Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2018 2:23:06 GMT
“You have competition every day because you set such high standards for yourself that you have to go out every day and live up to that.”
As Nighthawk sits down at an old oak writing desk in his basement in the Bridgeport section of Chicago to return handwritten letters to the fans who write him letters and cards as he prepares to guide himself into one more battle against Pax Stormcrow in a 2-out-of-3 falls match to end his best-of-5 series one can’t help but wonder if the Chicagoan has enough stamina and energy to pull himself off of the mat one last time and do whatever he can to get through the challenge that is in front of him.
But while his energy has begun to show signs of flagging, which is something of a worrying sign for the “Wrestling Machine” who has become famous worldwide for his boundless endurance and willingness to fight anyone at any time, it is quite clear that he has never considered the possibility of bowing out or wrestling a less taxing style and in fact seems to be wrestling harder, and with more reckless abandon, than he does normally in a seeming desire to prove his greatness once and for all.
But as the “American Samurai” continues to write handwritten letters in response to his fan mail, a solid thermos of rich Cuban coffee on his right side keeping him awake as he does his work, Nighthawk’s wife Sin walks into the room and sees what her husband is doing before kissing him on the cheek and pulling up a box of envelopes.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Spanish.)
Sin: “You know you don’t have to do this. You could just stamp your name at the bottom of a form letter and be done with it. Why are you going to all this trouble?”
Nighthawk: “Because it’s kids who are writing, honey. When I was a kid, if I wrote a letter to Denis Savard or Mike Singletary and he was kind enough to write back with a hand-written letter, it wouldn’t have made my day. It would have made my life. Those kids, honey, they deserve to hear from me. Not a letter from a publicist, not a form-written thing that is boilerplate, but an actual letter that makes it clear that they are being taken seriously.”
Sin, smiling: “Man are you old-fashioned.”
Nighthawk: “I’m a role model. At least I want to be one. It’s not ego, it’s not arrogance. I like knowing that when my name’s on the marquee for a wrestling event, you can come to see me and not feel like you have to swallow hard and wish your son or daughter wants to wrestle like me more than they want to act like me. I remember when I was a kid, and my heroes were exactly the same way. My dad never had to worry about me becoming a man like Mike Singletary was. Because my dad knew he was a man of honor, and integrity. If I do nothing else, when my career is over, I don’t want my eulogy to start with all the titles I won. I want it to be said that I did something to leave this sport better than I found it.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk walks up a hill carefully, his long cherry bomb-red locks tied in a loose approximation of a man-bun behind his head, we see wrapped around his neck is a satin-lined bottle of what appears to be a rare bottle of Irish whiskey and we instantly realize where he is and what he’s planning on doing. Walking up carefully to the hillside overlooking the Chicago skyline the “Master of 1000 Holds” leans against the gravestone of his father, wrapping his arm around the back as if talking to the man inside.
Nighthawk: “It dawned on me earlier today that I never asked what it felt like for you to be a role model to so many kids, knowing you were nothing like that for me. Did it feel like a lie to answer every letter, and never turn down an autograph, knowing you smacked me and mom around as much as you could when we were at home?
I’m asking because, well, my wife wanted to know why I do it. And for the life of me, for the honest life of me, you were the only answer I could come up with. Not because I wanted to be like you, or live up to your example, but because I didn’t. The thought of being like you scares me more than Dean Harper does, more than GOD does, more than anyone does.
Because when I was a kid I saw you act like a paragon to all those other children and knew I should do that if I ever got to be in your position. The way they looked at you, the absolute adoration in their eyes, was a feeling I always craved for you to have about me.
And knowing that you didn’t, knowing that you always thought of me as yet another reminder of the life you had to accept living, kills me in a way I can’t do justice to. But I have sympathy for you now. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like.
But, and I make you this promise with all the strength I have in me to make any promise, I am going to never have to know your pain, and carry those struggles. When my career is over, I will make absolutely sure people remember me for more than the titles I won.
See you soon, Dad. Next time, I’ll have some of my own glory to add to yours.”
