Post by Torture on May 1, 2020 11:44:47 GMT -5
You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?
Times are tough. The economy’s shit, and who knows when things are going back to normal.
We have plenty of money saved.
I know. But a little more can’t hurt.
…
What?
You know that’s not all.
I’m not gonna lie to you – course not.
It’s temporary, right?
Temporary.
Just promise you won’t nearly get yourself killed this time?
I promise. Nothing weird. Not after last time.
Okay.
I should get on the road.
Okay.
I love you.
I love you, too. Come back soon. For both of us.
I promise.
This morning was a tableaux I ain’t had in a long time: I packed my gym bag, packed the truck, hugged the son and kissed the wife, and set out back on the road. First time in a long time. How long’s it been? Four years – five? She wasn’t happy, and I don’t blame her. The last time I set out to drive to a wrestling show – well – let’s just say things weren’t the brightest in our family. That’s why I hung it up, didn’t I? Eventually you stare at too many motel room ceilings, guzzle too many Red Bulls, hit the mat too many times, take too many ice baths for the ache, and have much too much money to really consider it worth it. Especially for their sake.
But that feeling never really goes away, does it? She wakes up in the middle of the night to find you not in bed – she hears some noise coming from downstairs – she sees the flicker of lights from her spot at the top of the landing – she walks into the living room to find you with the TV on, watching the late night rerun of that night’s episode of Clash. You tell her you couldn’t sleep and will be up in a few minutes – she gives you a kiss and tells you she loves you – and you can just feel that look in those big, beautiful, blue eyes of hers ‘cause you know she knows what you’re thinking. For her sake, you decide better and turn the TV off to go upstairs with her, but then you spend the next several hours turning over how Frank walked into an obvious trap and cost himself the title or how Teo had taken a Goddamn second to keep his mind on the task at hand, he’d have scouted the easy Schoolboy roll-up.
And that’s when you eventually break. It starts as a trickle – a few one-off appearances for a friend. Next thing you’ve got a contract all ready to be faxed to your agent. Just one show – just one appearance. Your wife can’t begrudge you that little bit of fun for old time’s sake; you don’t mention the option to sign for more dates afterwards if you like how it feels. As you pull away from that house for I-80, the first time in four or five years, that rock in your stomach feels heavy as Hell. You ask God forgiveness for a little deception, just this once.
It’s always a long drive for someone with everything to think about, even when you’ve toured the entire country in the same beat-up pick-up. Twenty hours (without stopping) is still twenty hours – that doesn’t change. Time doesn’t seem to speed up, the pain in your hands and back from sitting all day gripping a wheel doesn’t go away, and the motel rooms don’t feel any more comforting. Time is time and pain is pain. Hell, maybe it’s even a little bit harder when you’re not a bright-eyed twenty-something. Then again, it’s strange times we’re living in – it would be a little easier if things weren’t just a little different. You drive 250 miles, pull into a gas station, pull your facemask on, go inside to buy a Red Bull, start the pump, slap on a patch, and soon enough you’re back on the road – it’s sort of the same but there’s just a few details that make things harder.
But I can’t say it’s not appropriate, what with the circumstances and all. Hell, a match is a match, but the faces are different. Some are the same, sure – but not many. Not enough to feel completely comfortable and confident heading into this. It won’t be like the matches I’m used to, where I could scout someone for a few days and get a good feel for them. Sure, you can sit down and watch all the tape in the world, but it ain’t the same as standing in the back and watching it on the monitors – or even standin’ across from them in the ring and really feeling it out as you go. This is gonna be a whole lot of adapting and improvising for who knows how many people; makes total sense why the wild cards almost never win something like this.
Not to mention, you always gotta consider your pride and reputation. I won’t lie or bullshit: you wonder exactly what that reaction is when the music hits and you step out of the curtain. The Business is bigger now, and people have shorter memories. Who isn’t a little afraid that you brace for a thunderous applause and are met with a “Who Are You?” chant, especially when you’ve been out for a minute. Then there’s the other looming question: what if you get in to that thunderous applause and eat shit? What happens if the mystique is dispelled in a split second and your triumphant return becomes a one-off joke cameo? What if – even worse – you do “just okay”? Like, not too bad but definitely nothing special. Think about how some of the guys who’ve come back must feel: you get this big, incredible return – everyone’s whispering your name in the back – people are waiting on bated breaths for you to kill some scrubs – then you lose two in a row to opponents nobody thought would never get one on you. Next thing you know, you’re struggling to keep your head above water after owning the pool for a decade.
