When you think of the Olympics, you think of wrestling. It was a

Cael Sanderson, the undefeated titan of the mat and Olympic champion, once spoke with reverence of his craft: “When you think of the Olympics, you think of wrestling. It was a marquee event in ancient Greece and in the modern Games. After running, it was the next sport to be part of the Games. Like track and field, the Olympics are the highest level. Some sports, it’s just not as special.” These words are not boastful, but steeped in the awareness of tradition and history, a reminder that some contests are not mere amusements but the very foundation of athletic glory.

For indeed, in ancient Greece, the cradle of the Games, wrestling was honored as one of the purest tests of strength, skill, and will. The pankration, a brutal blend of wrestling and boxing, was revered as the ultimate trial of manhood. To step into the sanded ring was to strip away all ornament and stand as you were: flesh, muscle, bone, and spirit. The victor was crowned not only as athlete, but as hero. Sanderson recalls this heritage, reminding us that when we speak of the Olympics, we speak of wrestling’s sacred place at its very heart.

In the modern Games as well, wrestling endures as one of the great disciplines. Long before corporate spectacles or the flashing lights of commercial sports, wrestling was there, as timeless as the struggle between two souls locked in combat. It is a sport with no ball, no equipment, no artifice—only the raw contest of body and mind. As Sanderson declares, this is what makes the Olympics special: not every sport rises to such a level, not every contest carries the weight of history and the aura of sacred competition.

History has given us many who proved the nobility of wrestling. Consider Milo of Croton, the ancient Greek wrestler who won six Olympic titles, his name carried like a legend across centuries. He was said to train by carrying a calf on his shoulders each day until it grew into a bull. Whether myth or truth, his story shows the reverence given to wrestlers, men who embodied not only strength but the relentless will to test themselves against the greatest of their time. Sanderson himself walks in this lineage, an American Milo, undefeated in college and crowned with Olympic gold.

And yet, there is something more than history in his words. Sanderson draws a distinction: “Some sports, it’s just not as special.” By this, he does not diminish the effort of others, but exalts the purity of those contests that speak to the deepest parts of humanity. Running, leaping, throwing, wrestling—these are the primal arts, the original measures of man. They require no invention, no machinery. They belong to all times, all peoples, and thus they shine brightest at the Games, uniting past and present in one continuous flame.

The lesson is clear: seek what is essential, not what is decorated. The Olympics, at their core, honor the simplest and purest expressions of human strength and spirit. Wrestling teaches us that greatness does not come from adornment, but from struggle, from resilience, from the willingness to stand alone against an equal and prove oneself. In life as in sport, it is the same: true victory comes not from spectacle, but from endurance and courage in the most fundamental battles.

Therefore, take Sanderson’s wisdom into your own path: cherish tradition, honor the ancient disciplines, and do not forget the timeless struggles that built the foundations of greatness. Strive not to make life complicated with distractions, but to master the essentials: strength, discipline, perseverance, and spirit. For in these, as in wrestling, lies the heart of what it means to be human.

And so, remember this: when you think of the Olympics, think of wrestling—for in its struggle we see reflected the eternal contest of mankind: not merely to defeat another, but to test ourselves against the limits of flesh and spirit, and in that trial, to touch immortality.