Post by Andrew Jacobsen on May 31, 2015 22:56:39 GMT
What happened to this business?
What happened to the dignity of wrestling? We used to be athletes who tested ourselves on the mat, prided ourselves on exceptional prowess, and valued the time and dedication it took to become a truly skilled grappler. Now, any slope-browed knuckle-dragger who can wrap their hands around a folding chair can call themselves a wrestler. Worse yet, they think they have the God-given right to sneer down at those of us who actually took the time to learn something.
I've made no bones about it, I believe in wrestling. That's wrestling in its many forms, not just the style I wrestle. I can respect lucha libre. That's an art, that's a style that takes patience and dedication to master. I can respect people who take their cues from mixed martial arts. Cross-discipline fighting styles take a lot of work to successfully hybridize. They're all different seats at the same table. Cousins, of a sort.
Garbage fighters, people like Eddie Black, are the shame we have to put up with. When those who don't know what we do look at their excesses, they think it's representative of all of us. Garbage fighters—because you don't DESERVE the honor of being called a wrestler, you miserable bastard—deprive those who want to know more of an opportunity. What if some child out there wants to become a wrestler, but all their parents can see is the bingo-hall hellholes that people like you thrive in? That's a dream denied, because you want to pass off your sloppy rioting as being a real wrestler.
Make no mistake, you're not the only one who I hold a grudge against in this match. Alexander Atwater is guilty of the same sins as you. You're two of a kind, Eddie, and I imagine you relished the chance to mix it up with someone on your level.
Sorry, junior. Time to step it up.
Speaking of Atwater, it's nice to know that I was right about him. He got the better of me once, and I'll give him that. That is all he gets, that is all he will earn from me until he pulls his head out of his ass and remembers that this isn't some two-bit pissing match out behind a bar. We're athletes, or at least we're supposed to be. Why is that so hard for people to understand?
I'd say more, but it makes me physically ill to think that either of you are anything more than bouncers. Eddie, you're a bellowing, uncensored buffoon, a shaved gorilla with about as much class. Alexander, you're an arrogant thug whose delusions of grandeur are almost unparalleled. You two are everything that I am not, and I am HAPPY to consign you to that position in the trash heap of life. You're a duo of hacks, goons whose sole purpose is to be oohed and aahed over like a freak in a sideshow. You make me SICK, and I'll be more than happy to leave you two behind and move onto better things.
Do you want to know why I'm in this match, why I have this opportunity? Simple answer: because I've earned it. Through years of dedication and back-breaking work, I've earned the right to compete for a shot like this. I'm a breath of dignity in this choking haze of idiocy. Do you really think that anyone who cares about this company wants someone like you representing it as a champion? IWF deserves better, the Invictus Title deserves better, even Aaron Owens deserves better, and I am that better. A damn sight better than you, that's for sure. So as you're staring up at me retrieving that contract, your ankle snapped in half, get comfortable.
You're going to spend a lot of time looking up at me.
We open on the inside of an airport lounge. Andrew sits, phone in hand and carry-on beside him, in a plush recliner, a bottle of water in his free hand. He dials a number on his phone, closing his eyes and leaning back as his still-sore back throbs in pain, dull ache penetrating through to his core.
"Andrew."
It wasn't a question. As with so many of the things he did, there was only a calm certainty. Andrew grins softly, nodding.
"Hey there, Jake. Wanted to call to wish you good luck Sunday. Gaither's no slouch. Of course, you probably don't think you need luck."
A wry note of mild disappointment laces its way through Jake Conway's reply, almost a chiding "you can do better" attitude.
"Andrew, you know that luck is always with me. I do appreciate the sentiment, though."
Andrew nods, smiling to himself.
"Also, let Domino know I said happy birthday. I'll have something for you to bring back to her at the pay-per-view."
Jake's voice carries with it a slight touch of surprise, but also warmth.
"Thank you. I'll make sure to pass it along. I take it you don't have a lot of time before you need to be otherwise occupied?"
Andrew sighs, nodding as he shifts in the chair.
