Post by Roger Payton Jr on May 19, 2019 20:22:00 GMT -5
Roger Payton Jr vs Papa Chongo vs James Wolf
05/20/19
Jimmy Johns Arena
Roscoe, Oklahoma
05/20/19
Jimmy Johns Arena
Roscoe, Oklahoma
The Birth of a Titan Part I
by Jeff ‘Brofessor Coach’ Perkins
You get these moments in professional sports sometimes. The way the jaded beat writers covering St Vincent-St Mary twenty years ago had a kid from Akron Ohio glide his high-tops across the parquet floor. The way the rabid local fan base at El Coloso in Rosario saw a diminutive child with a wild mop of hair throw his first shoulder faint and turn on a dime as the soccer ball danced to his every whim. The first time an old pugilist back from his morning road work stepped back into his gym in Grand Rapids and saw a four year old child throw his first right hand into the awaiting mit of his father.
The way I looked when I saw Roger Payton Jr’s first open workout for Action Wrestling.
Then his debut happened.
“I just froze up I guess” a dejected Payton spoke to me an hour following his defeat. He unlaced his wrestling boots and placed them gently under his locker bench. The hulking adonis of a man who looked resplendent as his name was announced and the thousands of fans waited on the edge of their seats for the upcoming spectacle seemed so much smaller in this moment, his chiseled jawline hidden in his cupped hands.
“I just want to start off by congratulating Ryan Elias, man that guy is some athlete right?” the palpable disappointment and upset seemed to wash away the moment he began talking about the match. This felt like watching an excited child telling their Mother about their first ever day in school; in a sense this was exactly that - Roger Payton’s first day at school wasn’t ideal but to him, it sure was memorable. “I thought I knew what to expect but man oh man I didn’t think it would be anything like this. I mean God dang it a triple threat match? I was so not ready for that, I was so focused on one man at a time that I didn’t know whether to scratch my butt or wind my watch. Just as I started to get acclimated then I’d get a shot from the side, or from behind. I definitely need to go back to my camp and talk to Coach about this. We definitely need to drill on if I’m ever in a match like this again. I guess it’s not exactly uncommon right?”
When I asked him if the moment and the expectations got to him, Payton was candid. “Yes” he said with a wide pearlescent grin. “It felt like my heart was about to explode out of my chest. The butterflies in my stomach had little baby butterflies that were about to give birth to more butterflies..or caterpillars - I dunno, whatever, it was a trip for sure. I’ve never competed in front of more than a couple of thousand before so for sure I was nervous. Nerves are usually good for you y’know - keep your reflexes and your mind sharp but something about this time just had me out of it. All I can do is apologise to all the fans of mine who travelled and made their way out to see me. My sister even took time off to come watch and well...you know.” I pressed him on this.
“Your amateur wrestling career was stellar, unblemished. In a word, perfect. There is nothing more you could have done and yet in your professional debut you tasted defeat for the first time in...maybe ever?” I could have been more tactful but Payton kept his smile and placed a bear like mitt on my shoulder.
“Seven years, to be precise. I’m not going to lie to you, it hurts. It’s funny right, I’m not sad, I’m just disappointed. That’s not what I’m about, that level of performance, that result…” The smile faded, and was replaced with a look of intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
“...will never happen again.”
by Jeff ‘Brofessor Coach’ Perkins
You get these moments in professional sports sometimes. The way the jaded beat writers covering St Vincent-St Mary twenty years ago had a kid from Akron Ohio glide his high-tops across the parquet floor. The way the rabid local fan base at El Coloso in Rosario saw a diminutive child with a wild mop of hair throw his first shoulder faint and turn on a dime as the soccer ball danced to his every whim. The first time an old pugilist back from his morning road work stepped back into his gym in Grand Rapids and saw a four year old child throw his first right hand into the awaiting mit of his father.
The way I looked when I saw Roger Payton Jr’s first open workout for Action Wrestling.
