Post by Andrew Jacobsen on May 22, 2017 4:35:11 GMT
Didn't we just do this dance?
I mean, I like Bob Pooler and Jayson Matthews. I do. They're my friends, they're good guys. But...two weeks in a row, right before Night of the Immortals, management comes to me and asks me to team with someone I've had a rocky road with against two of my friends. I'm wondering if I'm falling into a trap, looping over on myself...letting myself get stuck on what's been.
Last week, things didn't go so well for my team. Cable and I couldn't get along with each other. We argued, he wanted the glory, and he paid the price for it. And if it was just him, that'd be fine, but I was right there on the loser's end of things. It never feels good to watch the other side of the ring get their hands raised. As a competitor, no matter what happened, you have to ask yourself if you could have done anything better. You question yourself, and you throw yourself back into the gym to try to push harder. That's what I did...question is, did you guys?
I don't like Cable Arcane. I never HAVE liked Cable Arcane. We were always going to have trouble with each other. This week...I'd like to say in full confidence we'll work better. I know...knew Warren. I hope I still know Warren. He's a good person. That was something that always struck me, every single time we stepped into the ring together, every time we spoke or trained together: Warren is truly a decent human being. That much time around Eternity...I don't know what it's done for him, but it can't have been good.
This match...it's weird for me to say it, but this match is less about my opponents and more about my partner. Bob, Jayson...I know you guys want the best out of me, and I want to be able to give you my best, but...I don't know if I can. I don't know if I'm going to be all here. I'm going to throw all I can into this. You deserve that. You deserve better than half of my mind. I just...
I talked a big game about wanting to help. I always want to do better by my friends, by the fans. But I got so wrapped up in trying to save Spike Kane, a man that I couldn't reach. He could never see me as anything but a threat, someone who wanted to take away instead of help. Warren, though...Warren...I could have been quicker. I could have tried to catch Eternity. I could have focused on something that could have helped. Instead, I kept at your dad, and...I'm just glad you're back, man. I'm just glad to see my friend again. I don't hold anything against you. This was Roberto Verona's doing, not yours. You did what you had to.
Bob, Jayson...you two are still elite athletes. Bob, you're a champion. Jayson, you're championship material. You two are capable of beating any two men in this company. Right now, though...Warren and I? We have missions that we need to complete. We have wars we need to win, demons we need to slay. We can't let up for a heartbeat, or we may never get going again. Warren can do what I couldn't, and I...in a week, I have to conquer the greatest opportunity in my career. Make no mistake, I don't want you to roll over or not fight. I know you'll fight with all you've got. Just know what we're coming in with.
So test us. Hammer out the weaknesses, forge out the impurities, and help us be the best we can. We'll do the same for you. It's the least we can do for friends. We want you to be better tomorrow than you are today...but tomorrow's going to be a long, long night. Fight hard, fight proud. I don't have to tell you that, you already will. I just...I don't have to, but I have to. For my sake, I have to. We leave it all in that ring, okay? No fear, no regrets. See you out there, guys. And good luck.
Andrew thuds onto the bench in the locker room of the Performance Center. He doesn't seem to have been exerting himself recently, and is still dressed in street clothes, no gym bag in sight. The room outside is quiet, and the light from the locker room spreads out into darkness beyond its doorway. He sighs, shaking his head, and looks up and across from him.
The locker that his eyes rest on, number 42, has a combination lock on it in the trademark forest green and rust red that Andrew has made his own throughout his career, and his eyes trace around the dial as he subconsciously reaches his hand down to his pocket. Andrew reaches into his pocket, fishing out his wallet, and stands up, tossing it to his left hand and spinning the worn leather between his fingers as he approaches the bank of lockers.
The lock's surface shines with the glint of dulled, scuffed metal, as if by many years of use. Andrew's right hand reaches up slowly, fingertips barely grasping onto the knob, and he begins to twist and spin the dial. His eyes never flit down to the numbers to double-check. At this point, his motions seem like rote actions, muscle memory speaking where conscious thought otherwise may have.
