Post by tony on Jan 18, 2023 22:01:01 GMT
Atlanta, 1998
“You ready for this, son?”
A common trope in the wrestling business is the dysfunctional natures between competitors and their fathers. Many of my associates in the graps-for-cash game have some serious daddy issues. It makes me wonder sometimes if I don’t work in a strip club or the C.I.A. with all these folks buried under the weight of a shitty patriarch. I’m proud to say I have NO idea what that pain is like. If anything, my dad might as well have worn a cape with a giant fucking “S” on the chest.
9-year-old Tony: *Shaking a bit* “Yes, sir!”
Nathan Savage, Sr. Was just built differently. The type of guy that stuck by you. I mean, shit, the old man got a Navy Cross in Vietnam playing decoy and getting shot up while his squadmates took out a machine gun nest. He was literally the personification of “take a bullet for someone.” No better man to have to hold you down, especially when you’re a frightened 9-year-old trying to overcome a crippling phobia.
“Good boy. We’re gonna take it slow today, as the therapist said. Remember your breathing; you start to panic you breathe slowly, in and out. 5 minutes today. I’ll be right outside. You can do this.”
I grew up claustrophobic. Tight, confined spaces always gave me the shakes. It gave me difficulties early in sports due to being in close proximity to others. Get me in a small or cramped room, I start feeling like a hot dog jammed in the packaging. When I was diagnosed with it, I felt like a freak. Like Dad was gonna look at me like I was defective or something. I wasn’t good enough. But then, Pops reminded me it isn’t so bad. He just patted that shot-up drumstick wrapped in a knee brace and said…
“Son, when you’re not well, you do what you have to in order to get better. I wear a brace, you have to do therapy. Ain’t nothing wrong admitting you need a hand once in awhile.”
I think that did just as much as the sessions. That’s why I was going through with this. If my badass old man could overcome getting shot. I sure as HELL could learn how to calm my fears of enclosed spaces. He put me in the smallest closet we had in the house, and when those doors closed, it all started feeling wrong. I knew the clothes and the walls weren’t moving any closer; still didn’t impede my heart from trying to jailbreak out of my chest. My skin crawled and I wanted to squeal.
Stop. Breathe. The walls aren’t moving. Nothing is moving besides me…
I just imagined being on a baseball field running down a pop fly. Or out in Beckett Woods walking a trail. No walls, no feelings of being stifled or locked up. My heart rate lowered, and the nervous energy began to wash away. It didn’t leave completely; even to this day, I have problems. But when you’re fighting a problem that affects the way you live, knowing you’ve got backup means the world.
“You okay in there, boy?”
The doors opened after time expired. Instead of sprinting out in fear, I walked out with a sense of calm and accomplishment.
“I…I did it Dad! It…it wasn’t so bad!”
“That was a big step for you, Tony. Let’s keep working on it, just like practice.5 minutes this week, maybe 10 the next. Before you know it boy, there ain’t gonna be a room small enough to hold you.”
It’s the little things you do as a father now that can make or break a kid’s future. A lot of futures and outlooks on life could have been altered for the better for it. Something as small as somebody telling you the following and meaning it could keep you from straying down a dark path.
“You did good today boy. And…”
“I’m proud of you!” My Father, much older now.
Cromwell Road, London UK. A few days ago.
25 years later, we celebrate for a different reason; my old man gets to meet his granddaughter for the first time ever. 5-year-old Priyanka Mahal Savage was enjoying her first party ever. She never had cake in her life. Think about that for a moment. Cake is shit we take for granted every day, but for a little girl who could only IMAGINE having cake, much less a party to go with it, this whole day was a gift for her…
It really made me appreciate what we had, and that we could share it with somebody that deserved a better life. She was quite happy; that high-pitched squealing that nearly busted mine and Dad’s eardrums was proof.
“Damn, son. Li’l Mumbai got a set of lungs on her!”
“Yup. And she ain’t afraid to use them. Should have seen her ream Cass’ mother, Miranda for being rude at Sunday Roast and wasting food.”
“She told your mother-in-law off? Hell, I like my grandkid already!”
Dad was sitting at the table while I was helping our kitchen staff, in his usual mode. Cane in one hand, glass of Basil Hayden on the rocks in another. Kinda upsets me he’s still drinking despite going to treatment for early-stage Parkinson’s, but, he said it best “If it’s last call for me coming up, make it a double. I’m 77, son. If the parks don’t kill me, something else will.” I heard his glass drop on the table. I jumped like a sprinter at the gun firing.