Then his debut happened.
“I just froze up I guess” a dejected Payton spoke to me an hour following his defeat. He unlaced his wrestling boots and placed them gently under his locker bench. The hulking adonis of a man who looked resplendent as his name was announced and the thousands of fans waited on the edge of their seats for the upcoming spectacle seemed so much smaller in this moment, his chiseled jawline hidden in his cupped hands.
“I just want to start off by congratulating Ryan Elias, man that guy is some athlete right?” the palpable disappointment and upset seemed to wash away the moment he began talking about the match. This felt like watching an excited child telling their Mother about their first ever day in school; in a sense this was exactly that - Roger Payton’s first day at school wasn’t ideal but to him, it sure was memorable. “I thought I knew what to expect but man oh man I didn’t think it would be anything like this. I mean God dang it a triple threat match? I was so not ready for that, I was so focused on one man at a time that I didn’t know whether to scratch my butt or wind my watch. Just as I started to get acclimated then I’d get a shot from the side, or from behind. I definitely need to go back to my camp and talk to Coach about this. We definitely need to drill on if I’m ever in a match like this again. I guess it’s not exactly uncommon right?”
When I asked him if the moment and the expectations got to him, Payton was candid. “Yes” he said with a wide pearlescent grin. “It felt like my heart was about to explode out of my chest. The butterflies in my stomach had little baby butterflies that were about to give birth to more butterflies..or caterpillars - I dunno, whatever, it was a trip for sure. I’ve never competed in front of more than a couple of thousand before so for sure I was nervous. Nerves are usually good for you y’know - keep your reflexes and your mind sharp but something about this time just had me out of it. All I can do is apologise to all the fans of mine who travelled and made their way out to see me. My sister even took time off to come watch and well...you know.” I pressed him on this.
“Your amateur wrestling career was stellar, unblemished. In a word, perfect. There is nothing more you could have done and yet in your professional debut you tasted defeat for the first time in...maybe ever?” I could have been more tactful but Payton kept his smile and placed a bear like mitt on my shoulder.
“Seven years, to be precise. I’m not going to lie to you, it hurts. It’s funny right, I’m not sad, I’m just disappointed. That’s not what I’m about, that level of performance, that result…” The smile faded, and was replaced with a look of intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
“...will never happen again.”
I.
A crack rang out in the empty hollow of the dilapidated gym as Roger Payton sunk a left hook into a heavy bag being held by a svelte older man of similar height as the superstar amateur wrestler. Payton immediately changes levels and sticks his shoulder into the bag forcing the older man against the ropes of the ring they are drilling in. Payon is wearing his workout gear of a deep red hoodie with gold emblazoning of a faded ‘Iowa State’ motif , the hood pulled up over his head. His Aryan features are a mask of intensity and pressure. His blonde hair is slick with sweat, his brow is furrowed in concentration and wet with the perspiration dampening his hair as his deep blue eyes are focused on the centre of the bag. His hands are wrapped in red athletic tape, though the condition of the tape is tarnished and dirty from what appears to be a rigorous workout. His fists are laborious, each shot coming out of the reset slower then the one preceding it; left jab, a second, a feint with the right and step in with the left hook. The left hook is slow. The left hook only grazes the bag. The older man releases the bag, throwing it to the ground with a thud the and sighs loudly in frustration.
Coach: What the fuck is this Roger? You think being this slow is good enough? You think you are good enough with this huh? You think Ryan Lockhart is complaining about his drills? You think Mikey X would be scared of a little punk who can’t go two hours on a fuckin’ bag? That’s the top of the food chain here, but the shit you showed Sunday night? You ain’t even working hard enough to face the fuckin’ cruiserweights.
Roger steps back away from his stance and launches a globule of buildup saliva to the other side of the room. He begins to speak, confident but with each voracious gulp of air between his words he betrays his conditioning.
