Part 1 - Breaking Social Distancing
Mark “The Dragon” Cross awoke with a jolt, the unfamiliar surroundings sending him into a momentary state of alert. Waking up in strange places was nothing new given his career choices, but this wasn’t a hotel like usual...this was someone’s house. He’d only had one beer, his memory wasn’t hazy, and it didn’t take long for him to piece everything back together.
He heard the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen, the smell of bacon overwhelming his nostrils as he gathered up his clothes from the floor. Whether she’d known it or not, bacon was one of his biggest weaknesses in life...the temptation to stay was strong...but he had a tournament to win, and the hotel would have bacon in it anyway. Fire Dragons 2.0 took priority.
Mark hurriedly threw his clothes back on, formulating a plan, which started with checking the window. He slid it open, leaning out of it to get a better look at the situation. Sketchy. Trying to leave after someone had made him breakfast? Sketchier...if that’s even a real word...it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, what time was he supposed to be meeting Evie? Wasting no time more, he straddled the window ledge and made one final assessment.
The Dragon: Come and stay here she said...it'll be better than a hotel she said…Jesus Mark you're getting too old for this...
Mark swung his other leg over, catching on the ledge with both hands as he dropped. The unrelenting gym he’d maintained from his early twenties paid off as his arms took to the job comfortably. He eyed the next destination, a balcony to his left. It didn’t look like reaching distance, but he waved his left arm at it helplessly just to confirm that was the case
The Dragon: Now here's you facing your fear of heights...and risking your place in the tournament to meet up with a partner that doesn't even like you...breaking social distancing rules like a horny teenager...this isn’t you...
With his right arm on the ledge and right foot finding grip on the wall, he launched himself across to the balcony, catching the bottom edge with both hands, legs swinging below with his momentum.
The Dragon: Crushed it. Now how am I going to…
One look up to the top of the balcony railing confirmed that it was probably too high to get to by the time he’d pulled himself up. Decision made, he began shimmying Tomb Raider style along the ledge, going around the corner to the widest part of the balcony.
The Dragon: None of this would have happened...if Amanda was still here...why was I so reliant on her to keep me grounded…haaaaa, grounded...
Mark had a destination in mind, and shimmied far enough until he felt a tree branch brush under his foot. It was well-developed, wide enough to accommodate one foot and then some. He took an arm away from the balcony, seeing if it had the capability of bearing his weight. Solid. Both feet, still solid. His free hand released from the balcony, leaving his full weight on the tree, knees bending to give him balance if he needed it. With slow, cautious movements, he traversed up the branch, reaching the relative safety of the trunk, where he could lean his weight against it and shake the burning sensation out of his arms.
The Dragon: Behind every great man is a great woman...but I’m still doing alright on my own when I have to...huh!?!
Mark heard rustling from the branches above, but thought no more of it as he rolled his shoulders, still a little achy from the travel day that had brought him back to Vegas. From out of the corner of one eye, completely out of the blue swipes a large black paw, the air filled by the shriek of a frustrated cat, who had come to see who had the audacity to join him in the tree, HIS tree. Mark jumped, completely off-guard, his footing gave way beneath him, sending him tumbling towards the ground.
The Dragon:YEEEEEEEEET!
Still maintaining his sense of humour even as he went down, his fall was broken by a bush he crashed hard into. Upon impact, he wasn’t stranded in a bush, but back on the hallowed turf of the gridiron.
Amsterdam ArenA
Saturday, April 26 2003
Amsterdam Admirals vs Frankfurt Galaxy
Mark Cross was one the newest acquisitions to the Amsterdam Admirals. For an RB he wasn't the fastest, or the biggest, but his skills as a receiver were unmatched amongst the running back core. It had been a rough day for the run game, and the game plan had resorted to throwing Mark the ball over the numbers, leaving him at the mercy of the big hitters as he struggled to hold on.
He jogged back to the huddle...never let them see you're hurt...and his teammates crowded around as he doubled over in anguish.
QB: You good #12?
Cross: You've gotta stop throwing it between the numbers…
QB: You're the only one holding on out there!
Cross: Not just to me, to anyone. We don't have a run game, right? Our guys are getting killed in coverage...just give me the ball in the backfield one time.
QB: Coach is calling the plays man, what can I do?
Cross: Look, I don’t know about you guys but I like to win. You can throw me under the bus for it later.
