The Great Eye
I came to cut you up
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Rp Here, deadline is 6/27 at 11:59 EDT.
BRACKET 1 HORNET VS WILLARD
- Thread starter The Great Eye
- Start date
Ring Rust
They call it ring rust.
It’s a recognition that the knowledge, the skill, the muscle memory, they’re all still there even after time out of the ring. Boxers, fighters, wrestlers, they all understand it. But the real questions are deeper – deeper than the questions starting with “can” and “should,” the questions about health and sanity and skill. It’s about two opposing behemoths that sit in the gut of everyone that’s ever laced up a set of boots, anyone that’s ever conquered their demons and anyone that’s ever cared about that thing called “legacy.”
It’s about pride and it’s about fear.
Pride in past accomplishments. Fear of failure.
The value derived from being on top. The worry about the hard fall below.
The sense of a job well done. The regret of what was left unfinished.
He’s always teetered between the two precipices. He felt victim to pride and let it lead him to burning his mark into another man’s flesh. Not his proudest of moments in hindsight. But in the moment, in that moment, it seemed so necessary, so perfect, so right. To remind the world that after ten years of being their “hero”, of being their role model, of being their… doormat, that they couldn’t just replace him with the next big thing, the younger model. And the universe responded, echoing the right-ness. The woman he loved stood at his side and the gold belt he adored was laid out right in front of him. Until they weren’t anymore. Pride went and the fall came-th.
The fall to the other side. The victim of fear. Doubt about his ability, about his direction, about his love and legacy. Thomas returned and told him he wasn’t worth the money, forcing him over the NFW, who then decided to feed him to Michael Manson in some sort of “Bamboo Stakes From Hell” match. Fears realized – winning aside, had it really come to this? Former love moved on, former company took him back only to feed him to a rampaging Black Plague, Ruben Ross. All the childhood fears of being good, but not great; close, but not perfect, had come back in spades. The physical and emotional pain could be dulled, first by a pill or two, and then by a handful.
And the cycle began again. Over and over the wheel turns.
Rust. Lack of use. Left to sit and turn from metal to dirt as air literally destroys.
But what lies beneath? Underneath the misuse and disuse, what happens to the structure underneath when fear and pride oxidize? Is the core sound? Does the machine start to run, but with a few squeaks and groans? What mettle is in the metal?
Is it a rusted hulk with no core, nothing left? Or is it a marvel needing just the right coaxing, just the right pressure, just the right tension to put everything in balance, almost as it was.
They call it ring rust.
“Better to burn out than rust out.”
They call it ring rust.
It’s a recognition that the knowledge, the skill, the muscle memory, they’re all still there even after time out of the ring. Boxers, fighters, wrestlers, they all understand it. But the real questions are deeper – deeper than the questions starting with “can” and “should,” the questions about health and sanity and skill. It’s about two opposing behemoths that sit in the gut of everyone that’s ever laced up a set of boots, anyone that’s ever conquered their demons and anyone that’s ever cared about that thing called “legacy.”
It’s about pride and it’s about fear.
Pride in past accomplishments. Fear of failure.
The value derived from being on top. The worry about the hard fall below.
The sense of a job well done. The regret of what was left unfinished.
He’s always teetered between the two precipices. He felt victim to pride and let it lead him to burning his mark into another man’s flesh. Not his proudest of moments in hindsight. But in the moment, in that moment, it seemed so necessary, so perfect, so right. To remind the world that after ten years of being their “hero”, of being their role model, of being their… doormat, that they couldn’t just replace him with the next big thing, the younger model. And the universe responded, echoing the right-ness. The woman he loved stood at his side and the gold belt he adored was laid out right in front of him. Until they weren’t anymore. Pride went and the fall came-th.
The fall to the other side. The victim of fear. Doubt about his ability, about his direction, about his love and legacy. Thomas returned and told him he wasn’t worth the money, forcing him over the NFW, who then decided to feed him to Michael Manson in some sort of “Bamboo Stakes From Hell” match. Fears realized – winning aside, had it really come to this? Former love moved on, former company took him back only to feed him to a rampaging Black Plague, Ruben Ross. All the childhood fears of being good, but not great; close, but not perfect, had come back in spades. The physical and emotional pain could be dulled, first by a pill or two, and then by a handful.
And the cycle began again. Over and over the wheel turns.
Rust. Lack of use. Left to sit and turn from metal to dirt as air literally destroys.
But what lies beneath? Underneath the misuse and disuse, what happens to the structure underneath when fear and pride oxidize? Is the core sound? Does the machine start to run, but with a few squeaks and groans? What mettle is in the metal?
Is it a rusted hulk with no core, nothing left? Or is it a marvel needing just the right coaxing, just the right pressure, just the right tension to put everything in balance, almost as it was.
They call it ring rust.
“Better to burn out than rust out.”
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
Re: Ring Rust
FADE IN…
Adrian Willard sitting on the hood of an old 1967 Mustang. His manager is nowhere in sight, just Adrian in a pair of Converse, faded jeans and a black and red Judas Priest Shirt. He is smoking his typical cigarette, Marlboro Reds. His attitude I far different, far more intense than his normal ranting and raving. He is in deep thought, deep concentration.
WILLARD:
“Legends…”
“They exist throughout time, from sports legends to political legends, one can always leave their mark upon society may it be for better or for worse. How does that apply to now, to this very time and this very place…"
Adrian looks up at the camera releasing smoke from his lips and sitting up slightly from the hood of the car.
“Hornet”
“CSWA’s pride and joy. The literal 'Godfather'of wrestling, and when you hear that name echo in the locker rooms, echo through the white walled corridors all you can think of is legacy. Legacy of a man that was, a man that had conquered wrestling as though he was Alexander the Great, a man that was.”
“That’s the legacy of Hornet, of you my opponent. A man that was, a man that had climbed the tallest of peaks only to slowly and surely melt away, only to flow back to the rivers of time, a sad distant memory. Like a cancer in remission only to resurrect it’s self again plaguing the very body of the wrestling industry.”
“That is your new legacy. What was is lost and what is now will never become. That is your prophecy. For I am your prophet, for I am the foreseer of things to come and things that have past. It is my gift, it is my God giving talent.”
“Lacking in that department, the department of talent. An old man Hornet, nothing more than a used sack of oats, nothing to feed the farm with, nothing to give back to humanity. No nourishment not even a f-cking smile.”
“And here you are, back again, back to have the crowd embrace you, have the spotlight in your face, and you’re back to the ring. A fist to that decaying corpse of a body, the former object of competition and greatness, reduced to nothing. Reduced to scraps. I am the vulture, taking the last of the pickings from the ones who have fed before me.”
“I have no shame in doing what has already been done. I have no grace in defeating what has already been defeated. I take no pride in destroying what was thought to be more than human. “
“I take pleasure in it.”
“And as for our time in that squared circle, when the bell rings and once again you grace us with your dwindling presence. Remember this, you were ONCE great, you were ONCE mighty, you were ONCE the best. As for now Hornet, you are a dying star in this universe of wrestling. And frankly…”
“No one gives a damn old man.”
