Post by Howard Black on Feb 14, 2021 18:58:27 GMT -5
The bell clanged after the easy three, the music hit, and I hadn’t even broken into shallow breaths, let alone a sweat. There was a real good roar to the crowd tonight, not one I’d heard in a long time. I don’t know why Torture decided to book me for this tournament – I didn’t even know what the hell I was still doing in this company. But winning felt good. This win, in particular, felt good.
It was hard not to think of the old days when our arms were raised above our heads, the Antidote and me taking a bow for the crowd in united victory before heading to the back. I’d almost forgotten all that happened the past few months in the moment. Hell, I forgot enough that when we went through the curtain and into the hallways of the arena, I was bold enough to clap Spencer on the back and tell him we raised Hell out there.
Of course, Spencer hadn’t forgotten in.
He stopped, turning to make eye contact with me. My expression soon matched his – that little spark dimmed real quick to match the frown on his lips and the cock of his brow.
“Yeah – um – look, How,” he said, reaching up to take my hand in his and return it back to where it belonged at my side and off his shoulder, “We’ll get to Battlefield, but we’re not just cool again because we won a match, okay? Now, I get you’re going through some stuff at home and on the road with all the retirement tour – if that’s still the plan – but like…”
He paused, his eyes going past me. He never struggled to make eye contact before.
“Just, like, don’t bring this on Lissie, okay?”
And he turned, walking off towards the locker room. Leaving me just standing there in the hall as everyone walked past.
This business has always attracted a certain set of types. I’m not sure what the lure is: the vagabond lifestyle – the roar of the crowd – the dangling of a big gold belt to wear around your waist. But it’s never a normal person who comes to work in Wrestling. I don’t see many types who would be content with the suit & tie cubicle job or the quiet existence of a licensed profession. I don’t think it’s a surprise that the General Manager position is so often a revolving door; it’s hard to unwind from being an in-ring competitor to being a corporate enforcer. If anything, it’s more of a testament to someone like Torture or Gravedigger for doing it like they did.
It’s not the straight-laced; anyone who claims they are shows their true colors eventually. Chivalrous Southern gentleman? More like authoritarian narcissist. Bubbly Midwestern girl-next-door? Cut-throat careerist. “The last honest man”? An insecure bully.
Maybe I’m just telling on myself.
These types are the minority. We gotta lotta freaks more than anything. Coked-up zombies, ghosts, Southern preachers, Hatebringers. People let their freak flag fly in wrestling. I should probably endorse it – I like to think of myself as more progressive and open-minded. I don’t suppose I really have much opinion either way. It is what it is: the bell rings, two men enter the ring, and one gets their hand raised. So why should I care how anyone carries themselves up or down the aisle or around the arena? In the end, it’s all vaudeville.
But the freaks don’t tend to last. Sure, there’s exceptions to the rule: you got your Odin Balfores, your Zombie McMorrises, your Wade Moors. But for everyone one of them you have a million Professor Coaches, a million Sythe (pronounced “Scythe”), and Jax & Baxes.
If I seem less than impressed, I am. Perhaps I should raise an eyebrow that you and Ted Blaze got past Odin and Nash. Perhaps. I’ve seen crazier things happen this year – I’m not US Champion anymore, for instance. I also look back at the tape and see Balfore tied up while both you and Ted felt the need to apply just shy of five hundred pounds to pin a one hundred, seventy-two pound woman.
I’ll give you all the credit in the world for the number of people in Vegas whose brackets you’ve ruined. But if you think I’m going to consider you any tougher than a Jax & Bax, I hate to tell you that you’re a marginal increase in difficulty. At best. That credit goes more to your partner than you; frankly, I’ve spent almost a year reasserting myself as one of the most in-ring performers in this company’s history in record time. The number of heads I piled last year is higher than any burger you’ve shoved in your face and worth more than any cut of beef you’ve thrown on a grill. And your scalp just brings down the average value of opponents I’ve defeated.
The good news? I heard catering’s gonna be pretty good this week.
I waited until the show was over to pack my bag – always did and always will. It was the least you could do for everyone, watching and giving respect to any of the guys going out and busting their ass. I don’t know how many people actually watch anyone these days – I get we all got our routines to get “in the zone” or you get done with a match and don’t have the energy to go stare at a TV. I do. It’s free tape.