>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk leans forward to sit down on the front step of his row house in the Bridgeport section of Chicago, his USA Wrestling gym bag resting between his knees, the “Wrestling Machine” slowly closes his eyes.
Clad in a sleeveless Tatsumi Fujinami t-shirt, black leather pants with orange and cream piping up and down each leg, and black work boots, Nighthawk slowly exhales and opens his eyes beneath a sheath of cherry bomb-red hair which is hanging menacingly over his face.
As he runs his tongue across his teeth, his muscular upper body barely constrained by his t-shirt, his wife Sin steps out of their house and sits next to her husband. Clad herself in a red DreamSlam t-shirt, black wet-look hip-hugging leather pants, and black Chuck Taylors, the “Dark Princess” squeezes her husband’s hand tight.
Nighthawk: “When I was a young man, sitting in the Brown Jug Restaurant on South University Avenue in Ann Arbor, Michigan, there was a fight on a Saturday night in the middle of March. I can remember what I was doing that whole night, from my first plate of food to the last cold beer I drank as I tried to process what I had just seen. That night was St. Patrick’s Night, and the fight was Meldrick Taylor vs Julio Cesar Chavez I. We all watched, jaws dropped and mouths agape, as Chavez pulled himself back from the brink and won a fight we all thought he was losing.
And in that moment, the exact second we heard Jim Lampley exclaim that ‘this was one of the most controversial calls in the whole history in the sport’, I freely admit my mind was on something else. I looked in the crowd, and I saw joy and relief and every great emotion on the faces of every one of those Mexican men and women who had transported themselves to Las Vegas that night. And then I looked at Julio Cesar Chavez, standing regally amidst all the bedlam, and I knew. I wanted to be him. And this week, in Safeco Field in Seattle, I try.”
Sin: “Because this week, Pax, we show you the difference between a champion and a man not yet ready to become one.”
Nighthawk: “Pax, for 5 weeks you and I have done this. You’ve won 2, and so have I. But while you think you’re one win away from all the proclamations of your greatness coming true, I want you to remember something. And I want it to be as clear as a bell ringing out through a cloudless night sky. I have seen your like before, Pax Stormcrow. They carried names like Kyle Mason, Mohamed Al-Thani, and Judas Aliah. Every last one of them, to the man, were all expected to be the standard bearers of IWF, the next golden generation. And what do they all have in common? They’re not here anymore, Pax, and I am. Thinking you’re great, Pax, and actually being great are two different things. And when I end this series, Pax, with my hand raised you will learn the difference. Because I will teach you, slowly and carefully, until you have no choice to learn. Until you have no choice but to tap.”
Sin: “And we respect you, Pax, lest you lean back on that old chestnut until the shell cracks.”
Nighthawk: “Pax, I have respect for you, and your talent. Only a fool wouldn’t. Only a fool would look at you and not know what I know, which is that if you keep your head about you and don’t fall victim to the injury bug, you have a chance to be one of the true greats. But right now, right in this moment, all you have is the chance. And at Lineage, whether it takes me 10 minutes or 90, I will make sure you don’t get the chance. Because while you may be younger than me, and bigger, you’re not smarter. I’ve wrestled men your size, and I’ve made them feel as small as a bantamweight. I can tie you in knots so brutal it would take a week’s worth of study from an Eagle Scout to get you out of the 1st one. I will use every trick it takes years of experience to have seen, every hold your trainers never taught you because they’re not in the books anymore, and every lesson I was ever taught to show you why I am a ‘Master of 1000 Holds’. And when it’s done, when you tap, I will shake your hand, give you a hug, and watch, proud beyond measure, as you become the champion you’re destined to be…. Next year. But not this time.”
Sin: “Class is in session, Pax. And the best teacher you’ll ever see is at the front of the class.”
Nighthawk: “It’s been two years, Pax, and every time I got a chance at glory, it slipped through my fingers. Not anymore. I’m sad it’s you, but it is you. You’re not going to jump the line ahead of me. You’re going to watch as your chance slips through your fingers.”
