Part 1 - New Balls Please
That was stupid. The whole thing was beyond ridiculous, and there’s nobody to blame but myself. What I was staring at now was the aftermath of a chain-reaction of events, starting with me pulling off the road to take a call on a late-night drive, and ending with me trying to finish a match from the top rope like I’m fucking Royal Purple or something. This wasn’t going to be the end of it either. Of course I’m no stranger to being up there on the top turnbuckle, of course I practice it. I slapped on a mask, gave myself a Japanese name and wrestled a whole fucking tour marketing myself as a “high-flyer” just so I could use the techniques in a live setting, make sure I could rely on them when I needed one...the problem wasn’t the choice, the problem was the timing. The problem was I knew it wasn’t right, but I went for it anyway. I wanted out of there. I tried to yeet myself in my own Hail Mary pass and you know what, I let my guard down completely.
That was on me. That was all on me.
How many times in conversation would you throw up one of those hypothetical scenarios, one question, two very difficult choices...which one would you go with, if you had a gun to your head? Generally it’s a good way to get to know someone, figure out where their priorities lie, with no real consequences. Now how many of those have ever had to make a decision with a gun actually pointed at their head? I’d guess none. They wouldn’t want to dredge those memories back up any time soon, plus, they would be hyper-aware of anyone they cared about being put in that headspace, even in friendly conversation over a beer or two.
Yet I was that guy, just a few short weeks ago. I could probably use some time off, some therapy, maybe both, but I’m a World Heavyweight champion. The belt has to be defended. The fans need to see my face. That’s wrestling. It’s not the hand I was dealt, it was the position I chose to put myself in.
I feel like maybe I could be forgiven for the odd missed step after that experience, maybe a free pass on some irrelevant defeat in a non-title match, a no-show on an equally irrelevant mixed tag team match, one where the winner decides the Main Event at the next Supershow. I mean to be honest, sometimes it’d be an advantage NOT being the last match of the night, gives you a chance to slip off early to some after party, but then I remember we’re on a fucking BOAT, so nobody’s going anywhere regardless...I don’t know. Four people who are no stranger to the big stage...means little to us...but it was never about us individually, was it?
It’s all about the business. Either I got my head right, someone took the crown from me, or I laid it on the ground...sat back and watched while anyone who wasn’t brave enough to come at me the traditional way, suddenly grew a pair, and threw their own hats in the ring for a chance at it, hoping for a much lighter challenge. After all, for some, just holding was often enough. It was option one all the way. I’d come through things like this before…
And as if by magic, a reminder, as suddenly...I’m not where I was. It was familiar. I’d been here before, in that very scenario...maybe twenty years ago, maybe even more. I was used to competitive sport, even before I went pro and honestly...as a kid...if I thought I was going to “make it” in any, I figured it would have been tennis.
I lamely watched as my opponent crushed another weak serve of mine right past me. The feeling of powerlessness came over me. Oh, I remember this day alright. I looked down at my racquet, sighed heavily, smacked it hard against the back of my leg, hoping the sharp pain would snap me out of my malaise somehow.
In so many ways, I took after at least one of my parents, and in others, you might have even thought I was adopted. For example, my parents didn’t have a competitive bone in their collective bodies. My Dad even stopped playing soccer when they picked their goalkeepers based on who could kick it farthest, and golf, when the people around him took it too seriously, got too competitive. He just didn’t have that drive. My Mum didn’t play sports after she left school, when she didn’t have to anymore. Me on the other hand...I lived for it. It made me work harder, put in more hours, I wanted more and more until it started growing into an obsession and after a while, I’d explode into a wild fit of rage when I couldn’t get as far as I wanted, or as quickly. It never helped. It took me a lot of growing up before I realised that.
My tennis pretty closely resembled my approach to wrestling. It was imposing, powerful, unrelenting. I had the ability to turn defence into a winning point in one single stroke. The backhand groundstroke, usually a weakness for most players, underpinned my whole game. The default tactic of ‘target the backhand’ played right into my hands as the double-hander became my biggest weapon. My Dad used to think, so many times, that I played it so late, so far behind me, that he thought I’d missed it completely, only for me to whip my body all the way around it like a coiled spring, and send a scintillating shot back the way it came, with interest. Sometimes it was too aggressive, too inconsistent, but a lot of the time, I could make myself damn near unplayable. Again, much like someone who went nearly 600 days without losing a singles match on Climax Control, I had all the potential of someone that was unbeatable. In fact, the only person who could consistently beat me was myself.