I didn’t feel too much like lingering in the locker room anyway. Too many stares, too many whispers, too many questions. Truth be told, I don’t know how much I need to prove to anyone or to explain myself. I did what I had to do. Somethings I went too far with, others I didn’t go far enough. But how the fuck am I gonna take too much flack when we’ve got WALTER leering around? How villainous can I be when Odin Balfore’s killing people for cash?
Maybe I should have gone home. Maybe I should’ve gone home the second that bell rang and Odin was raising my belt. Yet – here I am. Why? Some stupid, misplaced sense of obligation? Some quest for revenge or redemption? An addiction to the lows as much as the highs?
Either way, it was lonely packing up in the locker room with no one to talk to. And it would probably be lonely back at the motel after I bought that bottle of Wild Turkey at the gas station on the drive there. But before I could push that door out to the parking lot, a voice split the silence.
“Hey! I was hoping to catch ya ‘fore ya left! I was gonna hit Starbucks – you wanna come with?”
And I did go with Lissie. Because I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
This could’ve been your moment, Ted. You’ve always been an inconsistent – to the point of outright frustrating – competitor, but nobody should doubt the highs of your highs. I’d made a New Year’s Resolution to never mention WCF again, but it’s hard to look past it: you’ve held belts I’ve never held and seen highs I never have. I won’t discount or dismiss you as “just a Cruiserweight” or a little leaguer – that wouldn’t be setting myself up to actual beat you, would it? No – I don’t think the ignorant man tends to go far in this busness.
Really, Ted, I feel bad for you. I don’t think many people would count you out in most competitions, especially one like this. Partner us up? We’re in the Finals? With Shaw – Kemp – Nightgale – probably even CJ Phoenix? Probably the same.
Of course, you’re not partnered up with any of those people. Just as has been a recurring pattern throughout your career, Ted Blaze has a helluva time finding good partnerships that aren’t Andre Jensen. In fact, more often than not he finds himself thrown to the wolves alongside doofuses like Damian Kaine and outright villains like Sarah Twilight, leaving you to find yourself clowned, bullied, abused, and back at square one.
Now I’m not blaming you when I say that. I think it’s tough luck being a legitimately decent guy in this company. You can try to get an edge to you, try to darken your perspective – it’ll never last. Game recognizes game; that’s why you’re transparent enough. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. We’ve seen it before in the eyes of the Bonnie Blues of the world, when a good man gets kicked enough and tries to raise a shield. That said, I’m glad you’re not trying to be something you’re not anymore: it suits you better. I respect it more, not that I didn’t respect it. But I’m going off on this aside because I want you to know I mean pure, intellectual analysis with what I’m about to say.
There’s multiple ways to be talented. Are you a football guy? Let’s compare Peyton Manning and Tom Brady, two people disputed to be the GOAT (probably less of an argument now, but still). In 2013, the Broncos were the number one offense in the NFL – a stud line-up at every firepower position – got utterly eviscerated and nearly shut out. This was a team that couldn’t be stopped until they had the door slammed in their face hard. But the next year Brady took it to the Bowl against the same Seahawks. Just as gnarly of a defense as Manning had to face, but Brady didn’t have those weapons – he had Julian Edelman and Brandon LaFell. Hell, we could go uglier and talk about Superbowl LI when he was throwing to Nick Hogan and Malcom Mitchell while Matt Ryan was throwing to Julio and Sanu. Doesn’t matter. That's the difference between good and great.
Great talents elevate those around them.
So you can have those accolades. Keep that trophy case nice and polished. You can put your record next to mine and look hot, but you put me next to Beefer – you put Spencer next to Beefer – there’s a different story about how this match is gonna go down. Hate it say it Teo, but you’re not Spencer – you ain’t me, either. And you’re not going to Battlefield.
Can I be a little blunt? I think we probably respect each other enough for that. I’m gonna point out the elephant in the room and venture you’re not too into this. When you strike that pose in front of the camera, we all know what you’re most proud of: that Cruiserweight Tag Title on your shoulder. That’s not a knock on your reign – I’m happy for you. But you don’t have Andre Jensen in your corner this week, nor are we gunning for those straps. You don’t gotta fight with every tooth and nail to keep what’s rightfully yours because I’m not trying to take it.
