“Ok, I’m ready”, Cat Riley’s husky voice echoes through the well anointed halls from the recesses of the second story bedroom. Emerging from the room clad in color matching grey athletic gear the 13 year old strides briskly across the carpeting of towards a decidedly non-descript stairwell, lacking in embellishments. She trots down the steps, her sneakers offering no more than a muted thud as she bounds to the main level of the spacious open-plan home with its merged kitchen and dining rooms, fitted carpeting, ice cream colors and multi-tasking furniture. “This isn’t going to hurt is it”?
“Shut your yap and get out here”, her Uncle responds in his thick, raspy tone which serves as a beacon, guiding Cat through the well-lit living room with its three piece sectional effectively cornering the wide, flat screen television, one of the few modern amenities inside the home. “I’m on the porch”.
Cat joins her Uncle on the porch where he is looking across an expansive landscape towards a small, windowless wood and brick building with a flat, white roof. He pays no mind to the arrival of his niece as his mind wanders back to days gone by. The building which holds his attention was originally built by his father back in the 1950s to serve as a training facility. Although it has undergone many changes through the decades since, three renovations, one expansion and several paintings, the building still appears much the same as he remembers it from his youth when he and his brother Paul were training along with others by his father. The building would once more serve its intended purpose as he would pass down his father’s legacy to his niece as he had done to hundreds of students as well as his own son, but not just yet.
“The most important thing about catch wrestling..,” he says softly, with his gaze still fixed on the building in front of them, “is physical conditioning. You have to be in shape and no, I don’t mean no bloody pressing benches. I’m talking about wrestling shape; cardiovascular, flexibility, reflexes and speed. Strength helps but it is not the be-all end-all of this sport”. Reaching into his pocket he removes a deck of playing cards in an unopened box which he hands to Cat. “Open this box and start shuffling the deck”.
The young woman casts a quizzical glance to her Uncle, taking the deck from his hands. She removes the deck from the box, depositing the clear plastic wrapping into a small waste receptacle situated by the screen door. With a muted sigh she begins to shuffle the cards as commanded.
“So what’s your game”, she asks. “Bridge, Gin, Spades, five card draw or 21”?
“Let’s just say my game is a modified version of 52 card pickup”, he snickers.
“And you said strength was no big deal here”, she grouses. “By the time I’m done lifting these cards I’m going to have the strongest case of boredom in all of England. Ah well, I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas”.
“Alright, that’s enough”, he barks. Having watched her shuffle the deck for several minutes the man reaches out with a beefy paw to snatch it from her slender fingers. “Now, here’s how we’re going to do this, each card in the deck has a specific value with face cards, aces and the joker being ten and all the others are whatever their number is. Each suit has its own particular exercise; hearts are pushups, clubs are squats, diamonds are kettle bell presses and clubs are jump squats. When you draw a card, look at the suit to see which exercise you’ll be doing and how many repetitions, but instead of performing the face value of reps, you will be doing double that number, so instead of doing ten for a King or Queen you will be doing 20 and since the Joker is always wild, that exercise will be your choice. Do you understand”?
Cat nods, feeling her heart drop into her chest where it lands with a heavy plop. Leave it to a grizzled old veteran to take a simple deck of playing cards and turn it into a spirit crushing, body disintegrating workout regimen. She knows these as basic exercises from gym class in school where they performed them almost daily but as her memory reminds her, they were difficult then, under the lazy atmosphere of an informal education, but under the hawk-like eyes of her onerous Uncle she suddenly finds herself dreading what is to come.
Although loving and protective, Ernie Riley is as stern and demanding as they come. Here is a man who - while has serving in the Korean War as a sniper with 73 confirmed kills, once went without food, water or even sleep for three days while tracking a target to score an elusive kill. He has been awarded numerous medals for valor, including the Distinguished Service Cross, Conspicuous Gallantry medal, British Empire medal, Queen’s Commendation for brave conduct and even the highest medal in the country, the prestigious Victoria Cross. Yet, despite the status and preeminence of the decorations he steadfastly refused to wear them, instead tucking them away with other memorabilia while proclaiming them useless as they ‘could not carry a rifle’. This is the same man who was later discharged for ‘cruel and unusual’ treatment of his recruits after being promoted to senior instructor for denying them rest and food under simulated combat conditions. He accepted his discharge with a proverbial grain of salt, only asking the commander if he could differentiate between ‘realism and fantasy land’.
Grabbing Cat by the shoulders he turns the youngster to face him. His glowering, steely blue orbs lock onto hers with an intensity rarely seen. Gone is the kindly visage of the loving Uncle who had just beaten up the father of her antagonist, replaced by this hard-nosed figure now clutching her tightly. His thin lips distort into a twisted snarl, preparing to speak.
“I need ya to listen to me, and listen good”, he growls tightly. “Yes, I’m your Uncle. Yes, you are the only child of my baby brother and yes, I love you. Hell, I love you as much as my own son, even more some days. But don’t let any of that fool you. I will be the biggest arsehole you have ever dealt with, bar none. I will settle for nothing less than the absolute best I can get from you. In return I give you my word that you will get the very best training I can possibly give you. I will ask you to go the extra mile for me, and I swear to do the same for you. Now, with that having been said, I am giving you one chance and only one chance to back out of this. If you say no, we will call it right here. If you want to go through with it, I will own your arse. Now what’s it gonna be”?
Breaking from her reverie Cat looks up as the waitress arrives to her table holding a large tray bearing several plates covered with aluminum lids. The woman, an Asian smartly clad in a black uniform with purple accents, perhaps in her mid-40s but showing no signs of age sets down a black, wooden tray stand. Opening up the stand she proceeds to set the tray down and distribute the dishes to Cat and her companion, Miles Bryant, a journalist for The Wrestling Observer newsletter and web site. The waitress removes the lids from the plates and promptly excuses herself, returning to the back leaving the young wrestler alone with the media man who checks the status of a small cigarette lighter sized recorder with HDMI plug-in on the purple linen table cloth beside her.
“My first impulse was to say no”, Cat reflects softly on the memory of more than ten years ago. “But having seen him in action, at over 60 years of age no less I was sure that he could do exactly what he said. He had piqued my interest and I wanted to learn more. My eye was still sore and I wanted to have the ability to keep that from ever happening to me again”. Looking down at her plate the SCW rookie takes a fork into her right hand and prepares to dig into the two eggs laid atop a pile of fries mixed with cut up Spanish Chorizo which struck her more as sliced up hot dogs. The egg yolk oozes out like a fine sauce, blending with the spicy red oil that leeches out from the Chorizo, creating an interesting new sauce which she squeegees with a forkful of fries. “He was every bit as hard on me as he said he would be”, she continues, while chewing her food slowly and enjoying the piquant richness of the unusual delicacy.
“Looking back on it however, I can honestly say that he laid out my introduction to catch wrestling very intelligently”.
“How so”? The blond haired journalist asks while delving into his own plate of Tapas.
“He started me strictly on conditioning”, she answers with a brief pause to take a sip of white Sangria. “We worked for four consecutive days on nothing but conditioning and it was always the same exercises. As he had told me that first night at dinner, the idea was to bomb my body into responding and promoting the recovery process. While I was still a tad sore after four days, it wasn’t so bad that I could hardly move as with the first two. My body was adjusting to the new routine exactly as he told me it would”. Dabbing another forkful of fries into the spicy sauce secreted by the Chorizo juice blended with the egg yolk she stuffs her mouth, with a light moan emanating in approval of the fiery casserole.
“Never in my life did I imagine a simple deck of playing cards could be used as such an effective exercise tool, it was so hard on me that I wanted to quit after the first day, but he said he owned me and he showed it. He wouldn’t let me quit and even my Auntie Beatrice wouldn’t let me quit, no matter how much I cried”. She reflects on the arduous adventure with a chuckle. “Of course she had seen it all before with the other students and their son, my cousin William. She was firmly on his side this time”.
“So what gave you the strength to persevere”?
“Not what but who”, she replies pointedly, gesturing to him with a loaded fork. “It was my cousin William who had just gotten home at the end of my second night from a tour of Japan where he wrestled. He was the champion there and had gone through exactly the same thing as I, so he knew how I felt and resolved to go through it again with me. Misery loves company, ya know? At any rate he went through it all for a second time, helped to coach me and motivate me. I don’t know how I could’ve made it without him”.
Drawing her head back Cat takes in the modern, indoor, open patio style setting of the restaurant, the tranquil tones of vintage Spanish music serenading her mind with images of old world Spain amidst its wines, vibrant architecture and classic art. What a time to have lived she muses, the simple lives of merchants, entertainers and ordinary townsfolk, free of the ties to modern society with the constant distraction of their cellphones, Instagram accounts, twitter feeds and news hungry apps to take their worries with them wherever they may roam.
“Do you regret any of it”? Miles asks, digging into a small plate of ‘Black Rice’, a creamy side dish-sized portion of Spanish seafood merged with Italian Risotto. Colored as dark as crude oil, flavored by sofrito and decorated with a few char-kissed rings of Calamari the tasty fare leaves a black streak on his purple napkin as he dabs at his mouth. “It sounds as if you went through hell”.
“Not at all”, she replies while carving an actual Risotto. “That experience made me appreciate the dedication required to perform as a professional athlete”. She bites into the Risotto, noting the nice, cheesy texture, even without the manchego on top. The grains display just a tiny bit of tooth, and between them the mushrooms-big, squishy, and tasty ones hiding like undiscovered jewels arrive to announce themselves boldly and draw a satisfied sigh. “Once I realized how difficult it is to train yourself to this point I resolved to never allow myself to slip as I would rather not have to go back and start it all over again”.
“This weekend marks your professional wrestling debut in SCW at the Star of the desert arena in Primm. Your opponent is Nyla Dupre, a fellow Briton, who is also a newcomer to SCW but holds a vast amount of pro experience over you in other promotions. Do you feel yourself to be at a disadvantage coming into this match with nothing but amateur experience to face an opponent so much more background at this level”?
