The night of my first wrestling match I walked out of the locker room wearing my singlet and my robe, wondering if there would be any Rocky-like theme music to accompany my entrance. (There was not.) The gym had never felt colder, never seemed quieter or more cavernous than it did that night. The rafters seemed impossibly far away. In the center of the gym was a large blue wrestling mat with a white circle painted on it.

I sat with my team on one side of the mat in chairs borrowed from a nearby classroom; the opposing team sat in chairs on the opposite side. Though the collapsable bleachers had been pulled from the walls, only a handful of wrestling fans had turned out for the match. People obviously did not come out to see wrestling in the numbers that they came out to see football. My father was there, sitting alone at the very end of the bleachers, his arms folded. He was no doubt ready to witness the beginning of my Larry Holmes-like wrestling career.

The lower weight classes wrestled first. I watched the smaller guys go at it out there, the twisting bodies, the grunts, wrestling shoes squeaking at an ear-splitting volume on the mat. We lost the first bout, but won the second. Then the team got on a hot streak, pulling off a string of impressive victories.

I was watching all of this, of course, in a near catatonic state. I had been unable to take my eyes off of the largest man on the opposite side of the mat, a.k.a. the man I would soon have to wrestle. He looked like a bona fide giant to me. The chair he was sitting on seemed impossibly small beneath him, like a child’s toy. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he pulled a live sheep from his duffel bag and began to eat it.

When it was time for the final match of the night–the heavyweight match–I stood up and took off my robe. I shook out my arms and ran in place for a few seconds, the way I’d seen other wrestlers do before their matches. The skin on my shoulders goose-bumped.

The coach gave me some last-minute instructions, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy using all the willpower I had not run out the gym doors, through the exit doors of the school, screaming into the night.

Suddenly the referee’s whistle was blowing. Suddenly the giant’s hands were on me. I knew he’d be strong, but hadn’t figured on him being this strong. He threw me to the mat. Then he started performing all these advanced moves on me–holds, arm bars, and so forth. I was new to wrestling, but I knew enough to know that all the things he was currently doing were all being done in the name of my demise.

Then something happened that still pains me to talk about to this day: I began to hyperventilate. Out there, on the mat, in front of my team, in front of the opposing team, and in front of my father, I began to breathe in such a labored, dramatic fashion that the referee blew his whistle, stopping the match so that he could check on me.

“Are you alright, son?” he asked.

Through the wheezes, I assured him that I was alright, that I had simply allergies, that I was absolutely fine. The match resumed. My opponent was on me again. I was not fine, of course. I was having a panic attack. I was gasping for air now like a fish on a boat dock, my chest tightening, my face turning hot. My opponent flipped me over. I was on my back now, looking directly up at the bright lights of the gym.

The gym lights had never seemed brighter to me than they did in that moment. I spotted a bright red kickball wedged up in the rafters, and I was thinking, How did a kickball get all the way up there? That’s so very strange… when I heard the referee’s hand slap the mat next to my ear, indicating that I was pinned and that the match was finally–mercifully–over.

My wrestling record: 0-1.

Today’s Donkey Kong level is 2-11. Each level begins like this: 1. I have a theory, 2. I test that theory, 3. I revise the theory depending on the results. In other words, I’m not merely playing a videogame here; I’m doing science, people.

My initial theory about today’s level was wrong. But I kept trying it, again and again. Why I would cling madly to a strategy that is obviously not working is no doubt one of many reasons why I didn’t last long in college-level chemistry. Today’s level is a vertical endeavor spread across a pair of enemy-free screens. There’s a ladder-time ladder power-up at the very bottom of the screen. The left three quarters of the screen is filled with conveyer belts and moving platforms, all of which are spaced far enough apart to require the special handstand jump (push down on the directional pad while pressing the A/jump button; press it a second time once Mario’s feet are in the air) to travel between.

Science fact: Trying to do a handstand jump off of one moving platform to another moving platform is not easy. Yet, pig-headed fool that I am, I continued to try to do this for longer than I should probably publicly admit.

My second theory was this: use the ladder-time ladder to create a ladder in the empty, conveyer belt and platform-free space on the right one-quarter of the screen. The ladder grows up through the top of the screen. I frantically climb (and climb and climb) as the ladder-time songs runs its course. As it’s about to expire, I spot some solid ground up ahead, and at the last possible second, I reach it.

Phew.

Up here on my new-found perch, I spot the key, grab the handbag floating in space, then begin my descent down through the three quarters of the screen that is filled with conveyer belts and moving platforms that I’d previously been trying to ascend. The descent is tricky, and I inadvertently drop the key. It lands below me, near a grouping of deadly sharpangles. I carefully hustle down to it, making my gentle leaps between conveyer belts. I reach it, reclaim it–the end is near, I can feel it–then head for the door on the bottom of the level. Once the key is in the lock, Mario dashes inside, and level 2-11 is behind us.

Note to self: Dear Self, In the future, please try your best not to be so foolishly in love with theories that are obviously not working. Love, Scott