After the third number clicks into place, Andrew swiftly yanks the lock down, disengaging it, and then sideways, twisting his wrist slightly so the lock slides free of the locker with a fluid motion. The door swings slightly ajar from the motion of the lock's removal, and Andrew takes a deep breath. He drops the lock on the floor, and it clatters with the clacking of metal on concrete as Andrew swings his locker open, eyes immediately shooting to the inside of the locker door.
A small cork messageboard hangs on the back of the door, a tag at the top reading "MOTIVATION" in block letters, and on it are posted various photos and small notes of a dizzying variety. One of them is a family Christmas photo, dated last year, of the entire extended Jacobsen family and Danielle. Another is a photo of Andrew backstage with the NCW X Division Championship, dated late 2009. As his eyes play over that photo, Andrew can't help but smile, tracing the lines of his younger face and sighing wistfully as his eyes track over the board, clearly looking for something.
They stop near the middle of the board. The picture there is a small wallet print from the official IWF archives: Andrew and Warren, standing across the ring from each other in what would prove to be, at the time, what most thought was Andrew's final match in IWF. He reaches out, plucking the pin from the board with one hand and carefully taking the photo with the other. Andrew looks at it, eyes sliding down slightly, and he turns it over, seeing a single word written across the back in black marker:
Andrew pauses for a moment, nodding slowly, a solemn movement, as if he knew what he would find. His nod slowly morphs into a shaking of his head, and he opens his wallet, slipping the photo into his wallet. Andrew closes the locker again, still shacking his head, and kneels down, scooping up the lock and swiftly relocking the locker. He walks to the mouth of the locker room, glancing back once more, and slips his wallet into his pocket, finally speaking into the echoing quiet.
"Someday...not anymore."
With that, his dour expression begins to slowly shift to a smile, and he reaches out, flicking off the light and plunging the locker room into darkness as we cut to black.
I mean, I like Bob Pooler and Jayson Matthews. I do. They're my friends, they're good guys. But...two weeks in a row, right before Night of the Immortals, management comes to me and asks me to team with someone I've had a rocky road with against two of my friends. I'm wondering if I'm falling into a trap, looping over on myself...letting myself get stuck on what's been.
Last week, things didn't go so well for my team. Cable and I couldn't get along with each other. We argued, he wanted the glory, and he paid the price for it. And if it was just him, that'd be fine, but I was right there on the loser's end of things. It never feels good to watch the other side of the ring get their hands raised. As a competitor, no matter what happened, you have to ask yourself if you could have done anything better. You question yourself, and you throw yourself back into the gym to try to push harder. That's what I did...question is, did you guys?
I don't like Cable Arcane. I never HAVE liked Cable Arcane. We were always going to have trouble with each other. This week...I'd like to say in full confidence we'll work better. I know...knew Warren. I hope I still know Warren. He's a good person. That was something that always struck me, every single time we stepped into the ring together, every time we spoke or trained together: Warren is truly a decent human being. That much time around Eternity...I don't know what it's done for him, but it can't have been good.
This match...it's weird for me to say it, but this match is less about my opponents and more about my partner. Bob, Jayson...I know you guys want the best out of me, and I want to be able to give you my best, but...I don't know if I can. I don't know if I'm going to be all here. I'm going to throw all I can into this. You deserve that. You deserve better than half of my mind. I just...
I talked a big game about wanting to help. I always want to do better by my friends, by the fans. But I got so wrapped up in trying to save Spike Kane, a man that I couldn't reach. He could never see me as anything but a threat, someone who wanted to take away instead of help. Warren, though...Warren...I could have been quicker. I could have tried to catch Eternity. I could have focused on something that could have helped. Instead, I kept at your dad, and...I'm just glad you're back, man. I'm just glad to see my friend again. I don't hold anything against you. This was Roberto Verona's doing, not yours. You did what you had to.