Roger Payton: We’ve been doing this for hours now Coach Wilczek, the same combinations - the same old stuff. I need some live bodies, I need to spar, I need to prac-
The older man’s frustration is audible as he takes a step toward his protege, jutting a bony finger into Roger’s chest. A thinning grey hairline that was once a proud black mane sits atop Coach Adam Wilczek’s head; a bulbous whiskey bitten nose accompanies his wrinkled, beady and judging eyes. His stained, crooked teeth sneer in indignation as he almost tears Roger’s head off with the ferocity of his voice.
Coach Wilczek: You were scared shitless when you caught the first right hand on your jaw. People have never tested you like that before have they huh? Practice? Sparring? Please son, show me a bit of respect as your coach yeah? You complaining about hitting some bag that ain’t hitting back but what’s worse: thirty seconds of pain here as you push through or that feeling you had on Sunday night? Do you trust me? Do you want this to actually work or are you gonna just step away one and done? You want me to be honest with you: you’re one bad weeks worth of workouts away from being the biggest bust this sport has ever seen. Is this what you want?
Roger gritted his teeth.
“Good try”
“Great effort”
“Promising debut”
Those phrases felt like lye on road rash. There was no trying and no giving effort. There was doing and not doing; there was winning and losing. Roger had not done it, Roger had not won. The thought of commiseration and consolation made his blood boil. He looked at his coach, Adam Wilczek - the man who had seen him through his high school and collegiate career. The man who knew exactly what buttons to push. Roger grinned and got into a wrestling stand once more.
Roger Payton: Pick the fuckin’ bag up.
II.
It had been two hours since Coach Wilczek left. The gym was deadly silent. Then, every five seconds or so, like a metronomic megaton explosion the loud crack of bone on hard leather. Roger Payton’s hands had been numb for at least half an hour, though for him time had ceased to matter. His muscles ached and every single fibre of his clothing were sopping with his perspiration, a trail of hard work stained the floor as his wrestling boots squeaked in for another right hand. His body failed him, Roger sunk to his knees on the hard wooden floor before rocking onto his haunches and finally onto his rear end.
The muscle spasms wracked his inner thighs and calves as he began a stretching routine, gripping the toes of his feet. He remained motionless for a moment before beginning to speak.
“Hard work. Determination. Dedication. Sacrifice.
I’ve built my life on these attributes, every step of the way I haven’t rested on my laurels. God gave me size, but I worked for my strength. God gave me a good mind for combat, but I’ve been consistently studious. God gave me a fighting instinct, and I’ve honed that in every single session rolling on the mats or in competition.
My first ever professional wrestling match, I did everything right in the build up. My training was perfect, my conditioning was great and as far as I was aware my strategy was strong. All this, and what did it matter?
Not at all.”
Roger smiles, a melancholy but earnest grin.
“Turns out that professional wrestling is a whole different animal altogether, one that if I’m being honest I wasn’t ready for. Sure it wasn’t my shoulders being pinned to the mat, but it also wasn’t my hand being held aloft by the man in stripes either. I’m not the type of man who is gonna make excuses about what happened, it is what it is. I lost and that’s all that really matters. The important part of my career is this fork in the road right here: what happens next?
Turn Left Turn Right
Excuses/Mediocrity/Self-loathing Acknowledgment/Accountability/Improvement
"One of these is the easy path, the one with butterflies, bright lights and welcoming choir songs. I turn left and that makes me walk a path I might as well have a woman ringing a bell and shouting ‘SHAME!’ behind me. That ain’t what I’m about. That has never been what I’ve been about. I’d rather take the dread walk through the thick dark spiny bracken where buzzards pick at my every insecurity and failure because you can be sure as heck that I’m coming out the other side of that fight a stronger man for it.
Does adversity build character or merely reveal it? Does it really even matter?
