Post by CM Poor on Jul 25, 2014 12:57:26 GMT -5
"You looked good out there."
I dove for the buzzing phone the second the door shut behind me. I had already made a bee-line for the locker room to begin with, driven by an almost clear cut certainty that the phone would be ringing by the time I got back there. I think everyone can recall a time when they've hit 'answer' the moment they felt the phone buzz in their hands, millionths of a second before their eyes would have been able to comprehend the ID of the incoming call.
Being in that ring was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. In the mere seconds before the show runner pressed play and gave me my cue, I was a six foot pile of nervous sweat, a lone curtain draped between myself and the single largest crowd I'd performed in front of to that point. It's truly amazing, the sheer magnitude of the thoughts that can cross your mind in a mere matter of seconds.
What if I lose?
What if I win?
Have I let down my parents?
Have I let down my God?
There I was, inches away from the biggest moment in my career up until that point, sweating whether or not I'd be looked down upon from the Kingdom of Heaven for what I was about to embark upon. It's thoughts like this that Father Marshall's wisdom and guidance had always proved most valuable in either dispelling or resolving. Together, through prayer and discussion, we'd come to the conclusion that my path, my words, and my actions spoke louder herald of my faith than my career, whether it be writing or wrestling, could ever hope to proclaim. Consider also the lead up - no man laces up his boots to embark down this road, and finds himself just beyond the curtain to the biggest stage in the industry. The nation is peppered with an independent circuit of proving grounds, and if stepping in that ring was to unknowingly turn my back of the only son of God, then for better or for worse, that ship had sailed. Some of the great mysteries of faith are never solved until that final moment when we're standing at Saint Peter's gates.
And so, my hand chosen music is cued, I'm given the nod, and doubt is washed away for 12 indelible moments by pure adrenaline - adrenaline that drives me down the ramp, up those steps, into that ring, through that match, and back to the locker room, diving for the buzz of a phone left precariously out in the open at the end of a wooden dressing bench.
Being the new guy - small fish in a big lake - and my relationship with parents essentially crossed out with the stroke of a single pen, Father Marshall, thousands of miles away, stood out as my closest confidant in a world that just became immensely larger than it was when I woke up that morning. Imagine my surprise.
"You.......you watched?"
"I watched. Your mother, too."
"But, what about - "
"Words were said. More so on our part than on yours. We...well, we want to try and be bigger than petty differences."
"I'd like that."
"Do you know yet, how long you're going to be on the road?"
"Not yet, no. Quite a while, I'd imagine. There doesn't look to be much of an off season."
"All the more glad I called, then. You understand - it's...well...it's difficult to watch a child go out and stake their claim, but watching you...this is your clearly your calling. You're going to make a lot of people very proud - none more than your mother and I, but a lot of people."
I couldn't tell you how the call ended - not in great detail, anyway. Small talk, a couple more niceties, a few more proud of yous. To that end, in that moment, I couldn't quite tell you what had just happened in the ring, either.
I'd never wanted to do much more in life than pursue a career in the ring. It's a cliche story, sure, but all the same - it's a childhood dream that never quite faded as childhood turned to adolescence and adolescence turned to adulthood. Some people find another way through life and trade the dream of fame and fortune for the reality of a desk or a 9 to 5, but I guess one of the miracles in life is how remarkably different we're all wired. When I found Jesus, it became less of a pursuit of stardom and more a journey of personal improvement. For all the stigmas that come with pro wrestling, be it violence or vulgarity, nothing quite brought out the best in me like when I stepped into the ring.
That said, I'd have traded it all for my mother and father to embrace me, not for the path I'd chosen, but for the simple fact that I was their only son.
In time, I would be faced with the greatest test of my relatively short life in discovering just what it was that brought the remote to my father's hand that night, to opt out of the evening news for a program he'd just as soon forget existed, but in that moment, in that locker room, none of that mattered, and I was content to fall to my knees in thanks, for The Lord truly works in mysterious ways.
There was a genuinity in my father's words that was emphasized by the fact that we never touched on the fact that I'd walked out of the ring triumphant over the more seasoned, if slightly less focused Enchanted. In twenty years time, no one was going to hark back to the greatest matches in WFWF history and talk about Kirkbride/Enchanted. It was everything you'd expect in a match pitting a newcomer against a seaoned perennial jobber - that's not a knock, but we all play our roles. It's just life.
All the same, they watched. At the very least, from the opening bell to the final tap, they watched. And those words, however brief, however hard to utter, bore sincerity and humility that told me that they would watch again, and again, and again. Mine was no longer just a journey of self embodiment, to achieve all that was laid out for me. It was now a journey to strengthen both myself and the ties that bind me to my mother and father, strained as they had become.
I must have lost myself in quiet conversation, alone in that barren locker room, still clutching my phone, gazing in half wonder, half oblivion, at the touch screen display showing the most recent log of calls, tapping the screen each time it went dark to refresh the light, because before what felt long, I was being ushered out by the grounds crew. The show had passed before me, and the road sat waiting, wide open, ready to consume my life.
As I stood waiting that morning for the skycap to arrange a new flight to catch me up to the one I'd undoubtedly missed the night before, a wave of humbling regret washed over me as I played that conversation over a thousand times in my head. It followed me through security, into the gate, across the tarmac, into my seat, and several thousands of feet into the air, those words playing over and over again in my mind.
"Your mother, too."
"Your mother, too."
"Your mother, too."
I should have asked for her. Even just for a moment, just to hear her voice. I wondered, then, if I'd have been on a different flight - the one I had booked prior. If maybe, somehow, that slip of mind, in not asking to speak to her, is what froze me on the bench, staring in silent shock at the screen of my phone.
I never perceived it as a child - kids tend to miss these sort of things - but there was always a hurt that seemed to follow my mother wherever she went. She could dull it out with a flash of her smile, and it wasn't the obvious things that might come to mind - she had no greater admirer than my father, unless of course you'd place into contention my grandparents, and her quiet, simple life seemed to suit her to the point, but something, buried deep down inside was slowly, quietly knawing away at Marie Kirkbride. She called it her 'resting face', and as a child, I bought that story hook, line, and sinker, but as anyone who's traversed the journey of coming of age knows, your perception grows with you, and I soon came to recognize that what she waved off as mere exhaustion was something entirely more troubling. I never brought it up, as had become convention for anyone who'd mentioned it once before, as she was quick to write it off, but I never looked upon my mother quite the same since the dawn of realization finally washed over me.
I made a promise to myself, there in the air at cruising altitude, to call her as soon as we'd landed. It didn't do much to numb the guilt that hit me at the ticketing counter, but there's only so much you can call upon as a coping device when you're equidistance between the Heavens and the Earth. I sat back in my seat, eyes shut, and spoke then to the only real ear I could get lent in that time and place. Since signing the deal, walking away from Austin and taking upon this new life of go, go, go, I hadn't had a good chance to sit and ponder the mysteries, and in that moment there in the air, I was able to clear the air on much that had taken me on since beginning this journey.
I thought of Father Marshall, knowing that at some point - maybe not that point, but at some point, he'd pray for me too. I thought of my father, a thousand times more, the conversation we had. But more than anything - more than my debut, or what lied in store, or missing that plane, or the heat of embarassment in being found in a near comatose state in the locker room - I thought of my mother.
All ten digits of her number played over in my head, as if on some sort of perpetual loop as we began our final ascent, taxid down the runway, to the very point that I was nearly air dialing as I darted down the aisle, across the tarmac, and into the gate where I could finally boot up and make the call.
"Hi, you've reached Marie. I can't take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll be sure to get back to you. Bye!"
I never knew a voice mail recording could be so crushing or pack such a punch. I nearly missed my own baggage, wondering where she could be, what she could be doing - if she was alright.
Of course, she'd be fine. Mothers tend to have schedules, whether or not the nest is empty as my own mother's had suddenly become on such short notice. Hair appointments, neighborhood meetings, book clubs - those were, at least, the things my mother would use to fill her time. Gram would go along with her sometimes, and for those few hours, the hurt that followed my mother everywhere she went would be near imperceivable. Like I said, contention for her number one fans.
On the sidewalk outside the terminal, half looking for a taxi and half still lost in thought, I nearly sent my phone barrelling to the ground in shock as it buzzed to life in my hands. Hoping to see my mother's name on the illuminated screen, my heart dropped nearly as far as the phone almost did at what waited instead - a text message. Robotic. Impersonal. Unwaveringly indifferent. A short number I knew to be an autodialer, set up by my new employer to keep me abreast of my ever changing schedule. Two words - a first and a last, that told me everything I needed to know.
