The Forever Story: Can't Punk Me
Nov 20, 2022 1:52:32 GMT -5
Gerard Angelo and The Ascension like this
Post by Spencer Adams on Nov 20, 2022 1:52:32 GMT -5
Maybe Dionysus deserved more, deserved to go a little bit further as a personal payoff for refocusing and putting in the work. Then again, who can I trust? No, I don’t just mean the whole “will they leave or won’t they leave” thing. I had more than enough reason to trust him on that, but could I trust his grit in my place? If I gave that extra little bit..if I allowed Dion the split second he needed to put me away, could his own lack of refined tendencies and habits actually carry him not just to the finals, but to the end of the damn thing? Could Dion have been the one to put down a Gerard Angelo or a Downfall and give that world title scene the refresher that it needed?
Which brings us to this week. Short of those I keep closest, those I put my faith in, I reserve my green lights and trust for the statement makers of the world. Dion was somebody who has shown a care for the sport, but not that much needed intensity historically. You though, Sam Kidsgrove? You boast neither quality. What I do this week isn’t just me seizing control of your unlikely run to the final four and returning any hopes of further progression back to Earth, it’s Spencer Adams insuring that the main event of Turmoil isn’t a foregone conclusion met with a sound like air being let out of Wells Fargo like a sad balloon.
These people need Spencer Adams in the Turmoil finals, because Spencer Adams has a proven track record and enough character to not make those who back the name and the man behind it regret having done so. They need Spencer Adams, because I am the face of consistency and weathering a storm in this business. People need someone who responds to getting beat by a monster of a man in under a minute with a thirteen month winning streak complete with a trail of fallen world champions along the way.
What nobody needs is Sam Kidsgrove trying to sell them on a man they have absolutely nothing in common with, a man whose only true semblance of being human is time spent on his back in that ring. NOBODY needs some vain prick with iffy morality occupying space anywhere near the top of the food chain, because we’ve already gone through two fucking years of that. Two years of shitbird people holding the biggest prize in professional wrestling. I know for a fact that I’m not alone in saying that it’s about damn time we have some fucking optimism at the top of the AW website, a face that can grace the cover of a program book or a PPV poster and not make people ask themselves what they just spent a hundred bucks to come watch.
Kidsgrove, you are no source of light, because you lack guidance yourself. Your only objective on any given night seems little more than punch in, work, punch out and then you’re off to the primary focus. Hell, the only time you’re truly riled up is when myself or anyone else in the back decides to call you on it, because you know that at the end of the day..the only thing that matters to Sam Kidsgrove is Sam Kidsgrove’s stock out West. Despite a history of brutal wars against the bridge trolls of this sport, you go home mostly unbothered where you’re greeted by your inoffensive wife and your inoffensive life and you sip a mug of Twinings as if the whole thing never fucking happened and that’s exactly why I have to do what I’m about to do to you.
Receptionist: Come on back.
Doctor: Mr. Adams. I’m Doctor-
Doctor: From what I can see here, it looks like-
Doctor: PTSD. It’s perfectly normal, especially with everything you’ve gone through. I’d say pretty manageable too, given you maintain awareness and stay open and honest with yourself.
Doctor: Mr. Adams? You still with me?
Spencer: Yeah. PTSD.
Doctor: Honestly, I’d suggest-
Doctor: Maybe tone it down a little bit professionally. That much attention on you wouldn’t be ideal for anyone in your position.
Spencer: Right..
Doctor: You want my opinion? Maybe try reconnecting. Do you have any extended family?
It’s about that time for us, isn’t it? Time for the Spencer Adams detractors of the AW locker room to start the “It isn’t fair” shit, to hook up the Copium tank and cry up a storm over the fact that once again, Spencer Adams is knocking on the door of the main event. Why so much fuss? Because the return of Spencer Adams anywhere close to the world championship is a reminder of what the main event actually looks like. It’s something that can’t be replicated, that’s never been matched.
It’s status not just forged through a list of achievements, it’s having to put in blood, sweat, and tears to have a fucking shot at a stage like this. It’s actually being better than good enough and having some fucking indie dope in gym tell you that you’re not, because you don’t fit the idea of what professional wrestling looks like to them whereas you, Sam? You came in actually not up to par, not created by the ups and downs of an actual come up and that didn’t matter, did it? It never mattered whether or not you were good or even great at this sport, because you had your clout coming into it.