“Shit pops!”
“Aw, goddamit. Had a shaking fit…shit…sorry about the table. Least the bourbon didn’t spill.”
It had to be frustrating for him. Dad was one of those guys that did everything hands on. Now said hands can barely hold a highball glass. Priya and all the kids we invited were being rowdy as hell. I had to laugh.
“Welp, looks like the sugar buzz has hit peak. Let’s go watch Priya open her gifts.”
“Sure, Tony. But I have you something. Can we go to your office after? I’ve got something to discuss.”
Code for: he wants to puff a J.
30 minutes later…
“*cough**cough* Fuck! Now THIS shit will cure the shakes. Hell, I thought the stuff we smoked in ‘Nam was potent! *cough* Goddamn, if we had this herb, we’d have never left base, much less fought.”
“New strain we sell back in the States at the dispensaries. It’s called “Turbo Boner”
“*cough* And you let me put my lips around something named that?!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you planted your lips on something nasty, old man. I’ve met some of the people you dated back in the day.”
“Smartass.” *chuckles*
Dad took one more puff, then put the pre-roll down. Despite a bit of British winter chill, I crack the window open for ventilation. Cass had a movie on the tv to calm the little monsters down. That’s when Dad decided to actually discuss something with me, instead of using it as an excuse to smoke.
“Last couple of times you won a world championship, you couldn’t hold on to it. Hell, seems you end up with problems once you get a big shiny.”
“...Why you gotta choose violence like that? Not my fault you like that Turbo Boner in your mouth. It's 2023, embrace new things”
We both chuckled over that, but Dad, as usual, brought up a valid point. 20 championship belts over 10 years(19 wrestling, and1 from boxing) and reigns that lasted nearly a year, yet except for a few defenses, every time I score the BIG BELT, something always goes wrong. Either I get hurt, screwed over, or sometimes, I just didn’t quite have enough horsepower to finish the race. Take your pick. And for years, I wondered why. Or simply moved on. I get quite restless for a domesticated man. Shit, this reduced schedule these days is alien to me. Having time, having stability…
Shit, maybe that might be it. The fear of stability. Been so used to life being hectic, always grinding, and it’s only now in my 30’s I embrace true comfort in this sport. Maybe that’s what it was; fear of nowhere else to go after the top. Or, as somebody noted about another famous conqueror…
“When Alexander saw the width and breadth of his empire, he wept. For there were no more worlds to conquer.”
Dad laughed a bit. “Well, well. Aren’t we Hellenistic era level full of ourselves!? what’s your next gimmick, running around in sandals chopping rope knots in half?”
“Atara Themis would LOVE that approach, Dad.”
“Nah, Tony, I get it. Success can be just as bad, if not worse, than failure. Nowhere to go but down, you start wondering what’s there left to do. You were always one of those guys who looked for more, and if you couldn’t find it where you were, you went somewhere else. I used to be the same way. Hence, why I ended up divorced 4 times. Always looking for something better, even when all you need is right there in front of you. Don’t consider winning a world championship the end of a road. It’s YOUR road now. Like this home of yours, you make it. In fact, I think your Old Man’s got a way to boost that motivation level of yours.”
Dad points to some rectangular boxes that were shipped to me yesterday. “Are those…?”
“Yup. Gonna crack them open tomorrow…”
“Nah, son, I got an idea…get you more rev’ed up for this fight. Plus, you mentioned Priya still has trouble adjusting to being around you, maybe she needs to know who her dad is and what he does. Might take pressure off of you.”
So, I took Dad’s advice. I called in my wife Cass, Priya, and my son Robert to the office. Usually they don’t come into my den. It’s kind of my private spot, where Dad can get a moment’s peace. It’s also the shrine I built to store all the goodies I acquired wrestling, mainly because Cass won’t let me hang stuff up anywhere else in the place. Shit looks like an engraver’s shop with all the plaques and replica belts companies bestowed on me to celebrate my wins on display. Priya nearly dropped her cake on the carpet walking in and seeing everything I’ve done in my mini museum.
“Priya, honey, are you okay?” My wife asked in Hindi. I’m still learning, even my son speaks it better than me and he’s 8. Priya starts wandering about, touching the display glass, and pointing at objects. Then she points at me like “This is all yours?” I nod.
“Your new dad is actually quite famous, Priya!” Cass tells her. “He goes around the world and beats some of the best fighters on Earth.”
“Is he like Rama, mom?” Priya asked, bringing up the hero in her favorite story. “Does he fight monsters?”
After Cass translated: “*chuckles* “Occasionally. Most of the time, they just pretend to be monsters. But yes; Dad goes around the world, has adventures, and comes back a winner with lots of neat stuff. But, no monkey army yet. I’m not quite THAT awesome to lead a monkey army yet. But I am good, and I got more presents for it.” I point to the box from the World Boxing Council. “Robbie, would you like to open that one for your dad?”
“Cool. I get to hold a Green Belt.” Robbie’s more of a fan of Dad’s boxing side, plus he’s becoming a helluva pugilist himself. The box from the Entity…”Priya…”
She opened it up, and there’s a replica of the World Title in her tiny hands.
“This is pretty!”
“it is, dear.”
“Do they give you pants to go with the belt?”
“I’ll have to bring that up in the next meeting.”
It would be nice to get some free pants with the belt, she’s got a point.
“Do you have to fight again soon?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I defend that belt soon.”
“You’re going to win, Dad!”
She…she called me dad! Holy shit!
“Yeah, Dad’s pretty good at winning…except when he plays me at FIFA!”
“Robbie…anytime you wanna pick up that controller….”
That boy’s becoming more like me every day. Dunno whether to be proud or scared.
“Can I be a champion too, Dad?”
“Priya, you’re a Savage now,” I tell her. “You can be ANYTHING you want to be! Win any trophy you want. You just work hard, have fun, and remember…”
“We are Savages. We’ll always believe in you!”
I think both of else felt relief. For Priya, she was worried she wasn’t accepted in our house. Now, she gets it’s her home now, and she’ll always be welcome. For me, it put things in perspective. This championship run was different. Not just more money or another shiny wall hanger…
I don’t have much time left in the sport. No more worrying about confinement or disappointing people. When you have people that believe in you, you never fail.
After all these years, the old man is still teaching me lessons, even when I’ve surpassed him.
The Kage. The Now.
“Fuck, I hate these things. I can already feel my face splitting open against the wiring. And I forget how tall they all.”
What’s there to be scared of? It’s only a few tons of metal a couple stories high. For real, these cages can be imposing. Wrestlers start worrying about what goes wrong, what could go wrong. The heights alone make Tony cringe as he’s pacing between the ring and cage wall. He hates that spot-hound shit, flying off roofs and glorified falling. Plus, it’s enclosed, and he still has an issue with tight spaces. This is NOT the ideal spot for him to fight in. But, then again, when is it ideal? Especially when the Grand prize is at stake.
You can tell Tony is a bit ill at ease in these surroundings. He keeps tugging at his Tom Ford suit coattails, darting his eyes around. Old childhood memories of him dealing with his claustrophobia in treatment rushed back. For a moment, he’s a nervous 9-year-old dealing with a demon. Then he takes a look at his two belts (The WBC Bridgerweight belt, and most importantly in this scenario, the Entity World Title) draped over his shoulders, he becomes the man you see today, the one that takes the holy water to those spirits.
His head tilts back, his breathing becomes rhythmic…
“He who conquers himself conquers the universe. Lovely little snippet from “Faust” I took to heart in high school after teacher made me read it. Makes all the sense in the world, especially when you have to deal with all that graps-for-cash biz wackiness. Lies, deceit, smokescreens, dysfunction. I swear some of my kind are so screwed up, I hear broken glass rattling inside their skulls when they shake their heads. Worst part is some CELEBRATE being defective. I understand people gonna people, but I can’t see the point of allowing something fixable to fester. Think about it…”
“Does having a torn ACL help you get extra hops with a moonsault? No. Concussions don’t exactly give you stat boosts, either. So what makes people THINK having phobias or mental issues makes them BETTER at anything, much less this sport? If I had let my claustrophobia or pill addiction control me, I wouldn’t be here doing what I do at this level. If I had just stayed selfish and crazy, Cass would have never stuck with me. Stewing in fear and my faults did NOT make me the success I am today. Fixing them did.”
“Suppose it’s only fitting that in my attempt to achieve one of my best runs ever, I have to face some old fears. The enclosure, the heights…”
He grips the chain link. “That I can’t pull off one more great run with a strap before I’m out the door.”
“Had to admit, Archie, for a guy who’s been pretty much an also-ran in your early career, I did not expect you to win last month. Didn’t think you had enough experience to pull it off. Not bad. Then again…”
“Nate always ran a distant second to me over in UGWC, and the light tube dust sniffer doesn’t have the reputation across the industry I do for unnecessary violence with random objects. Last month, you said the resume didn’t matter. That was true then, though it’s easy to proclaim that when it’s two guys like you trying to make one for themselves. At Kaged In…”
Tony slaps the belt: “Yeah, sorry….this time it DOES!”
“You skipped levels and are facing some final boss shit now, and people including myself aren’t sure you leveled up enough to play that stage yet. You seem noticeably more intelligent than your average leatherneck, I hope you peeped my work experience…”
“Not a snobbish know it all working out a midlife crisis, not a pain junkie. Simply put; one of the BEST FUCKING WRESTLERS IN THE LAST DECADE ACROSS THE BOARD! That is what you face locked in here with me like I’m Rorschach. No lie.”
“Does it make me a can’t lose lock in this? Pfft, even I’m not that fucking egotistical. Hell, you can live in L.A. without knowing Spanish but it helps so much. Helps to have that championship experience. The insight over the years to know you can only plan and lot a match like this so much. They flush down the toilet when the blood/sweat mix from getting gashed open by chain link burns your eyeballs like acid. When your limbs feel like boiled noodles from all that scaling. Or when those well-laid plans of yours give out like your feet and crash into an announcer's table or some shit. That’s when the experience pays off. You don’t have it on this battlefield yet. That is why I’m coming out of the same way I walked in, even on a stretcher…”
“Champion.”
“Maybe one day you WILL be that guy. The one like me explaining how shit works at this level. But you’re simply not yet. Those little things that kill, that you pick up along the way I will show you.”
“You’re not a bad dude nor fighter, but Kaged In for me isn’t just another title defense. It’s therapy. I’m my real enemy to myself in this battle; you’re the guy that tags with him to make things somewhat harder. But I am coming out triumphant on Jan.20.”
“I conquer you, and those fears in myself. And when it’s over, there’ll be a new fear instilled in the rest of the roster.”
“The phobia that as long as I hold this belt…noone will be able to take it from me!”
“You ready for this, son?”
A common trope in the wrestling business is the dysfunctional natures between competitors and their fathers. Many of my associates in the graps-for-cash game have some serious daddy issues. It makes me wonder sometimes if I don’t work in a strip club or the C.I.A. with all these folks buried under the weight of a shitty patriarch. I’m proud to say I have NO idea what that pain is like. If anything, my dad might as well have worn a cape with a giant fucking “S” on the chest.
9-year-old Tony: *Shaking a bit* “Yes, sir!”
Nathan Savage, Sr. Was just built differently. The type of guy that stuck by you. I mean, shit, the old man got a Navy Cross in Vietnam playing decoy and getting shot up while his squadmates took out a machine gun nest. He was literally the personification of “take a bullet for someone.” No better man to have to hold you down, especially when you’re a frightened 9-year-old trying to overcome a crippling phobia.
“Good boy. We’re gonna take it slow today, as the therapist said. Remember your breathing; you start to panic you breathe slowly, in and out. 5 minutes today. I’ll be right outside. You can do this.”
I grew up claustrophobic. Tight, confined spaces always gave me the shakes. It gave me difficulties early in sports due to being in close proximity to others. Get me in a small or cramped room, I start feeling like a hot dog jammed in the packaging. When I was diagnosed with it, I felt like a freak. Like Dad was gonna look at me like I was defective or something. I wasn’t good enough. But then, Pops reminded me it isn’t so bad. He just patted that shot-up drumstick wrapped in a knee brace and said…
“Son, when you’re not well, you do what you have to in order to get better. I wear a brace, you have to do therapy. Ain’t nothing wrong admitting you need a hand once in awhile.”
I think that did just as much as the sessions. That’s why I was going through with this. If my badass old man could overcome getting shot. I sure as HELL could learn how to calm my fears of enclosed spaces. He put me in the smallest closet we had in the house, and when those doors closed, it all started feeling wrong. I knew the clothes and the walls weren’t moving any closer; still didn’t impede my heart from trying to jailbreak out of my chest. My skin crawled and I wanted to squeal.
