Post by Deleted on Apr 28, 2017 11:17:22 GMT
““The time that leads to mastery is dependent on the intensity of our focus.”
As Nighthawk levers himself in sections out of his king-sized bed inside his row house in the Bridgeport section of Chicago as he prepares to head to the Wrestle Factory to get some training and film study in before his match against Ryan Shane one must wonder where his head is at.
While his throwaway comment about possibly ‘seeing something’ in current Invictus champion Bob Pooler is the one line from his interview at Motor City Mayhem that has drawn the most attention, the fact that said PPV was the 3rd consecutive one where he was left off the televised card altogether is the one that most infuriates not just him, but his massive cadre of devoted fans.
And while their riots on message boards and social media in defense of him has done of a great service of reminding people of just how deep the love for the Chicagoan still runs there are those who are beginning to ask if his status as a critical darling is perhaps part of the reason why he is currently receiving the frosty reception that he is.
Staggering in the general direction of the coffee maker placed near his bed, his ice-blue eyes somewhat bleary after a rough night of sleep, the “Wrestling Machine” reaches to turn his iPhone on from the sleep mode he keeps it in through the night and feels a near electric-shock course through his right hand as the phone suddenly buzzes to life with a rapid-fire flurry of notifications and texts.
Smirking Nighthawk begins to read through the list as he prepares a large cup of dark-roast Blue Mountain coffee only to see a text from his former friend Dmitry that causes his eyes to bulge widely before a look of absolute white-hot anger crosses his face.
Taking a rapid glance at the coffee to make sure it’s somewhat drinkable Nighthawk frowns before slowly drinking his coffee, the anger on his face slowly cooling as he tries to figure out what he wants to do next in this situation. Finally hitting the button on his phone to call Dmitry Nighthawk somehow manages to keep his voice relatively cool.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Russian.)
Nighthawk: “Dmitry, I saw your text. Tell me what you’re doing, what you’re trying to prove to me.”
Dmitry, a mocking tone clear in his voice: “Well, you always did tell me you were exceptionally proud of running a clean gym. You threw me, one of your oldest friends and someone who always had your back, out of your gym because you were embarrassed. So, I did you a favor and called in FILA to have them check to see if you really are what you say you are.”
Nighthawk: “I mean, I had heard you were like this. But before I go to my gym and fix the mess you must have made while I was out of town, I want you to know what this was about. I don’t want you to have a vendetta towards me based on things that didn’t happen.”
Dmitry, the mocking tone having somehow only gotten more biting: “Please, traitor, clear up the record.”
Nighthawk, using every trick available to him to keep from erupting into an absolute volcano of rage: “I did not throw you out of my gym because I was embarrassed. I was hurt, Dmitry, that you could so easily stare me dead in the face and lie to me about your desires for the gym I literally built with my own bare hands but that is not why I threw you out. I threw you out because performance-enhancing drugs are an easy way out from hard work. In some other gyms around the country, that may be ok. But in my gym, if I’ve done nothing else, I’ve made as sure as I can that every single student knows the right way to get to the top is by working hard. So, when you brought those drugs in the gym, I now must spend all that time rebuilding everything I taught. Forget fundamentals, and technique, that’s what I’m going to be spending the next few weeks on. Thank you, Dmitry. Thank you so much for doing that. Goodbye.”
And with that, Nighthawk hangs up the phone.
>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk walks into the front door of the gym, his long cherry bomb-red locks flowing in front of his face as he cuts something of an intimidating figure, we see him glower and stare in the general direction of the small squadron of polo shirt-clad FILA investigators who are currently doing their absolute best to sweep the Wrestle Factory with a fine-toothed comb. Standing with his hands on his hips, looking increasingly perturbed as he puts anyone who might see him in mind of an increasingly-irritated martinet, he finally finds someone willing to talk to him.
Nighthawk: “Look, I know you have to do your job. I get that, and I respect it. So how about, instead of you guys checking to see if I’ve somehow managed to hide stanozolol inside the turnbuckles or in the ring skirt, you just tell me what you’re looking for and I can help you find it or tell you that it’s not here. Otherwise, I have classes in a little bit and I need to teach.”
FILA Investigator, his nametag indicating his name is Francois and carrying himself with typical French arrogance: “Monsieur McDaniel, I understand your desire and need to save your professional, and personal, reputation. But you should understand where we are coming from. We have received an alert of possible illicit drug activity in this gym, and as you know full well, we take every allegation of this type very seriously. How would you propose we handle this? Just take your word for it?”
