by Chris Conaway

Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke.  But that is part of what it takes to become a warrior.  Garrett Faulkner preaches this to his wrestlers every day at Sussex Central High School, where he currently teaches.  He strives to be the cool teacher there, and assists the wrestling team as a coach and trainer.

“He does all the hard work” says assistant coach Phil Shultie.  “I just try and keep him focused.” Phil is the most winning wrestling coach in Delaware’s history, with over 400 team victories, and he has an eye for talent.  “I used to coach against Garrett when he was still in high school” he says.  “Year after year he would wipe the mat with whoever I sent out to face him.  A perfect mix of size, power, and flawless technique, and his conditioning couldn’t be matched.  When I heard he was going to be teaching here at the high school, I knew that the team needed him.”

Technically, Garrett grew up in Dover, Delaware, but his heart lies forty miles south in Dewey Beach.  This is his place of play.  His place of relaxation.  His paradise.  He says, “’Incubus’ in my ear, sun on my eye.  Salt on my skin, sand in my heart.  In this moment I am happy.”  I can’t tell if he made that up himself.  But it doesn’t matter, it makes sense.

During his summers in Dewey, Garrett tends bar at a little place called Hammerheads, which sits in the middle of the main strip.  Hammerheads is run by a laid back, dreadlocked man named Cohen August.  “Garrett is a little kid” says Cohen.  “But thats one of the reasons that we draw such a crowd.  People know that Garrett is crazy as shit and they like that.”

Garrett is six feet tall, 170lbs as what he describes as, “full tilt boogie.” I still don’t know what that means.

“It came from my glory days” he says.  Garrett’s glory days are the four years he spent at York College in South Central, Pennsylvania.  York is a private, four year institution that offers a wide array of majors and concentrations, and houses just under five thousand undergraduates.  Garrett lived in a small, two bedroom townhouse at the center of campus with his two best friends, Brad and Terry.  During his years at York, he somehow emerged with a Bachelors degree in special education, but majored in wrestling.

“I ate, dreamed, and breathed that shit” Garrett says.  “Baddest mother fucker around.”

His day to day life was different abnormal.  He didn’t sleep in, until class.  Three square meals were out of the question.  Late nights were not spent studying.

“Instead I was turning myself into a machine!” he exclaims.  I’m sure he still made time for women.

The hard work paid off.  By the time he graduated, Garrett was a two-time All American wrestler.  He says, “It is by far my greatest accomplishment.  Shows exactly how much hard work pays off.”

The road to All American status is a hard one.

“Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke, man,” he says, shaking his head in disgust.  “You walk outside and the cold smacks you in the face.  You can’t even sweat its so damn cold.  And then they expect you to run.”

His legs barely function.  Each stride is a struggle, but he trudges the six miles of hilly Pennsylvania terrain.  The cold bites at his face with no remorse.  At this point, he’s looking forward to the hot, sweaty hours in the wrestling room.  But that comes later.

“After the run, I’ve earned a meal.”  Garrett says “meal” sarcastically.  It is always small and lean. Usually some turkey or white meat chicken, accompanied by a protein shake, or what he calls, “a cup full of ass.”

The afternoon brings two hours of strength training.  He hates lifting weights.  “Weights are heavy, why would you want to lift them?  Just leave ’em in the corner” he says.  The weight room at York smells too clean for Garrett.  He’s now longing for the smell of the wrestling room. The mat.  His place of business.  But that comes later.

“Rep it out!” screams Garrett’s strength coach.  He reps out his last set and it’s off to shower.  Later in the day, he hits the books.  Time is allocated for mandatory team study.  Garrett dedicates his degree to these study hours.

Finally seven o’clock rolls around, and its time to roll around.  “Most of my teammates hated walking into the wrestling room. They knew it was going to be hard, it was going to fucking suck!  But I’m not afraid to sweat.  This is the shit I live for.”  Warm-ups, drills, live wrestling, and conditioning.  Garrett puts in a quality evening of practice.  He heads home to bed.  Fighting the urge to eat is a constant struggle after his head hits the pillow.  But he falls asleep anyway.  His alarm sounds too soon.  Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke.