Post by Zach Staples on Apr 10, 2015 19:42:39 GMT
As soon as I walked in the door it was obvious that my dad had been drinking. It wasn't anything new - and hell, lots of cops and ex-cops end up down this road. That's without the added stress of having lost his wife to an accident in his own home. Surely, hearing about his son's mental instability would do wonders for his current condition. Empty and half-empty beer bottles littered the coffee table in front of the couch. On the couch lay my father, Josh Staples, in a state of semi-consciousness. He was barely paying attention to the baseball game on the television. He claimed to love the sport, but whenever a game was on it just seemed like an excuse to drink more beer. You would think that he'd get to the point where he wouldn't make excuses anymore, and just drink... but that wasn't like him. He wouldn't admit that he had a problem. Ha. Maybe that's why I couldn't admit to him that I just failed a psychological evaluation because I haven't dealt with...
Josh Staples: So - when are they planning on bringing you on?
Damn it. I really hoped I'd be able to sneak by him. The conversation was inevitable, but I'd give anything to not have it right at this moment.
Zach Staples: Dad...
I couldn't say it. What was I going to say? "Dad, I refused to answer Marv's questions about mom because I'm too weak to deal with some crap that happened 8 years ago?". That wasn't going to go over well. Actually that wouldn't go over at all. I plopped down on the chair next to the couch. He sat up, sensing that something wasn't right.
Josh Staples: What is it? They giving you the run around about which precinct you'll be working? Cops have to pay their dues, son.
Might as well just get it out there.
Zach Staples: Dad, I'm not starting. At least not this year.
Josh Staples: You're serious?
He looked up at me and with some hesitation, I nodded. He reached over to the coffee table, feeling the weight for a bottle with something left in it. He found one, and emptied it into his mouth. He stood up and calmly threw the empty beer bottle against the wall, sending shards of glass everywhere. Then he erupted.
Josh Staples: What did I tell you about studying for the fucking written exam, Zach!? What did I tell you!? I told you all that bullshit martial arts you've spent all your time on is worthless!
Zach Staples: Dad..
Josh Staples: No! You'll listen to this, and let me tell you something son, you'd better internalize it. This world owes you nothing! It will give you nothing! You thought you would just walk into a written exam without studying and ace it, why!? Because you're my son!?
This was much better than failing the psych eval. I mean - he was right, studying for the written was important, and I had been studying for that exam for the last 3 years. Passing it was no problem. I didn't need to tell him that, though. I could just let him think I failed the written exam. Then he wouldn't have to know that his son was batshit crazy.
Zach Staples: I... I failed to prepare, dad.
He reached for another mostly empty beer bottle, not bothering to empty it before launching it into the same spot on the wall. Now a small puddle of warm beer joined the pile of glass lining the wall.
Josh Staples: Don't give me that shit! You're an arrogant little prick is what you are! Get out of my fucking face.
There was no point trying to fix it. This wasn't going to get any better until he was sober. That is, if he was ever sober again. It seemed his hours of sobriety were growing further and further apart these days. I grabbed my duffel bag from the kitchen table - made sure it contained my gi, my grappling gloves, and a bottle of water - and made my way out the door. I jumped into my car and began the drive to the gym completely on autopilot. My mind was weak - but it did have a unique and useful feature - an off switch.
IWF - and more specifically, Guernica, I'm not telling you all of this for no reason. I'm not regaling you with tales from my recent past just to hear myself talk.
You see, I like a fair fight. Right now, I know so much about you, and you know so little about me. I've watched you try and try again, and last week i watched you walk away with your first victory. Congratulations. I mean that sincerely. I love to watch someone achieve their mission. Particularly someone as honorable as you appear to be. I've seen your honor, and I've seen your explosive style... but you've seen nothing from me. I'm brand new here. Hell, this will be my first professional wrestling match. But I need you to see that I'm no stranger to a fight.
I've been fighting my entire life. That's not just a metaphor for the personal struggles that I've overcome - I've been fighting with my fists and limbs for as long as I can remember. Hell, right now I'm feeling like it's about the only thing that I do well. I can break a man, I can make a man bleed. These aren't things to be proud of. None of these are things that I can put on a resume. So here I am. Not proud of what I'm doing - not inspired or driven to become the best - I'm here because I've failed at everything else.