Nighthawk, realizing that he has to handle the situation in front of him with supreme and almost obsequious politeness: “Of course not, sir. No one would ever say this. But please, understand my position. I have documentation indicating I was checked routinely, and always passed those tests, before this allegedly-blind alert was sent to you. And while I have my deeply-held suspicions about why that alert was sent, I know the truth. And that truth is that I have always run a clean gym. So please, sir, if you can, I would be happy to show you these documents so you can see I am above suspicion and we can move on.”
Walking towards his office, Nighthawk sighs as though he is pulling a mountain behind him.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk sits on the last step of the front porch of his row house in the Bridgeport neighborhood of Chicago he slowly closes his eyes and steeples his hands together almost in prayer before slowly opening his eyes.
Clad in a black leather trenchcoat with a full-scale drawing of a samurai in American-flag armor unsheathing a katana on the back, a black long-sleeved Chicago White Sox jersey, black leather pants with orange-and-cream piping up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Man of 1000 Holds” slowly opens his eyes.
Nighthawk: “There are rivalries that require no further description past the names of the parties involved. Misawa vs Kobashi. Brady vs Manning. Crosby vs Ovechkin. And perhaps the one that is the most germane to the situation that I find myself in this week, Chicago versus Detroit. No matter the sport, those two cities meet and everyone expects fireworks. And more often than not, Detroit comes out on the winning end. That history, if only for one week, is about to be spun on its head. Because, Ryan Shane, I am going to beat you. More to the point, I am going to show you, and show the world, why I am what they say I am. And, Mr. Shane, what they say I am is the best.
But just saying it isn’t enough. Just talking about it isn’t enough. Every night, town in and town out, I have to prove it over and over again. And when I beat you, when I pin your shoulders to the mat or make you tap out, I want you to know it’s not personal.
This isn’t about hatred, or personal vengeance. It’s about you and I stepping in the ring and proving to you that I am the absolute best. Because when this night is over, when the match is done, I will be the best in the ring that night. Whether it takes me 15 minutes or it takes me all night, I will prove to you that I am truly the best.
The last time you and I were in the ring together, Ryan, it took everything you had to beat me. Every ounce of every last bit of skill you had left was what you needed to put my shoulders to the mat. And let’s be perfectly, and thoroughly, clear about something here Ryan: You’re not going to be able to do that again. I will not allow it.
So when you step in the ring with me in Toledo, Ryan, you better bring whatever it is you have left. Because you’re going to need all of it, every last ounce, if you want to survive. For you, Ryan, winning is out of the question. All that’s left to ask is this: How badly do you want to lose?
Goodnight Ryan. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”
As Nighthawk levers himself in sections out of his king-sized bed inside his row house in the Bridgeport section of Chicago as he prepares to head to the Wrestle Factory to get some training and film study in before his match against Ryan Shane one must wonder where his head is at.
While his throwaway comment about possibly ‘seeing something’ in current Invictus champion Bob Pooler is the one line from his interview at Motor City Mayhem that has drawn the most attention, the fact that said PPV was the 3rd consecutive one where he was left off the televised card altogether is the one that most infuriates not just him, but his massive cadre of devoted fans.
And while their riots on message boards and social media in defense of him has done of a great service of reminding people of just how deep the love for the Chicagoan still runs there are those who are beginning to ask if his status as a critical darling is perhaps part of the reason why he is currently receiving the frosty reception that he is.
Staggering in the general direction of the coffee maker placed near his bed, his ice-blue eyes somewhat bleary after a rough night of sleep, the “Wrestling Machine” reaches to turn his iPhone on from the sleep mode he keeps it in through the night and feels a near electric-shock course through his right hand as the phone suddenly buzzes to life with a rapid-fire flurry of notifications and texts.
Smirking Nighthawk begins to read through the list as he prepares a large cup of dark-roast Blue Mountain coffee only to see a text from his former friend Dmitry that causes his eyes to bulge widely before a look of absolute white-hot anger crosses his face.
Taking a rapid glance at the coffee to make sure it’s somewhat drinkable Nighthawk frowns before slowly drinking his coffee, the anger on his face slowly cooling as he tries to figure out what he wants to do next in this situation. Finally hitting the button on his phone to call Dmitry Nighthawk somehow manages to keep his voice relatively cool.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Russian.)
Nighthawk: “Dmitry, I saw your text. Tell me what you’re doing, what you’re trying to prove to me.”
Dmitry, a mocking tone clear in his voice: “Well, you always did tell me you were exceptionally proud of running a clean gym. You threw me, one of your oldest friends and someone who always had your back, out of your gym because you were embarrassed. So, I did you a favor and called in FILA to have them check to see if you really are what you say you are.”
Nighthawk: “I mean, I had heard you were like this. But before I go to my gym and fix the mess you must have made while I was out of town, I want you to know what this was about. I don’t want you to have a vendetta towards me based on things that didn’t happen.”