"Nikki Dean"
That's what you call ironic, I guess.
Nikki was no slouch in the ring - she'd proved that much already. Her husband was already a household name, a storied career preceeding him, and Nikki herself was already on her own path, which, if carefully traversed, could lead her to the WFWF National Title. That's a short, yet already highlighted career that you don't want to take lightly when faced with it across the ring.
She was also a two time mother.
We all play our roles.
A round of Hail Marys in penance if that didn't compound the weight of my guilt right there on the sidewalk. Just as soon as she was temporarily bumped from my mind by a buzzing phone, mom came charging right back in, front and center.
I didn't know a lot about Nikki Dean, then. She was only slightly less green than I was, and yet, as stated, she'd already accomplished quite a fair bit for a newcomer. If facing Enchanted was getting my feet wet in the WFWF, then a match with Nikki Dean would be a full blown swan dive into the deep end. I'd come to the WFWF with a sense of upward propulsion - to leave my all in that ring, each and every night, in a manner that would be perfectly becoming of a man who swore a conviction such as the one I claimed to have. You'd get everything I had, each and every night, and you'd get it clean. Square. Honest. No cheap shots, and at the same time, no pulled punches.
You see where we're going, here?
In that moment, for all she had accomplished, and all she would accomplish, I couldn't see in my mind's eye 'Nikki Dean - opponent'. I didn't see 'Nikki Dean - wife' or even 'Nikki Dean - athlete'. All I could see, running through my mind, was 'Nikki Dean - mother' and 'Marie Kirkbride - mother'.
I couldn't formulate in my head an approach I would take, or a weakness that I might exploit with a countered strength of my own. I couldn't envision a win, or a loss. A count out, a draw. None of it came to mind. All that came to mind was that one reoccuring thought.
Nikki Dean. Marie Kirkbride.
In a short matter of time, I'd be stepping into the ring, the expectation being that I would lock up, execute moves upon, and wear down to a pin or a submission someone's mother.
I'd be committing the sin of lie if I told you that wouldn't make me slightly uncomfortable, were it my mother in Nikki's place.
It's worth noting that I never saw the female contingency of WFWF talent as anything less or anything different than the male contigency. WFWF had already, before my time, brought to the forefront a female World Champion, who'd bested not only the most storied champion perhaps in all of WFWF's history, but five other men as well. Nikki Dean, as I've stated, was already a top contender in a tournament to determine the next WFWF National Champion. To look upon those competitors as somehow inferior to their male counterparts, simply due to a prevalent gender in an industry, does a disservice to the entire industry as a whole. In time, I would see past my own hesitance, fortunately for myself, well before I made my way down that ramp, to the fact that Nikki Dean would serve as my first real challenge here in the WFWF, and that was something to look upon with respect and humility.
But in that moment, minutes removed from a call that went direct to voicemail, all I could think of was those two kids - the admiration they must have for their mother, doing what she does, following Josh Dean into this whirlwind of professional wrestling, and how I'd feel, in their shoes, to watch anyone - male, female, dragon, short person, drug addict, Christian, alcoholic, veteran, rookie, legend, or otherwise - try and put the boots to my mother. Surely, outside the ropes, she had her own nuances. Her own troubles. Maybe a hurt, similar to my mother. Maybe a routine, since traded for a pair of boots.
The time would come for that moment of anxiety to pass, eased upon with much contemplation and prayer. In the days leading up to our match, I prayed not just for the strength, wisdom, and courage, but for my father, and most especially for my mother. I prayed for the Dean children, that they too would grow to recognize the absolute significance of their parents and be able to thrive in the love they no doubt received. I prayed for Josh Dean, leading his love into the ring to share a passion he once partook upon alone, and of course, I prayed for Nikki Dean - that she'd share the same strength, wisdom, and courage I hoped would be bestowed upon me. That we'd enter the ring, lock up, and meet in competition with a shared respect and admiration for one another.
And, of course, I kept trying to reach my mother.
I dove for the buzzing phone the second the door shut behind me. I had already made a bee-line for the locker room to begin with, driven by an almost clear cut certainty that the phone would be ringing by the time I got back there. I think everyone can recall a time when they've hit 'answer' the moment they felt the phone buzz in their hands, millionths of a second before their eyes would have been able to comprehend the ID of the incoming call.