“Let me stop you right there”, Cat declares abruptly pointing her fork at him. “My experience is not amateur. I am not an amateur wrestler, I am a catch wrestler and as I have said before there is a large difference between the two styles”. Turning the fork from the interviewer she redirects it to a cube of raw ahi, crusted with sesame seeds which serve as the building block, with the upper portion being a raspberry Jell-O shot described in the menu as ‘molecular’ and together tasting like taking a sip of a smoothie right after consuming a small serving of sushi. “Amateur wrestling does not involve hooks of any kind while catch wrestling is all about hooking your opponent. I can assure you that catch wrestling is decidedly the more dangerous endeavor”.
“I understand”, Miles pleads innocently. “I am just trying to convey that there is a wide gap in experience between you and your opponent this weekend. Nyla Dupre has won championships in the AWO, EWE and PCXW. While she may be a newcomer to SCW she is far from being a rookie in this business. Surely this must weigh on your mind as you look forward to going to Primm”.
“You are asking me if I am nervous”. Cat says, digging further into her meal. “It’s only natural to be nervous. Every time a person undertakes a new endeavor there is a degree of apprehension; questions arise in the back of your mind asking ‘what if?’ I’m sure Nyla Dupre went through it all the same when she had her first match, just as everybody else, it’s only human”.
“How are you preparing for this match”?
“By doing my homework”, Cat replies straightly. “She has worked for these other promotions and won championships so there is a wealth of film on her. In addition to studying her film I am continuing to train every day, keeping myself sharp and focused”. She drops her knife and fork to the side in favor of the tall glass, freshly refilled with white Sangria by the attentive waitress. Taking a sip she swishes the white wine about her mouth savoring the blend of apple, citrus and tropical fruit flavors accented by the concoction’s zippy acidity. “You’ve been so keen on pointing out her advantages over me leading into this match. I would like to point out that I have an advantage of my own”.
“Which is...”?
“Nyla is coming off of a lengthy layoff following the untimely death of her father and she is likely to be rusty and unprepared while I have had a single minded focus the entire time leading up to this moment. There is a good deal of film on her but there is little, if any on me. I have an idea what to expect where she has none”.
“That can indeed be considered an advantage”, the reporter concedes. “But as they say, experience is the best teacher and having been through so many matches before it is bound to come back quickly to her”.
“If I didn’t know better I would swear that you want her to win”, Cat spits, angrily slamming her glass back onto the table prompting a small amount of wine to splash over the rim and create a dark stain on the purple linen table cloth. “Do you have some sort of business arrangement with her”?
“No”, Bryant interjects, thrusting his hands out imploringly. “There is nothing like that between us, but I have been covering wrestling for many years and have seen many of her matches so I know what she’s capable of”,
“But you have no idea what I’m capable of”, Cat hisses, her blue eyes narrowing into venomous slits. “You may know her but you don’t know me”.
“You are right”, he cedes. His gaze drops to the stain on the table in a subtle attempt to defuse the wick he has inadvertently lit. “I don’t know you at all, which is precisely why I requested this interview on behalf of the Wrestling Observer. I simply am trying to gauge your reactions to the advantages she enjoys over you as our subscribers may see them. I am trying to think as they would”.
“Sounds like your fans are a bunch of arseholes”, Cat dryly observes while gesturing to grab the attention of her waitress. The woman duteously shuffles over to their table. “Can I get a diet Pepsi please”? Cat softly requests. “I’m weary of this alcoholic Hawaiian Punch”.
“Let’s take a step back”, Miles interjects in a careful, pliable tone hoping to calm his agitated guest. He quietly waits for the server to bridge the gap between them and earshot before resuming his train of thought. “The fans see and understand the importance of the rift in experience between the two of you”, he says demurely. “They are not stupid; they are simply asking the obvious questions here. Nyla Dupre has years of professional experience over you, that is all. But let’s change the topic a little bit, have you ever met her”?
The waitress returns with Cat’s Diet Pepsi and granting the young woman a brief reprieve and allowing her to lift her head, directing her gaze to the muted overhead lighting where she considers the question posed. Having been a member of the SCW roster for barely one week she has not yet had the opportunity to formally interact with many of the other members of the roster save for management and of course the backstage reporter Miss Rocky Mountains, herself a former wrestler. She did however pay strict attention to their work in the ring, taking mental notes of everything deemed of importance. With the waitress departing Cat redirects her gaze to Miles having managed to calm her mind ever so slightly.
“I cannot say that I have had the pleasure”, she begins evenly; taking a deep, quiet breath. “I did see Nyla backstage at the Sam’s Town arena for the Blast from the Past tournament. “She’s bigger than me, much bigger in fact but I trained with the boys for almost ten years so I’m used to that. As for me not having any professional experience, I wouldn’t quite say that”. Her voice slowly trails off as her mind rewinds to the not so distant past.
The travelling fun fair, long a mainstay in the British countryside is a carnival or amusement show consisting of various rides such as the Ferris wheel, tilt-a-whirl, merry-go-round and others, as well as a myriad of food vendors, merchandise vendors, games of chance and skill, thrill acts, freak shows, wax works, a theatrical show and the occasional boxing/wrestling challenges has returned to Wigan bringing with it all of the expected pomp and circumstance traditionally associated with such events.