The reason behind Strongstyle Adams, the motivation for turning XIII into a dog fight from the jump? To show you what you missed out on, the step that you can never go back and take, because you’re already here. It’s why I shatter ceilings people try to place over the top of me while you are exactly as good at this as you’re ever going to be. Making you pass out was inevitable seeing as your privileged ass had been sleep walking through every appearance leading up to that encounter and shaking your hand was a MOMENT of recognition, a moment of me foolishly banking on you to learn and get better after being given a taste of what the fuck real looks like. I was naive in my optimism, Sam. I showed you Strongstyle Adams and you proceeded to show the world limp dick.
Case in point, our two vastly different paths to these semifinals. I had to scratch and claw my way through Regan Voorhees and wage a war against a version of Dionysus who needed the win more than he needed oxygen to get her and face you. You started with a commendable performance against Lissie and walked into Corey Black who was already beaten to a shell-like version of his actual abilities prior. Maybe a bit of a double edge sword on the debate of morality versus competitive integrity and you were undoubtedly left no other choice but to play the favorable hand, but that SHOULD eat at you.
It should be keeping you up at night, but you’ve never lost a second of sleep in your life. It should bother the ever living fuck out of you that the analysts are already pointing at the fact that you got to this moment by beating a standard bearer of this profession with a rock solid asterisks hanging overhead, that Sam Kidsgrove got here by “upsetting” Corey Black at thirty percent. Just like you should be dreading the fact that Spencer Adams ended the career of a monster on his heels almost a year ago at this very event and funny enough, did so at thirty percent.
To dig at you and prod where your mind is in this moment just a little bit more, let’s not forget that one of us got their place on this bracket through one of the most unparalleled runs in recent memory to the tune of a top five seed while the other’s sole argument for even being here was a short lived return to the US title that was quickly snuffed out by the ascending Jill Park, something that I’m sure you STILL have yet to figure out. Dumb dumb very dumb man, Sam Kidsgrove, the “greatest US champ” of all time who is forever blinded by his own delusions of grandeur.
That’s the story of your life, the thing they’ll scrawl on your ten foot tall tombstone and ramble off at your middle of the pack hall of fame induction in five years. Sam Kidsgrove, the man deemed gatekeeper of the upper card, but never actually allowed inside the home himself. Sam Kidsgrove, always the bridesmaid and never the bride. You’re the best competitor to never be the best competitor and that stings about as much as an elbow pinch for you, because you have massive fucking box office numbers and a Stepford wife to make sure that you feel no real pain.
You’ve lost both everything and nothing simultaneously, because your whole existence is upheld by a bunch of fucking yes men who also can’t truly lose at anything. Losers? Sure, but you and people like you are always going to stand on a foundation of hollow victories, always surrounded by walls that even when on the road or faced with real shit and real people, you never truly travel outside of. I train until the point that I’m puking my guts out and then train some more. You train by lollygagging with the cast of Good Will Hunting as if none of this is a big deal. We are not the same.
You do not know what working hard in this business is much like you don’t know the price of a gallon of milk. It’s why while you may swoop in to pick up a US title reign once every year or so, you stop short of anything else. Your lack of seasoning is the reason that Spencer Adams checks off boxes on the accolades list while you can’t even find the fucking pen. Hell, if I handed you one myself, the result would be little more than a shaky-handed struggle to put a first word to paper.
While people like myself, the real pillars of AW and professional wrestling, are able to lift up the world around us and make the card from top to bottom better by association, you take exactly what’s handed to you and you bow your head like a fucking sub while you do it. You are an opportunity seeker, one who retreats to the US title scene only because it’s your singular niche and your monthly allowance granted to you simply for existing. Throw up another one on the board of the differences between you and I where my influence towers over yours. I uplift and redefine tag wrestling, reinvigorate the main event, and generally get people to their feet while you play for everything you’re told you can.
Sam Kidsgrove is a presence that’s not needed for much more than a character actor in this arena, because you are a spot fill on your best day and an afterthought on your worst. You’re a performer who struggles to play hero, because you don’t have that in your heart. I care about the kids who get to go with mom and dad to their first AW show as a birthday present just the same as I do about the ones watching at home who use the product as their escape for whatever’s on their mind and YOU, you fucking prick, use things like opportunities to leave a good impression on sick children to roast them. Why? Because dying grade schoolers are mean to you? Eat shit, you thin skinned slug.