It was an early morning match, 9am start or something, in a regional tournament being held at my home club. I had all the advantage, I knew the courts, knew the surface, knew the speed. I was a teenager, maybe fifteen, sixteen. My Dad had to give me a lift, since I wasn’t old enough to drive at the time, so I knew that much. When I had my own car I’d drive myself, I could pick the music, blast it, sing my lungs out, get my head right, I got better at handling it over the next few years. On this day though, I hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves, oh no, but because I was scared. Scared, for a friend.
An online friend...across the pond in the USA...which now in the days of Skype, Tinder, streaming services and social media, isn’t really a surprise these days. It’s very easy to have friends all over the world, and get actual face time with them, behind a screen, of course, but back then, it was a little more unusual. Enough that two people of my parent’s generation struggled to comprehend why it affected me so much, or at all, why the unrelenting aggression and unflappable approach of their teenage boy so comprehensively up and deserted him.
The next point was a double-fault, dumped both serves square in the bottom of the net. I wasn’t going through my routines, three bounces on the floor, manufacturer name pointing up on the first serve, model name pointing up on the second. I had routines on routines at that age, a real creature of habit. It was all a superstition of course, but it gave me something to ground me, focus my mind. I carried a lot of those quirks into wrestling when I first started out. It was only as my skills and experience grew when I decided I needed them less and less.
Another thing about my childhood - I was an avid gamer. Amiga, Sega Saturn, Game Gear, Dreamcast, N64...I had them all. Eventually graduating up to a PC, the internet began to intertwine itself with the ever advancing technology, online gaming became more commonplace and for my group of friends and I, when we were too young to drink at least...it was what we did to socialise after school and college. As soon as we all turned 18, that changed, it was clubs and bars all the way, with an occasional game of FIFA when we got home, but I stuck with it, when I wasn’t hung over. My gaming was much like my tennis, my wrestling...it became an obsession. As the world moved to flat panel monitors, I kept my big, clunky CRT that barely fit on my desk (Google for context) for the better refresh rate, as if that extra half-a-second made a difference. First-person shooters were my main thing. At the time the best teams were in the US in my game, and as I pushed for that next level of excellence, I too...basically played in the US, setting an alarm for 3/4am to play competitive matches, then back to bed for a few more hours before school. It was maybe an early sign that my commitment to hitting the top in SOMETHING was strong, and it was here where I found my clan.
A routine backhand, ready to be put in the trash where it belonged...until I got through the shot too early, made contact with my arms fully outstretched, and dumped it straight in the bottom of the net.
The truth was, I barely knew the man. Timezones were a killer with most of my new friends in North America, most of them older, working full-time jobs, wouldn’t even be home by the time I had to head to sleep. My parents generally wouldn’t let me get away with staying up much past midnight, but it was a Friday night, I didn’t have to be awake quite so early, and I was hanging out, sitting on Teamspeak, when I found out one of our own suffered a brain aneurysm on his drive home from work. By the time I’d woken up in the morning, ready to play my match, I found out that, sadly, he hadn’t survived the night.
I didn’t tell my parents, of course, not right away. Not until later that evening in fact. I was probably quiet of course, not my ‘usual self’ but that could have been nerves ahead of the match, just moody teenager things, lack of sleep from staying up too late playing computer games AGAIN, possibly a combination of all three. My Dad didn’t push it. He knew how I could be, he knew the reasons why, and most importantly, he knew when I got on court, it’d all figure itself out.
It didn’t figure itself out.
The difference was...I didn’t care out there. Tennis in my teenage years was one of two things...powering my opponent off the court until they were trying to hit from the parking lot...or a building ball of anger and frustration if things didn’t go my way, usually involving my racquet being thrown somewhere when it finally came to a head. On more than one occasion, we had to stop playing long enough for me to fish it out of a tree after I launched the thing clean over a fence. It was childish, immature, but I was basically a kid, I had a lot of learning to do. I didn’t have money worries, responsibilities, and when I got that passionate, that angry, at least then I FELT something. At least then I gave a fuck.