I see you talking about how you used to be in a dark place, Guernica. And I can't help but feel like I'm headed toward it. So I look to you as inspiration. You've come out the other end - you've found yourself and your calling... but more than that it seems like you're so completely in control of your emotions. How in the world do you do that? I've tried meditation, hell - I've been practicing martial arts for over a decade - it's really not possible to be an experienced judoku without being exposed to some serious eastern philosophy. Despite my best efforts I can't seem to get close to your level of serenity. Maybe I need to hang out at more bubbling brooks and the like. I don't know.
What I do know, Guernica, is that on Thursday we're going to fight - because I don't know how to wrestle. I don't know how to put on a show. I can do two things.
I can break a man, and I can make a man bleed.
There's nothing quite like the smell of a well used wrestling mat. When I put it that way i guess it doesn't sound too appealing, but for me it smells like escape. The one place I could go where people wouldn't ask me how I'm feeling. Nobody cares much about you at a gym, except how hard you work - and how hard you can make them work. I had been going to Harry's martial arts gym for years now. Hell, I was one of the last people to actually learn under Harry before he got too old to teach. He wasn't around much anymore. He took a lot of vacations - hard earned vacations.
Mike: What do you say, Staples? Care to try your judo bullshit against real combat techniques?
Mike smiled to himself. He was a good kid - and his verbal jab at judo wasn't a real blow. He knew damn well what I was capable of.
Zach Staples: Not a great day for it, Mikey. Next time.
Mike: Oh come on. How the hell am I supposed to get better if I don't fight the best?
It's not that I didn't like the kid - but I was carrying around a lot of emotional baggage at the moment, and that's never a good thing to bring into a fight.
Zach Staples: Take a raincheck, man. Next time I'm in here for randori you're at the top of my list.
Randori was one of the key concepts of judo. It's one of the reasons I preferred judo to jiu-jitsu. Randori was all out training - no holding back. You could train randori in judo without risking permanent injury against a similarly skilled opponent. Something like brazilian jiu jitsu, or just regular MMA would cause too many injuries, so you had to practice techniques slower and without as much resistance.
John: He ain't the best around here, anyway. Hasn't been for a long time.
Not this asshole. There really weren't many people at this gym that I tried to avoid, but John was definitely one of them. He swore up and down that he was going to make it big in MMA, but he couldn't wrestle to save his life. About all he had was good boxing and frankly that doesn't cut it when you run into someone who knows how to get around your hands.
Zach Staples: There ya go Mike, hit the mat with John. He should be able to help you with a few things.
Mike hesitated - and it wasn't the same hesitation that I had. There was fear there.
Mike: Last time I trained with John I left with a bloody nose. No thanks.
John: How can you expect to get better if you don't fight the best?
John laughed. Not a chuckle, a straight up belly laugh. Mike cringed and turned to walk toward the weight room.
Zach Staples: Hey John, how about you show me who's the best?
John: Fuck your judo.
Zach Staples: You bring your best and I'll bring mine.
John: What exactly are you asking for? Aren't you all about not hurting anyone? Don't you know that hurting people is kinda what I do?
I did know that hurting people was what John did, and frankly I was in the perfect mood for it. Reckless? Of course. But reckless was how I felt.
Zach Staples: Mike - wait up - I need you to stop this when it gets out of hand. I don't want to wake up in the hospital.
Or in jail.
Zach Staples: So John, what do you say?
John cracked his knuckles and reached into his bag to pull on his gloves. I took that for a yes and moved toward the middle of the mat. We didn't have a ring or an octagon or anything like that, just some wrestling mats with tape indicating soft boundaries. Anytime someone got too far outside we'd stop the action and move back to the middle. I had a feeling this one wasn't going to go long enough for that to be an issue.
John: You sure about this, Staples? I don't want you pulling me over in a month when you're a cop.
It looks like word hadn't gotten around the gym yet. He didn't even realize that what he said would be something to set me off - but I couldn't have been more ready to fight than I was at that moment.
Zach Staples: Bring your ass.