What matters is the Roger Payton that steps through those ropes at Clash. What matters is the Roger Payton that ain’t the scared rabbit in the headlights just waiting to be hit by the encroaching Mack Truck. What matters is the Roger Payton who knows what he’s going to be dealing with, and who he has to overcome.
I don’t take anyone lightly, never have, never will. Doesn’t matter what your pedigree is, what your record is. You’re someone who wants what I want, and wants to use me as a stepping stone to get there. That’s what this sport is, that’s what any sport. That’s the heart of competition.
My competition, my opponents are the perfect example of the dichotomy of competition.
I’ve never seen Papa Chongo wrestle. I’ve never seen anyone talk about Papa Chongo. I’ve never met anyone who knows Papa Chongo. I’ve never met anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone who knows Papa Chongo.
I Yahoo’d.
I Google’d.
I even Ask Jeeves’d Papa Chongo.
I found an urban dictionary page that suggested a papachongo is a birthday party for men.
I found nothing that gives me any hint whatsoever as to what Papa Chongo is as a wrestler, or as a man.
I realise I’m saying Papa Chongo a lot.
Papa Chongo.
Just take a second guys. Breathe. Now say it out loud.
Papa Chongo.
Papa Chongo, you have an awesome name to say. It just rolls off the tongue. It feels like I’m giving my vocal chords a spa experience when I enunciate your syllables. Now hold up a second, don’t take this for one second of me patronising you or trying to belittle the threat you pose. That ain’t what this is about. What I’m saying is this: I have no idea who the heck you are. That’s not a knock at all. That’s me just letting you right now, I’m at DEFCON 1 regarding the potential threat you pose.
Others might look at the threadbare information about you online and immediately dismiss you as a job guy. Not me. I’m treating you as the biggest threat in this match. Better the devil you know, right?
You’re a veteran of the business, you probably have forgotten more about the nuances of the squared circle than I know. That’s why I’m going to use this match not just as a stepping stone, but as a lesson. You’re probably the guy with the most experience I’ve stepped in the ring with so far, so shucks, pardon me if I ain’t going to use you as a learning experience. Every right hand I land with, every take down I complete I’m gonna be watching how you try to escape and I’m going to remember; no one will ever be able to try the same counter on me again. See this is where you and I differ, and this is why our career trajectories are trending opposite directions - quality over quantity. Forever and always.
It doesn’t matter how many bouts you have on me, how many more matches, how many more times you’ve been punched in the face, how many times you’ve had your hand raised. There is a fundamental gap that I need to prove exists in this business. It’s the gap I’ve spent all day trying to add one more inch to, the gap that true hard work and dedication can put between sportsmen at the highest level. So by all means, you can have your protege Trapson moonwalk down the ramp with you, you can even sing your own entrance on the way down to the ring. That’s your schtick. It’s all good buddy. But you can be damn sure it’s my entrance you’ll be singing when the bell rings at the end of this match.
Papa Chongo is the man I’m most worried about in this match, why? Ain’t cos he’s a stone cold killer, ain’t cos he’s more’n a generic faceless roster filler. It’s because James Wolf is in this match. You know the saying ‘It’s better to keep your mouth shut and let people assume you’re an idiot than speak and remove all doubt?’ That’s you, James.
Payton finally manages to finish his stretching routine and returns to his haunches and then with a stagger, rises to his feet. He takes a few steps to retrieve a half consumed water bottle and chugs the remainder of the contents before tossing the bottle to one side with a refreshed sigh.
“Y’know something. I was a little worried about this part. People told me ‘Roger, this is the toughest part of any promotional video. You’re going to have to think hard and dig deep, you know - go to that dark place to go at and get to your opponent.’ Somehow James, I feel that at least this once, I won’t have a problem.
I don’t have a problem dealing with ignorant rule breaking bullies.
I know exactly what you are and let me tell you something: you don’t scare, intimidate or impress me one bit. You’re a nineties edgy teen trapped in a thirty nine year old man’s body. You’re a disgrace of a human being and on Clash I am going to disgrace you as a professional wrestler.