“These things have certainly changed, haven’t they Paul”? Ernie Riley, flanked by his younger brother Paul as well as their wives and his niece Cat look over the expansive fairgrounds set up in a huge, unused parking lot on the outskirts of Wigan, Greater Manchester. It has been an unusually sunny day in this part of England, a country known for its rain and fog; perfect for a trip to the fair grounds.
“I haven’t been to one of these in 20 years”, he replies as his hazel eyes scan the area taking in the obnoxious neon lighting of the rides which is accented by the tangy aroma of a nearby barbeque. Behind it lies a row of booths housing everything from tee shirt vendors, duck galleries and more; each of them heralded by a barker standing out front shouting to passersby trying to get them to part with their hard earned money. “They’re so much bigger now”.
Paul Riley is the younger brother to Ernie by 12 years and Cat’s father. Although in his 50s the man appears to be aging well to the eyes of other patrons strolling about the asphalt grounds. Standing at 175 cm he is not very tall, more in line with the average man but sports a muscular, athletic build, a by-product of regular exercise. Reaching up with his right hand he brushes back an errant strand of an otherwise neatly trimmed chestnut coif and places his arm around his wife of nearly 30 years and mother to his only child Cat, Rebecca.
A somewhat small statured woman, Rebecca resembles their daughter in more ways than one; with her pointed dark eyebrows, shimmering blue eyes and angular face gently caressed by a long blonde mane. She adjusts the position of a beige, straw sun hat to allow for better visibility as the sun slowly begins to set over the horizon. The woman casts a cursory glance towards one of the carnival barkers, but ignores his attempts to entice her into throwing darts at balloons to win a small teddy bear that she could find every bit as inexpensively at a yard sale.
To the couple’s left Ernie clasps the hand of his wife Martha, an older woman approaching 65. Slightly taller than her counterpart and bearing the additional weight of an easier lifestyle, she too looks about the fairgrounds, watching a young couple excitedly plucking away with a BB gun at a row of metal ducks in hopes of winning a stuffed animal prize. Her grandmotherly face splits into a smile as the couple embraces in an enthusiastic embrace as the barker hand them a large stuffed bear.
“How many of these things have you boys gone to over the years”? She asks, returning her gaze to her husband.
“A few dozen maybe”, Ernie replies curtly. “They’ve sorta lost their appeal over the years”.
“We only went for one reason”, Paul adds. “But about 25 years ago they stopped most of the wrestling. I guess they found a better way to make money”.
“They still have a wrestling show once in a blue moon”, the elder brother enumerates, pausing to zip his black leather jacket partly as a brisk sliver of cool air winds through the grounds. “But they seem to be coming fewer and farther between. I haven’t seen wrestling here in a good five years”.
“Don’t tell me you two still are still looking to wrestle”, Cat says noisily from behind, making her presence known to the group. “You’re both far too old to be doing that any more”.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t watch it”, Paul says while turning around to playfully thump the visor of his daughter’s black and white ball cap. “We grew up around it and still appreciate a good match”.
Walking further along the quintet enjoys a session of idle chatter with the men reliving their days working the carnivals and the women swapping stories about tending their injured spouses and Cat trying to place herself in such an atmosphere, wondering what it must have been like for them. She pictures an excited crowd gathered around a pit-like area, yelling, cheering and clapping at the action taking place in the center. The barker stands atop a small pedestal, calling the fray hold by hold, move by move and pausing every few moments to remind the spectators to place their bets with the booker to his right. She imagines two shirtless men dressed casually in blue jeans and boots, looking more as if they had just gotten off of work than seasoned professionals. The sweat rolls off of their brows, coating their bodies as they struggle for position with many attempted holds failing to the glazed limbs and torsos. The pair continues to jockey for position with each taking a turn on top doing their best to ply their craft under the lubricous conditions. Finally, after several long minutes of painstaking effort one man manages to secure a triangle choke on the other and draws a loud cheer from the crowd as he manages to sink it in.
“There we go”!
Her Uncle’s throaty yelp breaks Cat’s muse and pulls her mind harshly back to the present. She inadvertently collides with her father who along with her Uncle and the women has stopped in their tracks. Taking a step back she cranes her neck as her gaze veers off in the direction of whatever it is that has captured their attention. Looking roughly a hundred meters ahead she recognizes a figure dressed in an obnoxious red and white pin striped suit holding a megaphone calling out to a slowly assembling mass. The men break into a determined stride, their loafers pounding against the black pavement in muffled thuds as they make a beeline towards the congregation with the women and Cat following suit behind them. In short order the groups finds themselves joining the pack and start to jostle about for a suitable viewing point.
Looking on she spies a small, roped off area padded with gym mats with two women standing in the middle, facing each other. One woman, a rough looking local sporting electrified blonde hair and clad in jeans and a plain white sports bra rubs her hands together in anticipation while fidgeting on her feet, unsure of how she wants to stand. The other, a toned, athletic brunette with her hair neatly braided into cornrows stands motionlessly, her brown orbs fixated on the twitching bundle of nerves in front of her. She makes no sound and waits with a calm indifference as the barker encourages the pack to place their bets.
“Times are changing”, Paul observes in a hushed inflection. “This is going to be a wrestling match no doubt about it, but in all of my years I have never seen women working at these places”.
“Aye”, Ernie agrees with a slight nod. “And mark my words, that brunette wearing the black singlet is a hooker. This match probably won’t last five minutes”. Turning about face he reaches out and grabs his niece by the shoulder, pulling her to his side. “I want you to watch this kitty cat”.
Joining her Uncle Cat looks on with heightened curiosity as the brunette finally starts to move, spreading her legs side to side and twisting her torso to allow her head to meet each leg at the knee to warm up. The other woman too begins to warm up, jumping in place likely hoping to release some of the pent up jitters. The barker continues calling for bets on either contestant, directing players to the bookie standing to his side and throws out a reminder to the onlookers that the match will be starting in two minutes.
“Do you want to place a bet”? Cat asks hesitantly. “The bookie is right there”.
“Nah”, Ernie replies. “They give rubbish for odds. We’d have to bet a fortune to win a pittance”.
“They’re paying 20 to 1 on the local” Paul offers, having just looked at the odds hastily scribbled on a chalk board behind the short, rotund man with a leathery complexion and rapidly greying hair receding from his scalp. “We’d have to bet 20 pounds to win one. It’s not worth it so we’ll just watch”.
“One minute until the bell rings! Be sure to place your bets and remember that all wagers are final”.
“Fine”, Cat says somewhat sullenly and settles back folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t mind watching. Maybe I’ll pick up something new”.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s show time”! The barker gestures animatedly towards the combatants, directing the attention of the onlookers towards them. “Introducing first, she hails from right here in Wigan, standing at 17 and one half hands, she is Deborah Wilkes”! A brief pause by the overly excited emcee allows from a scattered round of applause for the local woman who sheepishly raises her arm in acknowledgement. “Next, we have the undefeated, undisputed women’s champion of the United Kingdom, a woman who holds a professional record of 437 wins and no defeats; how about a round of applause for the Ire of Ireland Reina Rourke”! The champion clenches her fists and aggressively raises her arms, mean mugging for the spectators who react with a mixture of awe and wonderment; save for two.
“Champion my arse”, Ernie scoffs under his breath. “That record is as padded as a teenaged girl’s bra on date night”.
“I don’t even think I’ve had half that many matches”, Paul adds with a snicker.
The bellicose announcement by the barker is heralded by the piercing clang of a bell which prompts the combatants into action. They begin by slowly circling, sizing each other up, and warily eyeballing the other while contemplating their first move. The tension is palpable with the women silently continuing to circle; their slow, deliberate breaths can be heard over the iced cluster of people. They lock up collar and elbow style but the blonde proves to be much stronger than Rourke realizes and she is forcibly deposited to the mat. Before she can capitalize however, the braided bobcat springs to her feet with alacrity and shoots in low attempting a double leg takedown but Wilkes proves nearly as quick on her feet as she manages to sidestep the chiseled projectile. An awkward pause follows with the local woman unsure of what to do next and this provides the more experienced competitor valuable time to spin back up to a vertical base.
With the mob roaring its approval the duo locks up again but the carnival champion quickly pulls free of the tie-up and takes a step back, concerned about making the same mistake twice. They begin to circle anew with the barker calling the action as it unfolds through his bullhorn. The ‘Ire of Ireland’ shoots in quickly looking to score a single leg takedown but is swatted away by the more powerful woman but as she spins to her feet she instantaneously shoots back in finally scoring with a double leg takedown. With the bigger fighter on the mat the illustrious Irish woman rolls over trying to find her way onto the back of Deborah Wilkes, but she manages to defend it, forcing the pair into a lock-flow.
“Second time’s a charm, eh”? Paul mutters while dipping his right hand into a bag of popcorn held by his wife.
“If you can call this charming,” Ernie replies nasally while folding his arms indifferently across his chest, “then so be it”.
The match continues on with the vociferous horde screaming and clapping, egged on by the barker who looks on with barely more than a slight interest, his attention more preoccupied with the money flowing into the bookies’ hands. More holds are attempted and moves exchanged with neither of the pair able to secure a suitable position and the tete-a-tete continues in this methodical fashion until and overzealous onlooker stumbles drunkenly on his untied boot laces over the single rope separating them from the adversaries and falls on top of them. The barker is quick to dispatch security as the foes are stood back up. With the intoxicated laborer whisked away the barker loses no time in calling for the bout to resume. Reina Rourke shoots in forthwith, surprising the unsuspecting local with dazzling speed and scores a double leg takedown. Before Wilkes can fully absorb what has happened the champion dives on top of her. She directly snakes her left arm around the neck and pivots across the other woman’s body and clasps her hands together in a choke. The challenger flails her arms in a desperate attempt to free herself but the weight of the champion prevents her from rising back to her knees. Finally, after several exhausting moments of maltreatment and with light headedness setting in she signals her surrender to the delight of the barker whose burnished brown eyes shimmer with the expectancy of a new father.