Being in that ring was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. In the mere seconds before the show runner pressed play and gave me my cue, I was a six foot pile of nervous sweat, a lone curtain draped between myself and the single largest crowd I'd performed in front of to that point. It's truly amazing, the sheer magnitude of the thoughts that can cross your mind in a mere matter of seconds.
What if I lose?
What if I win?
Have I let down my parents?
Have I let down my God?
There I was, inches away from the biggest moment in my career up until that point, sweating whether or not I'd be looked down upon from the Kingdom of Heaven for what I was about to embark upon. It's thoughts like this that Father Marshall's wisdom and guidance had always proved most valuable in either dispelling or resolving. Together, through prayer and discussion, we'd come to the conclusion that my path, my words, and my actions spoke louder herald of my faith than my career, whether it be writing or wrestling, could ever hope to proclaim. Consider also the lead up - no man laces up his boots to embark down this road, and finds himself just beyond the curtain to the biggest stage in the industry. The nation is peppered with an independent circuit of proving grounds, and if stepping in that ring was to unknowingly turn my back of the only son of God, then for better or for worse, that ship had sailed. Some of the great mysteries of faith are never solved until that final moment when we're standing at Saint Peter's gates.
And so, my hand chosen music is cued, I'm given the nod, and doubt is washed away for 12 indelible moments by pure adrenaline - adrenaline that drives me down the ramp, up those steps, into that ring, through that match, and back to the locker room, diving for the buzz of a phone left precariously out in the open at the end of a wooden dressing bench.
Being the new guy - small fish in a big lake - and my relationship with parents essentially crossed out with the stroke of a single pen, Father Marshall, thousands of miles away, stood out as my closest confidant in a world that just became immensely larger than it was when I woke up that morning. Imagine my surprise.
"You.......you watched?"
"I watched. Your mother, too."
"But, what about - "
"Words were said. More so on our part than on yours. We...well, we want to try and be bigger than petty differences."
"I'd like that."
"Do you know yet, how long you're going to be on the road?"
"Not yet, no. Quite a while, I'd imagine. There doesn't look to be much of an off season."
"All the more glad I called, then. You understand - it's...well...it's difficult to watch a child go out and stake their claim, but watching you...this is your clearly your calling. You're going to make a lot of people very proud - none more than your mother and I, but a lot of people."
I couldn't tell you how the call ended - not in great detail, anyway. Small talk, a couple more niceties, a few more proud of yous. To that end, in that moment, I couldn't quite tell you what had just happened in the ring, either.
I'd never wanted to do much more in life than pursue a career in the ring. It's a cliche story, sure, but all the same - it's a childhood dream that never quite faded as childhood turned to adolescence and adolescence turned to adulthood. Some people find another way through life and trade the dream of fame and fortune for the reality of a desk or a 9 to 5, but I guess one of the miracles in life is how remarkably different we're all wired. When I found Jesus, it became less of a pursuit of stardom and more a journey of personal improvement. For all the stigmas that come with pro wrestling, be it violence or vulgarity, nothing quite brought out the best in me like when I stepped into the ring.
That said, I'd have traded it all for my mother and father to embrace me, not for the path I'd chosen, but for the simple fact that I was their only son.
In time, I would be faced with the greatest test of my relatively short life in discovering just what it was that brought the remote to my father's hand that night, to opt out of the evening news for a program he'd just as soon forget existed, but in that moment, in that locker room, none of that mattered, and I was content to fall to my knees in thanks, for The Lord truly works in mysterious ways.
There was a genuinity in my father's words that was emphasized by the fact that we never touched on the fact that I'd walked out of the ring triumphant over the more seasoned, if slightly less focused Enchanted. In twenty years time, no one was going to hark back to the greatest matches in WFWF history and talk about Kirkbride/Enchanted. It was everything you'd expect in a match pitting a newcomer against a seaoned perennial jobber - that's not a knock, but we all play our roles. It's just life.
All the same, they watched. At the very least, from the opening bell to the final tap, they watched. And those words, however brief, however hard to utter, bore sincerity and humility that told me that they would watch again, and again, and again. Mine was no longer just a journey of self embodiment, to achieve all that was laid out for me. It was now a journey to strengthen both myself and the ties that bind me to my mother and father, strained as they had become.