This was a matter of perspective, or lack thereof. It was the same then, just as it was now. The truth is it’s okay to mourn the loss of someone, to miss them, even if you didn’t know them much, even at all. Whether they meant something to your friends, whether you only shared a few moments together, it didn’t matter...they made a mark on you, or someone important to you...and that deserves to be acknowledged...but I played sport at a competitive level as a teenager...I’m working at the professional level now. The thing that sets me apart? It should be my ability to compartmentalise, put it away and deal with it when the time is right...and take that opportunity when it comes along.
Last week, I didn’t compartmentalise...but the fix was so damn close, and at the very least THAT was what I had to cling to, to pull me through...
The truth was, I knew I’d have to go back there, before the boat left for Summer XXXtreme. I wouldn’t get the opportunity before this tag match. I figure if maybe it’d been business as usual and I’d got it done against Goth I *maybe* could have gotten the chance to slip away for a couple of days but the vultures are circling, they could smell my blood. Before I even blinked my dance card got full and as was now the standard, there was no way I could really say no. That would land me in hot water, contractually, not just because O’Malley doesn’t think I’m doing enough...and suddenly I’m stacking headaches on top of each other like a giant game of Jenga and yes, surprise surprise, I’m definitely not going to bring my best into the ring, with the belt on the line this time. Plus, unless I wanted a long swim, I wasn’t going to be able to deal with it any quicker anyway. May as well face it now, and get off the boat with everything I climbed on with.
I had to see the chalet. I had to see the aftermath of what I’d done, the life that, for all I’d known, I had quite literally brought to an end. Maybe I could find a way to help, maybe there were clues, maybe I could make some kind of difference or hey, just maybe...I could make myself feel better enough that I could win a fucking wrestling match on a cruise, not undo the 12 months plus of work I’d put in since losing to Ben to rehab a knee injury, learn from my mistakes and come back better than ever, how about that? Maybe it’d give me some kind of closure...maybe it’d make me want to cry, to scream, to smash things up, to flush everything I’d bottled up in my system out, so I was finally ready to get back to business. Who knows.
I needed a release...and I needed it fast. Just a few more days...
Part 2 - Parade of the Dancing Monkeys
The scene opens to a hotel room in a Vegas casino. Mark “The Dragon” Cross sits perched on the edge of the bed, addressing the camera face-up. A healthy stack of casino chips can be made out, a little blurry, on a bedside table in the background of the shot. Mark’s choice of t-shirt seemed a little questionable, it was black, complete with a print of a dancing cartoon monkey.
So this was something I absolutely didn’t need. In fact, these two weeks? Probably could have done without either of them. This I guess is what they call the life of a champion, where on occasion you really don’t want to fucking be one, at least for a little while, but you pull your socks up and try and get it done anyway. That’s part of the job. That comes with the territory, and as much as the detractors may say I was never cut out for this, you’re not going to catch me throwing in the towel anytime soon, sorry to disappoint.
This isn’t going to be one full-on woe-is-me pity party that I’m going to make you sit through, but I do have to explain. I’ve been distracted. I don’t blame the fact that I’m a champion on why. I had somewhere else that I needed to be this week, but I don’t blame the fact that I’m in demand for not being able to. I could do without a ridiculous Main Event that serves as nothing more than an excuse to parade all the champions in one big match before Summer XXXtreme, but I don’t even blame Management for making it happen either. Just because profit isn’t my priority, ever really, but especially now, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to be theirs, out of necessity. After all...this is all for nothing if the doors don’t stay open, right? We all have to play our roles as dancing monkeys every once in a while. For us, for the crew, for our fans.
