By Mark Young

Butterflies flutter
In my stomach
Fear runs
Through my brain.

Palms are cold
As ice.
Heart races
Like a train.

I search my opponent for weaknesses;
Trying to hide my own.
I look for support,
But I am all alone.

A brief glance
At the clock.
Then at the referee;
He blows his whistle.

The match has begun.

Note: This poem describes the feelings of a NCAA Div III
varsity wrestler before a wrestling match (yours truly).

Copyright 1992 Mark Young

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