Post by Deleted on Mar 9, 2017 1:34:09 GMT
“"Chicago still remains a Mecca of the Midwest—people from both coasts are kind of amazed how good life is in Chicago, and what a good culture we’ve got. You can have a pretty wonderful artistic life and never leave Chicago.”
As Nighthawk sits in a back booth at a local diner called Kevin’s Hamburger Haven near his house in the Bridgeport neighborhood of Chicago, reading the menu carefully to try and find a good breakfast after a hard training session, one has to wonder how he perceives the IWF Roulette. While for some people they are viewing this as a chance to announce themselves at the very apex of the IWF scene there are those, and it is highly possible that he counts himself in this 2nd group, who sees the Roulette as their last and best chance to become a winner.
For while he has added yet more shine to his reputation as perhaps the sport’s finest pure technician, and delivered many excellent contests, his continual lack of championship gold is beginning to gnaw at him and might even be beginning to make him doubt his own talents.
But while the “Wrestling Machine” might be dealing with a crisis of faith at the moment his fans and supporters have stayed utterly supportive and continue to hold steady to the idea that someone with his nonpareil technical skills need only find the right opponent, on the right night, for all of those doubts he might be having to fade away into nothingness.
Having finally made the decision on what he wants to order Nighthawk waves the waitress over, his ice-blue eyes warming as he sees someone he has trained for quite a long time.
Nighthawk, smiling warmly and widely: “Hello, Sasha. I knew you had a second job to pay for wrestling school, but I did not think it would be working at the diner I have been going to since I was a teenager. How do you like working here?”
Sasha, her face and body language giving off the impression that she is reacting to this in the same way you would if your teacher suddenly stumbled upon you off the clock: “Sir, I love it working here. I get to practice all of those things you taught me in promo class about getting to see different people, and having different life experiences. Sir, I genuinely enjoy it.”
Nighthawk, his smile growing kinder as he realizes the very awkward position that he has managed to place his student in: “Look, Sasha, I know what this has got to be like for you. When I was working at the tattoo parlor to put myself through wrestling school, if I had seen one of my teachers wander in there, I about would have died. So why don’t we just save you any more embarrassment? I’d like a chopped steak omelet, with grits, and a large Blue Mountain coffee. Thank you, Sasha, and I’ll see you at class on Monday.”
Smiling Sasha walks away and puts his order in, allowing Nighthawk to pull his iPhone out from the side pocket of his black-and-red Chicago Blackhawks hoodie and begin to log in his workout as well as what he is eating today.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk sits on the top step of the front porch of his row house, his ice-blue eyes gazing down at the street and the action in front of it, he slowly closes his eyes as his entire being suddenly shifts. Clad in a white Bad Company t-shirt, blue leather pants with orange and white stars up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Man of 1000 Holds” opens his eyes and stares straight ahead.
Nighthawk, intensity pouring off of him: “It has always been about wrestling for me. I have never paid much interest in acclaim, fame, or notoriety. I have never much needed it. All I have ever needed, all I have ever craved, is the chance to test my skills against the very best in the world.
And for a long time, that was enough. Knowing I was battling against the best, and leaving nothing to chance in those battles, was enough. Knowing that I had absolute wrestling freedom, and could wrestle how I wanted against who I wanted with no fear of being told my style isn’t ‘marketable’, was for a long time all I ever wanted.
It isn’t anymore.
When I sleep, I dream of holding championship gold. I dream of hearing Terri Morasco tell the world I’ve finally done it.
When I wake, I train as though the next title shot is coming and I vow to never be unprepared for it.
But I am also no fool. I know that I do not have many more chances coming like the one the Roulette is going to offer me.
So I make the fans of the IWF this promise. I make it in blood, sweat, and tears and I expect to be held to it.
I don’t care if I start at #1, or if I get in there at #30. I will leave every ounce of myself, every last bit of talent, in that ring in order to get the chance at the one thing that has eluded me. And when I do, when my name is called in victory, I will be at peace.
I have had many great matches, many wars that I have been rightfully proud of. But I need my name to be etched in the IWF record books for something else. And winning the Roulette, being the last man standing, is exactly the thing.