"Flight takes off soon, they're going to start boarding. Just enjoying a few moments in the lounge before things get kicked off. Say, Jake...could you nudge Kathy to call Emma? I think she misses talking to her."
"Her fingers aren't broken. ...well, they might be. Still, I will put a word in."
Andrew grins at the well-meaning bluntness from his friend. An announcement echos over the PA, and he sits up, stretching and rolling his shoulder.
"Well, that's my flight soon. I'll see you at the stadium."
"Indeed. See you then, Andrew."
Andrew hangs up the phone, sighing and staring it for a few seconds before hopping to his feet. He grabs his carry-on, ruffling his hair with a free hand, and walks towards the gate as we fade out.
Guernica...you're different. I wish you weren't. I wish I could just set this all in the same pile and approach this with a sense of relieved detachment. But you're still here. You're still...being that same blazingly, blindingly optimistic man. And I still wish I could do something to show you that you were right. But all I can do is point at our co-competitors and sigh.
They're the new generation, by and large. Men like you, men like I used to be, we're a rapidly disappearing species. You either harden or you abandon your principles. I refuse to cast aside what I stand for, but I don't have to smile and say "oh, it's alright" anymore either.
...God, I don't know what to say to you. I don't want to tell you to walk away from this, because you clearly care about it. Your heart and soul is in professional wrestling, and it'd be wrong for me to try to put that out. You talk about how we'll all see a new you, and I've been there before. I've been there, and I've come out looking exactly the same as I did going in. If you're going to change, I damn well want you to mean it.
Commit. Just like you committed before, you dedicate yourself to this new mentality and you hold to it with a grip that nobody can break, or it will mean NOTHING. I will not tolerate empty words from you, not when you show this promise. You can be more, you can be better, so you had better damn well DO IT. We make ourselves the last two in this match, and we prove which man is superior in this ring.
...or you backslide, and I'll need to give you a one-on-one lesson. I hope that's not the case. I hope I can trust you to be better. But I've learned to hedge my bets with other wrestlers. Guernica? Good luck. You'll need it. You other two? Watch your back, or I'll break it. And Aaron Owens?
Get ready. Study up. Because the North Star is about to rise again.
What happened to the dignity of wrestling? We used to be athletes who tested ourselves on the mat, prided ourselves on exceptional prowess, and valued the time and dedication it took to become a truly skilled grappler. Now, any slope-browed knuckle-dragger who can wrap their hands around a folding chair can call themselves a wrestler. Worse yet, they think they have the God-given right to sneer down at those of us who actually took the time to learn something.
I've made no bones about it, I believe in wrestling. That's wrestling in its many forms, not just the style I wrestle. I can respect lucha libre. That's an art, that's a style that takes patience and dedication to master. I can respect people who take their cues from mixed martial arts. Cross-discipline fighting styles take a lot of work to successfully hybridize. They're all different seats at the same table. Cousins, of a sort.
Garbage fighters, people like Eddie Black, are the shame we have to put up with. When those who don't know what we do look at their excesses, they think it's representative of all of us. Garbage fighters—because you don't DESERVE the honor of being called a wrestler, you miserable bastard—deprive those who want to know more of an opportunity. What if some child out there wants to become a wrestler, but all their parents can see is the bingo-hall hellholes that people like you thrive in? That's a dream denied, because you want to pass off your sloppy rioting as being a real wrestler.
Make no mistake, you're not the only one who I hold a grudge against in this match. Alexander Atwater is guilty of the same sins as you. You're two of a kind, Eddie, and I imagine you relished the chance to mix it up with someone on your level.
Sorry, junior. Time to step it up.
Speaking of Atwater, it's nice to know that I was right about him. He got the better of me once, and I'll give him that. That is all he gets, that is all he will earn from me until he pulls his head out of his ass and remembers that this isn't some two-bit pissing match out behind a bar. We're athletes, or at least we're supposed to be. Why is that so hard for people to understand?
I'd say more, but it makes me physically ill to think that either of you are anything more than bouncers. Eddie, you're a bellowing, uncensored buffoon, a shaved gorilla with about as much class. Alexander, you're an arrogant thug whose delusions of grandeur are almost unparalleled. You two are everything that I am not, and I am HAPPY to consign you to that position in the trash heap of life. You're a duo of hacks, goons whose sole purpose is to be oohed and aahed over like a freak in a sideshow. You make me SICK, and I'll be more than happy to leave you two behind and move onto better things.