QB: OK so what’s the play?
Cross: Red left slot, 27 submarine, sprint left slot, on-one, on-one - We good?
QB: Yeah man, we good...READY!
All: BREAK
The players break away from the huddle, taking their positions in formation. A glance back from the QB is followed up with a knowing nod from Cross as the cadence begins.
QB: Blue 82, Blue 82...SEEEEET...HUT
The snap is good, a solid smack is heard from the hand-off as Cross took the ball cleanly. Immediately the Frankfurt free safety shoots the gap, Cross juked hard to the left-side, the blitzer blew by him, surprised to see the Brit carrying in the backfield in the first place, that wasn’t on the scouting reports. Seeing the hole in the O-line still there Cross burst through, open field now in front of him. The middle linebacker stood firm, the big guy, the run-stuffer, closing the gap to meet them. Cross used his quicker feet to his advantage, waiting for just the right moment before unleashing a spin move, a split second before contact came. The linebacker grabbed desperately for the jersey, But Cross just rolled up and over his shoulder pad, continuing on his path.
One man left.
Cross set off at a dead sprint. The strong safety did the same, keeping on his toes, expecting another spin, another juke, anything but what came. Cross didn’t change course, he just kept running, dropping his shoulder, bull-rushing straight through the middle. The safety’s attempt to wrap up failing, his hands only getting as far as the numbers before being ripped away by gravity as he went to ground.
Over on the sideline, coaches and teammates alike ran alongside their man as he completed a 55-yard touchdown. All except the head coach, face like thunder as his Quarterback pleaded his case, gesticulating in the direction of Mark Cross, now dancing in the endzone in celebration of his first rushing ‘tuddy’ in NFL Europe.
The Admirals won 20-16, but not everyone was completely happy.
Sportmark De Toekomst
Monday, April 28 2003
Team Practice
Head Coach: So you wanna be an every down back?
Cross: That's the idea coach.
Head Coach: Then run.
As the coach smashed the ball into his chest, Mark Cross assessed the task at hand. In front of him stood three linebackers. These guys were a cohesive unit, every single one of them bigger than him in size and stature, it was just a matter of how much. The strong and weak side outside ‘backers were smaller, faster, more versatile - They stopped runs, blitzed gaps, backed up occasionally on pass coverage, but one-on-one, Mark favoured his chances of outmanoeuvring them.. The “Mike” in the middle was often the biggest, the least mobile, the toughest. His job was to stop the run at all costs, and if he could hit a guy hard enough to make him cough up the ball, all the better.
Individually, they were formidable enough, but as a two or a three, they were lethal pack hunters.
Cross took a big intake of breath, clutched the ball to his chest, and ran. The middle linebacker faced him solo, hands shooting under the pads, lifting his feet off the turf, throwing him backwards. Mark rolled out of it and back to his feet, jogging back to his starting point. Could have been worse.
Head Coach: Again!
Cross went again, this time they didn’t go so easy. “Mike” stood him up once more, pushing him from crouched low to upright. From both sides, at the same time, his two buddies came in, slamming hard into Mark’s now exposed lower body and rib cage. He crumpled, but still held on, holding the ball up for his coach to see. Then again. Then again. Once more, this time he was offered a hand up out of recognition for the hammering he was taking. Mark politely declined.
Head Coach: There’s three of you, strip him!
Cross didn’t wait for the instruction this time, he just ran. Hands met his shoulder pads, driving him up and back, as two arms from his left side this time made a grab for the ball. Mark had it held to his chest, arms crossed, and even with his leg strength taken away, his toes helplessly tippy-tapping at the ground, his arms fought hard for possession. From his right side the shot came, helmet in the ribs, shoulder pad in the kidney, swinging his lower body around in a loop. Still he fought, still he had possession, and he brought the linebacker down with him as he fell to the ground.
An audible snap, the kind that made sportsmen freeze in their tracks, echoed across the training field, followed by the anguished cries of the defender. He hadn’t expected the sudden rotation, and as he was dragged down with the momentum, his right ankle remained firmly planted in the turf. You didn’t need to be a medical genius to know it wasn’t meant to point that way around on first inspection.
Kennedy: GAAAAH! Help! AHHHH!
The stricken player was joined by his fellow linebackers, position mates tending to stick together, while the team’s medical personnel retrieved a cart to transport the patient. Cross marched the pigskin over to his now crestfallen coach, who had turned a Casper the Ghost level of pale.