Stop. Breathe. The walls aren’t moving. Nothing is moving besides me…
I just imagined being on a baseball field running down a pop fly. Or out in Beckett Woods walking a trail. No walls, no feelings of being stifled or locked up. My heart rate lowered, and the nervous energy began to wash away. It didn’t leave completely; even to this day, I have problems. But when you’re fighting a problem that affects the way you live, knowing you’ve got backup means the world.
“You okay in there, boy?”
The doors opened after time expired. Instead of sprinting out in fear, I walked out with a sense of calm and accomplishment.
“I…I did it Dad! It…it wasn’t so bad!”
“That was a big step for you, Tony. Let’s keep working on it, just like practice.5 minutes this week, maybe 10 the next. Before you know it boy, there ain’t gonna be a room small enough to hold you.”
It’s the little things you do as a father now that can make or break a kid’s future. A lot of futures and outlooks on life could have been altered for the better for it. Something as small as somebody telling you the following and meaning it could keep you from straying down a dark path.
“You did good today boy. And…”
“I’m proud of you!” My Father, much older now.
Cromwell Road, London UK. A few days ago.
25 years later, we celebrate for a different reason; my old man gets to meet his granddaughter for the first time ever. 5-year-old Priyanka Mahal Savage was enjoying her first party ever. She never had cake in her life. Think about that for a moment. Cake is shit we take for granted every day, but for a little girl who could only IMAGINE having cake, much less a party to go with it, this whole day was a gift for her…
It really made me appreciate what we had, and that we could share it with somebody that deserved a better life. She was quite happy; that high-pitched squealing that nearly busted mine and Dad’s eardrums was proof.
“Damn, son. Li’l Mumbai got a set of lungs on her!”
“Yup. And she ain’t afraid to use them. Should have seen her ream Cass’ mother, Miranda for being rude at Sunday Roast and wasting food.”
“She told your mother-in-law off? Hell, I like my grandkid already!”
Dad was sitting at the table while I was helping our kitchen staff, in his usual mode. Cane in one hand, glass of Basil Hayden on the rocks in another. Kinda upsets me he’s still drinking despite going to treatment for early-stage Parkinson’s, but, he said it best “If it’s last call for me coming up, make it a double. I’m 77, son. If the parks don’t kill me, something else will.” I heard his glass drop on the table. I jumped like a sprinter at the gun firing.
“Shit pops!”
“Aw, goddamit. Had a shaking fit…shit…sorry about the table. Least the bourbon didn’t spill.”
It had to be frustrating for him. Dad was one of those guys that did everything hands on. Now said hands can barely hold a highball glass. Priya and all the kids we invited were being rowdy as hell. I had to laugh.
“Welp, looks like the sugar buzz has hit peak. Let’s go watch Priya open her gifts.”
“Sure, Tony. But I have you something. Can we go to your office after? I’ve got something to discuss.”
Code for: he wants to puff a J.
30 minutes later…
“*cough**cough* Fuck! Now THIS shit will cure the shakes. Hell, I thought the stuff we smoked in ‘Nam was potent! *cough* Goddamn, if we had this herb, we’d have never left base, much less fought.”
“New strain we sell back in the States at the dispensaries. It’s called “Turbo Boner”
“*cough* And you let me put my lips around something named that?!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you planted your lips on something nasty, old man. I’ve met some of the people you dated back in the day.”
“Smartass.” *chuckles*
Dad took one more puff, then put the pre-roll down. Despite a bit of British winter chill, I crack the window open for ventilation. Cass had a movie on the tv to calm the little monsters down. That’s when Dad decided to actually discuss something with me, instead of using it as an excuse to smoke.
“Last couple of times you won a world championship, you couldn’t hold on to it. Hell, seems you end up with problems once you get a big shiny.”
“...Why you gotta choose violence like that? Not my fault you like that Turbo Boner in your mouth. It's 2023, embrace new things”
We both chuckled over that, but Dad, as usual, brought up a valid point. 20 championship belts over 10 years(19 wrestling, and1 from boxing) and reigns that lasted nearly a year, yet except for a few defenses, every time I score the BIG BELT, something always goes wrong. Either I get hurt, screwed over, or sometimes, I just didn’t quite have enough horsepower to finish the race. Take your pick. And for years, I wondered why. Or simply moved on. I get quite restless for a domesticated man. Shit, this reduced schedule these days is alien to me. Having time, having stability…
Shit, maybe that might be it. The fear of stability. Been so used to life being hectic, always grinding, and it’s only now in my 30’s I embrace true comfort in this sport. Maybe that’s what it was; fear of nowhere else to go after the top. Or, as somebody noted about another famous conqueror…
“When Alexander saw the width and breadth of his empire, he wept. For there were no more worlds to conquer.”