Your want for the brightest spotlight that this business has to offer is mild, because you’ve never had to REALLY want something. You want to be given your flowers, but never learned about watering the garden. You want a Spencer Adams sized spotlight in Action Wrestling, but you want it without being burdened by the responsibilities that come with it, always the type to show up to an arena and dash for the entrance to avoid the guy in the faded merch telling you that you suck ass. It’s like skipping the tutorial, complaining about the difficulty, and still longing for a mode lesser than easy. Hate to break it to you, but it gets tougher than whatever it is you haven’t had the character to handle up to this point.
I’m talking about responsibility like taking the torch and leading a whole fucking locker room whether they like your ass or not. Not doing it for a pat on the back, but because you know that somebody has to fill that role at all times. Tell me, can you actually look into that camera and pretend that wouldn’t be your Achilles heel? I’d love to see you act as if you wouldn’t scurry back to Zooey huffing and puffing about how those who don’t care for you are unappreciative of all that you don’t do around here.
While you walk around in clown shoes more on par with TFK than opposite side of this bracket, Downfall and Gerard Angelo are primed and ready for that final matchup. One fights face painted psychopaths and the other wields lead like a Fushigi. You were as ready as you were ever gonna be the day you signed your first contract and we’ve seen what you can do and the second that someone shows you their lack of care for fair play, you’ll fall into a hemophobia induced coma.
You on the throne is a disaster I can’t allow to happen, an all-time low and black mark on the history books if it were to happen. Redeeming that championship, the very thing you’d be tasked with should you step on foot beyond this point, isn’t in your DNA. What is in your DNA is MID genes and a soft core. If you thought XIII was rough, if you want to act like it was close, watch me turn the fucking dial AND carry your stupid ass to another five star loss just because I’m the charitable man you hardly pretend to be. I’m going to do more for your career by dragging you to-and-fro in between the ropes than you ever could within a win. There’s no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Adilene: How’d it go?
Spencer: I…fine. It went fine.
Adilene: Fine?
Spencer: Yeah. The doctor said it’s PTSD. A little counseling should help.
Adilene: How are you feeling?
Spencer: I’m…alright. One day at a time, I suppose, yeah?
Adilene: Did he mention anything else or was it just counseling?
Spencer: He uh…he actually did.
Adilene: Oh?
Spencer: Yeah. He said that…well, he said that it could be a good idea for me to try to get in touch with more of my extended family members.
Adilene: Well, is there anybody that comes to mind?
Spencer: Aunt Nia..
It’s final four time and still, I’m face to face with the same ol’ criticisms there always are. All the time, people come at me with this narrative that Spencer Adams wouldn’t be who he is without the company he keeps and in a lot of ways, they’re not wrong. Beyond my family, it was people like CJ Phoenix and Corey Black giving me that renewed sense of brotherhood in this industry. It was Jonny Cedrone looking past the rough shooting Spencer Adams and opting to break bread knowing that doing so could lead to something special and it did exactly that.
Three men who I hold the utmost respect for, who are as capable as anyone and could’ve gotten just as far in this tournament as I did and here I am, the last of us left in this tournament. Truth is, I do owe them a lot. Hell, I owe those three men EVERYTHING. I owe them my best effort and it’s why I’m settling for nothing less than a finals appearance and victory. That’s where my mentality resides, because these are the sort of competitors who helped me on the comeback from what very well could’ve been a career ending moment for a lot of people, the people who keep this exciting for me, who show me the joy in this. I care so much about this moment, because it’s not just about me.
This is me representing King Shit, representing Corey Black who was too injured by blindside attacks to have a fair shake in this bracket. I relate to that. I sympathize with that, because that was me too once upon a time. I do this for every man, woman, and person beyond a binary. Every child, first time viewer, and returning one. I’m fighting the good fight now more than ever, because Spencer Adams is the last human being left in this fucking tournament, the last fighter who came to fight for something or someone other than just himself.
Here I am, two or three steps away from the world championship, motivated by experience and knowledge on what this place can look like when represented by the right talent. I remember taking AW from a little show on Vice to a titan in the sports world. I was part of that. I DID that and now it’s time to do that again, not to return AW to some idea of former glory, but to raise it up that much higher. I do like to think that I deserve this, but what I know is that I’m not the only one, that everybody else does, too.
No.