“No one has…”
“And no one will…"
“That sir, that my friend is life, your life, my prophecy.”
FADE OUT
FADE IN…
Adrian Willard sitting on the hood of an old 1967 Mustang. His manager is nowhere in sight, just Adrian in a pair of Converse, faded jeans and a black and red Judas Priest Shirt. He is smoking his typical cigarette, Marlboro Reds. His attitude I far different, far more intense than his normal ranting and raving. He is in deep thought, deep concentration.
WILLARD:
“Legends…”
“They exist throughout time, from sports legends to political legends, one can always leave their mark upon society may it be for better or for worse. How does that apply to now, to this very time and this very place…"
Adrian looks up at the camera releasing smoke from his lips and sitting up slightly from the hood of the car.
“Hornet”
“CSWA’s pride and joy. The literal 'Godfather'of wrestling, and when you hear that name echo in the locker rooms, echo through the white walled corridors all you can think of is legacy. Legacy of a man that was, a man that had conquered wrestling as though he was Alexander the Great, a man that was.”
“That’s the legacy of Hornet, of you my opponent. A man that was, a man that had climbed the tallest of peaks only to slowly and surely melt away, only to flow back to the rivers of time, a sad distant memory. Like a cancer in remission only to resurrect it’s self again plaguing the very body of the wrestling industry.”
“That is your new legacy. What was is lost and what is now will never become. That is your prophecy. For I am your prophet, for I am the foreseer of things to come and things that have past. It is my gift, it is my God giving talent.”
“Lacking in that department, the department of talent. An old man Hornet, nothing more than a used sack of oats, nothing to feed the farm with, nothing to give back to humanity. No nourishment not even a f-cking smile.”
“And here you are, back again, back to have the crowd embrace you, have the spotlight in your face, and you’re back to the ring. A fist to that decaying corpse of a body, the former object of competition and greatness, reduced to nothing. Reduced to scraps. I am the vulture, taking the last of the pickings from the ones who have fed before me.”
“I have no shame in doing what has already been done. I have no grace in defeating what has already been defeated. I take no pride in destroying what was thought to be more than human. “
“I take pleasure in it.”
“And as for our time in that squared circle, when the bell rings and once again you grace us with your dwindling presence. Remember this, you were ONCE great, you were ONCE mighty, you were ONCE the best. As for now Hornet, you are a dying star in this universe of wrestling. And frankly…”
“No one gives a damn old man.”
“No one has…”
“And no one will…"
“That sir, that my friend is life, your life, my prophecy.”
FADE OUT
Remembrance
(FADEIN: The man known as HORNET is inside a wrestling ring. The camera is tight on him as he sits comfortably on the top rope with his legs resting on the middle cable. He hasn’t been seen on television for a couple of years and there are a few new lines, most notable in the crow’s feet around his eyes. Those green eyes and the intense stare are memorable to anyone that’s seen them. The man in the LEGION t-shirt smirks his patented smirk, clears his throat, and starts speaking to the camera.)
I guess the question is whether it’s like riding a bike or not.
Actually, that’s not the question at all. See, you put it in perspective for me, Willard. You started out with the word ‘legend,’ and you followed up with words like ‘legacy’ and ‘star.’
And that’s just where the difference starts. Because despite whether you’re a true or false prophet, the simple fact is that prophets don’t matter if no one can hear them. Isaiah, Muhammad, Daniel – they all became prophets because someone important listened, because they had impact.
I can walk outside this church, Wilfred, and you’d be lucky if one of out of ten people that walked by knew your name. Whether it’s my curse or my blessing, eight or nine of those same people are going to stop to ask for a picture, an autograph, or just to tell me what they think of me.
Yep, even after all this time. Even when this “old man,” this “dying star,” this “used sack of oats,” hasn’t stepped foot in a ring in front of an audience in a couple of years – they still think I matter. Whether they love me or hate me, they give a damn.
See, they don’t talk about Adrian Willard vs. Wall as the greatest match of all time decades after the fact. It’s not Willard vs. GUNS that they rave about as the “End of an Era.” They’re not talking about Willard vs. Randalls in that electrified cage, or Willard vs. Manson inside a bamboo deathtrap. Your name isn’t inextricably linked with the greatest promotions of all time, the greatest championship of all time, or the greatest matches of all time. It’s not Willard/Windham or Willard/Ryan or Willard/Stevens that they remember or care about.
Whether I’m fit to feed or be fed on, Adrian, I’m at least remembered. I’m a trending topic, whether I’m a supernova or a plague.
You can be the vulture. You can be the prophet. But without beating me, you can never be remembered.
To me… you’re just Round One.
(fadeout)
(FADEIN: The man known as HORNET is inside a wrestling ring. The camera is tight on him as he sits comfortably on the top rope with his legs resting on the middle cable. He hasn’t been seen on television for a couple of years and there are a few new lines, most notable in the crow’s feet around his eyes. Those green eyes and the intense stare are memorable to anyone that’s seen them. The man in the LEGION t-shirt smirks his patented smirk, clears his throat, and starts speaking to the camera.)
I guess the question is whether it’s like riding a bike or not.
Actually, that’s not the question at all. See, you put it in perspective for me, Willard. You started out with the word ‘legend,’ and you followed up with words like ‘legacy’ and ‘star.’
And that’s just where the difference starts. Because despite whether you’re a true or false prophet, the simple fact is that prophets don’t matter if no one can hear them. Isaiah, Muhammad, Daniel – they all became prophets because someone important listened, because they had impact.
I can walk outside this church, Wilfred, and you’d be lucky if one of out of ten people that walked by knew your name. Whether it’s my curse or my blessing, eight or nine of those same people are going to stop to ask for a picture, an autograph, or just to tell me what they think of me.
Yep, even after all this time. Even when this “old man,” this “dying star,” this “used sack of oats,” hasn’t stepped foot in a ring in front of an audience in a couple of years – they still think I matter. Whether they love me or hate me, they give a damn.
See, they don’t talk about Adrian Willard vs. Wall as the greatest match of all time decades after the fact. It’s not Willard vs. GUNS that they rave about as the “End of an Era.” They’re not talking about Willard vs. Randalls in that electrified cage, or Willard vs. Manson inside a bamboo deathtrap. Your name isn’t inextricably linked with the greatest promotions of all time, the greatest championship of all time, or the greatest matches of all time. It’s not Willard/Windham or Willard/Ryan or Willard/Stevens that they remember or care about.
Whether I’m fit to feed or be fed on, Adrian, I’m at least remembered. I’m a trending topic, whether I’m a supernova or a plague.
You can be the vulture. You can be the prophet. But without beating me, you can never be remembered.
To me… you’re just Round One.
(fadeout)
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
FADE IN...
Adrian Willard is walking out of the Taste of Chicago onto Michigan Avenue walking through the light crowd due to the small storm that is passing over his hometown of Chicago. He passes a few folks that stand in the city streets taking photos of the sky scrappers as he stops in front of one.
“And finally, after waiting for your response, letting time settle, letting thoughts flow here you are, Hornet. Here you stand, raving your legacy, raving your accomplishments. Shall we start with the start of time, or the end?”
“Your fame, your glory can be listed on pages, through books, through documentaries. Hell, we can most likely take the entirety of your CSWA career and make a DVD series based simply around you.”
“You can do the same thing based on Cameron Cruise, doesn't mean it was WORTH WHILE.”
“You can do the same for Copycat or Anarky, doesn't mean it SELLS.”
“You have a history that sells. You have a HISTORY that sells. Not a future.”
“Through it all, through all these things we can do it will take the start of your career, t will take the middle of your career , and the end. Oh the little meaningless ending. The fade away, the fade out, you can no longer dig in, go the distance, go the extra mile.”
“Look at every great athlete may it be fiction or in our every day sports.”
“Charles Barkley, fell off the face of the earth. Warren Moon and Barry Sanders dwindled in their starlight. Even Dan Marino, his legacy? Being great with no ring, no championship to show for his greatness. That brings us to you Hornet, a man with gold, with championships, but where are they now?”
“That is what you fail to take in, this is where your vision fails to see the actual realism of the facts. You are nothing more than a stepping stone to men like me. Men like me need you, simply to beat, so we can stroke our egos on beating the dying dog.”
“You talk of Dan Ryan, where is he now? Running EPW hiding behind a desk? His legacy is nothing more than a paper pusher. You speak of GUNS? I haven't heard of him in years. Randalls? Retired? Dead? Who knows.”
“You say the crowd remembers these matches? That you had these epic amazing battles with these men, then where are they? They knew when it was time to throw in the towel, they knew when they went from legend to a HACK. They knew that their time in the industry was over and to get out with some dignity, not all of it, but the meager amount that remained.”
“You, Hornet? You are trying so desperately to gain that success you had, that run of greatness. Have you had it? Do you have a belt strapped to your waist? I don't recall you making an appearance at CSWA's Gold Rush, I don't recall hearing Hornet winning anything truly spectacular?”
“As for me, I am working my way to the top Hornet, and there is nothing better on the resume than saying you beat Hornet. It may not be in your prime, it may not be when you were at the peak of your existence, more so on the tail end of it.”
“Legacy’s, epic matches, charisma, and showcase. They don't win matches. They win the audience. Physical brute strength, confidence, technical skill and just god damn conditioning, that better PHYSICAL skill. They win matches. You no longer have that. You aren't in peak professional performance. You are basing your skill off what WAS, what will NEVER be again. You can't repeat the past, you can't have those legendary matches any longer.”
“I can remind you what a beating feels like. I can remind you of having to push yourself in a match and getting no reward for it. I will take you back in time to when defeat was painful.”
“I may be round one Hornet, but I am the last round you will see in this tournament.”
“Topic closed. That's your prophecy, that is your future, this is my vision.”
FADE OUT.
Adrian Willard is walking out of the Taste of Chicago onto Michigan Avenue walking through the light crowd due to the small storm that is passing over his hometown of Chicago. He passes a few folks that stand in the city streets taking photos of the sky scrappers as he stops in front of one.
“And finally, after waiting for your response, letting time settle, letting thoughts flow here you are, Hornet. Here you stand, raving your legacy, raving your accomplishments. Shall we start with the start of time, or the end?”
“Your fame, your glory can be listed on pages, through books, through documentaries. Hell, we can most likely take the entirety of your CSWA career and make a DVD series based simply around you.”
“You can do the same thing based on Cameron Cruise, doesn't mean it was WORTH WHILE.”
“You can do the same for Copycat or Anarky, doesn't mean it SELLS.”
“You have a history that sells. You have a HISTORY that sells. Not a future.”
“Through it all, through all these things we can do it will take the start of your career, t will take the middle of your career , and the end. Oh the little meaningless ending. The fade away, the fade out, you can no longer dig in, go the distance, go the extra mile.”
“Look at every great athlete may it be fiction or in our every day sports.”
“Charles Barkley, fell off the face of the earth. Warren Moon and Barry Sanders dwindled in their starlight. Even Dan Marino, his legacy? Being great with no ring, no championship to show for his greatness. That brings us to you Hornet, a man with gold, with championships, but where are they now?”
“That is what you fail to take in, this is where your vision fails to see the actual realism of the facts. You are nothing more than a stepping stone to men like me. Men like me need you, simply to beat, so we can stroke our egos on beating the dying dog.”
“You talk of Dan Ryan, where is he now? Running EPW hiding behind a desk? His legacy is nothing more than a paper pusher. You speak of GUNS? I haven't heard of him in years. Randalls? Retired? Dead? Who knows.”
“You say the crowd remembers these matches? That you had these epic amazing battles with these men, then where are they? They knew when it was time to throw in the towel, they knew when they went from legend to a HACK. They knew that their time in the industry was over and to get out with some dignity, not all of it, but the meager amount that remained.”
“You, Hornet? You are trying so desperately to gain that success you had, that run of greatness. Have you had it? Do you have a belt strapped to your waist? I don't recall you making an appearance at CSWA's Gold Rush, I don't recall hearing Hornet winning anything truly spectacular?”
“As for me, I am working my way to the top Hornet, and there is nothing better on the resume than saying you beat Hornet. It may not be in your prime, it may not be when you were at the peak of your existence, more so on the tail end of it.”
“Legacy’s, epic matches, charisma, and showcase. They don't win matches. They win the audience. Physical brute strength, confidence, technical skill and just god damn conditioning, that better PHYSICAL skill. They win matches. You no longer have that. You aren't in peak professional performance. You are basing your skill off what WAS, what will NEVER be again. You can't repeat the past, you can't have those legendary matches any longer.”
“I can remind you what a beating feels like. I can remind you of having to push yourself in a match and getting no reward for it. I will take you back in time to when defeat was painful.”
“I may be round one Hornet, but I am the last round you will see in this tournament.”
“Topic closed. That's your prophecy, that is your future, this is my vision.”
FADE OUT.
False Prophets
"Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. By their fruit you will recognize them… A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them."
(FADEIN: Hornet is walking in Brooklyn, down near the river. A church looms in the background, most of its stained glass still intact.)
You make it so easy, Willard. You’re so concentrated on my legacy, on my prophecy, on my success, that you neglect to mention your own.
I guess there’s a reason for that, huh? Let’s do the rundown: In A1E, you made a big splash entering in the Pier Six Brawl, but couldn’t pull it out. You went on to lose to “Extremely Bisexual” Beau Michaels, then Castor Strife, then flamed out of the league. In NLW, you made a big splash by attacking Jonathan Marx, but lost to him, then to a woman, then couldn’t beat Jason Payne and flamed out.
Where are your titles, Willard? Where is the evidence of your greatness?
