Home Sweet Nowhere - Part #1 of You Can Never Go Back

The birthplace of revolution. Within the hallowed confines of these city streets – now paved and repaved over under the ever-moving forces of progress and change – a revolution was birthed. It was born not from men whom history would come to deify, but by common men and unwilling martyrs. The city stands a living, breathing entity with a storied history buried and hidden beneath the glossy facade of the Hancock and Prudential towers, Millennium Place and behind the eerie blue glow Lenny Zakim-Bunker Hill bridge.

Separated from the glamor and bright lights of downtown is the predominantly working-class, Irish-Catholic neighborhood of South Boston. The target of urban revitalization projects, South Boston's checkered past of violence, race riots and crime has been white-washed over in recent years. Along the waterfront South Boston is a thriving haven for young urban professional and their Volvo lifestyles, but away from the pictures they put on the front of travel brochures is the neighborhood of West Broadway; one of the dangerous housing projects in the Eastern United States. It is here among the faltering flashes of yellow street lights that the sound of steady footsteps can be heard.

A man walks alone down the sidewalks of West Broadway. His face is covered in a light stubble, and he is well put-together for a man of relatively short height. His blue-gray eyes are cast downward, away from the filthy, crumbling edifices that tower above his head like some architectural cluster-fuck of barely habitable dwellings. A stiff breeze presses the unseasonable warmth - and a few remnants of garbage from the grungy gutters of this ethnic enclave - against the man's body. The wind ruffles the uncovered strands of dark brown hair that hang over the man's brow and ears. He fades in and out of view between the sputtering halo of yellow street light and shadows of the early winter's evening; his presence only marked by the constant sound of rubber soles against asphalt. A sound that ceases in front of a large, red brick apartment building.

The building's windows have been boarded closed, the bricks are chipped and in heavy disrepair, the front landing and steps to the entrance have been cordoned off by yellow caution tied haphazardly between the one railing that was still erect and the other that had fallen off into the alleyway. Over the broken glass of double-door front entrance was a piece of warped plywood with “CONDEMNED” spray-painted in fluorescent orange.

“They should've put: 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here' up there instead.” The somewhat gravely baritone of the man's voice carries the tell-tale trademarks of a slight Bostonian accent as he stands with his arms folded across his leather jacket, staring up at the building, looming like a colossus, in front of him. The pale blue-gray eyes envelope the building, soaking up every broken window, every crack in the facade, and every twisted piece of steel. The building is schedule to be demolished in a few weeks. It's destruction delayed only by its proximity to other hellholes around it and the subsequently impracticality and danger of an implosion. Just long enough for the only tenet who ever made it out of South Boston – alive anyway – to catch a final glimpse of the place he and his family once called home.

“Its true what they say,” Patrick McCarthy says as he lifts a cigarette from behind his right ear, “you can never go back.” McCarthy places the cigarette between his pursed lips, lifting a lighter to the edge and re-igniting the habit he had sworn he had kicked all those years ago. Without another word spoken, the man turns on his heel and heads through the shadows and halos in a new direction. The sound of rubber soles against the asphalt fades into the warm night air.

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The neighborhood of Mattapan is known for one thing... and its not luxury condominiums. Dubbed “Murderpan” by local rapper Big Shug and various thousands of others around the city of Boston, Mattapan has the dubious honor of being the most dangerous place in the city of Boston. The corridor along Blue Hill Avenue boasts more homicide per year than the rest of the entire state of Massachusetts. Welcome home.

Just off Blue Hill Ave., wedged between the Avenue and American Legion Highway, is the small side road of Calder St. The street is lined with a few multi-family, low income homes and one small, bedraggled public housing project. Made of gray-stone and looming a few stories high, the building is not the kind of place that anyone – no matter how grand their delusions of “toughness” may be – would ever want to live. This is the last resort, the last refuge and the only place where the poorest of the poor can find four walls and ceiling to begrudgingly call “home.”