Dad laughed a bit. “Well, well. Aren’t we Hellenistic era level full of ourselves!? what’s your next gimmick, running around in sandals chopping rope knots in half?”
“Atara Themis would LOVE that approach, Dad.”
“Nah, Tony, I get it. Success can be just as bad, if not worse, than failure. Nowhere to go but down, you start wondering what’s there left to do. You were always one of those guys who looked for more, and if you couldn’t find it where you were, you went somewhere else. I used to be the same way. Hence, why I ended up divorced 4 times. Always looking for something better, even when all you need is right there in front of you. Don’t consider winning a world championship the end of a road. It’s YOUR road now. Like this home of yours, you make it. In fact, I think your Old Man’s got a way to boost that motivation level of yours.”
Dad points to some rectangular boxes that were shipped to me yesterday. “Are those…?”
“Yup. Gonna crack them open tomorrow…”
“Nah, son, I got an idea…get you more rev’ed up for this fight. Plus, you mentioned Priya still has trouble adjusting to being around you, maybe she needs to know who her dad is and what he does. Might take pressure off of you.”
So, I took Dad’s advice. I called in my wife Cass, Priya, and my son Robert to the office. Usually they don’t come into my den. It’s kind of my private spot, where Dad can get a moment’s peace. It’s also the shrine I built to store all the goodies I acquired wrestling, mainly because Cass won’t let me hang stuff up anywhere else in the place. Shit looks like an engraver’s shop with all the plaques and replica belts companies bestowed on me to celebrate my wins on display. Priya nearly dropped her cake on the carpet walking in and seeing everything I’ve done in my mini museum.
“Priya, honey, are you okay?” My wife asked in Hindi. I’m still learning, even my son speaks it better than me and he’s 8. Priya starts wandering about, touching the display glass, and pointing at objects. Then she points at me like “This is all yours?” I nod.
“Your new dad is actually quite famous, Priya!” Cass tells her. “He goes around the world and beats some of the best fighters on Earth.”
“Is he like Rama, mom?” Priya asked, bringing up the hero in her favorite story. “Does he fight monsters?”
After Cass translated: “*chuckles* “Occasionally. Most of the time, they just pretend to be monsters. But yes; Dad goes around the world, has adventures, and comes back a winner with lots of neat stuff. But, no monkey army yet. I’m not quite THAT awesome to lead a monkey army yet. But I am good, and I got more presents for it.” I point to the box from the World Boxing Council. “Robbie, would you like to open that one for your dad?”
“Cool. I get to hold a Green Belt.” Robbie’s more of a fan of Dad’s boxing side, plus he’s becoming a helluva pugilist himself. The box from the Entity…”Priya…”
She opened it up, and there’s a replica of the World Title in her tiny hands.
“This is pretty!”
“it is, dear.”
“Do they give you pants to go with the belt?”
“I’ll have to bring that up in the next meeting.”
It would be nice to get some free pants with the belt, she’s got a point.
“Do you have to fight again soon?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I defend that belt soon.”
“You’re going to win, Dad!”
She…she called me dad! Holy shit!
“Yeah, Dad’s pretty good at winning…except when he plays me at FIFA!”
“Robbie…anytime you wanna pick up that controller….”
That boy’s becoming more like me every day. Dunno whether to be proud or scared.
“Can I be a champion too, Dad?”
“Priya, you’re a Savage now,” I tell her. “You can be ANYTHING you want to be! Win any trophy you want. You just work hard, have fun, and remember…”
“We are Savages. We’ll always believe in you!”
I think both of else felt relief. For Priya, she was worried she wasn’t accepted in our house. Now, she gets it’s her home now, and she’ll always be welcome. For me, it put things in perspective. This championship run was different. Not just more money or another shiny wall hanger…
I don’t have much time left in the sport. No more worrying about confinement or disappointing people. When you have people that believe in you, you never fail.
After all these years, the old man is still teaching me lessons, even when I’ve surpassed him.
The Kage. The Now.
“Fuck, I hate these things. I can already feel my face splitting open against the wiring. And I forget how tall they all.”
