The hallway leading to glory and heartbreak is dim - just a little light here and there streaking down the grim faces of teenage boys.

Some are alone with their thoughts, here in the bowels of the Pepsi Center, their eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare as they envision the next match at the 2009 state wrestling tournament.

A few others bounce on the balls of their feet to get ready, or lean in to listen to whispered words of advice and encouragement from a coach, or stretch solemnly.

Ryan Talmich, 18, and Jacob Garcia, 15, "shadow wrestle" - lunging and diving and rolling, moving in unison as though they had choreographed it, working up a good sweat.

The two Rocky Ford Meloneers are between matches - each had already advanced to the semifinals and still harbored the dream all wrestlers hold, to be a state champion.

The dream started months ago in homes scattered across Colorado, with alarm clocks that rattled teenagers from sleep at 6 a.m. and wind sprints that made them feel like throwing up and practices that went on forever.

It continued this week as 895 young men and one young woman arrived in Denver for the championships, a 10-mat, three-day grappling extravaganza among wrestlers from 238 schools, from Abraham Lincoln to Yuma.

Friday afternoon, that dream was still alive for Garcia, a 103-pounder, and Talmich, who wrestles in the 135-pound class. It survived the afternoons of endless running through the school hallways, which seemed to Talmich to grow longer with each lap. And it survived the hours of practice, and the aches, and the days when when Garcia's body didn't want to take any more, but he kept pushing himself and telling himself, "This is what it takes to be there."

And so there they were in the hallway leading to the floor of the Pepsi Center, moving and grunting and sweating and getting in a little work to stay sharp.

Wrestling is a team sport, but once a kid steps inside the line encircling the mat, he is truly alone. There, he can rely only on what is in his heart and what's between his ears.

Everything else - the announcer's voice blaring from the loudspeaker and the cheers in the stands and the action on the other mats - is just noise.

For Talmich, this was his last shot at the big prize. He lost in the second round as a freshman, then missed the tournament the past two years as he battled a shoulder injury.

This week he was back, and before each match he loosened up in the hallway and saw the same image flash through his mind: The referee raising his hand at the end, signifying victory.

"You've got to think positive and everything - never doubt yourself," he said. "I have to think, 'This dude has no chance - six minutes of hell he has to go through out there.' "

Garcia is at the other end of the spectrum, a sophomore who figures to get more chances but who wants to follow his brother, David, who won the 103-pound title a year ago. As he stood in the tunnel, he wore mismatched shoes. The one on his right foot was his, the left one belonged to his brother.

"It makes me feel like he's here with me in the match," he said.

Both young men have family history on their side.

Garcia's father, David Sr., won it all in 1986 and '87, and seven of his uncles have been state champions. And Talmich's cousin, Chris Donelson, won state titles in 1994 and '95 but died several years ago in a car accident.

"I'm just trying to make him proud," Talmich said.

As the two boys talked, the possibility of the ultimate glory in their sport was still out in front of them, still within reach.

Just then, another wrestler came down the tunnel, moved quickly past them, slammed his headgear down on the tile floor and crumpled against a wall.

There was only heartbreak for him this year.