We touched gloves and he immediately backed up. He didn't want me getting in close to throw him - he wanted to throw punches. He wanted to box. He was quick, quicker than I was, and I paid for it. Two quick jabs to the face. Probably enough to bruise me up a bit the next morning. He tried to step into a right hook but I read it. I caught his arm and quickly used his leverage to toss him to the ground. Unfortunately, he was up way too fast for me to press my advantage.
John: Nice throw, brah. You might have even bruised my hip a bit there!
I knew what this was. He was taunting me in an attempt to open me up. I shrugged a shoulder to make him think I was moving in for an arm drag and then I caught his right arm. I threw my forearm up into his armpit and tripped him. I fell to the ground with him and flowed into a triangle choke. He tapped. I pretended not to notice. He tapped again. I thought of Marv's face at the psych eval. That piteous look on his face. I thought about how my life was over. I thought about my father telling me to get out of his fucking face. I'm not sure exactly how long Mike had been struggling to pull me away. I don't think that it was long enough to risk any serious injury, but as soon as I did let go he rushed over to John to make sure he started breathing again, which apparently he did.
Harry: What the hell was that, Staples?
Oh, great. Apparently today was one of Harry's days in the office. I turned to face him, but couldn't look him in the face. I don't know how many times he talked to me about how important it was to respect the tapout. Too many to count, probably. There was a man in an expensive suit next to him. He looked at me and smiled. What kind of man smiled after witnessing what I had just done.
Harry: I think you better take a walk.
I grunted and ripped off my gloves. I made my way to the locker room, gathered up my things and headed straight for the door. I didn't know if I'd ever be welcomed back to Harry's. I didn't know what I was going to do, i didn't know what the hell my life had become. I shouldered past the glass door and out into the parking lot. The man in the expensive suit was waiting for me.
Joey Leroux: Mr Staples! I'm Joey Leroux. Pleasure to meet you.
He stuck his hand out for me to shake. In response I looked down at my own hands, which were full.
Joey Leroux: Of course. Well, I guess we'll skip the pleasantries. I'm out here looking for talent for the IWF training grounds. Are you familiar with it?
I was. IWF was professional wrestling. A bunch of carnies, I'd heard.
Zach Staples: Not interested.
I tried to walk past him to my car, but he moved in front of me, surprisingly agile.
Joey Leroux: I think you should at least listen to what I can offer you.
Zach Staples: Not. Interested.
This time I successfully maneuvered around Joey. I was moving toward my car when he stopped me in my tracks.
Joey Leroux: Well we both know you sure as hell aren't going to be a police officer. So what, exactly, are you going to do with your life?
I turned around to face the man - who looking back at me with a knowing smile.
Zach Staples: Who the hell did you talk to?
Joey Leroux: My connections aren't important. What is important is that I can help you turn your life around. Look - you don't have to answer right now.
Joey pulled out a small notepad and a pen. He scribbled something down, ripped out a page, folded it up, walked up to me and shoved it into an open flap in my duffel bag.
Joey Leroux: Call me.
Call you? Not in a million years. He was right, I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I was sure that it wasn't going to be professional wrestling. I reached my car and tossed the duffel bag onto the hood. I opened up my car door and threw the rest of my stuff into the car. I reached into the bag, pulled out the piece of paper and opened it. I read the note twice, and then I counted the number of zeroes on my fingers, just to be sure. Huh. Maybe I'd call Joey later this evening after all.
It's true that I come to this place reluctantly. I don't respect this business. I don't respect the legends that have come before me, because frankly I think they're a bunch of pampered assholes. The place is full of people that will tell you otherwise, but I'm not taking anyones word for it. I know that you'll come into this contest saying that you respect me, Guernica. You'll have to earn mine. To be honest with you, I don't even care if I win this fight. I don't care if I never make the main roster. I'm going to show up on Thursday night, I'm going to do my damn job, and I'm going to collect my damn paycheck.
