He was a man of flesh and blood;
he wasn't made of rock;
Angel, Devil, child, a man of ordinary stock.
But somehow he was different - 
true athletes always are;
For though he cursed, and bled, and sweat -
He prided in the scar.

He was told to win like a man,
no matter what the cost;
So many times he ventured forth....
so many times he lost.
And when he turned around I said,
"It's okay son, you tried,"
He clenched his headgear in his fist,
and like a man he cried.

But from his tears came anger,
then when it ceased to spin,
He rose again,
determined that the next time he would win.
His trembling body strengthened;
His heart soared in the sky,
And his darkened soul stood flaming 
with the fire in his eye.

And so he worked relentlessly, 
he struggled and he strained;
His conscience whipped him mercilessly
for every ounce he gained.
He ran on legs like pistons,
his muscled arms grew sore;
He'd tell himself, "I have to win"
then ask himself, "What for?"

And then, at last the reckoning -
the final hour was here;
His stomach lightened dangerously,
his muscles tensed with fear.
Weak-kneed, he shook the challenger's hand and then, like one possessed
His instincts gave him power, 
and his body did the rest.

It suddenly was ended. 
His body seemed to scatter.
A crowd was cheering somewhere,
but to him it didn't matter.
One thought was gleaming in his brain,
a thought that made him smile,
He'd given all he had -
and that made it all worthwhile.

He stood and faced his teammates -
with pride instead of shame;
He knew not if he'd won or lost,
but that he played the game.
And some call him a  wrestler,
and some call him a man,
But he called himself a winner -
And the ref held up his hand.