Dejected ramblings among the losing bettors can be heard as some begin to quietly disperse and others begin to look among themselves for a potential new challenger. With the barker momentarily distracted the Irish queen pin grabs a towel and begins to dry off in anticipation of another showdown. A pair of rough necks, still clad in oil stained overalls and smelling of cheap gin with day old remnants of previous meals trapped in a briar patch of a beard try to argue with the bookie over their bets while others badger the beleaguered backer about the unexpectedly small payout. One of the men begins to shout while taking an aggressive posture towards the bookie leading to another intervention by the harried security team. Further off to the side with a discreet eye on the winner whom he has been eyeing carefully since the end of the match Ernie clamps his hand around Cat’s shoulder and then turns to face her.
“So what did ya think kitty cat”?
“In my honest opinion..,” she pauses to consider her choice of words with images from the match still fresh in her mind, “it was as clumsy as a chicken skipping rope”, She says. “Were it not for that drunk forcing them to break the match would still be going, sloppily of course but still going”.
“Anything stand out to ya”?
“Hmm..,” Rubbing her chin thoughtfully Cat revisits the first of a quartet of double leg takedown attempts. “Yes, That Rourke woman was over reliant on shooting in for the double leg takedown”. Recalling her Uncle’s lessons on the history of carnival catch wrestling and their propensity for using journeymen, shooters and hookers for different purposes, Cat shakes her head and wonders aloud,” I can’t help but to wonder if it was a work”.
“Hey Paul”, Ernie calls out to his brother as he puts the finishing touches on his wife’s bag of popcorn, his educated eye also studying the victor. “Do you remember how we used to weed out the journeymen from the hookers?”
“Great minds do indeed think alike”, Paul says with a prudent smirk. He casts a final glance to Reina Rourke before turning his attention squarely to his brother and daughter. “We can use Rebecca as the bait”.
“The bait..,” Rebecca questions upon overhearing her name mentioned. “Bait for what”?
“We’re gonna give Cat a chance to earn some money of her own”. Ernie announces with a fiendish coruscation”. He gestures the women and Cat in close and the group huddles up with the quarterback calling the play. “Here’s what we’re gonna do; Rebecca you’re going to challenge that Rourke woman and..,”
“I can’t wrestle”! Rebecca cries.
“Don’t worry love”, Paul says softly with a reaffirming squeeze on her shoulder, “you won’t have to”.
“Exactly”, Ernie continues. “You just make the challenge and wait for a moment. If the barker calls for another girl we’ll know the match was a work, but if the Irish girl stays put, it means she is their hooker. Either way, once we have our answer you back out of it. If the Irish girl is really their hooker we’ll have Cat make the challenge after you back out while the barker is busy thumping his chest about how no one can beat his girl”. Turning to his niece he grins broadly and asks, “What do ya think kitty cat, think you can take her? You said you we’re thinking of becoming a professional wrestler, think of this as your debut match”.
“Uncle Ernie..,” she looks up at the would-be match maker through piqued lenses and replies with a vexed groan. “You have been training me for almost ten years now with boys almost twice her size; ever since those girls beat me up that day in school and you said yourself that I took to it like a fish to water”. Jutting a thumb out in the general direction of Reina Rourke, who waits patiently behind her for the barker to find another opponent she continues, “That bogtrotter is all piss and wind, and of course I can beat her”.
With a satisfied smirk, Ernie and Paul exchange a brief glance before turning to Rebecca with a subtle nod indicating to her to make the challenge as discussed. Discarding her sun hat into the waiting hands of her husband she steps forward.
“Remember love”, he whispers to his wife, “act like you’re nervous, and don’t give him your real name”.
“I am nervous”! Rebecca snaps.
Stepping forward the 50 year old mother of one hesitantly raises her hand and sheepishly looks around while hoping that the barker fails to notice. Unfortunately for the jittery woman the barker is eagerly scanning the mob in search of another payday and he quickly spots her hand. Pointing to her the man calls out excitedly,
“We have a challenger”! He cries gesturing to her to step forward and onto the mat. Reina Rourke also steps forward to inspect the new arrival. Eyeing the woman up and down, she then turns away with a sneer, shaking her head. The barker too, steps forward and places his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder. “What is your name love”?
“Uhh Rebecca”, she stammers before recalling her husband’s admonition about giving her real name. Rebecca Stanton”.
With the barker chit chatting Rebecca, Ernie and Paul keep a close eye on the drapes behind his podium where they assumed but detect no movement from behind them. Diverting his gaze to the Irish ‘champion’ Paul notes that she has already begun to warm up in anticipation of a contest. He nods to Ernie who thrusts his right hand out asking silently for a few more moments which pass with no appreciable activity save for the bookie hastily scribbling odds on the small, hand held chalkboard. Finally, he signals to Rebecca to back out which she gratefully does, thrusting her hands up in capitulation and drawing a muted whiff of consternation from the hungry pack looking forward to more activity. The barker somewhat dejectedly returns to his podium where the megaphone awaits his return.
“Well that went balls up in a hurry didn’t it”? He announces with a hint of a chuckle. “It appears our girl Rebecca is all blah and wants no part of the Ire of Ireland, but who can blame her? Reina Rourke has never been beaten on the mat. I wouldn’t want any part of that either but that means we need another challenger. We need somebody with some brass”, he clamors. “Surely we must have somebody interested in a date with the champ”.