Not now.
These people need Spencer Adams in the Turmoil finals, because Spencer Adams has a proven track record and enough character to not make those who back the name and the man behind it regret having done so. They need Spencer Adams, because I am the face of consistency and weathering a storm in this business. People need someone who responds to getting beat by a monster of a man in under a minute with a thirteen month winning streak complete with a trail of fallen world champions along the way.
What nobody needs is Sam Kidsgrove trying to sell them on a man they have absolutely nothing in common with, a man whose only true semblance of being human is time spent on his back in that ring. NOBODY needs some vain prick with iffy morality occupying space anywhere near the top of the food chain, because we’ve already gone through two fucking years of that. Two years of shitbird people holding the biggest prize in professional wrestling. I know for a fact that I’m not alone in saying that it’s about damn time we have some fucking optimism at the top of the AW website, a face that can grace the cover of a program book or a PPV poster and not make people ask themselves what they just spent a hundred bucks to come watch.
Kidsgrove, you are no source of light, because you lack guidance yourself. Your only objective on any given night seems little more than punch in, work, punch out and then you’re off to the primary focus. Hell, the only time you’re truly riled up is when myself or anyone else in the back decides to call you on it, because you know that at the end of the day..the only thing that matters to Sam Kidsgrove is Sam Kidsgrove’s stock out West. Despite a history of brutal wars against the bridge trolls of this sport, you go home mostly unbothered where you’re greeted by your inoffensive wife and your inoffensive life and you sip a mug of Twinings as if the whole thing never fucking happened and that’s exactly why I have to do what I’m about to do to you.
This isn’t for your own good, Sam…
It’s for theirs.
Going back to the early days of my career, I always felt like I did a decent job of maintaining the barrier between my life inside and outside of the ring. Two versions of myself and while both were genuine, keeping them separate was important to be able to keep everybody feeling okay about the way things were going. There was a time when the chip on my shoulder was really more linked with professional bitterness. When I arrived here, I was a villain of a competitor due to what I felt I was always denied in WCF, but when I got home? That’s when I was a hero and it was something I never had to work at.
I’ve always appreciated supporters, but the line is always going to exist. That’s why I entered the waiting room with hoodie strings drawn tight. After all, I had both before things went South and shattered that barrier. So, why not reclaim just a little bit of that now? Why should anybody not sworn to Hippocratic oath be let in on this moment? Maybe I’m protecting me..maybe I’m protecting them, too.
Maybe some would appreciate the level of vulnerability, but have we not all been through it enough the past handful of years? Maybe it’s just my burden to bear, keeping some of the tougher things on lock so that viewers can just enjoy the sunnier side of Spencer Adams.
Would I even be here right now if not for her? Would I be taking care of myself or even attempting to get my mind straight without that push from the person whose opinion I care the most about? Not a chance.
I wonder, can he pick up on the exact struggle right now? Can he sense the feeling of dread, the lump in my throat, or the waterworks that aren’t actually coming to fruition? Does he know that the information he’s giving me is battling for screen time with the high pitched ringing or general fuzz I feel inside my own head right now?
I force a small smile that’s equal parts difficult to maintain and shaky in its foundation.
Doctor: Honestly, I’d suggest-
I’m surprised my ear drums haven’t burst as personal dread reaches its peak.
Spencer: Right..
Doctor: You want my opinion? Maybe try reconnecting. Do you have any extended family?
“I was just a poor-ass n**** before I turned into a poet
Pro kids kicking the dirt, we playing bust 'em up, throw it
Ain't ever been off a flat show, the fuck is foreign?
All of my heroes had zeroes and customers growing”
It’s about that time for us, isn’t it? Time for the Spencer Adams detractors of the AW locker room to start the “It isn’t fair” shit, to hook up the Copium tank and cry up a storm over the fact that once again, Spencer Adams is knocking on the door of the main event. Why so much fuss? Because the return of Spencer Adams anywhere close to the world championship is a reminder of what the main event actually looks like. It’s something that can’t be replicated, that’s never been matched.
It’s tenure.
It’s unwavering intensity.
It’s having a heavyweight mentality in a cruiserweight body.
It’s status not just forged through a list of achievements, it’s having to put in blood, sweat, and tears to have a fucking shot at a stage like this. It’s actually being better than good enough and having some fucking indie dope in gym tell you that you’re not, because you don’t fit the idea of what professional wrestling looks like to them whereas you, Sam? You came in actually not up to par, not created by the ups and downs of an actual come up and that didn’t matter, did it? It never mattered whether or not you were good or even great at this sport, because you had your clout coming into it.