What’s there to be scared of? It’s only a few tons of metal a couple stories high. For real, these cages can be imposing. Wrestlers start worrying about what goes wrong, what could go wrong. The heights alone make Tony cringe as he’s pacing between the ring and cage wall. He hates that spot-hound shit, flying off roofs and glorified falling. Plus, it’s enclosed, and he still has an issue with tight spaces. This is NOT the ideal spot for him to fight in. But, then again, when is it ideal? Especially when the Grand prize is at stake.
You can tell Tony is a bit ill at ease in these surroundings. He keeps tugging at his Tom Ford suit coattails, darting his eyes around. Old childhood memories of him dealing with his claustrophobia in treatment rushed back. For a moment, he’s a nervous 9-year-old dealing with a demon. Then he takes a look at his two belts (The WBC Bridgerweight belt, and most importantly in this scenario, the Entity World Title) draped over his shoulders, he becomes the man you see today, the one that takes the holy water to those spirits.
His head tilts back, his breathing becomes rhythmic…
“He who conquers himself conquers the universe. Lovely little snippet from “Faust” I took to heart in high school after teacher made me read it. Makes all the sense in the world, especially when you have to deal with all that graps-for-cash biz wackiness. Lies, deceit, smokescreens, dysfunction. I swear some of my kind are so screwed up, I hear broken glass rattling inside their skulls when they shake their heads. Worst part is some CELEBRATE being defective. I understand people gonna people, but I can’t see the point of allowing something fixable to fester. Think about it…”
“Does having a torn ACL help you get extra hops with a moonsault? No. Concussions don’t exactly give you stat boosts, either. So what makes people THINK having phobias or mental issues makes them BETTER at anything, much less this sport? If I had let my claustrophobia or pill addiction control me, I wouldn’t be here doing what I do at this level. If I had just stayed selfish and crazy, Cass would have never stuck with me. Stewing in fear and my faults did NOT make me the success I am today. Fixing them did.”
“Suppose it’s only fitting that in my attempt to achieve one of my best runs ever, I have to face some old fears. The enclosure, the heights…”
He grips the chain link. “That I can’t pull off one more great run with a strap before I’m out the door.”
“Had to admit, Archie, for a guy who’s been pretty much an also-ran in your early career, I did not expect you to win last month. Didn’t think you had enough experience to pull it off. Not bad. Then again…”
“Nate always ran a distant second to me over in UGWC, and the light tube dust sniffer doesn’t have the reputation across the industry I do for unnecessary violence with random objects. Last month, you said the resume didn’t matter. That was true then, though it’s easy to proclaim that when it’s two guys like you trying to make one for themselves. At Kaged In…”
Tony slaps the belt: “Yeah, sorry….this time it DOES!”
“You skipped levels and are facing some final boss shit now, and people including myself aren’t sure you leveled up enough to play that stage yet. You seem noticeably more intelligent than your average leatherneck, I hope you peeped my work experience…”
“Not a snobbish know it all working out a midlife crisis, not a pain junkie. Simply put; one of the BEST FUCKING WRESTLERS IN THE LAST DECADE ACROSS THE BOARD! That is what you face locked in here with me like I’m Rorschach. No lie.”
“Does it make me a can’t lose lock in this? Pfft, even I’m not that fucking egotistical. Hell, you can live in L.A. without knowing Spanish but it helps so much. Helps to have that championship experience. The insight over the years to know you can only plan and lot a match like this so much. They flush down the toilet when the blood/sweat mix from getting gashed open by chain link burns your eyeballs like acid. When your limbs feel like boiled noodles from all that scaling. Or when those well-laid plans of yours give out like your feet and crash into an announcer's table or some shit. That’s when the experience pays off. You don’t have it on this battlefield yet. That is why I’m coming out of the same way I walked in, even on a stretcher…”
“Champion.”
“Maybe one day you WILL be that guy. The one like me explaining how shit works at this level. But you’re simply not yet. Those little things that kill, that you pick up along the way I will show you.”
“You’re not a bad dude nor fighter, but Kaged In for me isn’t just another title defense. It’s therapy. I’m my real enemy to myself in this battle; you’re the guy that tags with him to make things somewhat harder. But I am coming out triumphant on Jan.20.”
“I conquer you, and those fears in myself. And when it’s over, there’ll be a new fear instilled in the rest of the roster.”
“The phobia that as long as I hold this belt…noone will be able to take it from me!”