seroflo price uk Watching Reagan Dahle wrestle at the state finals you forget that he’s not supposed to be here, this good, this dangerous. Nothing in his favor. School size. Resources. He’s not supposed to be here. Yet, he is. Winning. His arm raised six times in victory.
“3:15, bro. 5 minutes. You ready?”
“Good. I’m gonna get you today. I cut out that gluten. They say that can slow you down, you know? You heard that? Of course you have. Yeah, well, I’m feeling light can tinidazole be bought over the counter [makes hand motion like wings fluttering]. And someone is in trouble.”
He makes his own hand-bird motion. “This is you? [mocking tone] Ooh I’m a bird.” buy clomid online in ireland [bang] his hands crash onto the desk in front of him. “Sorry, not sorry.”
“Man, that’s messed up. You’ll see.”
The bell rings. School’s out. It’s time.
“Reagan!” The teacher straightening a stack of papers like a card dealer, just so. “You have a second?”
“Heard you qualified for state. Wrestling.”
“Congratulations on that. Listen, I know you have the state FFA convention coming up, now this state tournament, senior project in this class. Busy man. It can get overwhelming.”
“I think I’m good.”
“Just remember we’re all here to help.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” He picks up his bag and heads out the door.
Wings spread, gliding. The Northern Goshawk returns to its nest without much ado. This hunt resulting in no catch. The prey is out there. He knows it. He’ll fly again. Perched above the woodland floor, plumage a mosaic of brown. Light, dark, blending with the bark. Just another advantage for the bird, no the assassin, already gifted with plenty of those. One of the most widely dispersed birds of prey, the Goshawk remains little known and perhaps littler discussed. Yet, its agility is unrivaled in the animal kingdom. It twists, contorts, and manipulates its body to traverse any of the most difficult obstacle courses nature conceives. A favorite of many British falconer, its targets are varied: birds, mammals, large and small, almost no one is safe. No one. The bird in our story missed. He doesn’t miss twice. He won’t. The setting sun cutting through the line of trees like manhattanhenge. Patience.
The truck comes to a stop in front of the gym. A twelve mile drive from the high school, the mats, the nest, located at the old elementary school gym. Mats that share space also used as an ambulance headquarters. There’s a helicopter. There’s little room. To spread your wings. To fly. In the confined space, he must twist, contort and manipulate his body. He owns the space. He’s big. From the outside he looks brute. Inside, he soars. He rolls in a manner reminiscent of those much smaller, leaner. Limbs seemingly going different direction, he stays balanced, controlled.
“I thought you were gonna get me? Where you at?”
He grabs a wrist. Tight. Right hand, claw, talons, clasp around the neck. A few shakes and he’s gone. Low to the ground, he shoots like a cannon. Perched to pounced. Partner to prey. He’s in. The leg his. His momentum sweeps around and in one motion he’s up, shelving the limb between his elbow and thigh. He drives forward. Caught game, helpless, flattened. That’s two. He jumps up, ready to go it again. Flapping his hands like wings. “Where you at?”
“Run that back.”
He circles. New situation, new set up. He gets the 2 on 1, Russian tie. He feels him pulling away, he can’t. Arm trapped across his chest, another collar grab. This time there’s no shot. This time he flies. Pops his hips and over his head they go.
“What was that?”
“Something I wanted to try. You like it?”
“I mean it’s pretty sweet, just warn me next time.”
“Get on top, wanna practice reversals.”
There’s a rustle. Leaves, underbrush. His eyes twitch. Stay still. One. Two. Thrhe’s gone. The sky sliced open by the scalpel, a bleeding wind. Beauty in destruction, chaos, collision. An ending, poetic in the abrupt. Artistic in the spectacular. Violent war games played in an Oxfordshire countryside renowned for its rolling hills, idyllic streams, and castles of yore. Where the pristine meets the macabre. The serene meets the obscene. Rembrandt meets Pollack. The Goshawk.
He looks up at the ceiling, stuck. The coach’s hand slaps the mat.
“Nice job, Dahle. You really like those rolls.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. It’s just you can feel where the momentum is going and I like using that against them.”
“Let’s see it again.”
He lines up. Hands out in front, weight back on his toes curled under his shins. Potential energy. Kinetic. He springs forward, tucks a shoulder and launches his feet high above his head. As he comes around, he can feel it. His opponent on top, grasping, clinging to his arm and waist, slipping away. He traps an arm to his side, legs come down over top the other body and in that second he’s on top. Another mat slap.
No time to celebrate, he helps his partner up. Again. Repetition begets instinct, and a two man team ensures plenty of it. Ensures precision. Ensures the little Goshawk, from the little known town, nest, of Bieber, CA can take on a foe as big as Bakersfield.
Watching Reagan Dahle wrestle at the state finals you forget that he’s not supposed to be here, this good, this dangerous. Nothing in his favor. School size. Resources. He’s not supposed to be here. Yet, he is. Winning. His arm raised six times in victory.
Physically, he checks all the boxes. Height, weight, build. His style is unlike any other big man. He’s fluid, flexible and aggressive. He pushes the pace. Relentless. He goes for the big finish, the spectacular. All eight of his matches at Bakersfield ended in pins. Living on the edge, daring to be bold on a stage where so many tighten up, crumble. Fearless. He relies on his family, in particular his mom. “Her never ending support, it means the world to me. I’m certain it’s gotten me to where I am.” His faith, “I just know that in every match, an opportunity will be presented to me. It’s up to me to capitalize when I see it.” He saw it. Six times. Against the best. He’s one of them. His place, cemented. He’s not supposed to be here. Yet, there he was. Right where he belonged.
As he stood on the podium, medal in hand, his smile told the story. Not about the disadvantages, what he doesn’t have, what the town can’t provide. All the reasons why this moment was never meant to be. But rather what he does. And it’s plenty. For Bakersfield, for the Oxfordshire woodlands, for life. Game. On.
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