No shame, no insult, nothing intended. You’re an honest guy and a warrior, Ted – you have the heart of a lion. But you’re not a Cinderella Man. And I’m so sorry, but I’m going to remind you of that.
It was hard not to think of the old days when our arms were raised above our heads, the Antidote and me taking a bow for the crowd in united victory before heading to the back. I’d almost forgotten all that happened the past few months in the moment. Hell, I forgot enough that when we went through the curtain and into the hallways of the arena, I was bold enough to clap Spencer on the back and tell him we raised Hell out there.
Of course, Spencer hadn’t forgotten in.
He stopped, turning to make eye contact with me. My expression soon matched his – that little spark dimmed real quick to match the frown on his lips and the cock of his brow.
“Yeah – um – look, How,” he said, reaching up to take my hand in his and return it back to where it belonged at my side and off his shoulder, “We’ll get to Battlefield, but we’re not just cool again because we won a match, okay? Now, I get you’re going through some stuff at home and on the road with all the retirement tour – if that’s still the plan – but like…”
He paused, his eyes going past me. He never struggled to make eye contact before.
“Just, like, don’t bring this on Lissie, okay?”
And he turned, walking off towards the locker room. Leaving me just standing there in the hall as everyone walked past.
This business has always attracted a certain set of types. I’m not sure what the lure is: the vagabond lifestyle – the roar of the crowd – the dangling of a big gold belt to wear around your waist. But it’s never a normal person who comes to work in Wrestling. I don’t see many types who would be content with the suit & tie cubicle job or the quiet existence of a licensed profession. I don’t think it’s a surprise that the General Manager position is so often a revolving door; it’s hard to unwind from being an in-ring competitor to being a corporate enforcer. If anything, it’s more of a testament to someone like Torture or Gravedigger for doing it like they did.
It’s not the straight-laced; anyone who claims they are shows their true colors eventually. Chivalrous Southern gentleman? More like authoritarian narcissist. Bubbly Midwestern girl-next-door? Cut-throat careerist. “The last honest man”? An insecure bully.
Maybe I’m just telling on myself.
These types are the minority. We gotta lotta freaks more than anything. Coked-up zombies, ghosts, Southern preachers, Hatebringers. People let their freak flag fly in wrestling. I should probably endorse it – I like to think of myself as more progressive and open-minded. I don’t suppose I really have much opinion either way. It is what it is: the bell rings, two men enter the ring, and one gets their hand raised. So why should I care how anyone carries themselves up or down the aisle or around the arena? In the end, it’s all vaudeville.
But the freaks don’t tend to last. Sure, there’s exceptions to the rule: you got your Odin Balfores, your Zombie McMorrises, your Wade Moors. But for everyone one of them you have a million Professor Coaches, a million Sythe (pronounced “Scythe”), and Jax & Baxes.
So what are you going to be Bam?
If I seem less than impressed, I am. Perhaps I should raise an eyebrow that you and Ted Blaze got past Odin and Nash. Perhaps. I’ve seen crazier things happen this year – I’m not US Champion anymore, for instance. I also look back at the tape and see Balfore tied up while both you and Ted felt the need to apply just shy of five hundred pounds to pin a one hundred, seventy-two pound woman.
So if I seem less than impressed, I am.
I’ll give you all the credit in the world for the number of people in Vegas whose brackets you’ve ruined. But if you think I’m going to consider you any tougher than a Jax & Bax, I hate to tell you that you’re a marginal increase in difficulty. At best. That credit goes more to your partner than you; frankly, I’ve spent almost a year reasserting myself as one of the most in-ring performers in this company’s history in record time. The number of heads I piled last year is higher than any burger you’ve shoved in your face and worth more than any cut of beef you’ve thrown on a grill. And your scalp just brings down the average value of opponents I’ve defeated.
The good news? I heard catering’s gonna be pretty good this week.
I waited until the show was over to pack my bag – always did and always will. It was the least you could do for everyone, watching and giving respect to any of the guys going out and busting their ass. I don’t know how many people actually watch anyone these days – I get we all got our routines to get “in the zone” or you get done with a match and don’t have the energy to go stare at a TV. I do. It’s free tape.