Goodnight IWF. May sleep give you the courage to go on."
As Nighthawk sits in a back booth at a local diner called Kevin’s Hamburger Haven near his house in the Bridgeport neighborhood of Chicago, reading the menu carefully to try and find a good breakfast after a hard training session, one has to wonder how he perceives the IWF Roulette. While for some people they are viewing this as a chance to announce themselves at the very apex of the IWF scene there are those, and it is highly possible that he counts himself in this 2nd group, who sees the Roulette as their last and best chance to become a winner.
For while he has added yet more shine to his reputation as perhaps the sport’s finest pure technician, and delivered many excellent contests, his continual lack of championship gold is beginning to gnaw at him and might even be beginning to make him doubt his own talents.
But while the “Wrestling Machine” might be dealing with a crisis of faith at the moment his fans and supporters have stayed utterly supportive and continue to hold steady to the idea that someone with his nonpareil technical skills need only find the right opponent, on the right night, for all of those doubts he might be having to fade away into nothingness.
Having finally made the decision on what he wants to order Nighthawk waves the waitress over, his ice-blue eyes warming as he sees someone he has trained for quite a long time.
Nighthawk, smiling warmly and widely: “Hello, Sasha. I knew you had a second job to pay for wrestling school, but I did not think it would be working at the diner I have been going to since I was a teenager. How do you like working here?”
Sasha, her face and body language giving off the impression that she is reacting to this in the same way you would if your teacher suddenly stumbled upon you off the clock: “Sir, I love it working here. I get to practice all of those things you taught me in promo class about getting to see different people, and having different life experiences. Sir, I genuinely enjoy it.”
Nighthawk, his smile growing kinder as he realizes the very awkward position that he has managed to place his student in: “Look, Sasha, I know what this has got to be like for you. When I was working at the tattoo parlor to put myself through wrestling school, if I had seen one of my teachers wander in there, I about would have died. So why don’t we just save you any more embarrassment? I’d like a chopped steak omelet, with grits, and a large Blue Mountain coffee. Thank you, Sasha, and I’ll see you at class on Monday.”
Smiling Sasha walks away and puts his order in, allowing Nighthawk to pull his iPhone out from the side pocket of his black-and-red Chicago Blackhawks hoodie and begin to log in his workout as well as what he is eating today.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk sits on the top step of the front porch of his row house, his ice-blue eyes gazing down at the street and the action in front of it, he slowly closes his eyes as his entire being suddenly shifts. Clad in a white Bad Company t-shirt, blue leather pants with orange and white stars up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Man of 1000 Holds” opens his eyes and stares straight ahead.
Nighthawk, intensity pouring off of him: “It has always been about wrestling for me. I have never paid much interest in acclaim, fame, or notoriety. I have never much needed it. All I have ever needed, all I have ever craved, is the chance to test my skills against the very best in the world.
And for a long time, that was enough. Knowing I was battling against the best, and leaving nothing to chance in those battles, was enough. Knowing that I had absolute wrestling freedom, and could wrestle how I wanted against who I wanted with no fear of being told my style isn’t ‘marketable’, was for a long time all I ever wanted.
It isn’t anymore.
When I sleep, I dream of holding championship gold. I dream of hearing Terri Morasco tell the world I’ve finally done it.
When I wake, I train as though the next title shot is coming and I vow to never be unprepared for it.
But I am also no fool. I know that I do not have many more chances coming like the one the Roulette is going to offer me.
So I make the fans of the IWF this promise. I make it in blood, sweat, and tears and I expect to be held to it.
I don’t care if I start at #1, or if I get in there at #30. I will leave every ounce of myself, every last bit of talent, in that ring in order to get the chance at the one thing that has eluded me. And when I do, when my name is called in victory, I will be at peace.
I have had many great matches, many wars that I have been rightfully proud of. But I need my name to be etched in the IWF record books for something else. And winning the Roulette, being the last man standing, is exactly the thing.
Goodnight IWF. May sleep give you the courage to go on."
Well howdy there pardner.