You can tell a false prophet by its fruit, Willard. And as far as I can tell, you don’t have anything to show except smoke.
You were an NCAA Champion, Adrian, but that’s in the past. You had a chance to make it in two major leagues, but you couldn’t cut it, and that’s in the rear view mirror as well.
Meanwhile, I’ve been called a “stepping stone” for twenty years. And yet, for all the men that have tried to step over me, my name’s the one that still gets people on their feet. My name is the one that sells tickets, that makes a show worth seeing, that makes it necessary for little men with little ‘prophecies’ to get a shot to make a name for themselves on the undercard.
It may be cliché, Adrian, but hack or not, worn out or not, dying star or not, we both know that I’m the main event in this one… and you’ve already lost.
"Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. By their fruit you will recognize them… A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them."
(FADEIN: Hornet is walking in Brooklyn, down near the river. A church looms in the background, most of its stained glass still intact.)
You make it so easy, Willard. You’re so concentrated on my legacy, on my prophecy, on my success, that you neglect to mention your own.
I guess there’s a reason for that, huh? Let’s do the rundown: In A1E, you made a big splash entering in the Pier Six Brawl, but couldn’t pull it out. You went on to lose to “Extremely Bisexual” Beau Michaels, then Castor Strife, then flamed out of the league. In NLW, you made a big splash by attacking Jonathan Marx, but lost to him, then to a woman, then couldn’t beat Jason Payne and flamed out.
Where are your titles, Willard? Where is the evidence of your greatness?
You can tell a false prophet by its fruit, Willard. And as far as I can tell, you don’t have anything to show except smoke.
You were an NCAA Champion, Adrian, but that’s in the past. You had a chance to make it in two major leagues, but you couldn’t cut it, and that’s in the rear view mirror as well.
Meanwhile, I’ve been called a “stepping stone” for twenty years. And yet, for all the men that have tried to step over me, my name’s the one that still gets people on their feet. My name is the one that sells tickets, that makes a show worth seeing, that makes it necessary for little men with little ‘prophecies’ to get a shot to make a name for themselves on the undercard.
It may be cliché, Adrian, but hack or not, worn out or not, dying star or not, we both know that I’m the main event in this one… and you’ve already lost.
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
FADE IN
Adrian Willard mocking Hornets scene of the Brooklyn near a river, instead we are on the Chicago River the sun setting gracefully as the camera is following behind him. Adrian stops, then turns around shaking his head slightly dropping his half finished cigarette to the grass letting it smolder.
Maybe, just possibly, we can take a second here to review what the whole picture is. The whole puzzle, not just a little jigsaw that doesn't complete it. You call out my past, my defeats, my lost linage. You question where are my titles? I haven't been on the scene long enough to work towards that venture.
Hell, I would have loved to have been carried by the board and that snake Chad Merritt. Been handed glory by Merritt. Been stroked and ass kissed enough to have been given chance, after chance, after chance for title shots.
No work, all play. No natural talent.
Adrian shrugs slightly.
A man who became nothing more than a transitional champion.
You handed the title literally Eli Flair. Inverted DDT, now that Hornet, that is hardcore, great way to go out.
Mocking clap
Vacated the title due to injury earlier. Proving that the myth is nothing more than half a man. Prone to injury, a man that couldn't suck it up enough to go that little bit more. I have been injured, I have gone that extra mile. Something we can't say about you, something that is proven in history.
Let's not mention you just randomly falling off the face of the earth, taking such a long leave of absence the title was stripped from you.
Is that twice the title was taken from you? Twice the corporate figureheads decided you weren't WORTH carrying any longer as a name brand, as a household name?
Then two times retired, two times you decided to cut the sh-t and call it quits.
You leave and come back in this business more than a whore in a planned parenthood clinic.
A f-cking incurable STD on the d-ck on the wrestling industry.
But God forbid I a fall in and out, Lord knows you have never done that, never fell, never faltered? Perfection isn't exactly in your resume. Nor in mine Hornet.
Then again, people that come to see this tournament they aren't buy tickets to see Hornet the great performer, the great athlete. They are going to see Hornet, the name.
Just a name in the sand, slowly being washed away with the incoming tide, a struggle against time that is inevitable. As your generation of wrestlers, die, retire, and wither away like the flowers of summer into winter, new ones bloom in the spring, new ones like myself.
A star isn't just born, it just doesn't become because it is, it forms, it grows, and then outshines.
You, Hornet, you are being out shined but are too narcoleptic to see it.
I can't help but return time and time again to the image of a dying star, decaying away, burning out slowly, becoming nothing more than a small void in the universe, cold and in darkness. They say only stars with large enough masses, stars that ONCE burned so bright become black holes.
And that is you, Hornet. A dead star, sucking any and all light into your vortex of falling fame. Trying to get that last glimpse, that last standing ovation. Only to find that everything tries to AVOID you.
Your name SOLD tickets.
Your name CASHED checks.
Your name PUT asses in seats.
Your name WAS one that inspired and produced wrestlers.
Your name was.
Adrian looks down at the cigarette that is now burning out slowly as we fade to black with the cigarette dead.
FADE OUT
Adrian Willard mocking Hornets scene of the Brooklyn near a river, instead we are on the Chicago River the sun setting gracefully as the camera is following behind him. Adrian stops, then turns around shaking his head slightly dropping his half finished cigarette to the grass letting it smolder.
Maybe, just possibly, we can take a second here to review what the whole picture is. The whole puzzle, not just a little jigsaw that doesn't complete it. You call out my past, my defeats, my lost linage. You question where are my titles? I haven't been on the scene long enough to work towards that venture.
Hell, I would have loved to have been carried by the board and that snake Chad Merritt. Been handed glory by Merritt. Been stroked and ass kissed enough to have been given chance, after chance, after chance for title shots.
No work, all play. No natural talent.
Adrian shrugs slightly.
A man who became nothing more than a transitional champion.
You handed the title literally Eli Flair. Inverted DDT, now that Hornet, that is hardcore, great way to go out.
Mocking clap
Vacated the title due to injury earlier. Proving that the myth is nothing more than half a man. Prone to injury, a man that couldn't suck it up enough to go that little bit more. I have been injured, I have gone that extra mile. Something we can't say about you, something that is proven in history.
Let's not mention you just randomly falling off the face of the earth, taking such a long leave of absence the title was stripped from you.
Is that twice the title was taken from you? Twice the corporate figureheads decided you weren't WORTH carrying any longer as a name brand, as a household name?
Then two times retired, two times you decided to cut the sh-t and call it quits.
You leave and come back in this business more than a whore in a planned parenthood clinic.
A f-cking incurable STD on the d-ck on the wrestling industry.
But God forbid I a fall in and out, Lord knows you have never done that, never fell, never faltered? Perfection isn't exactly in your resume. Nor in mine Hornet.
Then again, people that come to see this tournament they aren't buy tickets to see Hornet the great performer, the great athlete. They are going to see Hornet, the name.
Just a name in the sand, slowly being washed away with the incoming tide, a struggle against time that is inevitable. As your generation of wrestlers, die, retire, and wither away like the flowers of summer into winter, new ones bloom in the spring, new ones like myself.
A star isn't just born, it just doesn't become because it is, it forms, it grows, and then outshines.
You, Hornet, you are being out shined but are too narcoleptic to see it.
I can't help but return time and time again to the image of a dying star, decaying away, burning out slowly, becoming nothing more than a small void in the universe, cold and in darkness. They say only stars with large enough masses, stars that ONCE burned so bright become black holes.
And that is you, Hornet. A dead star, sucking any and all light into your vortex of falling fame. Trying to get that last glimpse, that last standing ovation. Only to find that everything tries to AVOID you.
Your name SOLD tickets.
Your name CASHED checks.
Your name PUT asses in seats.
Your name WAS one that inspired and produced wrestlers.
Your name was.
Adrian looks down at the cigarette that is now burning out slowly as we fade to black with the cigarette dead.
FADE OUT
(FADEIN: Hornet is back in Manhattan. The shot shows him sitting in a high-backed leather chair with a view of the nighttime city behind him. His dark brown hair is cut short and spiky as he lounges back with a “HERO” t-shirt and dark-washed jeans on, but barefoot.)
You know I was talking to an old friend yesterday, reminiscing about getting back into the game. He said he watched your promo and thought “Hey, weren’t they calling Hornet old back in 2000?”
And he’s right, they were. In the same way they were saying I was nothing without Merritt.
Good attempt, Willard, but you missed some history and got most of it wrong. You ignored the history where I, not Merritt, traveled around the world amassing championships that created the UNIFIED World Championship. You mentioned the CSWA pulling the title off of me, but didn’t realize that they brought me back and negotiated a nine-figure multi-year deal once I had them over a barrel.
Willard, you’ve proven you can’t even power up a 15-watt bulb, let alone a spotlight.
You try so hard – play the game to make a ‘splash’ by associating yourself with a bigger name. But once the rub is gone, you don’t have the charisma to make people react or the skills to make them stand up and applaud when you’re in the ring. Perfection isn’t in your resume, hell, it’s not even in your vocabulary if we’re being honest.
I haven’t ever claimed to be perfect. I’ve popped pills, I’ve lost loves, I’ve made horrible mistakes like getting wrapped up in the Windham family saga. I’ve been injured by an Antichrist and injured by a concrete wall trying to save a friend. I’ve hit friends with branding irons, put them through tables and humiliated them in the ring. I’ve won over fifty championships, won the ULTRATITLE, lost the ULTRATITLE and been John Mcclane’d by JTP and a man ridiculously called Triple X.
You… haven’t done jack. Or jill. Or Ivy, for that matter.
You can put things in past tense all you want. But remember what happens to dying stars. They’re at their most powerful at the end of the lifecycle. They go out with explosions and then create black holes that suck everything into nothingness.
Better to be a dying star than never one at all.
Oh, and since you decided to get crude and make this personal, maybe you should finish your history lesson. Go google “WASP,” or Avery Lincoln, or Tom Adler and “limo,” or Mark Vizzachero and “branding iron.” Go do your homework and find out what happens if you really want to see what a disease I can be. Find out what happens if I make things personal.
(FADEOUT as the camera pans from Hornet's chair to a set of bookshelves. On the top one, a rusty branding iron sits alone.)
You know I was talking to an old friend yesterday, reminiscing about getting back into the game. He said he watched your promo and thought “Hey, weren’t they calling Hornet old back in 2000?”
And he’s right, they were. In the same way they were saying I was nothing without Merritt.
Good attempt, Willard, but you missed some history and got most of it wrong. You ignored the history where I, not Merritt, traveled around the world amassing championships that created the UNIFIED World Championship. You mentioned the CSWA pulling the title off of me, but didn’t realize that they brought me back and negotiated a nine-figure multi-year deal once I had them over a barrel.
Willard, you’ve proven you can’t even power up a 15-watt bulb, let alone a spotlight.
You try so hard – play the game to make a ‘splash’ by associating yourself with a bigger name. But once the rub is gone, you don’t have the charisma to make people react or the skills to make them stand up and applaud when you’re in the ring. Perfection isn’t in your resume, hell, it’s not even in your vocabulary if we’re being honest.
I haven’t ever claimed to be perfect. I’ve popped pills, I’ve lost loves, I’ve made horrible mistakes like getting wrapped up in the Windham family saga. I’ve been injured by an Antichrist and injured by a concrete wall trying to save a friend. I’ve hit friends with branding irons, put them through tables and humiliated them in the ring. I’ve won over fifty championships, won the ULTRATITLE, lost the ULTRATITLE and been John Mcclane’d by JTP and a man ridiculously called Triple X.
You… haven’t done jack. Or jill. Or Ivy, for that matter.
You can put things in past tense all you want. But remember what happens to dying stars. They’re at their most powerful at the end of the lifecycle. They go out with explosions and then create black holes that suck everything into nothingness.
Better to be a dying star than never one at all.
Oh, and since you decided to get crude and make this personal, maybe you should finish your history lesson. Go google “WASP,” or Avery Lincoln, or Tom Adler and “limo,” or Mark Vizzachero and “branding iron.” Go do your homework and find out what happens if you really want to see what a disease I can be. Find out what happens if I make things personal.
(FADEOUT as the camera pans from Hornet's chair to a set of bookshelves. On the top one, a rusty branding iron sits alone.)
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
FADE IN...
Adrian Willard is sitting at the Landshark outdoor beer Garden at Navy Pier in Chicago. Ice cold Miller Genuine Draft in is hand. Wearing a Black Label Society t-shirt and faded fatigue shorts. Sunglasses on his face and his long blonde hair in a pony tail.
Personal, Hornet? Shall we make it personal? As you rant off your high horse you forget that I have less than two years in this business, compared to your over a decade. In a decade Hornet I would hope to have accomplished the level that you have.
That's the gimmick, that's what makes you such a luminous individual. You have the most ring time in the world, the most history in the world, and let's just say it, we can't hold a match to your career.
It may have taking you through times thick and thin, THEN. It may have created your nine figure deals THEN. And yes we can past tense your skills, make you be a washed up old man still wrestling, and making people pop out of their seats.
But you still fail to get the job DONE.
Crash 50 anyone?
Failure to get the job done. Unable to win the match, unable to win the title off Joe the Plumber.
Even the freaking promos are the same load of sh-t.
Hornet Crash 50 to Joe the Plumber - “Ask your boss what happened to the first 'WASP.' Ask him about Avery Lincoln... Mike Roiter... and that kid I maimed whose name I can't remember. Ask anybody who put GUNS out of misery. Or who BRANDED Mark Vizzack”
And to me? “Go google “WASP,” or Avery Lincoln, or Tom Adler and “limo,” or Mark Vizzachero and branding iron.”
Repetitive.
A broken record like a Korean War vet telling old war stories.