It was a couple of weeks ago when I found myself, quite literally, staring down the barrel of a gun. Not my first, probably not my last and you know what? It doesn’t get any less scary...but that isn’t what’s most harrowing. I take every day, every situation like it’s finite, I have from the moment my phone rang, and I was told the most influential man in my life went for a run, had a problem with his heart, and did not...would not...be coming back. That helps a lot with perspective, when you go through something like that. Mark, why didn’t you call the police? From what I gather, that’s what the guy behind it was. Why didn’t you ask for time off? Well...because the show must go on. I have very understanding bosses...exactly why I don’t fuck up those few big events of the year for my mistake. My view on life, it makes moments like being threatened with it a little easier to swallow. No, what cuts me up is the choice I made. Her...or me.
I didn’t really know who she was. I’d probably never know now, not really, only whatever research I could dig up, if I cared enough to try. It was the easiest decision to make, I only had one side to the story, hers, maybe it was a little twisted, maybe she deserved everything that was coming to her and you know what? If they could get after me, who was next? My students? My coaches? My partner, my ex-wife, anyone I’d ever dated? Where would it end, how many more bodies would hit the floor before someone went out to that chalet, and found her, and did the same thing I did, sold her down the river, but out of spite for all the fuckery she caused, the number of other lives she upturned and yet...it doesn’t make me feel any better about it. I could have been wrong about her, she could have been an awful human being after all...or I could have been right. A couple of weeks ago I signed someone’s death warrant, probably...so excuse me if I don’t quite act like myself until our boat...raises anchor or whatever the fuck boats do, and we set off for the next big event in the calendar. I’ve gone through some stuff and like I say, I have some things I need to do. I will be on my A-game when it matters, when the World Heavyweight championship goes back on the line, and unfortunately right now, that’s the best I can promise.
I guess though, until then, I still have to play the game. Three out of the four pieces from the Blast from the Past final, the fourth pawn upgraded to a queen, the order slightly shuffled, and off we go again for one more round. It’s a classic, a match for the ages and yet, sorry to disappoint, I don’t think any of us really have our eyes on the prize on Sunday night. With a Winner Takes All match two weeks away, looming on the horizon, I feel like priority number one is don’t get hurt, learn as much as you can, fire a couple of warning shots at your opponent, that kind of thing. Even with some real warriors in the contest, it feels a little bit like going through the motions, one that doesn’t quite live up to the billing.
ONE LAST CHANCE to take a look at your opponent. ONE LAST SCOUTING REPORT to prepare yourself for the big night...well trust me I’ve seen all I need to see from Mac up to this point. I’ve done the work before, it just needed a refresh - The preparations are already done. I’ve faced him once before. He’s tough, he’s rangy, he’s powerful, it takes a lot to be able to handle him, but I’ve done that once before. Power doesn’t bother me. Pedigree doesn’t bother me. Reputation doesn’t bother me. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just a non-factor. This match may not have all the makings of a total barn-stormer but you know what? Four competitors, Hall of Famers, top champions, past and present, all vastly experienced, all immensely capable. Professionals, professional merch peddlers too, sure...it definitely isn’t going to suck, even if the real prize is on the horizon...but maybe if I was in a better frame of mind I’d see this in a slightly different light, as a celebration, of sorts.
In me, a swift progression from budget brand baller to the very top of the pyramid in just a few short years. Writing my name into the history books with SCU, SCW, Blast from the Past, a multi-time champion, a multi-month champion, embarking on a quest to become the longest reigning SCW World Heavyweight champion of all time...damn near unbeatable in singles...a pretty tough cookie in mixed tag...definitely not the champion many wanted but in so many ways, the champion they deserve...whether it be as a beacon for what hard work, determination and a focus on ring craft as priority number one can lead to...or whether it be revenge for all those times they tried to tear me down. This was something, from minute one, that was always written in my future I think. There were always doubters, even then, even in my own mind, at times. I didn’t know if I could ever recapture the kind of form to put me back in this spot...but there’s no doubt in my mind now.
In Mac, my opponent in two weeks time, a competent and worthy Internet champion, to the point where he gets the opportunity to take that next step. Of course he’s no stranger to sitting on top of the pile, no stranger to having a strap in his hand, no slouch when it comes to matches of that magnitude. We’ve encountered each other before, he knows I’ve got enough to be able to handle him, just think back to Blast from the Past, and he knows he has more than enough to challenge me too, to make me really work for it. I feel like I caught him a little cold in the Blast from the Past final, a little too preoccupied chasing his partner, in life AND in this match, halfway across the country as part of his preparation. At times I’d listen to his pre-match comments and almost feel like he had the wrong guy, like he was talking about somebody else entirely, like he was coming in unprepared almost. I know he won’t make that mistake again, and with no tag partners for either of us to hide behind on the ship, I’m in for a tough night. A worthy adversary. This is my chance to remind him what I’m all about one more time and maybe, Main Event or not, we can put on one hell of a show.