Cross: My ball.
Cross slammed it into the chest of his Head Coach as he headed for the locker room. The scene transitioned to the inside of a radio station studio, the presenter already on the mic.
Presenter: Welcome back to Football Friday, time for an injury update, and surprise surprise it’s to NFL Europe of all places, with more bad news for Elton Kennedy. He suffered a broken ankle in a training injury on Monday while with the Amsterdam Admirals. The former UCLA Bruins Linebacker missed last year’s Draft after a knee injury in his final year in college, a real blow for a guy projected to go somewhere in the first round on a lot of draft boards. He headed for Europe to prove his fitness and put himself back on the big-league radar for NFL scouts, but with him now due to miss the rest of that season too, who knows where the future lies for this young prospect.
Part 2 - Teamfight Tactics
[If you haven’t already, now’s the time to go and read Evie’s roleplay so this makes more sense. She’s more interesting anyway!]
It could have been Dani, where we might have decided to hang out and chat just because, not just once, but regularly. It could have been Candy, we’d be wearing pink shirts, hugging everything in sight, flying in the face of social distancing rules and OMG PUPPIES. It could have been Kate Steele, where we could have picked up our guitars and jammed while we talked tactics, as long as Teddy didn’t get too jealous of course. Maybe Sierra, her brooding intensity with my laser focus, she’d have left me to get on with my silliness, and I’d probably have been tempted by the marching band at home out of respect. Heck, even Brooke, where I could have taught her some veteran tricks and we could have really flown the flag for Sin City Underground...but I got Evie. I hadn’t expected our early relationship to go Down Under (haaaaa) in the way that others had, those who knew her better, and I’d never had to work so hard to build a partnership in the past. Yet, I found myself wanting so badly for it to succeed, even if it meant putting myself in the firing line to do it.
If someone decides they’re going to be cold to me - It’s their loss, I’m not going to keep trying. Call me a babbling idiot, I tell them to meet me in the ring and see if they still feel the same way after. That usually changes anyone’s tune. but even in times of great difficulty, such as most of our interactions, Evie has a kind of magnetism about her nonetheless. It isn’t attraction. I have a type, and the volatility, the intensity, the short-temperedness, all things I’d never sign myself up for in a million years. I don’t want to date her. I doubt even after chatting away for a couple of hours we’d reach the points of calling it a friendship...and I wonder whether it’d be good for my health trying to pursue one...but yet I find myself next-level motivated to help her win this thing. I can’t explain it, but that’s what I’m having to deal with.
Whatever it is, well played Evie, well played.
The drink was progress. It wasn’t breaking down walls, it was chiseling away a few small pieces, Shawshank Redemption style, but I would take it. We learnt things about each other, but it was only really scratching the surface, nothing more than skin deep, but it was more than we’d ever managed before. Our coffee in Canterbury had felt rushed, forced, a means to an end, showing some kind of united front ahead of a tough match-up, and while I suspected her choice of the bandstand might have been giving me the chance to revisit the scene of the crime for some of my childhood exploits, it was far from an over-the-top random act of kindness, that was for damn sure.
Much like the potential a human being could harness if they used just 1% extra of their brain capacity, we were already two of the most dangerous individual competitors to come through our divisions in recent years. Any steps we made towards getting on the same page, just increased the impact we had as a partnership, and that was a dangerous prospect for any teams still left standing.
Or the Mixed Tag division, if we decided to continue on, but that’s more of a pipedream than Teddy and Sierra beating us this week.
I developed a thick skin a long long time ago. I’d dealt with worse than Evie before, it didn’t affect me, but either I’d bite back harder, or I just chose to walk away. I say it later on this week, but so many situations in life are far from black and white. Sometimes a person is horrible, sometimes they’ve just had it horrible. Some people are toxic because that’s who they are, sometimes it’s just because they’re guarded, it’s a warning shot to keep you from getting too close. I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected option two was more true for her. Would she ever tell me about it? Who knows. I mean she already had one British wrestler to share these things with, she married that one, and it’s not the sort of thing you started a collection for. If she wanted to open up, I’d listen, I’d try my best to understand, but Blast from the Past was four matches at the most. I wasn’t in the market for opening up old wounds when it was over and done in about a month.
