had a few days to process the event, and honestly, it’s still a bit challenging.
I’m not the emotional type, but as I type this, I’m holding back tears of disappointment and frustration—feelings I knew were going to be a very real possibility this weekend.
I decided to write this as an outlet for how I’m feeling—and hopefully, to inspire someone out there to take risks, no matter what.
I went 1-2 in a stacked weight class with three returning World Medalists. Kind of fun to see that the Masters division is still wildly competitive—and not a “fat and bald” tournament like people love to joke about from other Masters tournaments.
Losing sucks, but honestly, it’s not the losses themselves that linger.
It’s knowing what I could have done that really eats at me.
Not being able to put my hard work and improvement fully on display.
I nailed my weight cut.
My size and strength were noticeable.
My mindset was sharp.
All the ingredients were there for a peak performance.
But I knew going in that competing came with some big risks.
About a week earlier, I sprained my Ulnar Collateral Ligament (UCL) and joint capsule in my thumb. The only way I could wrestle without significant pain was by buddy-taping it to my index finger (and putting on some Lidocaine). Even that was a bitch sketchy…
As you might imagine, this meant I couldn’t use my left hand for anything involving grip.
I had two choices:
- Pull out because of how much I’d be impaired.
- Adjust the game plan and find a way to make it happen.
Choice #1 was the easy route. It would protect my ego and save face.
But it also meant wasting months of prep—and living with regret.
Choice #2 was the wrench.
A hard battle was guaranteed either way.
I knew the injury would impact my performance.
I knew heartbreak from a close loss was possible.
And I chose the wrench anyway.
What made me choose the wrench?
My daughter asked me:
“Daddy, are you going to wrestle with your hurt thumb? I don’t want you to get more hurt.”
It hit me that my kids are now old enough to not just watch what I do—but understand it. They’re absorbing everything.
It’s important to me that I’m a real role model for them and that they know I am who I say I am.
I couldn’t waste this opportunity.
A few days later, I went to practice. My body felt too good to deny it. I felt fast, I felt strong, I felt confident.
My coaches and teammates helped put a game plan together to make competing possible.
I’m an adaptable kind of wrestler. I figured, “Fuck it, till’ the wheels fall off!”
(Pretty sure my wife doesn’t love that part of me, haha.)
I accepted the risks. And the results were what they were.
The Heartbreak
In my quarterfinal match, I controlled the pace and stuck to my game plan.
But after how my hand felt in my opening match, I didn’t trust I could defend properly if I got into a deep scramble.
I played smart, kept pressure, and was winning 1-1 on criteria with 30 seconds left. I was calm and focused. My opponent was tough and not backing down. But I had zero doubt that I wasn’t walking away with this win.
Then I gave up a pushout point.
I still had plenty gas in the tank. I still had confidence. But it wasn’t enough.
The match slipped away, 2-1.
A thin margin.
A brutal feeling.
The opponent I lost to went on to win his semi-final and finish second in the tournament.
What I’m experiencing now isn’t just grief over a loss—it’s the weight of everything that went into it, and what could have been.
It’s a feeling I knew was a real possibility.
Which is exactly what made pulling out so tempting.
But I chose to stand in it. To be the man my daughters could be proud of.
I’ll live with this feeling of failure for a while.
I still haven’t fully gotten over my last high school match. That’s just the nature of real failure—it leaves a scar.
But as a forward-thinking man, I can still pull something positive from it:
I didn’t show my ceiling. I showed my floor.
And that’s something I’m proud of.
The fire to train is still burning hotter than ever.
I’m glad I don’t have to live with the words “what if.”
I’m happy that when my daughters one day watch these matches, they’ll see that their dad:
- Doesn’t quit.
- Doesn’t take the easy way out.
- Is just hard to kill.
That’s the mentality I hope my actions will help them adopt.
For anyone reading this:
The possibility of flat-out failure is real.
It hurts just as much as you would imagine.
But when you come out the other side, you’re stronger than you ever thought possible.
It’s worth it.
Always choose the wrench. Coach Manny, out.
