need drugs to get high. Now I’d broken the wall between my worlds. Ducked behind the bleachers just before they announced my name and done it.
Why?
It had nothing to do with my confidence. In fact, my confidence was peaking. I was the defending national bronze medalist, an NCAA All-American, and the first wrestler in Penn State history to win over one hundred matches. I wasn’t nervous at the pre-match ceremony honoring my career. I never shied away from the spotlight on the mat. And it wasn’t my opponent. He was a three-time New Jersey state champion, but I wasn’t going to let him beat me.
It wasn’t my lack of spiritual strength. I didn’t pray before my battles, but I had learned to quiet my mind before matches, thanks to a sports psychologist who worked with us Penn State wrestlers on relaxation and visualization techniques. I pictured myself winning the fight in every position. Overrode worst-case scenarios with positive imagery. Replayed painful losses so I’d never make the same mistake twice. Made myself aware of any limitations I had: injuries, aches, pains. I heightened all of them in my mind before a match—my way of telling my body to save every ounce of power and aggression for after the whistle was blown.
It wasn’t my pre-match anxiety. That was typical. I loved the stress, which helped fuel my exhilaration once the match started. Unlike the anxiety I felt as a teenager worrying about the future, I had always controlled my pre-match anxiety and used it to empower myself. I took the seeds of self-doubt and sowed them so I never got overconfident, no matter how high my opponent was ranked before we entered the ring. My anxiety kept me grounded.
That was the exact opposite of what cocaine filled me with: fear. Fear I had never felt before. Fear, not of losing, but of having no control in the one place I had felt I controlled my destiny since I was seven years old.
What the hell had I done?
I kept saying that to myself as I paced behind the bleachers like a trapped animal. There was no way out of this. I was going to be found out. The fear overwhelmed me. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I was going to be wheeled out of here on a stretcher to end my career.
What the hell had I done?
I had no explanation. There was no explanation, except that I was an addict, which I refused to admit. I had refused to let this bring me down in my battle arena. That would make me weak. That would make me vulnerable. That would make me a loser. I had refused to feel that way on the mat since I had lost and fought back tears in the third grade. Until now.
I heard my name called. I walked out to an extended standing ovation, the drugs coursing through my veins. I was sick inside but had to perform. The cheers turned into the Nittany Lion chant: We are Penn State.
Yes, “we.” There were two people in front of the crowd right then: John the wrestler and John the addict. I had no idea which one would survive. Wrestling had been my anchor, and now my addiction was pulling it up in front of thousands of cheering fans, all celebrating me being the winningest wrestler in Penn State’s storied history.
ALL-AMERICAN ADDICT
Before that night of my last home match, I had survived everything college, cocaine, and wrestling had thrown at me. In fact, I didn’t even come in contact with cocaine my first year at Penn State. Never sought it out, despite the craving I had the summer before college started. Because I wanted something more: to be the best wrestler at Penn State.
I survived temptation when the roommate I requested, an All-American transfer from another school whom I’d met on a recruiting trip, turned out to be much crazier than I thought. He would jump me from out of the blue, lock me in a hold, and I’d have to wrestle my way out of the predicament. It could happen while walking across campus or through a building lobby. He attacked me from behind as I got ready for a date. I split my lip on the sliding closet door, leaving me with an upper lip the size of a golf ball, black thread stitching the cut all the way to my nostril, and a face no sorority girl was going to kiss. Another time he grabbed me from behind. I got my hips in position and tossed him head over heels, and he landed on his head, cracking open the skin of his skull on the tile floor. He actually began laughing and howling with pleasure as the blood flowed through his dark hair and dripped down his face. Not long after that, I began avoiding him and staying out of the dorm room as much as possible.
I survived when I started pulling the same shit I did in high school and tried to fake my way through classes. In the evenings, while everyone was studying and doing classwork, I would go over to Dan’s frat house looking for something to do. It wasn’t long before I learned there was no pretending being prepared at Penn State. My writing professor was the first to contact the athletic academic counselor to let her know I was falling short and would need extra work. Unlike high school, I actually listened, pulling off a string of A papers to finish strong. I even enjoyed some classes, especially my photography and marketing courses.
I had no choice but to survive. My biggest fear now was to fall short, become academically ineligible, and miss my chance to be a varsity wrestler for Penn State as a freshman. I pushed through Coach Lorenzo’s grueling workouts. I became a warrior, unafraid of anyone, determined to win a spot on varsity over the three guys in front of me. I spent nights after practice with ice bags wrapped around my bruised and battered joints. I arrived early to have a trainer tape my ankle, knee, and fingers—armor protecting any part of my body that felt vulnerable.
When the time came, I tore through the first two challengers. First was a senior, a former state champion, lifeguard, frat boy, and big man on campus. I took him down and clamped him to his back so quickly and easily that he left the room, quit the team, and became captain of the cheerleading squad instead. Next up was another senior, this time a tough street-fighter type who spent his free time in a motorcycle gang. He was a scrapper—a real-life bar room brawler—who I wouldn’t want to mess with outside the ring. But inside? He couldn’t intimidate me even when our bout turned to a fistfight. I thumped him too.
The stage was set for my final challenge: a wrestle-off against a two-time Maryland state champ, a strong farm boy whom I had previously torn apart during my recruiting visit. He told our teammates he was confident that this was his year. I used that confidence against him to get the first takedown and then cautiously controlled the first period, waiting to see if he showed me something I had not seen before. He didn’t. I took bottom position to start the second period and quickly rolled out for an escape to my feet. I immediately came back in, tying up his arm, faking one way, and exerting a Japanese arm throw in the opposite direction he was anticipating. My explosive arm throw dislocated his shoulder. The match was stopped.
I had won my spot. I made my debut in my Penn State singlet at the East Stroudsburg Collegiate Open, blazing through the bracket and winning the tournament. I made my home debut in Rec Hall just after that, against a top-ranked opponent and all-around aggressive brute from Cal Poly who was ranked fifth in the country. When we stepped out of bounds in the first round and the referee blew the whistle, I stopped but he didn’t. He bulled me off the mat, across the gym floor, and up onto the scorer’s table. The crowd gasped, but all I thought was, What an asshole this guy is. I baited him by walking meekly back to the center, my body language reading I’m totally intimidated. Come at me again like a bull and I’ll crumble. And when he came at me like a bull again, I stood firm and allowed him to bear hug my torso. When he did, I over-locked and clamped down on his arms, stepped in between his legs, popped my hips with extreme force, and took him for a high-flying ride with me in a chest-to-chest arching Salto with a twist. I scored the feet-to-back takedown, and the match was stopped as he rolled to his back in agony. EMS rushed in. I shook his hand as he was rolled out to the hospital. It was not the way I wanted to win, but it was a legal technique, and the referee raised my arm in an upset victory over a top national contender.
I