In Amber, responsible for bouncing me out in attempt number one at Blast from the Past just gone, I was pretty surprised not to run into her in the Final. Probably the least likely out of the four of us to care about Summer XXXtreme in two weeks, and most likely to throw the kitchen sink at us anyway to pick up the win. You have to admire the heart of the woman, the way she’s evolved her game over the years, bolted other pieces onto her approach so she looks more and more like a complete package, teamed up with an insatiable appetite to cause damage and inflict pain and suffering. I figure my partner this time around will find her a little easier to manage than Krystal, who maybe hadn’t seen anyone quite so relentless, coming straight at her out of the gate, before she had time to think, time to react. Maybe now, with the confidence of a champion herself, would that match have been different? Who knows...I just know I wouldn’t like to deal with her when she’s angry...Mac...rather you than me there buddy.
And lastly, in Myra...fresh off a victory against SCW royalty in Christina Rose, proving to have much better luck against Hall of Famers than I did last week...got so close but yet so far in her own Blast from the Past quest, now with a two-time winner in her corner, maybe a little chance at redemption, if anything. Myra...maybe...is taking the biggest risk, 9 defences, coming up on a full calendar year as Internet champion...she has a formula that works, she’s found a level that’s comfortable. On one hand you could ask, why take the risk when you could continue to stretch your reign, yet on the other, maybe there’s nobody more deserving of the chance to go for broke? Possibly the most interesting dynamic of all. She’ll want to lay her own marker down, that’s for sure. Maybe after the last time, we’ve chosen to stay out of each other’s way for the most part. After all, I think we all know how I can get with a big match on the line, no punches pulled, no subjects off-limits. I figure we both know what needs to be done, we watch each other’s back, get the job done. No need to overcomplicate.
This one is finely in the balance. Maybe that’s what makes it exciting after all. It may not necessarily be a contender for match of the night. It may, in some part, be my fault for that, we’ll just have to see how it goes. I almost wonder if keeping busy here around Vegas, stepping right back into the ring, maybe that’ll be enough of a distraction to give it the performance it deserves. After all...I don’t want to be responsible for a disappointing showing, a weak Main Event, the last chance for the fans to see half of us competing as champions, even with titles on the line, at least...those that don’t have tickets for the cruise anyway. I just have to remind myself...a few short days...the end is near...
I guess to finish, since the honour of the Main Event is on the table and all, we have SOMETHING to fight for here, some bragging rights...look...the fact is...the only person in charge of my destiny is me, even still. You think this match is important in some way, for momentum, for the pride, of being the biggest face on the poster? No. You think the Goth result is relevant, making me doubt myself, denting my confidence somehow? Not quite. All this happened because of me. Factors inside of my control, yet factors I can’t control right away with matches coming thick and fast. The problem is simple. That unstoppable force I’ve made myself? Becoming that all over again at Summer XXXtreme is completely in my hands - I just need to get myself in the right headspace. I don’t need wins and losses for that. I don’t need to ‘get one over’ by being on the winning team, pinning my next opponent, or having my hand held up. I don’t need to defeat a Hall of Famer in the warm-up. I don’t need to put myself on the biggest stage at the biggest event to feel like a winner...I just need to take a drive. The only thing Mac can do on Sunday, to influence the result in the only match, that really counts? He has to make sure I’m in such a bad state that I can’t even get on the boat. I guess that remains to be seen but...I doubt it. Many have threatened that, many have failed, and many wouldn’t feel right taking a title that way, by default. The only question is which version of me turns up. The imposter, caught in his own thoughts, struggling to put life’s events in perspective...or your regular garden variety Dragon...the one that didn’t lose one-on-one for over two years? We won’t have long to wait...
The screen fades to black.