I don’t wanna be that guy.
There’s a lot of other guys I recognize – guys there before me and were after me – who are doing just fine for themselves: the Antidote now the King, the UCI Backstage Interviewer who put his boots back on, good ol’ Cory. Hell, even my old pal Richards is holding gold; it’s practically poetic. These guys didn’t let time slow them down – didn’t let their egos get in the way. They worked, prepared, kept their eyes on the road. They adapted to the new faces, took the punches head-on, and got back up. They’ve been rewarded for this; even if their games are still the same, they gave them the tweaks needed to stay on top.
I wanna be these guys.
These are the guys who’re gonna recognize you off the bat. These guys are gonna go for you first – they know who you are and what you can do. So my game plan? Keep my eyes on them but not too much. No cutesy photo-op “bringing the band back together” moments where they can dump you out while your back is turned – no underestimating anyone’s growth – no losing focus on the matter at hand. The good news is you know them, too. You know what people were and probably are capable of now – there may be a few new tricks, just stay on your toes and don’t get complacent. Adams? Technical high-flyer (right?). Cory? Hardcore brawler (right?). Frank? Technical high-flying hardcore brawler (right?). Corey? Powerhouse guy who will put your head on a pike (right?).
Me? The guy who knocks you out or makes you tap (Right.).
That’s a little bit of the rub, isn’t it? You go in with a few vague ideas, but you can’t be too sure. Things change – people change – the only real constant, the only real certainty, is you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the biggest advantage I’ll have going into this fight: that understanding of what I could do, can do, and will do. Naïve kids call it believing in yourself; I prefer “self-awareness”.
So here we are. Just passing Des Moines with seventeen and a half more hours to go – supposing I don’t stop. But I gotta; I don’t have that same kind of stamina to keep driving for eight hours straight, even if the fuel tank’s only half empty. That’s okay – as long as the engine’s still running, the chassis is in good condition, and my heart’s still beating, I’ll make it there just fine. But Goddamn, I forgot how long these drives are. Especially when you got everything to think about.
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Guess I’m lucky I ain’t that old and know plenty as is. Now the question remains: do you got what it takes to hang with the new blood? Will you be one of the old guard proving they still have the grit and skill to go no matter how much time has passed… or are you gonna be another flash-in-the-pan product of a bygone era wheeled out to be sent right back to the trash where it belonged?
Maybe the tired old story of the grizzled veteran coming back for one last shot at glory really does happen, now and then. Maybe life can be just as strange as fiction, especially in these times. How’s that A Day to Remember song go? “I’m holding onto a fairy tale.” Guess we’ll see.
Court Street was the sort of older, simpler neighborhood that a Midwestern city may be known for – the homes could be dated to the early 1900’s, the train passed through, and the boundaries of one yard to the next could be identified by the upkeep of the lawn. As the usual mid-Spring wind ran through the awakening grass of the prairie, the sun beat a gentle 73⁰ - one could hardly have guess it was raining so ferociously only yesterday and had been an ugly 33⁰ and snowing the week before. Such was life in the heart of the country.
Behind a square, two story house on Court Street, a black Ford pick-up truck pulled from the gravel that made up its backyard and turned into a thin alleyway which connected to the main asphalt. A woman watched the car pull off from the kitchen window, quiet resignation in her eyes. A thin smile – perhaps one that could even be described as melancholy – crossed her lips. Beside her, a young boy of no more than 12-year-old (no doubt, her son) watched in solidarity. As a mist filled his mother’s eyes, he turned from the window and walked out of the kitchen to the living room. His mother didn’t follow.
The Boy: He hasn’t gone in a long time.
The woman’s eyes stayed on car. It turned left, a few houses obscuring her view – then he stopped at the intersection that led to their neighborhood. It made another left, and her husband was gone. She turned from the window and followed her son, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the dining. She picked up the cup of coffee she’d left there from breakfast; it was cold now.
The Wife: Five years… I think. Something like that.
The Son: Will he be gone long?
The Wife looked down at her coffee cup, her graceful, slender fingers idly fidgeting with the handle. She shook her head without looking up.
The Wife: You never know with your father – he’s wanted to do this for some time.