All it really boiled down to was that I wanted to succeed. It was the lifeblood that had kept my career going from strength to strength, and I was finding fresh inspiration to keep going. Blast from the Past had lit a fire in my soul for tag team wrestling that I hadn’t felt since...well...Fire Dragons 1.0. Version 2.0 just seemed like another one of my little jokes (let’s not kid ourselves here, it absolutely still is) but it carried a lot more weight for me behind the ridiculous t-shirts. Being a part of Sin City Wrestling’s history books, even if it was only a bit-part player in it, felt worthwhile. I’d catapulted myself into a position, made myself a force to be reckoned with. This was a chance to have something to show for it.
Part 3 - Questions from Quarantine
We are taken to one of the suites of the Saxon Hotel, home to cast and crew members alike as they waited, some more patiently than others, for this whole COVID-19 thing to blow over. Perched on the end of a large double bed is Mark “The Dragon” Cross. Determined not to waste any time, he jumps right in.
The Dragon: Last week was beautiful. It was a tough match-up for us, a couple of very capable young talents, coming out of a great system, but they misjudged us. Washed up, over the hill? Absolutely not. The only thing black and white about this business is win or lose, everything else comes with many different shades of grey in between. We may be experienced heads compared to our last round opponents but we’re far from past it. We haven’t even reached the top of the curve. I’m still adding to my game, ready to go all the way next time I get a shot at a strap to add to my Underground title, and Evie is only two matches into her comeback. She’s still getting her feet under her...but she’s come out like a bull in a China shop, gunning after her opponent. Poor Tallyn didn’t see it coming!
From out of shot, a hotel pillow flew in his direction, smashing him squarely in the face.
The Dragon: And...clearly...neither did I. Now by the magic of editing, you won’t even realise that due to distractions such as that, I’m on my third take, so if it seems like I’m rattling through this nice and quick, it’s because the hot tub in my own room is calling.
Mark moved the pillow away, dropping it on the floor so it couldn’t come back in his direction at speed again.
The Dragon: I'm not going after your wife Teddy, believe it or not. Anyone willing to still love you after all of your recent antics is ABSOLUTELY not cut out for the difficult task of keeping me in check, so that's a hard pass...and Mikah? There is no sexual tension between us, there is only tension. The frustration I feel as she swoops in and foils another one of my schemes is probably on par with what most of the roster feel towards me. No, it isn't nice getting a taste of my own medicine and no, I definitely don't want to spend a second more in her presence than I absolutely have to. You've got me all wrong once again of course...but you also never want to count my SCU singles victory against you either, so I don't know why I'm surprised you can’t get your facts right.
Somebody come get her, she's dancin' like a stripper
The Dragon: Man I hate TikTok. Three times Teddy, one-on-one, my hand raised up in the sky at the end and since Sierra can’t come to your aid as far as I’m concerned, well let’s call this one number four. What’s changed since the last time? You won a few, lost a few...I’ve won more. I’ve made improvements to my game, while we’re just sitting back waiting for you to slip up again. Here’s a hint, the next stutter waits for you on Sunday, and how do I know that? It’s because what DOESN’T ever change with you. Jack Russow, in my hometown a few weeks back, he saw a victory against me as a springboard for greater things. It didn’t work out, but he saw the VALUE at least. You however, it’s like you don’t even care about what’s in front of you, always worrying about how you’re gonna put on a dress and everything that’ll be better, or chasing your match with J2H...I mean, do you want me to beat him for you Teddy? I can and I will, if it’s going to get your head in the game. WAKE UP you stupid fucking idiot, seriously. Why do I keep beating you? Because I’m more talented in the ring. I’ve done this longer, I’ve done this better, I’ve trained harder, and I’m a hell of a lot more focussed on the next match than you have ever been. That’s why this keeps happening to you. That’s why it’s going to keep happening to you. I said it before and I’ll say it again - I want you to beat me some day, straight up, and I’ve spelled it out to you plain as day what it’s going to take to get on that path, but you just haven’t listened.
Mark took a sip from the bottle of water that had smacked off his hip roughly halfway through take number two.
The Dragon: You made the step up too early, that’s your biggest problem. It happens when you’re working with young horses, sometimes they just don’t have the maturity to become working animals right away. You turn them out into their field, leave them there for a year, let them grow up a bit, then you try again. You should have stayed with SCU, focussed on your wrestling, let that do the talking. Instead you come up to the big leagues, try to use flamboyance cover to up inability, borrow a wrestling surname to make up for wrestling prowess, and it just hasn’t worked. You’re a hell of a lot of bark with not a lot of bite, and I wonder why you keep putting yourself in the firing line for more punishment.