On the second floor, amidst the missing floor tiles and peeling wallpaper, Patrick McCarthy stuffs the last of his personal effects into a pair of black duffel bags. For the better part of the last three months since he returned to Boston from the hospital in Barrie (Ontario, Canada), McCarthy had been living out of these duffel bags in the crammed, dingy confines of room 212. The surgery that repaired his neck and the subsequent physical therapy that got him walking again had drained the last of the savings he'd earned as Central Ontario Pro's Heavyweight Champion. Lifting an over-stuffed duffel bag under each arm and a backpack over his left shoulder, McCarthy exits room 212... not even looking back to see if he'd left anything.

In the meager parking lot adjacent to the housing project, McCarthy – attired in his usual outfit of a black leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans and sneakers – tosses the duffel bags and backpack into the trunk of a jet-black 2003 Cadillac DeVille. Dubbed “The Bad Luck Mobile,” McCarthy purchased the car back in Canada just after its third accident (two of them fatal) for far less than it's Blue-Book value. For the first few months of his wrestling career in Canada the backseat doubled as McCarthy's bedroom. It is the closest thing the young Irishman has to a “good luck” charm. Closing the trunk, McCarthy reclines against the driver's side, taking in one last look at the place he hopes he will never call home again. A silver crucifix necklace rests around the neck and against the chest of the young man.

“If you want to talk about 'paying your dues,' THIS is the collection agency. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” His gaze breaks from the building, as he casually slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, weaving his thumbs through the belt loop. The steely gaze of his blue-gray eyes stays focused straight ahead of him.

“I suppose I should introduce myself, being the new guy and all. My name is Patrick McCarthy... some people call me 'The Saint.' I doubt that my name will sound familiar to the majority of people out there, but I hope to change that. So let me tell you everything you need to know about who I am, where I've been and what I've done,” he pauses briefly, “Oh but don't worry... there won't be any laundry list of titles or accomplishments. That list is now property of a museum in Canada as part of their 'Who Gives A F**k” exhibit.'”

He flashes a coy, self-deprecating smirk before straightening himself up against the side of the Cadillac. “When I first started wrestling for Central Ontario Pro up in Canada,” he begins, “I was making less in two months than your average UCW mainstay makes for a show. For you fans out there that buy the UCW pay-per-views and tickets to the live events, I'd have to work three nights to afford that. I slept in the backseat of this old jalopy for months before being able to afford an apartment,” he taps the backseat window with his knuckle, “and that was only because I picked up a second job working construction.

“I came into COPW as the tag team champion of their sister promotion, Pure Honor, based out of Toronto. Pure Honor was bought out and the roster was shipped over to COPW. I brought the PHW tag strip with me, and inside of a month unified it with the COPW tag titles. We held those belts for six months, undefeated and undisputed as the best tag team in Canada's independent circuit. That was until someone I considered a friend cracked up over the head with a steel chair. That chair shot was the first time my neck was broken.” As if by force of habit, he reaches behind his head to rub the back of his neck where the vertebrae were cracked.

“The doctor came into my hospital room and told me with physical therapy I'd be on my feet in no time. Then he said that if wanted to live to see thirty, my wrestling career was over... I was twenty years old at the time. Imagine that. Imagine telling a kid barely out of his teens that his life might be two-third completed. Well he was right. With physical therapy I was back on my feet in no time... and back in the ring in two months.” A brief smile crosses the weathered face of the twenty-three year old, still showing hints of the youth defiance and recklessness that made his famous in Canada.

“I was the surprise final entrant in a tournament to crown the new Heavyweight Champion,” he says before adding with another grin: “...stop me if that kind of tournament sounds familiar to any of you UCW fans. Two months removed from a broken neck I hit independent wrestling living legend Kirsta Lewis with her own finishing kick to advance. The next round I faced the odds-on favorite to win the tournament... and I kicked out of all three of his finishers, eventually pinning him after a Leap of Faith. The next round was the finals against a man who would make Bison and Peter Gilmour look like me or Stardust: Silvermane. Silvermane beat me from pillar to post, turnbuckle to ropes, in the ring, out of the ring and all through the build-ing. By the end of that match I was bruised, I was bloodied and I was broken.” Ever the showman, he pauses for dramatic effect, “I was also... victorious after kicking out of the big man's finisher. I beat giants, legends and former champions to earn a shot at the COPW Heavyweight title. I fought and defeated the man who broke my neck to become the youngest Heavyweight champion in the long, illustrious history of Canadian professional wrestling.