The Son: I’ll say. He gets excited talking about it. Dunno why – I thought everything was okay.
There was a pause; the woman’s eyes did not move from the coffee cup as she maintained composure. Her son groaned.
The Son: Are we boring or something?
She looked up, her thoughts broken. The boy across the table from her – the son she’d seen grow from toddler to adolescent; who she’d rocked to sleep when he was an infant; who she’d drive to schools in childhood; who she couldn’t help but notice looked just like her husband – regarded her with concern and insult. Her smile was gentle.
The Wife: Have you ever heard the story of “the Crane Wife”?
The Son: Huh?
The Wife: It was one of our favorite bedtime stories for you when you were little:
“A hunter lives in a cabin in the woods. It’s a lonely life – he doesn’t have any friends or anyone to love. One day, he’s out checking his traps and he finds a crane. It’s a big, beautiful bird; its leg is caught, and it’s thrashing around. The hunter regards it for a moment, and he decides to take pity and let it go. The crane flies off.
A week later, the hunter is sitting at home and listening to the wind blow when there’s a knock on the door. When he opens it, he finds the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. She’s cold, trapped in the snow, and asks for a place to stay the night. He ushers her in, and over the course of the night, they fall madly in love. Soon, they are married. On their wedding night, the woman looks at the hunter and says, ‘You have done so much for me, and now I’ll do something for you. Each night, I’ll go into a room, and I’m going to weave you cloth – you can take this and sell it, and we can make money to eat. Then your life will be better and more secure, free from the chance of a hunt. All I ask is that you leave me to do my weaving in peace and never, ever disturb me while I’m doing this.’
The next night, the Hunter’s wife goes into a room as the Hunter sleeps. In the morning, she presents him with the most beautiful cloth he’s ever seen; when he brings it to market, it’s quickly sold and earns him a small fortune. He spends it on good food and drink to bring home so he and his wife can celebrate. After the meal, she retires to a room to weave as he goes to sleep. The next morning, she brings him more cloth. This goes on and on, for weeks – then months – then years. Soon, the Hunter no longer concerns himself with hunting. He forgets the days when he’d come home empty-handed and go to bed hungry. He fixes his cabin and even expands on it, making it bigger and more comfortable for him and his wife.
But he’s troubled: his wife’s health begins to decline. She looks more tired every day, arthritis setting in her fingers and her hair going gray and thin. The Hunter’s heart aches for his wife – he’s sure these late and long evenings of spinning must be contributing to her decline. One night, he can’t sleep – he’s just too worried. He walks to the door of the spinning room, throws it open, and goes to tell her they have enough and she needn’t continue if it will cost them their happiness. But inside the room, he doesn’t see his wife.
Instead, he sees the Crane he saved so many years before, hunched over the spinning wheel. It’s thin, and its skin is beginning to show in patches – through the spinning wheel runs the feathers it’s been plucking from itself to weave the beautiful cloth every night. In this moment, the Hunter and his Crane Wife look at one another, before the Crane Wife turns her head in shame and leaves out the window, never to return. And the Hunter watches her fly away, tears in his eyes.”
A silence lingered between the woman and her son, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The boy broke from his mother’s gaze, turning his chair to the window behind him to stare out onto the street where his father’s car had long since left.
The Son: So who’s the Crane Wife – us or Dad?
The Wife stood up and walked around the table, gently taking her son in a loving embrace as she looked back out the window with him.
The Wife: Your father does what he does for us because he loves us. Even though we don’t want him to and don’t think he needs to. It’s something we all deal with. But he’ll be home soon. I promise. And maybe this next time, before he retires to his quarters at sunset, we can tell our Crane he doesn’t need to spin us cloth anymore.
When the Wrestler arrived at the arena, it was not at all like “back in the day”. It was a feeling beyond the superfluous details – the different wrestlers on the marquee, the different company logo on the stagehand uniforms, the different color of the lights – “back in the day” he’d never had the company book him a hotel, let alone pick him up in a car with tinted windows. This was new territory to the Wrestler, a rural boy who’d fought for a few years to make a few bucks for the family; this was special treatment. This wasn’t how the boys in the back were treated.