With the barker breathlessly rolling through his spiel Ernie and Paul are huddled up with Cat as Rebecca joins them. She takes her straw hat from her husband and reapplies it while listening in on the two men instructing the 20 year old on the intended game plan.
“She likes to shoot in for that double leg takedown as you noticed”, her father advises. “You can bait her into it, just make sure you have that back leg planted when she shoots in and you can nail her with a rolling chancery”.
Cat nods as her Aunt Beatrice takes her long blonde mane into her hands and hastily begins to braid it into a makeshift bun. Looking down at the youngster through concerned eyes she finishes the braid off with a rubber band taken from her purse. The elderly woman tracks back to admire her handy work before casting a peek skyward and taking note of evening sky finally settling in over the exposition.
“Are you sure you can do this kitty cat”? She asks with a soft spoken apprehension.
“If I can’t,” Cat cheekily replies, “It’s Uncle Ernie’s fault”.
“Bollocks”, the old timer counters with a dismissive wave. “Get in there and make your bloody challenge. I’m getting hungry and it’s gonna be your treat tonight”.
“I’ll fight your bloody champion”!
Cat thrusts her hand into the air and steps onto the mat certain of the gauntlet being picked up. The blowhard is quick to do so, dropping from his podium and onto the mat to greet the new arrival. The Irish champion does likewise; approaching Cat and coming uncomfortably close, sensing this to be a more legitimate challenge. She eyes Cat up and down taking mental note of the young girl’s physique before locking her gaze squarely onto Cat’s own. The 20 year old responds in kind with a searing scrutiny and is unfazed by the deportment of the muscular lass. Sensing the tension the barker thrusts an arm between the two intending for a separation which is grudgingly provided.
“I think we have a winner this time”! He frantically announces while placing an arm over Cat’s shoulder. “Tell these fine folks your name”.
“My name is Catherine Stanton”, she responds, using the fictitious surname given by her mother moments earlier. “That woman you just chided is my mother”.
The crowd lets loose with an iced gasp picking up on the apparent animosity between Cat and the ‘Ire of Ireland’. With the bookie springing into action a flash mob envelopes him and pushes the bulging book maker back against the barker’s podium and forces security to step in to restore order. Appreciating a good thing when he sees it the barker climbs back onto his podium and calls for bets while the combatants begin to warm up.
“Two minutes to place your bets”!
“I’ve got 300 pounds”, Paul announces while rifling through the front pockets of his khaki pants and pulling out a banded wad of cash which he hands to his brother.
“I have 200myself”, Ernie says and takes the cash from him adding it to his own. “The bookie just wrote down 20 to 1. That’ll give the kitty cat 10,000 pounds when she wins”.
“You bet your arse she’s treatin’”, Paul laughs at while his brother excuses himself and makes a straightaway for the booker.
Beatrice and Rebecca look on, their uneasy expressions in stark contrast to the jovial aspect of their male counterparts. Rebecca quietly accepts the rejected blue and white warm up jacket of her daughter as well as the black ball cap leaving her wearing a pair of blue and white track pants supplemented by black and white Nike sneakers and a drab grey sports bra. Her gaze shifts over to the proclaimed champion who warms up with a set of light calisthenics including jumping jacks and cherry pickers.
“Oh I hope the boys know what they’re doing”, Rebecca mutters softly and clutches the arm of her companion. “I couldn’t bear it if Catherine gets hurt”.
“Don’t worry Becky”, Beatrice answers in a reassuring inflection, “they’ve been doing this for far too long to take a nose dive. I’ve seen Cat train and Ernie often says she’s one of the best he’s ever seen. She’ll be fine”.
“One minute to place your bets”!
Ernie returns to the group with Paul sporting an ear to ear grin, happily waving a piece of paper. He gleefully shows off the sports ticket listing Cat as a 20 to 1 underdog, his heavy index finger pointing with a less than subtle tapping to the payout listed as 10,000 pounds. Taking note of the payout the women stare blankly with their mouths agape in astonishment.
“Do you really think Cat has a chance”? Rebecca inquires breathlessly while gingerly taking the hand printed gold mind into her hands. “This is so much money”.
“You better believe it”, Paul answers taking the ticket back. “We wouldn’t risk this kind of money on anything less than a guarantee”.
The introductions are made by the barker while an anxious throng pushes their way to the beleaguered bookie shoving fistfuls of cash in his face. Reina Rourke acknowledges her introduction by flexing her arms to a smattering of cheers by the wide-eyed onlookers. Ernie gestures to them with a hearty chuckle muttering something under his breath about fishing. In contrast to her opponent Cat does not acknowledge her introduction, not that it matters as she is paid little attention by the audience; who fully expects another victory by the champion. After several moments of pushing and shoving around the odds maker order is finally restored and he declines t0o take any further wagers, taking his place at the side of the barker who looks on through the broad eyes of a child on Christmas morning.
“It’s show time”!