Do you want to know why I'm in this match, why I have this opportunity? Simple answer: because I've earned it. Through years of dedication and back-breaking work, I've earned the right to compete for a shot like this. I'm a breath of dignity in this choking haze of idiocy. Do you really think that anyone who cares about this company wants someone like you representing it as a champion? IWF deserves better, the Invictus Title deserves better, even Aaron Owens deserves better, and I am that better. A damn sight better than you, that's for sure. So as you're staring up at me retrieving that contract, your ankle snapped in half, get comfortable.
You're going to spend a lot of time looking up at me.
We open on the inside of an airport lounge. Andrew sits, phone in hand and carry-on beside him, in a plush recliner, a bottle of water in his free hand. He dials a number on his phone, closing his eyes and leaning back as his still-sore back throbs in pain, dull ache penetrating through to his core.
"Andrew."
It wasn't a question. As with so many of the things he did, there was only a calm certainty. Andrew grins softly, nodding.
"Hey there, Jake. Wanted to call to wish you good luck Sunday. Gaither's no slouch. Of course, you probably don't think you need luck."
A wry note of mild disappointment laces its way through Jake Conway's reply, almost a chiding "you can do better" attitude.
"Andrew, you know that luck is always with me. I do appreciate the sentiment, though."
Andrew nods, smiling to himself.
"Also, let Domino know I said happy birthday. I'll have something for you to bring back to her at the pay-per-view."
Jake's voice carries with it a slight touch of surprise, but also warmth.
"Thank you. I'll make sure to pass it along. I take it you don't have a lot of time before you need to be otherwise occupied?"
Andrew sighs, nodding as he shifts in the chair.
"Flight takes off soon, they're going to start boarding. Just enjoying a few moments in the lounge before things get kicked off. Say, Jake...could you nudge Kathy to call Emma? I think she misses talking to her."
"Her fingers aren't broken. ...well, they might be. Still, I will put a word in."
Andrew grins at the well-meaning bluntness from his friend. An announcement echos over the PA, and he sits up, stretching and rolling his shoulder.
"Well, that's my flight soon. I'll see you at the stadium."
"Indeed. See you then, Andrew."
Andrew hangs up the phone, sighing and staring it for a few seconds before hopping to his feet. He grabs his carry-on, ruffling his hair with a free hand, and walks towards the gate as we fade out.
Guernica...you're different. I wish you weren't. I wish I could just set this all in the same pile and approach this with a sense of relieved detachment. But you're still here. You're still...being that same blazingly, blindingly optimistic man. And I still wish I could do something to show you that you were right. But all I can do is point at our co-competitors and sigh.
They're the new generation, by and large. Men like you, men like I used to be, we're a rapidly disappearing species. You either harden or you abandon your principles. I refuse to cast aside what I stand for, but I don't have to smile and say "oh, it's alright" anymore either.
...God, I don't know what to say to you. I don't want to tell you to walk away from this, because you clearly care about it. Your heart and soul is in professional wrestling, and it'd be wrong for me to try to put that out. You talk about how we'll all see a new you, and I've been there before. I've been there, and I've come out looking exactly the same as I did going in. If you're going to change, I damn well want you to mean it.
Commit. Just like you committed before, you dedicate yourself to this new mentality and you hold to it with a grip that nobody can break, or it will mean NOTHING. I will not tolerate empty words from you, not when you show this promise. You can be more, you can be better, so you had better damn well DO IT. We make ourselves the last two in this match, and we prove which man is superior in this ring.
...or you backslide, and I'll need to give you a one-on-one lesson. I hope that's not the case. I hope I can trust you to be better. But I've learned to hedge my bets with other wrestlers. Guernica? Good luck. You'll need it. You other two? Watch your back, or I'll break it. And Aaron Owens?
Get ready. Study up. Because the North Star is about to rise again.
Well howdy there pardner.