I didn’t feel too much like lingering in the locker room anyway. Too many stares, too many whispers, too many questions. Truth be told, I don’t know how much I need to prove to anyone or to explain myself. I did what I had to do. Somethings I went too far with, others I didn’t go far enough. But how the fuck am I gonna take too much flack when we’ve got WALTER leering around? How villainous can I be when Odin Balfore’s killing people for cash?
Maybe I should have gone home. Maybe I should’ve gone home the second that bell rang and Odin was raising my belt. Yet – here I am. Why? Some stupid, misplaced sense of obligation? Some quest for revenge or redemption? An addiction to the lows as much as the highs?
Either way, it was lonely packing up in the locker room with no one to talk to. And it would probably be lonely back at the motel after I bought that bottle of Wild Turkey at the gas station on the drive there. But before I could push that door out to the parking lot, a voice split the silence.
“Hey! I was hoping to catch ya ‘fore ya left! I was gonna hit Starbucks – you wanna come with?”
And I did go with Lissie. Because I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
This could’ve been your moment, Ted. You’ve always been an inconsistent – to the point of outright frustrating – competitor, but nobody should doubt the highs of your highs. I’d made a New Year’s Resolution to never mention WCF again, but it’s hard to look past it: you’ve held belts I’ve never held and seen highs I never have. I won’t discount or dismiss you as “just a Cruiserweight” or a little leaguer – that wouldn’t be setting myself up to actual beat you, would it? No – I don’t think the ignorant man tends to go far in this busness.
Really, Ted, I feel bad for you. I don’t think many people would count you out in most competitions, especially one like this. Partner us up? We’re in the Finals? With Shaw – Kemp – Nightgale – probably even CJ Phoenix? Probably the same.
Of course, you’re not partnered up with any of those people. Just as has been a recurring pattern throughout your career, Ted Blaze has a helluva time finding good partnerships that aren’t Andre Jensen. In fact, more often than not he finds himself thrown to the wolves alongside doofuses like Damian Kaine and outright villains like Sarah Twilight, leaving you to find yourself clowned, bullied, abused, and back at square one.
Truth is? I pity you.
But also in truth? The commonality in these humiliations is still you.
The reason you fail when the odds are against you is you don’t elevate others.
There’s multiple ways to be talented. Are you a football guy? Let’s compare Peyton Manning and Tom Brady, two people disputed to be the GOAT (probably less of an argument now, but still). In 2013, the Broncos were the number one offense in the NFL – a stud line-up at every firepower position – got utterly eviscerated and nearly shut out. This was a team that couldn’t be stopped until they had the door slammed in their face hard. But the next year Brady took it to the Bowl against the same Seahawks. Just as gnarly of a defense as Manning had to face, but Brady didn’t have those weapons – he had Julian Edelman and Brandon LaFell. Hell, we could go uglier and talk about Superbowl LI when he was throwing to Nick Hogan and Malcom Mitchell while Matt Ryan was throwing to Julio and Sanu. Doesn’t matter. That's the difference between good and great.
Great talents elevate those around them.
So you can have those accolades. Keep that trophy case nice and polished. You can put your record next to mine and look hot, but you put me next to Beefer – you put Spencer next to Beefer – there’s a different story about how this match is gonna go down. Hate it say it Teo, but you’re not Spencer – you ain’t me, either. And you’re not going to Battlefield.
Can I be a little blunt? I think we probably respect each other enough for that. I’m gonna point out the elephant in the room and venture you’re not too into this. When you strike that pose in front of the camera, we all know what you’re most proud of: that Cruiserweight Tag Title on your shoulder. That’s not a knock on your reign – I’m happy for you. But you don’t have Andre Jensen in your corner this week, nor are we gunning for those straps. You don’t gotta fight with every tooth and nail to keep what’s rightfully yours because I’m not trying to take it.
Our eyes are Battlefield, Ted. We’re going to it. And you’ll be going back to Cruiserclash.
No shame, no insult, nothing intended. You’re an honest guy and a warrior, Ted – you have the heart of a lion. But you’re not a Cinderella Man. And I’m so sorry, but I’m going to remind you of that.