- Covered in tattoos. (Do we have praying hands on rosary beads? Do we have ‘only God can judge me? Do we have knuckle tattoos perhaps? You give me a Reverend Harry Powell feel.)
- Generic Nu-Metal band as an entrance theme
- Flips off crowd
- Explodes with expletives at crowd
- Bald
- Probably has a goatee
- Breaks the rules and cheats on a regular basis.
- Is ‘Hardcore’
You are the antithesis of everything ‘professional’ in the professional wrestling business. I don’t even need to watch a promo of yours to know everything you are about, neither do the fans of this great sport. In the Olympic pool that is the history and depth in Action Wrestling, you are the shallow end of the baby pool. You posit yourself as a ‘Hardcore legend’ - everyone knows one of these guys. The type of guy that, say for a completely fictional example, that if a legend of the business spent months attacking and harassing you, trying to goad you into a blood feud of epic proportions with a blow off semi-main event at Evolution that when it was announced a Hardcore Title was being introduced to a federation you just said ‘Nah, I don’t even care about the feud, I’m Hardcore!!’.
That’s you people’s answer for everything. What do I mean by ‘You people?’ You’re the wrestling version of ‘that guy’ in tabletop roleplaying. Yes. I’m a nerd. What you think? I played 3.5 at College. My guy was a lawful evil Sorcerer called Joseph the Flash. Fun times.
*Attacks fellow party member in order to steal the magic item they just collected* - “I’m just playing my character.”
*Challenges whoever is Hardcore champion, or attacks completely unrelated person already in feud* - “I’m Hardcore!!!”
I wouldn’t be surprised if you went and won the title in all honesty. It’s your bag, go you. You’ve probably collected a billion of these trinkets in your career. Hardcore titles with miscellaneous two or three letter acronyms emblazoned on the front. It’s your red room. You promise to take the ladies to “hardcore heaven” and they end up spending two hours having a monotonous tour of your banal accomplishments.”
Payton laughs and runs a hand through his sweat drenched hair.
“I mean come on man, what are you even doing here? What is your career arc going to be? Is this it for you? I mean, I’m laughing - but you’re going to be winning the Hardcore title at Evolution and I’m going to be losing the Prince Jimmy Dean Battle Royal. So really, what’s funny about that? What’s funny is that on Clash, I’m going to kick your goddamn teeth down your throat and then put you to sleep so that you know that whatever accomplishments come your way in future just know - I’m going to be there as your personal glass ceiling whenever you’re feeling froggy to hop above that station.
You spit in the face of the hard work of others, people grind every day to learn the techniques and get the cardio it takes to go hard in the ring and you...you...man. I’m getting angry just thinking about it.”
Payton clenches a fist and shakes his head, letting a laugh mask his building anger.
“You think the paths you take to victory make you the better man? You think that fooling the referee and making him feel like an idiot when he watches the fight back is funny? A man can lose his job for that, James. Is it gratifying for you to wrestle like you do? To render the hard work your opponents meaningless because you smash them in the head with a foreign object? Is that fun for you? Is that gratification? It’s ‘Hardcore’ right, so that’s cool, people like it right? Really, please, tell me - enlighten me. I would love to know. Does the reflection in the mirror before bed every night tell you
“Good job”
“Great effort”
Does it even matter to you if that reflection follows that with:
“You won”
Roger grits his teeth.
“Because to me, it matters. You’re damn right it matters. So James Wolf, I don’t give a damn what accomplishments you have. I don’t give a damn about your history, or your future. All I care about is Sunday night and that moment we are going to share in the ring together. I’m going to prove to every single one of the fans watching, the people who pay their money to come and watch us every week - I’m going to prove to them that it’s not just the ‘what’ that matters, that the ‘how’ is just as important.
What? Roger Payton wins this match.
How? By showing both you and Papa Chongo what a real professional wrestler is."
Cut.