It would be in your best interest to stay out of my way. I'm not saying all of this to try and intimidate you. I just really, honestly, don't want to have to hurt you. It doesn't need to get violent. All of this bullshit I've been telling you about doesn't need to come to a boiling point. I don't need to break your arm and set your career back - but I can't promise none of that will happen. At this point, though... it's out of my control. I put that firmly in your hands. IWF is paying me to come after you, and I'm going to do it. Your job is to survive me. If you want to keep going on your little pro-wrestling mission, you need to walk out of the arena on Thursday with four functioning limbs. I want that to be the outcome. I want you to make the main roster and become a champion.
So do yourself a favor and don't push it. It's best that way. For both of us.
Josh Staples: So - when are they planning on bringing you on?
Damn it. I really hoped I'd be able to sneak by him. The conversation was inevitable, but I'd give anything to not have it right at this moment.
Zach Staples: Dad...
I couldn't say it. What was I going to say? "Dad, I refused to answer Marv's questions about mom because I'm too weak to deal with some crap that happened 8 years ago?". That wasn't going to go over well. Actually that wouldn't go over at all. I plopped down on the chair next to the couch. He sat up, sensing that something wasn't right.
Josh Staples: What is it? They giving you the run around about which precinct you'll be working? Cops have to pay their dues, son.
Might as well just get it out there.
Zach Staples: Dad, I'm not starting. At least not this year.
Josh Staples: You're serious?
He looked up at me and with some hesitation, I nodded. He reached over to the coffee table, feeling the weight for a bottle with something left in it. He found one, and emptied it into his mouth. He stood up and calmly threw the empty beer bottle against the wall, sending shards of glass everywhere. Then he erupted.
Josh Staples: What did I tell you about studying for the fucking written exam, Zach!? What did I tell you!? I told you all that bullshit martial arts you've spent all your time on is worthless!
Zach Staples: Dad..
Josh Staples: No! You'll listen to this, and let me tell you something son, you'd better internalize it. This world owes you nothing! It will give you nothing! You thought you would just walk into a written exam without studying and ace it, why!? Because you're my son!?
This was much better than failing the psych eval. I mean - he was right, studying for the written was important, and I had been studying for that exam for the last 3 years. Passing it was no problem. I didn't need to tell him that, though. I could just let him think I failed the written exam. Then he wouldn't have to know that his son was batshit crazy.
Zach Staples: I... I failed to prepare, dad.
He reached for another mostly empty beer bottle, not bothering to empty it before launching it into the same spot on the wall. Now a small puddle of warm beer joined the pile of glass lining the wall.
Josh Staples: Don't give me that shit! You're an arrogant little prick is what you are! Get out of my fucking face.
There was no point trying to fix it. This wasn't going to get any better until he was sober. That is, if he was ever sober again. It seemed his hours of sobriety were growing further and further apart these days. I grabbed my duffel bag from the kitchen table - made sure it contained my gi, my grappling gloves, and a bottle of water - and made my way out the door. I jumped into my car and began the drive to the gym completely on autopilot. My mind was weak - but it did have a unique and useful feature - an off switch.
IWF - and more specifically, Guernica, I'm not telling you all of this for no reason. I'm not regaling you with tales from my recent past just to hear myself talk.
You see, I like a fair fight. Right now, I know so much about you, and you know so little about me. I've watched you try and try again, and last week i watched you walk away with your first victory. Congratulations. I mean that sincerely. I love to watch someone achieve their mission. Particularly someone as honorable as you appear to be. I've seen your honor, and I've seen your explosive style... but you've seen nothing from me. I'm brand new here. Hell, this will be my first professional wrestling match. But I need you to see that I'm no stranger to a fight.
I've been fighting my entire life. That's not just a metaphor for the personal struggles that I've overcome - I've been fighting with my fists and limbs for as long as I can remember. Hell, right now I'm feeling like it's about the only thing that I do well. I can break a man, I can make a man bleed. These aren't things to be proud of. None of these are things that I can put on a resume. So here I am. Not proud of what I'm doing - not inspired or driven to become the best - I'm here because I've failed at everything else.
I see you talking about how you used to be in a dark place, Guernica. And I can't help but feel like I'm headed toward it. So I look to you as inspiration. You've come out the other end - you've found yourself and your calling... but more than that it seems like you're so completely in control of your emotions. How in the world do you do that? I've tried meditation, hell - I've been practicing martial arts for over a decade - it's really not possible to be an experienced judoku without being exposed to some serious eastern philosophy. Despite my best efforts I can't seem to get close to your level of serenity. Maybe I need to hang out at more bubbling brooks and the like. I don't know.