The reason behind Strongstyle Adams, the motivation for turning XIII into a dog fight from the jump? To show you what you missed out on, the step that you can never go back and take, because you’re already here. It’s why I shatter ceilings people try to place over the top of me while you are exactly as good at this as you’re ever going to be. Making you pass out was inevitable seeing as your privileged ass had been sleep walking through every appearance leading up to that encounter and shaking your hand was a MOMENT of recognition, a moment of me foolishly banking on you to learn and get better after being given a taste of what the fuck real looks like. I was naive in my optimism, Sam. I showed you Strongstyle Adams and you proceeded to show the world limp dick.
Case in point, our two vastly different paths to these semifinals. I had to scratch and claw my way through Regan Voorhees and wage a war against a version of Dionysus who needed the win more than he needed oxygen to get her and face you. You started with a commendable performance against Lissie and walked into Corey Black who was already beaten to a shell-like version of his actual abilities prior. Maybe a bit of a double edge sword on the debate of morality versus competitive integrity and you were undoubtedly left no other choice but to play the favorable hand, but that SHOULD eat at you.
It should be keeping you up at night, but you’ve never lost a second of sleep in your life. It should bother the ever living fuck out of you that the analysts are already pointing at the fact that you got to this moment by beating a standard bearer of this profession with a rock solid asterisks hanging overhead, that Sam Kidsgrove got here by “upsetting” Corey Black at thirty percent. Just like you should be dreading the fact that Spencer Adams ended the career of a monster on his heels almost a year ago at this very event and funny enough, did so at thirty percent.
To dig at you and prod where your mind is in this moment just a little bit more, let’s not forget that one of us got their place on this bracket through one of the most unparalleled runs in recent memory to the tune of a top five seed while the other’s sole argument for even being here was a short lived return to the US title that was quickly snuffed out by the ascending Jill Park, something that I’m sure you STILL have yet to figure out. Dumb dumb very dumb man, Sam Kidsgrove, the “greatest US champ” of all time who is forever blinded by his own delusions of grandeur.
That’s the story of your life, the thing they’ll scrawl on your ten foot tall tombstone and ramble off at your middle of the pack hall of fame induction in five years. Sam Kidsgrove, the man deemed gatekeeper of the upper card, but never actually allowed inside the home himself. Sam Kidsgrove, always the bridesmaid and never the bride. You’re the best competitor to never be the best competitor and that stings about as much as an elbow pinch for you, because you have massive fucking box office numbers and a Stepford wife to make sure that you feel no real pain.
You’ve lost both everything and nothing simultaneously, because your whole existence is upheld by a bunch of fucking yes men who also can’t truly lose at anything. Losers? Sure, but you and people like you are always going to stand on a foundation of hollow victories, always surrounded by walls that even when on the road or faced with real shit and real people, you never truly travel outside of. I train until the point that I’m puking my guts out and then train some more. You train by lollygagging with the cast of Good Will Hunting as if none of this is a big deal. We are not the same.
You do not know what working hard in this business is much like you don’t know the price of a gallon of milk. It’s why while you may swoop in to pick up a US title reign once every year or so, you stop short of anything else. Your lack of seasoning is the reason that Spencer Adams checks off boxes on the accolades list while you can’t even find the fucking pen. Hell, if I handed you one myself, the result would be little more than a shaky-handed struggle to put a first word to paper.
While people like myself, the real pillars of AW and professional wrestling, are able to lift up the world around us and make the card from top to bottom better by association, you take exactly what’s handed to you and you bow your head like a fucking sub while you do it. You are an opportunity seeker, one who retreats to the US title scene only because it’s your singular niche and your monthly allowance granted to you simply for existing. Throw up another one on the board of the differences between you and I where my influence towers over yours. I uplift and redefine tag wrestling, reinvigorate the main event, and generally get people to their feet while you play for everything you’re told you can.
Sam Kidsgrove is a presence that’s not needed for much more than a character actor in this arena, because you are a spot fill on your best day and an afterthought on your worst. You’re a performer who struggles to play hero, because you don’t have that in your heart. I care about the kids who get to go with mom and dad to their first AW show as a birthday present just the same as I do about the ones watching at home who use the product as their escape for whatever’s on their mind and YOU, you fucking prick, use things like opportunities to leave a good impression on sick children to roast them. Why? Because dying grade schoolers are mean to you? Eat shit, you thin skinned slug.