Almost impressed that he hadn’t been distracted or interrupted any further, he pressed on.
The Dragon: I really wish I knew what made you tick. It’d be one hell of an insight into human psychology, but it doesn’t follow the pattern of a successful athlete that’s for sure. You have a point to prove against me, and doing that would instantly raise your draft stock around here. It’d take advantage of all the hard work I’ve put in to earn the respect that, like it or not, guys on the roster have begun to realise that I deserve. That doesn’t motivate you. One of the GRIME guys delivers your wife flowers before the match, says they’re from me, special delivery. You could...no...should, have come into that contest wanting to rip the head from my shoulders. They wanted to draw a reaction, they wanted me to lose. I wouldn’t have known why until later of course, but I’d have felt something different if you really cared. Instead I got the same old Teddy. Hung around for a little, got on the back foot, got outclassed. I guess I should congratulate you on your partner “upgrade” by the way as you two look like two sad, miserable peas in a pod.
Mark checked to the side, half expecting to get hit by another flying object from out of shot. It didn’t come.
The Dragon: Sierra...now I don’t dislike you, I think the feeling’s mutual, and that always puts me in a tough spot - I think about taking pity on you, doing you a favour. I wonder if maybe you've done such a good job beating yourself up, considering how downtrodden you already sound this week, it’s likely you've already had enough punishment...but this is for a spot in the Blast from the Past finals, and I think that means I have to go for the throat.
At mention of the throat, Mark cleared his own.
The Dragon: I look at you and I see someone that hasn’t ever had an easy ride. I see someone that’s always put the work in, and while I’ve never not put a shift in, a big chunk of mine has been through choice, not necessity. Now normally that makes a person tough, resilient, and that’s my first instinct when I think of you...but as soon as things get a little rough, this defeatist attitude comes flooding out of you. Someone of your calibre thinking of taking their old job peddling tacos, the idea seemed ridiculous to me...but then I wonder if maybe that is the best place for you after all. Do you really have the heart for this? You lost your Mixed Tag titles, you didn’t try to get them back, you gave it up...even with not just your tag partner, but your LIFE partner standing in your corner to pick you up.
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
The Dragon: Losing streaks happen. Tough spots are a thing. We’ve all been there. I’ve been there. If we’re honest, I already kind of am there, my record with SCU speaks for itself, exemplary, and here on the main show, it also makes pretty impressive reading. Not many losses at all, but where have those losses come? Not being able to take the lid off the basket and slam-dunk a title shot. Now I can be sad about that, or I can get back to the gym, work hard and go again. I can kick myself for losing out on the Roulette title, the Internet title, or I can enter Blast from the Past, win the whole damn thing, earn my shot, and take down the biggest title of the lot. Any doubters, I can shut them down in three swift slaps of the referee’s arm, and I challenge you to tell me it was a fluke after I’d done all that to earn it. A lot of Bombshells have been hating on Bobbie Dahl for being a whiny bitch lately, and yet she took you out. She’s scored a few nice results. Maybe she’s not the only one needing an attitude adjustment around here.
Mark peeled off his hoodie, revealing one of the unofficial Fire Dragons 2.0 t-shirts.
The Dragon: Now I haven't gotten Evie to sign off on Fire Dragons 2.0 yet...or any team name for that matter, but one I know we won’t be using is “The Charity Cases”. I’m sorry to be brutal considering how much you guys really need this win...but the stars are so far out of alignment that it’s just not realistic. On the face of it your long-term futures in this business are on shaky ground, I get it. Maybe you don’t care, I mean there’s always Taco Bell, and you can always wrestle J2H on his own front lawn, right? The train is leaving the platform and you think clinging on to the small chance you might just fluke a victory against us may pull you both out of the doldrums, well no. Wrestling matches are won with great wrestling and the right mindset. Our team has four from four. You guys, maybe 25% at best. Don’t worry about it, this isn’t the be-all-and-end-all, and other trains will come along. The trouble is Evie and I are Finals bound, and she has a score to settle from a previous loss on her record that she needs to reverse post-haste. You’re both in our way. Do the right thing, stand aside, and nobody needs to get hurt.
The scene fades to black.