What I do know, Guernica, is that on Thursday we're going to fight - because I don't know how to wrestle. I don't know how to put on a show. I can do two things.
I can break a man, and I can make a man bleed.
There's nothing quite like the smell of a well used wrestling mat. When I put it that way i guess it doesn't sound too appealing, but for me it smells like escape. The one place I could go where people wouldn't ask me how I'm feeling. Nobody cares much about you at a gym, except how hard you work - and how hard you can make them work. I had been going to Harry's martial arts gym for years now. Hell, I was one of the last people to actually learn under Harry before he got too old to teach. He wasn't around much anymore. He took a lot of vacations - hard earned vacations.
Mike: What do you say, Staples? Care to try your judo bullshit against real combat techniques?
Mike smiled to himself. He was a good kid - and his verbal jab at judo wasn't a real blow. He knew damn well what I was capable of.
Zach Staples: Not a great day for it, Mikey. Next time.
Mike: Oh come on. How the hell am I supposed to get better if I don't fight the best?
It's not that I didn't like the kid - but I was carrying around a lot of emotional baggage at the moment, and that's never a good thing to bring into a fight.
Zach Staples: Take a raincheck, man. Next time I'm in here for randori you're at the top of my list.
Randori was one of the key concepts of judo. It's one of the reasons I preferred judo to jiu-jitsu. Randori was all out training - no holding back. You could train randori in judo without risking permanent injury against a similarly skilled opponent. Something like brazilian jiu jitsu, or just regular MMA would cause too many injuries, so you had to practice techniques slower and without as much resistance.
John: He ain't the best around here, anyway. Hasn't been for a long time.
Not this asshole. There really weren't many people at this gym that I tried to avoid, but John was definitely one of them. He swore up and down that he was going to make it big in MMA, but he couldn't wrestle to save his life. About all he had was good boxing and frankly that doesn't cut it when you run into someone who knows how to get around your hands.
Zach Staples: There ya go Mike, hit the mat with John. He should be able to help you with a few things.
Mike hesitated - and it wasn't the same hesitation that I had. There was fear there.
Mike: Last time I trained with John I left with a bloody nose. No thanks.
John: How can you expect to get better if you don't fight the best?
John laughed. Not a chuckle, a straight up belly laugh. Mike cringed and turned to walk toward the weight room.
Zach Staples: Hey John, how about you show me who's the best?
John: Fuck your judo.
Zach Staples: You bring your best and I'll bring mine.
John: What exactly are you asking for? Aren't you all about not hurting anyone? Don't you know that hurting people is kinda what I do?
I did know that hurting people was what John did, and frankly I was in the perfect mood for it. Reckless? Of course. But reckless was how I felt.
Zach Staples: Mike - wait up - I need you to stop this when it gets out of hand. I don't want to wake up in the hospital.
Or in jail.
Zach Staples: So John, what do you say?
John cracked his knuckles and reached into his bag to pull on his gloves. I took that for a yes and moved toward the middle of the mat. We didn't have a ring or an octagon or anything like that, just some wrestling mats with tape indicating soft boundaries. Anytime someone got too far outside we'd stop the action and move back to the middle. I had a feeling this one wasn't going to go long enough for that to be an issue.
John: You sure about this, Staples? I don't want you pulling me over in a month when you're a cop.
It looks like word hadn't gotten around the gym yet. He didn't even realize that what he said would be something to set me off - but I couldn't have been more ready to fight than I was at that moment.
Zach Staples: Bring your ass.
We touched gloves and he immediately backed up. He didn't want me getting in close to throw him - he wanted to throw punches. He wanted to box. He was quick, quicker than I was, and I paid for it. Two quick jabs to the face. Probably enough to bruise me up a bit the next morning. He tried to step into a right hook but I read it. I caught his arm and quickly used his leverage to toss him to the ground. Unfortunately, he was up way too fast for me to press my advantage.