“I held that belt for four months, defending it every week, until the last match on the last show in COPW's five year history. I had my opponent down. I scaled the turnbuckle and leaped off. When I landed it wasn't across that man's chest... it was head-first against the unforgiving mat. My neck was broken... again.” McCarthy pauses taking in a deep breath, his eyes breaking their fixated gaze and falling to the pavement beneath his feet. After a moment, his head swings back up and his story continues.

“I don't remember him crawling over me for the pin. I don't remember my foot laying under the bottom ropes, breaking that pin. I don't remember him lifting my limp body off the mat and dropping me on my head with his finisher the first time, and I certainly don't remember him doing it the second time. I don't remember the pinfall. I don't remember the EMTs rushing to my aid. I don't remember the locker room emptying out and filling the ring to stare and my motionless body.

“No, the next thing I remember was apparently three days later when I woke from a coma. I remember telling my hands to pull the IV drip from my arm. I remember telling my legs to kick off the sheets, swing off the bed and walk right out of that hospital.” He pauses for a long moment, again breaking his gaze and swallowing a large, emotional breath of air.

“And I remember them not responding. One year and every penny I had to my name was spent in that hospital, getting me back on my feet, literally. They told it'd be a miracle for me to ever walk or run again. I told them that saints don't usually perform miracles, but for them I'd make an exception.” The emotional part of his story told, a warmer demeanor returns to The Saint as he smiles.

“I walked out of that hospital, got in my car and came back home to Boston. I got on the phone and I called every contact in the wrestling business that I had. Everyone wanted “The Saint” in their promotion... but only one place was going allow me to step back into the ring. UCW is the only place willing to take a chance on the quote-unquote “biggest liability” in professional wrestling. Well if they thought I was crazy before, wait until they see what I do with my second chance.”

“That's what this Goldrush tournament is all about: second chances. The UCW itself is in the midst of its second chance, I'm back for my second chance, and my first round opponent Stardust is staring down his second chance at glory via Goldrush. I've done a little homework, Stardust, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. As far as I can tell you're the only person in this tournament who participated in the first Goldrush pay-per-view. That makes you the most experienced wrestler in this sort of enviroment.

“Now I know there's going to be a lot of talk about how the past doesn't matter. As one of the newest members of the UCW, I'm looking forward to the barrage of “No one cares about your past! You haven't proven yourself here!” diatribes that I'm sure are on their way. The way I see it, Dusty – if I may call you Dusty – is that if these guys want to talk about how they've proven themselves in UCW how is that any different than you talking about your Goldrush experience or me talking about my tournament experience? Simple, kid: it's not different at all. The way it seems to me, Dusty, is that you're the only one who's done this dance before, and I'm the only one who stepped out of a tournament as a Heavyweight champion before. Correct me if I'm wrong, kids, because I'd love to know what I'm going up against.”

McCarthy runs a hand through his hair before continuing.

“Dust, all jaw-jacking aside, you said to me that I better bring my A game to our match. Let me put it to you this way: after all I've been through, after all I've put myself through to get to this point and to be able to step back in the ring... do you really doubt that you're going to get anything but my very best? Dusty, you just better hope that you can handle my very best, because like it or not I'm going to be leaving Goldrush II with the UCW World Championship around my waist. Nothing personal, Dusty, and I wish you the best of luck in that Intercontinental Battle Royal, but that's the way it's going to be.”

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” McCarthy makes the sign of the cross in the air in front of him while giving the Latin benediction. With a half-smile he turns away, slides into the driver's seat and heads south for Pennsylvania.