Dmitry, the mocking tone having somehow only gotten more biting: “Please, traitor, clear up the record.”
Nighthawk, using every trick available to him to keep from erupting into an absolute volcano of rage: “I did not throw you out of my gym because I was embarrassed. I was hurt, Dmitry, that you could so easily stare me dead in the face and lie to me about your desires for the gym I literally built with my own bare hands but that is not why I threw you out. I threw you out because performance-enhancing drugs are an easy way out from hard work. In some other gyms around the country, that may be ok. But in my gym, if I’ve done nothing else, I’ve made as sure as I can that every single student knows the right way to get to the top is by working hard. So, when you brought those drugs in the gym, I now must spend all that time rebuilding everything I taught. Forget fundamentals, and technique, that’s what I’m going to be spending the next few weeks on. Thank you, Dmitry. Thank you so much for doing that. Goodbye.”
And with that, Nighthawk hangs up the phone.
>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk walks into the front door of the gym, his long cherry bomb-red locks flowing in front of his face as he cuts something of an intimidating figure, we see him glower and stare in the general direction of the small squadron of polo shirt-clad FILA investigators who are currently doing their absolute best to sweep the Wrestle Factory with a fine-toothed comb. Standing with his hands on his hips, looking increasingly perturbed as he puts anyone who might see him in mind of an increasingly-irritated martinet, he finally finds someone willing to talk to him.
Nighthawk: “Look, I know you have to do your job. I get that, and I respect it. So how about, instead of you guys checking to see if I’ve somehow managed to hide stanozolol inside the turnbuckles or in the ring skirt, you just tell me what you’re looking for and I can help you find it or tell you that it’s not here. Otherwise, I have classes in a little bit and I need to teach.”
FILA Investigator, his nametag indicating his name is Francois and carrying himself with typical French arrogance: “Monsieur McDaniel, I understand your desire and need to save your professional, and personal, reputation. But you should understand where we are coming from. We have received an alert of possible illicit drug activity in this gym, and as you know full well, we take every allegation of this type very seriously. How would you propose we handle this? Just take your word for it?”
Nighthawk, realizing that he has to handle the situation in front of him with supreme and almost obsequious politeness: “Of course not, sir. No one would ever say this. But please, understand my position. I have documentation indicating I was checked routinely, and always passed those tests, before this allegedly-blind alert was sent to you. And while I have my deeply-held suspicions about why that alert was sent, I know the truth. And that truth is that I have always run a clean gym. So please, sir, if you can, I would be happy to show you these documents so you can see I am above suspicion and we can move on.”
Walking towards his office, Nighthawk sighs as though he is pulling a mountain behind him.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Nighthawk sits on the last step of the front porch of his row house in the Bridgeport neighborhood of Chicago he slowly closes his eyes and steeples his hands together almost in prayer before slowly opening his eyes.
Clad in a black leather trenchcoat with a full-scale drawing of a samurai in American-flag armor unsheathing a katana on the back, a black long-sleeved Chicago White Sox jersey, black leather pants with orange-and-cream piping up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Man of 1000 Holds” slowly opens his eyes.
Nighthawk: “There are rivalries that require no further description past the names of the parties involved. Misawa vs Kobashi. Brady vs Manning. Crosby vs Ovechkin. And perhaps the one that is the most germane to the situation that I find myself in this week, Chicago versus Detroit. No matter the sport, those two cities meet and everyone expects fireworks. And more often than not, Detroit comes out on the winning end. That history, if only for one week, is about to be spun on its head. Because, Ryan Shane, I am going to beat you. More to the point, I am going to show you, and show the world, why I am what they say I am. And, Mr. Shane, what they say I am is the best.
But just saying it isn’t enough. Just talking about it isn’t enough. Every night, town in and town out, I have to prove it over and over again. And when I beat you, when I pin your shoulders to the mat or make you tap out, I want you to know it’s not personal.
This isn’t about hatred, or personal vengeance. It’s about you and I stepping in the ring and proving to you that I am the absolute best. Because when this night is over, when the match is done, I will be the best in the ring that night. Whether it takes me 15 minutes or it takes me all night, I will prove to you that I am truly the best.
The last time you and I were in the ring together, Ryan, it took everything you had to beat me. Every ounce of every last bit of skill you had left was what you needed to put my shoulders to the mat. And let’s be perfectly, and thoroughly, clear about something here Ryan: You’re not going to be able to do that again. I will not allow it.
So when you step in the ring with me in Toledo, Ryan, you better bring whatever it is you have left. Because you’re going to need all of it, every last ounce, if you want to survive. For you, Ryan, winning is out of the question. All that’s left to ask is this: How badly do you want to lose?
Goodnight Ryan. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”
Well howdy there pardner.