With their respite brought to an end by the tinny reverberation of the rusty bell the two contenders approach each other, their eyes warily studying the moments and body language of the other. Beginning to circle one another the champion backs off unexpectedly, but quickly reverses course and shoots in for a double leg take down. Cat is ready and merely sidesteps the onrushing Irish woman and shoves her in the back forcing her chest first onto the mat and drawing a few thrilled flare-ups out of the bystanders. Shaking her head Cat takes a step back and allows the other woman to get back to her feet.
“Too easy”, she snickers.
Her face reddened by embarrassment, Reina Rourke glares angrily at Cat who regards her foe with a snarky smirk. Without regard Reina bulls her way into a collar and elbow tie up and the two struggle for a moment for position before Cat drops to her knees and while twisting her body to score a dazzling arm whip which draws another ejaculation from the group with the barker looking on in alarm. As she had done moments ago Cat steps back to allow her opponent to return to her feet. Her face as red as a tomato and with the veins in her forehead dancing in agitation the champion rises and begins to circle the younger woman. Cautiously she maintains her distance, having learned the hard way about Cat’s reflexes until Cat’s back is facing the podium. Noting the other woman’s trepidation Cat offers a wink and blows her a kiss while straightening her upper torso ever so slightly as to expose the thighs as a ready-made target. Sensing the opportunity Rourke dives in shooting for another attempt at a double leg take down but Cat quickly leans forward to snake her arm around the lass’ neck securing a front chancery and rolls back with the momentum using her forward most leg to hook her opponent’s forward most leg trapping her. The crowd comes to life and roars in approval, having forgotten about the small wagers they may have made on the champion and begin cheering for the local girl.
With his money threatening to sprout wings the barker, thinking quickly, wobbles at his podium and falls forward directly on top of the combatants breaking up what would have assuredly been the finish of the match and drawing a rousing chorus of jeers from the public. Getting to his feet he orders the two women separated as his mind races, feverishly chasing an elusive liberation from the depths of debacle. He starts to gesture wildly towards his security personnel who find themselves caught up with a mob of their own from a nearby booth.
Angry and wholly humiliated Reina charges in, her eyes ablaze with reckless abandon and shrieking wildly; she attempts to throw a side kick only to see her leg caught by the crafty Cat who grabs firm hold of the ankle and twists it harshly, forcing the champion to fall face first to the mat. The young blonde deftly positions her body weight atop her desperately squirming opponent’s legs thereby preventing escape and wrings the ankle looking to draw a submission.
The carnival barker, seeing his champion about to lose drops onto the mat overrun with frantic emotions looking to break up the fracas anew but Cat spies him out of the corner of her eye and reapplies the pressure, mustering every ounce of strength she can muster and stops the barker dead in his tracks with the stomach-turning snap of Reina Rourke’s ankle being broken. The crowd falls into a departed silence leaving the pit void of turbulence save for the labored mewling of the now former champion.
After an incredulous stare down with the winner the barker, now resigned to his fate dourly makes his way back to the podium not once removing his gaze from Cat Riley who starts to revel in the triumph with her family and well-wishers from the jubilant horde. Paying them no mind he grips the megaphone firmly into his hand and climbs back onto the podium.
“I don’t believe it”, Miles Bryant says in a soft, understated tone and accentuating his response with a shake of his head. “I just can’t believe it”.
“What’s not to believe”? Cat asks. Having finished her meal the SCW rookie pushes her plate forward and takes the reprieve from telling her tale as an opportunity to drain her glass, which she does; gulping the carbonated beverage down. “Everything I just told you is 100% factual. In fact, Reina Rourke quit wrestling completely after that night”.
“For starters”, Miles says, pointing a finger up towards the ceiling in contention, “I have it on pretty good word that they stopped doing those carnival wrestling events years ago, decades in fact”.
“What so-called authority is this”? Cat muses with a hint of a smirk, her mind having been calmed by the wandering twists and turns of experiences eventually culminating in a fond memory. “Your authority has clearly lost the pot when it comes to England. The fact of the matter is they still do hold such events at the fairs”. Tipping the glass she drains the last of her soda and sets the empty container back onto the table with a clunk and then leans forward to continue her point. “Now granted these carnivals are much fewer and farther between than in years gone by, and even fewer are the ones that hold such contests. But rest assured my dear boy, they still exist”.
“So you’re saying you got lucky to find one”?
“I suppose you can say that”, Cat nods before pausing as the waitress returns to slide the check face down onto the table. “It’s sort of like playing cards I guess, if you play enough hands you’re sure to find a winner. My Uncle has a habit of taking pot luck when it comes to them and I had been to several before with him with no sporting event of any kind”.
Miles grabs the check and glosses over it, content to put it on his expense tab for the sake of the interview and reaches into his pocket, unfolding a wad of bills. He counts a few off, running calculations in his head to decipher the magic 12% marker and tucks them beneath a plate.
“Cat Riley”, he says, reaching for his recorder after stretching his arms out with a drained whistle, “I must confess that this has been one of the more interesting interviews I have ever conducted. Before we go is there anything you would like to add”?
“Yes”, she nods in acceptance. “You and your subscribers may think that I lack the experience to compete with Nyla Dupre, but not all experience is picked up in the ring. I graduated the school of hard knocks with a Ph.D. in arse whipping and when we get to Primm, your girl Nyla will be the next chapter in my thesis”.