Bob, Jayson...you two are still elite athletes. Bob, you're a champion. Jayson, you're championship material. You two are capable of beating any two men in this company. Right now, though...Warren and I? We have missions that we need to complete. We have wars we need to win, demons we need to slay. We can't let up for a heartbeat, or we may never get going again. Warren can do what I couldn't, and I...in a week, I have to conquer the greatest opportunity in my career. Make no mistake, I don't want you to roll over or not fight. I know you'll fight with all you've got. Just know what we're coming in with.
So test us. Hammer out the weaknesses, forge out the impurities, and help us be the best we can. We'll do the same for you. It's the least we can do for friends. We want you to be better tomorrow than you are today...but tomorrow's going to be a long, long night. Fight hard, fight proud. I don't have to tell you that, you already will. I just...I don't have to, but I have to. For my sake, I have to. We leave it all in that ring, okay? No fear, no regrets. See you out there, guys. And good luck.
Andrew thuds onto the bench in the locker room of the Performance Center. He doesn't seem to have been exerting himself recently, and is still dressed in street clothes, no gym bag in sight. The room outside is quiet, and the light from the locker room spreads out into darkness beyond its doorway. He sighs, shaking his head, and looks up and across from him.
The locker that his eyes rest on, number 42, has a combination lock on it in the trademark forest green and rust red that Andrew has made his own throughout his career, and his eyes trace around the dial as he subconsciously reaches his hand down to his pocket. Andrew reaches into his pocket, fishing out his wallet, and stands up, tossing it to his left hand and spinning the worn leather between his fingers as he approaches the bank of lockers.
The lock's surface shines with the glint of dulled, scuffed metal, as if by many years of use. Andrew's right hand reaches up slowly, fingertips barely grasping onto the knob, and he begins to twist and spin the dial. His eyes never flit down to the numbers to double-check. At this point, his motions seem like rote actions, muscle memory speaking where conscious thought otherwise may have.
After the third number clicks into place, Andrew swiftly yanks the lock down, disengaging it, and then sideways, twisting his wrist slightly so the lock slides free of the locker with a fluid motion. The door swings slightly ajar from the motion of the lock's removal, and Andrew takes a deep breath. He drops the lock on the floor, and it clatters with the clacking of metal on concrete as Andrew swings his locker open, eyes immediately shooting to the inside of the locker door.
A small cork messageboard hangs on the back of the door, a tag at the top reading "MOTIVATION" in block letters, and on it are posted various photos and small notes of a dizzying variety. One of them is a family Christmas photo, dated last year, of the entire extended Jacobsen family and Danielle. Another is a photo of Andrew backstage with the NCW X Division Championship, dated late 2009. As his eyes play over that photo, Andrew can't help but smile, tracing the lines of his younger face and sighing wistfully as his eyes track over the board, clearly looking for something.
They stop near the middle of the board. The picture there is a small wallet print from the official IWF archives: Andrew and Warren, standing across the ring from each other in what would prove to be, at the time, what most thought was Andrew's final match in IWF. He reaches out, plucking the pin from the board with one hand and carefully taking the photo with the other. Andrew looks at it, eyes sliding down slightly, and he turns it over, seeing a single word written across the back in black marker:
SOMEDAY
Andrew pauses for a moment, nodding slowly, a solemn movement, as if he knew what he would find. His nod slowly morphs into a shaking of his head, and he opens his wallet, slipping the photo into his wallet. Andrew closes the locker again, still shacking his head, and kneels down, scooping up the lock and swiftly relocking the locker. He walks to the mouth of the locker room, glancing back once more, and slips his wallet into his pocket, finally speaking into the echoing quiet.
"Someday...not anymore."
With that, his dour expression begins to slowly shift to a smile, and he reaches out, flicking off the light and plunging the locker room into darkness as we cut to black.