Nighthawk and Sin: “Goodnight Pax. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”
As Nighthawk sits down at an old oak writing desk in his basement in the Bridgeport section of Chicago to return handwritten letters to the fans who write him letters and cards as he prepares to guide himself into one more battle against Pax Stormcrow in a 2-out-of-3 falls match to end his best-of-5 series one can’t help but wonder if the Chicagoan has enough stamina and energy to pull himself off of the mat one last time and do whatever he can to get through the challenge that is in front of him.
But while his energy has begun to show signs of flagging, which is something of a worrying sign for the “Wrestling Machine” who has become famous worldwide for his boundless endurance and willingness to fight anyone at any time, it is quite clear that he has never considered the possibility of bowing out or wrestling a less taxing style and in fact seems to be wrestling harder, and with more reckless abandon, than he does normally in a seeming desire to prove his greatness once and for all.
But as the “American Samurai” continues to write handwritten letters in response to his fan mail, a solid thermos of rich Cuban coffee on his right side keeping him awake as he does his work, Nighthawk’s wife Sin walks into the room and sees what her husband is doing before kissing him on the cheek and pulling up a box of envelopes.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Spanish.)
Sin: “You know you don’t have to do this. You could just stamp your name at the bottom of a form letter and be done with it. Why are you going to all this trouble?”
Nighthawk: “Because it’s kids who are writing, honey. When I was a kid, if I wrote a letter to Denis Savard or Mike Singletary and he was kind enough to write back with a hand-written letter, it wouldn’t have made my day. It would have made my life. Those kids, honey, they deserve to hear from me. Not a letter from a publicist, not a form-written thing that is boilerplate, but an actual letter that makes it clear that they are being taken seriously.”
Sin, smiling: “Man are you old-fashioned.”
Nighthawk: “I’m a role model. At least I want to be one. It’s not ego, it’s not arrogance. I like knowing that when my name’s on the marquee for a wrestling event, you can come to see me and not feel like you have to swallow hard and wish your son or daughter wants to wrestle like me more than they want to act like me. I remember when I was a kid, and my heroes were exactly the same way. My dad never had to worry about me becoming a man like Mike Singletary was. Because my dad knew he was a man of honor, and integrity. If I do nothing else, when my career is over, I don’t want my eulogy to start with all the titles I won. I want it to be said that I did something to leave this sport better than I found it.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk walks up a hill carefully, his long cherry bomb-red locks tied in a loose approximation of a man-bun behind his head, we see wrapped around his neck is a satin-lined bottle of what appears to be a rare bottle of Irish whiskey and we instantly realize where he is and what he’s planning on doing. Walking up carefully to the hillside overlooking the Chicago skyline the “Master of 1000 Holds” leans against the gravestone of his father, wrapping his arm around the back as if talking to the man inside.
Nighthawk: “It dawned on me earlier today that I never asked what it felt like for you to be a role model to so many kids, knowing you were nothing like that for me. Did it feel like a lie to answer every letter, and never turn down an autograph, knowing you smacked me and mom around as much as you could when we were at home?
I’m asking because, well, my wife wanted to know why I do it. And for the life of me, for the honest life of me, you were the only answer I could come up with. Not because I wanted to be like you, or live up to your example, but because I didn’t. The thought of being like you scares me more than Dean Harper does, more than GOD does, more than anyone does.
Because when I was a kid I saw you act like a paragon to all those other children and knew I should do that if I ever got to be in your position. The way they looked at you, the absolute adoration in their eyes, was a feeling I always craved for you to have about me.
And knowing that you didn’t, knowing that you always thought of me as yet another reminder of the life you had to accept living, kills me in a way I can’t do justice to. But I have sympathy for you now. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like.
But, and I make you this promise with all the strength I have in me to make any promise, I am going to never have to know your pain, and carry those struggles. When my career is over, I will make absolutely sure people remember me for more than the titles I won.
See you soon, Dad. Next time, I’ll have some of my own glory to add to yours.”
