I pushed even farther. That summer, I injected cocaine for the first time in a sort of blood brother ritual with a friend. We knew it was dangerous, but that didn’t stop us. We agreed before inserting the needle that if one of us died and the other one lived, that person should take the body and put it up by the creek that separated our neighborhoods and not tell anybody. No one should get blamed.
We never discussed what would happen if we both died.
We lived, and I went back to Penn State my senior year with dreams of winning my first NCAA title and a big bag of cocaine in my duffel. No more needles, though—as if that was some kind of moral victory and meant things weren’t falling apart. Which they were. The first sign was that I returned to campus senior year without having lined up a place to live, like every other student had done. I ended up living out of my Honda Civic for the first weeks of the semester, crashing wherever I could, and using the team’s locker room at Rec Hall to shower.
I managed to get clean before the season, which started with high expectations, as I was ranked second in the country behind Dave Schultz. I had only wrestled with Schultz as a junior, but even then he was clearly one of the very best in the entire world. We finally met in a dual meet in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and prior to the match, I found myself nervous in an unfamiliar way. I had seen Dave perform and realized his potential to put me in situations I had never visualized. Dave was dangerous. Sure, I had broken someone’s neck, but Dave had the power to paralyze an opponent with his explosive technique and unique positioning. I thought about Susan. I wondered if that could be me, but then I fell back into my pre-match ritual of turning my anxiety into fuel.
Our battle began. I took the first shot on Dave with an explosive deep single leg, but Dave was able to get around my neck and tighten the head and arm lock like a boa constrictor, cutting off the blood supply to my brain. Let go of the leg or go unconscious was what his hold told me, but I came up with another option and, with my last moment of pre-suffocation consciousness, tried to drive us out of bounds. The ref, who had no idea I was being strangled, blew the whistle and stopped the action. Able to breathe again, I attacked with a different approach—a head in the gut double—that scored the first takedown on Schultz that season. But with Schultz in top position in the second period, I got stuck on my back in one of his patented spine-breaking leg rides. I submitted and turned to my back. Done.
I met Schultz one more time before the national tournament started, at the East-West All-Star event where I represented the East. He beat me again and opened a deep cut around my eye socket in the process. I got stitched up at the arena and upped my determination to beat him at nationals.
I returned to Penn State as a man on a mission. No one was going to beat my work ethic. I had never missed a practice, a match, or ever lost a challenge match since taking that varsity spot at the beginning of my Penn State career, and I wasn’t about to start now. I would lead by example and groom the next generation to take my place—but they would have to fight for the right. Every day, I walked into the wrestling room with the intent of not only breaking my opponents, but also protecting myself in the process. I figured the only way a challenger could take me out would be by injuring me during practice.
Which did happen. One of the underclassmen had thrust his hand toward my face as we battled, and his finger knifed deeply into my eye socket, cutting the white of my eye. I fell to the mat clutching my face and screaming obscenities. The trainer pulled my hands away and wrapped the eye, which was bleeding from the socket, and got me to the hospital. Coach met me at the hospital. With my eye patched up, the doc said I would be fine, but we were only concerned about one thing: could I wrestle? We faced Lehigh University the next day. Doc said I could, and I did. And I won.
There would be no excuses for losing in this part of my life—no lies, no blame. After letting my pre-match anxiety wash over me, I walked into every match fueled with confidence, regardless of who was on the other side—even Schultz. I had doubled down on wrestling again. My addiction could never break through here.
Until it did. The night of my last home match.
WINNER & LOSER
I stood in front of thousands of cheering fans, the opposing team, referees, my coaches, and my team, high on the cocaine I did beneath the bleachers where everyone was standing for me now.
Can they tell? Do they know I am unworthy of their praise right now?
I felt weak as I walked onto the mat. I was tentative, thinking my heart was exploding. As the match began, the crowd, given nothing to cheer about and sensing I was off, had grown silent, which only made me more aware of the sound of my racing heart. Well into the second period, I was still thinking I was going to collapse, EMTs would whisk me to the ER, doctors would order blood tests, and all would be revealed. The newspapers that had covered my success would relish the chance to document my fall: John Hanrahan, Penn State’s winningest wrestler, collapsed on the mat last night after the university paid tribute to him. He was found to have cocaine in his system.
What the hell had I done?
I had to shake it off. I had to. I had made a mistake that I could not undo, but the addiction would only score a point tonight, not win the match. This was not the night that my house of cards would collapse, revealing my addiction and my double life. The conference tournament was next week, and I would not make the same mistake again. Ever again. Ever.
I took my opponent down, turned him on his back, and finally felt at ease, winning 11–1, a major decision covered by the local paper. At the conclusion of the event, they brought me to center mat again and presented me with the Ridge Riley Outstanding Wrestler Award.
As I looked at that story the next morning, just three days shy of my twenty-second birthday, I resolved to stay clean. I still had the control to keep myself pure for the rest of the season, and I blazed through the conference tournament, winning it once again. I then went into two weeks of intensive training for my final NCAA Nationals. My sense of mission recovered, I rolled past my first test in the NCAA tournament against a dirty head-butting wrestler from Nebraska I had lost to earlier that year. I then took a hard-fought battle against a guy from Old Dominion in match two.
Things were going as planned as day one concluded, and I rested up for the quarterfinals. The following morning, I found myself flying through the air with my opponent from Navy. As our combined weight hit the mat, the point of total impact was my right thumb. It snapped. I had never felt such pain. My body was ringing with it.
This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not how champs went down. This was not how I went out. I refused to stop. I fell behind in the score and vowed between periods that I would never get my thumb fixed if I was unable to come back and win this bout.
Use the thumb, Hanrahan. You’re down by five points, and if you don’t come back and win this match, you can never get this fixed.
I lost.
But I refused to bow out. The second day at the NCAAs is known as “The Blood Round,” because that’s what you see as everyone fights tooth and nail to survive. Anyone left standing after The Blood Round earns a chance to wrestle on day three, a guaranteed place on the podium, and coveted NCAA All-American status. I stayed in despite my immobilized thumb and limited use of my right hand. I took out my next opponent from Wisconsin and then beat one of Dan Gable’s guys from Iowa, earning my spot in day three. I lost a tough one to an All-American from New Mexico, but came back to beat an opponent from Yale to finish my college career with a win, fifth place on the podium, and All-American status once again.
As I climbed the podium, I heard the announcer introduce me as completing my collegiate career with the Most Wins in Penn State’s