The driver was friendly enough, and the Wrestler was pleased enough to find the backseat had a few cold bottles of water already stocked. On the way to Madison Square Garden, he took a call from Torture and Gravedigger to discuss the final details of his appearance and contract. It was simple enough: the surprise entrants would be arriving before the rest of the roster, one at a time so they’d be unaware of each other, put under a shawl so as to prevent any leaks, and brought to individual dressing rooms where they’d wait until a stagehand would escort them to gorilla position for their entrance.
“Think of it this way: you keep the element of surprise for the locker room.”
It was a fair point – it didn’t mean the ordeal wasn’t somewhat alien and disorienting.
When the car arrived at the Garden, it pulled into a loading dock in the back. Sure enough, Torture and Gravedigger were waiting, throwing a black tarp over the door to allow the Wrestler to step out of the car undetected and be led to his dressing room. In the span of seven minutes, the Wrestler was once again left to his solitude.
With his headphones in, he turned on the playlist his son had made him; the first song was some awful noise by a band called 100 Gecs. A few skips later, he had switched back to his personal playlist; the first song was “When You Were Young” by the Killers. Much more at peace, he pulled up the Action Wrestling roster on his phone and scrolled idly through names he hardly recognized and faces he’d rarely seen.
It would be a rough fight, taking this many unknowns with undoubtedly accomplished backgrounds. How many would be veterans like him – people who’d made careers elsewhere before finding new work as contracts ended or doors shuttered for good? How many people were about to step into something like this for the first time? Who should be approached with caution and who were small fish? The list may as well be a series of question marks and “no picture available”’s. Another thought crossed his mind: how many of these faces and names he didn’t know knew the people he did? How many of these people had crossed paths with Frank or Alex in some company or another before this moment? Had the landscape changed beyond any recognition?
He put his phone back in his gym bag, pulled out his ring gear, and changed; the next song was “Dramamine” by Modest Mouse. As he carefully wrapped athletic tape around the individual knuckles on his left hand (he never wrapped his non-dominant hand as thoroughly as his the other – preferred the better mobility and dexterity), he finally looked to the mirror to evaluate the Wrestler as he was. He was older, no doubt – there were a few flecks of gray in his hair and beard, he looked a little shaggier, and the bags under his eyes were much more pronounced. He shook his head solemnly, his eyes looking down
”How the fuck do you look this old for your mid 30’s?”
From the bag, he pulled on his old black sweatshirt and pulled the hood up, letting his bangs hang down in front of his face. Rising from his chair, he posed – the first pose he’d struck in four years. His arms outstretched, his head tucked slightly as he crouched like a big cat ready to lunge, and the crucifix chain dangled from his neck. His theme came on the playlist.
Frozen in his solitary combat stance, the Wrestler stared at himself again. This time, he didn’t feel so old. A chill crept up his spine as a sense of warm deja-vu swept over him. Who even noticed the wrinkles or the grays or the subtle lack of luster in his skin? Would any of these new people notice the surgical scar on his elbow and think it anything other than another battle scar from a returning champion?
It clicked. Everything clicked. The skepticism had abandon the Wrestler in a fleeting moment as he slowly stood up and drew the hood back from his face, gazing into the mirror like he’d gaze down the ramp towards his opponents in the ring. As his eyes met his own eyes, he imagined the fear on their faces as the crowd screamed his name once more and he stalked down towards them. He could feel the mat under his feet – the feeling of his fist connecting with a face – the feeling diving off the top rope – the feeling of raising his arms and roaring in victory.
There was no apprehension. There was no more doubt. The feeling that filled him was that same electric high he’d felt the first time he’d stepped into the ring – the first time he’d been the hot tag – the first time he’d heard his enemy tap – the first time he’d raised the biggest belt in a company above his head. It didn’t matter who or how many he faced – how could he be concerned with their accolades or abilities? This was where he belonged: deep, in the thick of battle, clawing for the top. And at the top was a grudge match that deserved settling; he’d not forgotten that.
A knock on the door roused him from his trance. The stagehand stepped through the door and smiled at him.
“It’s time!”
Pulling up his hood, the Wrestler stepped out of his solitude. It was a brief walk through the back – he hardly paid any mind to the hushed murmurs and gasps of onlookers before he was hurried into gorilla position. Standing behind the curtain, the Wrestler raised the silver crucifix to his lips and planted a kiss on it, the thought of his wife and son passing through his mind. The countdown was given as a hand signal – five… four… three… two… one.
His music hit the speakers with the low rumble of an oscillator. The crowd popped. The Crane began to spin its cloth.