John: Nice throw, brah. You might have even bruised my hip a bit there!
I knew what this was. He was taunting me in an attempt to open me up. I shrugged a shoulder to make him think I was moving in for an arm drag and then I caught his right arm. I threw my forearm up into his armpit and tripped him. I fell to the ground with him and flowed into a triangle choke. He tapped. I pretended not to notice. He tapped again. I thought of Marv's face at the psych eval. That piteous look on his face. I thought about how my life was over. I thought about my father telling me to get out of his fucking face. I'm not sure exactly how long Mike had been struggling to pull me away. I don't think that it was long enough to risk any serious injury, but as soon as I did let go he rushed over to John to make sure he started breathing again, which apparently he did.
Harry: What the hell was that, Staples?
Oh, great. Apparently today was one of Harry's days in the office. I turned to face him, but couldn't look him in the face. I don't know how many times he talked to me about how important it was to respect the tapout. Too many to count, probably. There was a man in an expensive suit next to him. He looked at me and smiled. What kind of man smiled after witnessing what I had just done.
Harry: I think you better take a walk.
I grunted and ripped off my gloves. I made my way to the locker room, gathered up my things and headed straight for the door. I didn't know if I'd ever be welcomed back to Harry's. I didn't know what I was going to do, i didn't know what the hell my life had become. I shouldered past the glass door and out into the parking lot. The man in the expensive suit was waiting for me.
Joey Leroux: Mr Staples! I'm Joey Leroux. Pleasure to meet you.
He stuck his hand out for me to shake. In response I looked down at my own hands, which were full.
Joey Leroux: Of course. Well, I guess we'll skip the pleasantries. I'm out here looking for talent for the IWF training grounds. Are you familiar with it?
I was. IWF was professional wrestling. A bunch of carnies, I'd heard.
Zach Staples: Not interested.
I tried to walk past him to my car, but he moved in front of me, surprisingly agile.
Joey Leroux: I think you should at least listen to what I can offer you.
Zach Staples: Not. Interested.
This time I successfully maneuvered around Joey. I was moving toward my car when he stopped me in my tracks.
Joey Leroux: Well we both know you sure as hell aren't going to be a police officer. So what, exactly, are you going to do with your life?
I turned around to face the man - who looking back at me with a knowing smile.
Zach Staples: Who the hell did you talk to?
Joey Leroux: My connections aren't important. What is important is that I can help you turn your life around. Look - you don't have to answer right now.
Joey pulled out a small notepad and a pen. He scribbled something down, ripped out a page, folded it up, walked up to me and shoved it into an open flap in my duffel bag.
Joey Leroux: Call me.
Call you? Not in a million years. He was right, I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I was sure that it wasn't going to be professional wrestling. I reached my car and tossed the duffel bag onto the hood. I opened up my car door and threw the rest of my stuff into the car. I reached into the bag, pulled out the piece of paper and opened it. I read the note twice, and then I counted the number of zeroes on my fingers, just to be sure. Huh. Maybe I'd call Joey later this evening after all.
It's true that I come to this place reluctantly. I don't respect this business. I don't respect the legends that have come before me, because frankly I think they're a bunch of pampered assholes. The place is full of people that will tell you otherwise, but I'm not taking anyones word for it. I know that you'll come into this contest saying that you respect me, Guernica. You'll have to earn mine. To be honest with you, I don't even care if I win this fight. I don't care if I never make the main roster. I'm going to show up on Thursday night, I'm going to do my damn job, and I'm going to collect my damn paycheck.
It would be in your best interest to stay out of my way. I'm not saying all of this to try and intimidate you. I just really, honestly, don't want to have to hurt you. It doesn't need to get violent. All of this bullshit I've been telling you about doesn't need to come to a boiling point. I don't need to break your arm and set your career back - but I can't promise none of that will happen. At this point, though... it's out of my control. I put that firmly in your hands. IWF is paying me to come after you, and I'm going to do it. Your job is to survive me. If you want to keep going on your little pro-wrestling mission, you need to walk out of the arena on Thursday with four functioning limbs. I want that to be the outcome. I want you to make the main roster and become a champion.
So do yourself a favor and don't push it. It's best that way. For both of us.