UNORIGINAL.
Yet you still wish to believe in this false fallacy, here is some realism for you.
Old..
Adrian points to the camera
...and new
He then returns his finger to himself.
Past...
Adrian points to the camera
...and present.
He then returns his finger to himself.
You blur these lines, you think you are the Hornet of old, when you were a bigger name winning title after title. Now you are just an old dog trying to learn new tricks, trying to have that last ride of success.
You are Randy Couture.
Multiple time champion, a legend, but times have changed and things are different now. Training is harder, more physical and at your age, your stage in your career, we don't EXPECT you to keep up, just to show up.
Make men like Joe the Plumber look good. Let the people say, “hey, he beat Hornet!”
Use you and abuse you.
You can talk about your accomplishments.
But that's all you have left.
You can talk about how you are still a superstar.
But that's nothing more than a persona.
What you FAIL to have left Is brute force, agility, strength at MY caliber.
All you have is history, all you have is a room full of former titles, and some of CSWA's merchandise rights.
But even Dan Gable had a time when his skills didn't hold up to his name.
That's where we are now, Hornet. Your name is far superior than your actual talent at this stage. You are just a marquee name. You may have made mistakes in your past, popped pills, stuck it to Ivy when you knew it was a bio hazard but does that suddenly make you a better over all wrestler?
No.
Does winning all your titles make you a more respectable athlete? Yes, hell yes.
Does it make you more physically in shape than I? F-ck no.
And as much as we rant and rave about your stardom I hate to tell you this, Hornet. The nineties are dead.
We are in mid 2011, time isn't on your side, it's against you.
As for me? Time grooms me, time evolves me to a greater and more powerful wrestler. You career is near its end, coming to a close. Mine has simply begun, it is forming and gathering to become great.
What's a better Big Bang than to put you out.
FADE OUT
Adrian Willard is sitting at the Landshark outdoor beer Garden at Navy Pier in Chicago. Ice cold Miller Genuine Draft in is hand. Wearing a Black Label Society t-shirt and faded fatigue shorts. Sunglasses on his face and his long blonde hair in a pony tail.
Personal, Hornet? Shall we make it personal? As you rant off your high horse you forget that I have less than two years in this business, compared to your over a decade. In a decade Hornet I would hope to have accomplished the level that you have.
That's the gimmick, that's what makes you such a luminous individual. You have the most ring time in the world, the most history in the world, and let's just say it, we can't hold a match to your career.
It may have taking you through times thick and thin, THEN. It may have created your nine figure deals THEN. And yes we can past tense your skills, make you be a washed up old man still wrestling, and making people pop out of their seats.
But you still fail to get the job DONE.
Crash 50 anyone?
Failure to get the job done. Unable to win the match, unable to win the title off Joe the Plumber.
Even the freaking promos are the same load of sh-t.
Hornet Crash 50 to Joe the Plumber - “Ask your boss what happened to the first 'WASP.' Ask him about Avery Lincoln... Mike Roiter... and that kid I maimed whose name I can't remember. Ask anybody who put GUNS out of misery. Or who BRANDED Mark Vizzack”
And to me? “Go google “WASP,” or Avery Lincoln, or Tom Adler and “limo,” or Mark Vizzachero and branding iron.”
Repetitive.
A broken record like a Korean War vet telling old war stories.
UNORIGINAL.
Yet you still wish to believe in this false fallacy, here is some realism for you.
Old..
Adrian points to the camera
...and new
He then returns his finger to himself.
Past...
Adrian points to the camera
...and present.
He then returns his finger to himself.
You blur these lines, you think you are the Hornet of old, when you were a bigger name winning title after title. Now you are just an old dog trying to learn new tricks, trying to have that last ride of success.
You are Randy Couture.
Multiple time champion, a legend, but times have changed and things are different now. Training is harder, more physical and at your age, your stage in your career, we don't EXPECT you to keep up, just to show up.
Make men like Joe the Plumber look good. Let the people say, “hey, he beat Hornet!”
Use you and abuse you.
You can talk about your accomplishments.
But that's all you have left.
You can talk about how you are still a superstar.
But that's nothing more than a persona.
What you FAIL to have left Is brute force, agility, strength at MY caliber.
All you have is history, all you have is a room full of former titles, and some of CSWA's merchandise rights.
But even Dan Gable had a time when his skills didn't hold up to his name.
That's where we are now, Hornet. Your name is far superior than your actual talent at this stage. You are just a marquee name. You may have made mistakes in your past, popped pills, stuck it to Ivy when you knew it was a bio hazard but does that suddenly make you a better over all wrestler?
No.
Does winning all your titles make you a more respectable athlete? Yes, hell yes.
Does it make you more physically in shape than I? F-ck no.
And as much as we rant and rave about your stardom I hate to tell you this, Hornet. The nineties are dead.
We are in mid 2011, time isn't on your side, it's against you.
As for me? Time grooms me, time evolves me to a greater and more powerful wrestler. You career is near its end, coming to a close. Mine has simply begun, it is forming and gathering to become great.
What's a better Big Bang than to put you out.
FADE OUT
Last edited:
Tick. Tick. BOOM.
(FADEIN: Hornet sits in front of a window again, but this time the background is moving. The former UNIFIED Champion settles back in his seat on the train, apparently alone other than the camera crew. A folded newspaper lays in the seat beside him on top of a paperback. As the camera rolls, he laughs.)
Let’s get serious, Willard.
You’re a self-proclaimed prophet, a self-proclaimed loser, and I’m proclaiming you a pissant. How’s that?
After two years in this business, I had a World Championship strapped around my waist. I lost it, won it back in my rematch, and then held it for three years. Facing all-comers while my face was one of a couple used to take a company national and international.
You’ve done exactly jack (bleep). In two years, or ever.
The “gimmick” as you put it, is that I’ve held over 50 World Championships and assorted other titles. I’ve competed in the most important leagues in history and held a title in almost every single one. I’d call that getting the job done.
You couldn’t accomplish that if you wrestled five lifetimes, let alone 10 years.
And why the hell would I waste time coming up with new lines for you? You think you’re a bigger name than Joe The Plumber? You think you could deal with Sean Stevens dragging you across broken glass? Please, you couldn’t deal with getting beat by a woman, remember?
There’s no “Hornet of old.” There’s only Hornet. And you better pray Mr. Prophet that I am several steps slower, several notches weaker and several brain cells dumber. Because if I’m not, then you’ve already admitted that you’re stepping in the ring against a man who has done more than you can imagine, against a man whose skill far exceeded your own in his best day.
And if this is my last hurrah, Adrian, what the hell makes you think I’m going to go easy on you? What in the name of all that is good and holy makes you think that I won’t do everything in my power and beyond to take a ridiculous jobber like you and snap your legs like WASP? What makes you think that I won’t take a branding iron and sear my brand into your ridiculous maimed soul if I’d do it to a man I called a friend.
Maybe what you should be asking, Willard, is why I’m coming back.