>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk leans forward to sit down on the front step of his row house in the Bridgeport section of Chicago, his USA Wrestling gym bag resting between his knees, the “Wrestling Machine” slowly closes his eyes.
Clad in a sleeveless Tatsumi Fujinami t-shirt, black leather pants with orange and cream piping up and down each leg, and black work boots, Nighthawk slowly exhales and opens his eyes beneath a sheath of cherry bomb-red hair which is hanging menacingly over his face.
As he runs his tongue across his teeth, his muscular upper body barely constrained by his t-shirt, his wife Sin steps out of their house and sits next to her husband. Clad herself in a red DreamSlam t-shirt, black wet-look hip-hugging leather pants, and black Chuck Taylors, the “Dark Princess” squeezes her husband’s hand tight.
Nighthawk: “When I was a young man, sitting in the Brown Jug Restaurant on South University Avenue in Ann Arbor, Michigan, there was a fight on a Saturday night in the middle of March. I can remember what I was doing that whole night, from my first plate of food to the last cold beer I drank as I tried to process what I had just seen. That night was St. Patrick’s Night, and the fight was Meldrick Taylor vs Julio Cesar Chavez I. We all watched, jaws dropped and mouths agape, as Chavez pulled himself back from the brink and won a fight we all thought he was losing.
And in that moment, the exact second we heard Jim Lampley exclaim that ‘this was one of the most controversial calls in the whole history in the sport’, I freely admit my mind was on something else. I looked in the crowd, and I saw joy and relief and every great emotion on the faces of every one of those Mexican men and women who had transported themselves to Las Vegas that night. And then I looked at Julio Cesar Chavez, standing regally amidst all the bedlam, and I knew. I wanted to be him. And this week, in Safeco Field in Seattle, I try.”
Sin: “Because this week, Pax, we show you the difference between a champion and a man not yet ready to become one.”
Nighthawk: “Pax, for 5 weeks you and I have done this. You’ve won 2, and so have I. But while you think you’re one win away from all the proclamations of your greatness coming true, I want you to remember something. And I want it to be as clear as a bell ringing out through a cloudless night sky. I have seen your like before, Pax Stormcrow. They carried names like Kyle Mason, Mohamed Al-Thani, and Judas Aliah. Every last one of them, to the man, were all expected to be the standard bearers of IWF, the next golden generation. And what do they all have in common? They’re not here anymore, Pax, and I am. Thinking you’re great, Pax, and actually being great are two different things. And when I end this series, Pax, with my hand raised you will learn the difference. Because I will teach you, slowly and carefully, until you have no choice to learn. Until you have no choice but to tap.”
Sin: “And we respect you, Pax, lest you lean back on that old chestnut until the shell cracks.”
Nighthawk: “Pax, I have respect for you, and your talent. Only a fool wouldn’t. Only a fool would look at you and not know what I know, which is that if you keep your head about you and don’t fall victim to the injury bug, you have a chance to be one of the true greats. But right now, right in this moment, all you have is the chance. And at Lineage, whether it takes me 10 minutes or 90, I will make sure you don’t get the chance. Because while you may be younger than me, and bigger, you’re not smarter. I’ve wrestled men your size, and I’ve made them feel as small as a bantamweight. I can tie you in knots so brutal it would take a week’s worth of study from an Eagle Scout to get you out of the 1st one. I will use every trick it takes years of experience to have seen, every hold your trainers never taught you because they’re not in the books anymore, and every lesson I was ever taught to show you why I am a ‘Master of 1000 Holds’. And when it’s done, when you tap, I will shake your hand, give you a hug, and watch, proud beyond measure, as you become the champion you’re destined to be…. Next year. But not this time.”
Sin: “Class is in session, Pax. And the best teacher you’ll ever see is at the front of the class.”
Nighthawk: “It’s been two years, Pax, and every time I got a chance at glory, it slipped through my fingers. Not anymore. I’m sad it’s you, but it is you. You’re not going to jump the line ahead of me. You’re going to watch as your chance slips through your fingers.”
Nighthawk and Sin: “Goodnight Pax. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”
Well howdy there pardner.