Your want for the brightest spotlight that this business has to offer is mild, because you’ve never had to REALLY want something. You want to be given your flowers, but never learned about watering the garden. You want a Spencer Adams sized spotlight in Action Wrestling, but you want it without being burdened by the responsibilities that come with it, always the type to show up to an arena and dash for the entrance to avoid the guy in the faded merch telling you that you suck ass. It’s like skipping the tutorial, complaining about the difficulty, and still longing for a mode lesser than easy. Hate to break it to you, but it gets tougher than whatever it is you haven’t had the character to handle up to this point.
I’m talking about responsibility like taking the torch and leading a whole fucking locker room whether they like your ass or not. Not doing it for a pat on the back, but because you know that somebody has to fill that role at all times. Tell me, can you actually look into that camera and pretend that wouldn’t be your Achilles heel? I’d love to see you act as if you wouldn’t scurry back to Zooey huffing and puffing about how those who don’t care for you are unappreciative of all that you don’t do around here.
While you walk around in clown shoes more on par with TFK than opposite side of this bracket, Downfall and Gerard Angelo are primed and ready for that final matchup. One fights face painted psychopaths and the other wields lead like a Fushigi. You were as ready as you were ever gonna be the day you signed your first contract and we’ve seen what you can do and the second that someone shows you their lack of care for fair play, you’ll fall into a hemophobia induced coma.
You on the throne is a disaster I can’t allow to happen, an all-time low and black mark on the history books if it were to happen. Redeeming that championship, the very thing you’d be tasked with should you step on foot beyond this point, isn’t in your DNA. What is in your DNA is MID genes and a soft core. If you thought XIII was rough, if you want to act like it was close, watch me turn the fucking dial AND carry your stupid ass to another five star loss just because I’m the charitable man you hardly pretend to be. I’m going to do more for your career by dragging you to-and-fro in between the ropes than you ever could within a win. There’s no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
You can’t punk me.
While twisting the knob of the front door, I found myself apprehensive. Despite the fact that I knew the reception beyond it wouldn’t be negative, I still found myself afraid of what that might look like.
Adilene: How’d it go?
Spencer: I…fine. It went fine.
Adilene: Fine?
Spencer: Yeah. The doctor said it’s PTSD. A little counseling should help.
Counseling and more time away, he said.
Spencer: I’m…alright. One day at a time, I suppose, yeah?
Adilene: Did he mention anything else or was it just counseling?
Spencer: He uh…he actually did.
Adilene: Oh?
Spencer: Yeah. He said that…well, he said that it could be a good idea for me to try to get in touch with more of my extended family members.
Adilene: Well, is there anybody that comes to mind?
Spencer: Aunt Nia..
It’s final four time and still, I’m face to face with the same ol’ criticisms there always are. All the time, people come at me with this narrative that Spencer Adams wouldn’t be who he is without the company he keeps and in a lot of ways, they’re not wrong. Beyond my family, it was people like CJ Phoenix and Corey Black giving me that renewed sense of brotherhood in this industry. It was Jonny Cedrone looking past the rough shooting Spencer Adams and opting to break bread knowing that doing so could lead to something special and it did exactly that.
Three men who I hold the utmost respect for, who are as capable as anyone and could’ve gotten just as far in this tournament as I did and here I am, the last of us left in this tournament. Truth is, I do owe them a lot. Hell, I owe those three men EVERYTHING. I owe them my best effort and it’s why I’m settling for nothing less than a finals appearance and victory. That’s where my mentality resides, because these are the sort of competitors who helped me on the comeback from what very well could’ve been a career ending moment for a lot of people, the people who keep this exciting for me, who show me the joy in this. I care so much about this moment, because it’s not just about me.
It was never just about me.
Here I am, two or three steps away from the world championship, motivated by experience and knowledge on what this place can look like when represented by the right talent. I remember taking AW from a little show on Vice to a titan in the sports world. I was part of that. I DID that and now it’s time to do that again, not to return AW to some idea of former glory, but to raise it up that much higher. I do like to think that I deserve this, but what I know is that I’m not the only one, that everybody else does, too.