I’ve got the better part of $150 mil in my bank account just from my CSWA contract alone. I don’t need the money.
I’ve got options for endorsement deals, for TV shots, for movies, for whatever vehicle I’d want to keep my name in the spotlight. But I don’t need the fame.
I’ve won almost everything there is to win, beaten almost everyone there is to beat, and staked my claim wherever I’ve wanted to. I don’t have anything to prove.
So instead of thinking of me as a stepping stone, Willard, maybe you ought to focus on the true question at hand. Why the hell would I care about stepping into a little tournament to face the likes of a kid whose best days are already behind him in the NCAA.
I’ve got the credentials. There’s more footage on me than they’ll ever take of you in your life. I gave you a warning, man to man, even though you’ve proven over and over again that you’re just a little boy who runs away when he faces any type of competition whatsoever.
So maybe you should wonder what’s in it for me, Willard.
And if I’m just marking time to my inevitable end, Willard – if I’m just a ticking timebomb that you’re waiting to go off. Then maybe you should wonder… what happens to you if I just don’t give a damn.
(fadeout)
(FADEIN: Hornet sits in front of a window again, but this time the background is moving. The former UNIFIED Champion settles back in his seat on the train, apparently alone other than the camera crew. A folded newspaper lays in the seat beside him on top of a paperback. As the camera rolls, he laughs.)
Let’s get serious, Willard.
You’re a self-proclaimed prophet, a self-proclaimed loser, and I’m proclaiming you a pissant. How’s that?
After two years in this business, I had a World Championship strapped around my waist. I lost it, won it back in my rematch, and then held it for three years. Facing all-comers while my face was one of a couple used to take a company national and international.
You’ve done exactly jack (bleep). In two years, or ever.
The “gimmick” as you put it, is that I’ve held over 50 World Championships and assorted other titles. I’ve competed in the most important leagues in history and held a title in almost every single one. I’d call that getting the job done.
You couldn’t accomplish that if you wrestled five lifetimes, let alone 10 years.
And why the hell would I waste time coming up with new lines for you? You think you’re a bigger name than Joe The Plumber? You think you could deal with Sean Stevens dragging you across broken glass? Please, you couldn’t deal with getting beat by a woman, remember?
There’s no “Hornet of old.” There’s only Hornet. And you better pray Mr. Prophet that I am several steps slower, several notches weaker and several brain cells dumber. Because if I’m not, then you’ve already admitted that you’re stepping in the ring against a man who has done more than you can imagine, against a man whose skill far exceeded your own in his best day.
And if this is my last hurrah, Adrian, what the hell makes you think I’m going to go easy on you? What in the name of all that is good and holy makes you think that I won’t do everything in my power and beyond to take a ridiculous jobber like you and snap your legs like WASP? What makes you think that I won’t take a branding iron and sear my brand into your ridiculous maimed soul if I’d do it to a man I called a friend.
Maybe what you should be asking, Willard, is why I’m coming back.
I’ve got the better part of $150 mil in my bank account just from my CSWA contract alone. I don’t need the money.
I’ve got options for endorsement deals, for TV shots, for movies, for whatever vehicle I’d want to keep my name in the spotlight. But I don’t need the fame.
I’ve won almost everything there is to win, beaten almost everyone there is to beat, and staked my claim wherever I’ve wanted to. I don’t have anything to prove.
So instead of thinking of me as a stepping stone, Willard, maybe you ought to focus on the true question at hand. Why the hell would I care about stepping into a little tournament to face the likes of a kid whose best days are already behind him in the NCAA.
I’ve got the credentials. There’s more footage on me than they’ll ever take of you in your life. I gave you a warning, man to man, even though you’ve proven over and over again that you’re just a little boy who runs away when he faces any type of competition whatsoever.
So maybe you should wonder what’s in it for me, Willard.
And if I’m just marking time to my inevitable end, Willard – if I’m just a ticking timebomb that you’re waiting to go off. Then maybe you should wonder… what happens to you if I just don’t give a damn.
(fadeout)
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
Wideshot...
Adrian Willard at a day spa as woman is giving him a manicure. He sits in a white bath robe as the woman does his nails. He looks at the camera whipping his hair out of his face.
I believe you should always look good.
Damn good.
Something you haven't done in the ring for years, Hornet.
I pull out my HTC EVO and there you are. You just don't stop. You keep coming and coming. Never ceasing to amaze me with your ideology.
And whilst you have no answer for your failures, as to why you fell short at Crash 50 you simply try to redirect the issue.
Let's stop. Let's really think on it. You spit the same rhetoric. The same superstar crazed lines and fall short.
Yet you are some how the same Hornet. The same man?
Please.
Save us the ATTEMPT.
You drag out my dirty laundry. I answer for it. I will admit that I am still learning the ropes.
Honesty is the policy.
You? You'd rather live in a delusional world you've created. Like a sick mental patient refusing to suck in that things just aren't working.
And as for why you are here? I've established why. It's no secret, we can see right through you like a glass house.
I'm the one throwing the stone.
So, you have titles.
We established that.
You have money.
We established that.
Yet this is all you keep returning to. This is all you have to say.
Nothing to how you will improve from here. Nothing how you will win this match.
All you have is your ego, your contracts, your bank flow.
But the richest of men still are poor when it comes to ethics.
But hell! Who cares Hornet's here let's all worship the ground you step on.
Forgetting you are simply...
Quite simply...
A f-cking leech.
Hanging on to life by a God damn string and hoping just one day that it doesn't snap.
So let's review. Have I said to go easy on me? Have I said don't bring your A-game?
No, I say to you. Bring it. Bring your branding iron.
You better hope you kill me, because I will keep coming back, and back until one of us is done.
Pray when that bell rings.
Hope when that bell rings.
Because once it does I plan to tear you apart, piece by piece.
Nothing more than a Hornet with no stinger.
So come at me Hornet, don't give a damn. Lord knows I won't let up.
After this match, why don't you take another three to four years off. Disappear to the shadows like the cockroach you are.
Nah, f-ck it. I'll just squash you and save the world another pathetic revival.
Fade out.
Adrian Willard at a day spa as woman is giving him a manicure. He sits in a white bath robe as the woman does his nails. He looks at the camera whipping his hair out of his face.
I believe you should always look good.
Damn good.
Something you haven't done in the ring for years, Hornet.
I pull out my HTC EVO and there you are. You just don't stop. You keep coming and coming. Never ceasing to amaze me with your ideology.
And whilst you have no answer for your failures, as to why you fell short at Crash 50 you simply try to redirect the issue.
Let's stop. Let's really think on it. You spit the same rhetoric. The same superstar crazed lines and fall short.
Yet you are some how the same Hornet. The same man?
Please.
Save us the ATTEMPT.
You drag out my dirty laundry. I answer for it. I will admit that I am still learning the ropes.
Honesty is the policy.
You? You'd rather live in a delusional world you've created. Like a sick mental patient refusing to suck in that things just aren't working.
And as for why you are here? I've established why. It's no secret, we can see right through you like a glass house.
I'm the one throwing the stone.
So, you have titles.
We established that.
You have money.
We established that.
Yet this is all you keep returning to. This is all you have to say.
Nothing to how you will improve from here. Nothing how you will win this match.
All you have is your ego, your contracts, your bank flow.
But the richest of men still are poor when it comes to ethics.
But hell! Who cares Hornet's here let's all worship the ground you step on.
Forgetting you are simply...
Quite simply...
A f-cking leech.
Hanging on to life by a God damn string and hoping just one day that it doesn't snap.
So let's review. Have I said to go easy on me? Have I said don't bring your A-game?
No, I say to you. Bring it. Bring your branding iron.
You better hope you kill me, because I will keep coming back, and back until one of us is done.
Pray when that bell rings.
Hope when that bell rings.
Because once it does I plan to tear you apart, piece by piece.
Nothing more than a Hornet with no stinger.
So come at me Hornet, don't give a damn. Lord knows I won't let up.
After this match, why don't you take another three to four years off. Disappear to the shadows like the cockroach you are.
Nah, f-ck it. I'll just squash you and save the world another pathetic revival.
Fade out.
Old Age
“I find in old age that it's possible to revisit the past, the one requirement being that you come as you are.”
Lots of old wrestlers just fade away. They hit their bump limit and step away. The crowds give them a great send-off, and then forget them in the time it takes to go get a hot dog at intermission.
They might come back for special events or one-time pops. The occasional “throw out the first pitch” moment as the hometown “name” is trotted out, hobbling like an old man on surgery-repaired knees, ankles or hips.
But for the select few… The “legends” or “hall of famers” or “superstars,” it’s different. But there’s still another division. An echelon without official definition other than the fact that they’re never referred to as “that guy” or “do you remember the one who…” They’re known names, whether you’re talking to a fan of today or yesterday, or his girlfriend or his grandmother.
They can’t fade. It’s not in them.
The skin under his arm is still calloused and seems partly discolored from years of hitting ropes made of steel covered in rubber hoses or even ropes just made of… rope.
His back has had more surgeries than he’d ever let on and has been hit with everything from bone to steel to fire to leather to bamboo… and even concrete from a collapsing wall.
On certain days the memories don’t come as quickly as they did. He chalks it up to time away and time passed, but multiple concussions and countless bumps have taken at least as much toll.
He’s still strong, stronger than his early-forties counterparts, stronger than most of his acquaintances in their late twenties and thirties. But he sees the ease of youth the young guys in the gym possess – the quick recovery from a set, the ability to run a superset without stopping.
It’s easier to do some of the simple things now. Grocery shopping is still a pain, but at least a possibility. A baseball cap, sunglasses and slightly baggy clothes are an adequate disguise that deflects most of the attention these days. He still gets recognized, stopped, asked for everything from autographs to advice, but it’s nothing like it was in 1992 or 2002.
Life is easier. Slower. Simpler.
Boring. Repetitive. Unfulfilling?
No, not always. But the nagging pain in the back that’s always there is nothing really. Except that it is. It’s a reminder.
A reminder of how easy it would be step back out onto a stage where, love you or hate you, they all know you. Of how simple it might be to ‘lace ‘em up’ and get the rhythm back. One-two-three-and-a-half, bounce, two-two-three-and-a-half, bounce. Step. Duck. Step. Bounce. Extend. Cover and hook…
A reminder of how easy it would be to quell the pain with just a couple of pills. To cover up the regret and the loss and the itch with some Somas and a lot of sleep.
To forget the questions, “How did I get here?” “What do I have to show for it?” “What does it all mean?”
“What do I do now?”
Some old wrestlers fade away. And some hang on, and on and on. They become punchlines or clowns or caricatures of the legends they once were. Once-great champions devolve, spiraling lower and lower as their “rub” becomes less and less valuable.
Living in the past isn’t enough. Hanging onto greatness isn’t an answer. Regret and pain and emptiness aren’t enough, and neither are pride and glory and honor in the long run.
But what wrestler every really thought about the long run anyway?
“I find in old age that it's possible to revisit the past, the one requirement being that you come as you are.”
Lots of old wrestlers just fade away. They hit their bump limit and step away. The crowds give them a great send-off, and then forget them in the time it takes to go get a hot dog at intermission.
They might come back for special events or one-time pops. The occasional “throw out the first pitch” moment as the hometown “name” is trotted out, hobbling like an old man on surgery-repaired knees, ankles or hips.
But for the select few… The “legends” or “hall of famers” or “superstars,” it’s different. But there’s still another division. An echelon without official definition other than the fact that they’re never referred to as “that guy” or “do you remember the one who…” They’re known names, whether you’re talking to a fan of today or yesterday, or his girlfriend or his grandmother.
They can’t fade. It’s not in them.
The skin under his arm is still calloused and seems partly discolored from years of hitting ropes made of steel covered in rubber hoses or even ropes just made of… rope.
His back has had more surgeries than he’d ever let on and has been hit with everything from bone to steel to fire to leather to bamboo… and even concrete from a collapsing wall.
On certain days the memories don’t come as quickly as they did. He chalks it up to time away and time passed, but multiple concussions and countless bumps have taken at least as much toll.
He’s still strong, stronger than his early-forties counterparts, stronger than most of his acquaintances in their late twenties and thirties. But he sees the ease of youth the young guys in the gym possess – the quick recovery from a set, the ability to run a superset without stopping.
It’s easier to do some of the simple things now. Grocery shopping is still a pain, but at least a possibility. A baseball cap, sunglasses and slightly baggy clothes are an adequate disguise that deflects most of the attention these days. He still gets recognized, stopped, asked for everything from autographs to advice, but it’s nothing like it was in 1992 or 2002.
Life is easier. Slower. Simpler.
Boring. Repetitive. Unfulfilling?
No, not always. But the nagging pain in the back that’s always there is nothing really. Except that it is. It’s a reminder.
A reminder of how easy it would be step back out onto a stage where, love you or hate you, they all know you. Of how simple it might be to ‘lace ‘em up’ and get the rhythm back. One-two-three-and-a-half, bounce, two-two-three-and-a-half, bounce. Step. Duck. Step. Bounce. Extend. Cover and hook…
A reminder of how easy it would be to quell the pain with just a couple of pills. To cover up the regret and the loss and the itch with some Somas and a lot of sleep.
To forget the questions, “How did I get here?” “What do I have to show for it?” “What does it all mean?”
“What do I do now?”
Some old wrestlers fade away. And some hang on, and on and on. They become punchlines or clowns or caricatures of the legends they once were. Once-great champions devolve, spiraling lower and lower as their “rub” becomes less and less valuable.
Living in the past isn’t enough. Hanging onto greatness isn’t an answer. Regret and pain and emptiness aren’t enough, and neither are pride and glory and honor in the long run.
But what wrestler every really thought about the long run anyway?