I must have lost myself in quiet conversation, alone in that barren locker room, still clutching my phone, gazing in half wonder, half oblivion, at the touch screen display showing the most recent log of calls, tapping the screen each time it went dark to refresh the light, because before what felt long, I was being ushered out by the grounds crew. The show had passed before me, and the road sat waiting, wide open, ready to consume my life.
As I stood waiting that morning for the skycap to arrange a new flight to catch me up to the one I'd undoubtedly missed the night before, a wave of humbling regret washed over me as I played that conversation over a thousand times in my head. It followed me through security, into the gate, across the tarmac, into my seat, and several thousands of feet into the air, those words playing over and over again in my mind.
"Your mother, too."
"Your mother, too."
"Your mother, too."
I should have asked for her. Even just for a moment, just to hear her voice. I wondered, then, if I'd have been on a different flight - the one I had booked prior. If maybe, somehow, that slip of mind, in not asking to speak to her, is what froze me on the bench, staring in silent shock at the screen of my phone.
I never perceived it as a child - kids tend to miss these sort of things - but there was always a hurt that seemed to follow my mother wherever she went. She could dull it out with a flash of her smile, and it wasn't the obvious things that might come to mind - she had no greater admirer than my father, unless of course you'd place into contention my grandparents, and her quiet, simple life seemed to suit her to the point, but something, buried deep down inside was slowly, quietly knawing away at Marie Kirkbride. She called it her 'resting face', and as a child, I bought that story hook, line, and sinker, but as anyone who's traversed the journey of coming of age knows, your perception grows with you, and I soon came to recognize that what she waved off as mere exhaustion was something entirely more troubling. I never brought it up, as had become convention for anyone who'd mentioned it once before, as she was quick to write it off, but I never looked upon my mother quite the same since the dawn of realization finally washed over me.
I made a promise to myself, there in the air at cruising altitude, to call her as soon as we'd landed. It didn't do much to numb the guilt that hit me at the ticketing counter, but there's only so much you can call upon as a coping device when you're equidistance between the Heavens and the Earth. I sat back in my seat, eyes shut, and spoke then to the only real ear I could get lent in that time and place. Since signing the deal, walking away from Austin and taking upon this new life of go, go, go, I hadn't had a good chance to sit and ponder the mysteries, and in that moment there in the air, I was able to clear the air on much that had taken me on since beginning this journey.
I thought of Father Marshall, knowing that at some point - maybe not that point, but at some point, he'd pray for me too. I thought of my father, a thousand times more, the conversation we had. But more than anything - more than my debut, or what lied in store, or missing that plane, or the heat of embarassment in being found in a near comatose state in the locker room - I thought of my mother.
All ten digits of her number played over in my head, as if on some sort of perpetual loop as we began our final ascent, taxid down the runway, to the very point that I was nearly air dialing as I darted down the aisle, across the tarmac, and into the gate where I could finally boot up and make the call.
"Hi, you've reached Marie. I can't take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll be sure to get back to you. Bye!"
I never knew a voice mail recording could be so crushing or pack such a punch. I nearly missed my own baggage, wondering where she could be, what she could be doing - if she was alright.
Of course, she'd be fine. Mothers tend to have schedules, whether or not the nest is empty as my own mother's had suddenly become on such short notice. Hair appointments, neighborhood meetings, book clubs - those were, at least, the things my mother would use to fill her time. Gram would go along with her sometimes, and for those few hours, the hurt that followed my mother everywhere she went would be near imperceivable. Like I said, contention for her number one fans.
On the sidewalk outside the terminal, half looking for a taxi and half still lost in thought, I nearly sent my phone barrelling to the ground in shock as it buzzed to life in my hands. Hoping to see my mother's name on the illuminated screen, my heart dropped nearly as far as the phone almost did at what waited instead - a text message. Robotic. Impersonal. Unwaveringly indifferent. A short number I knew to be an autodialer, set up by my new employer to keep me abreast of my ever changing schedule. Two words - a first and a last, that told me everything I needed to know.
"Nikki Dean"
That's what you call ironic, I guess.
Nikki was no slouch in the ring - she'd proved that much already. Her husband was already a household name, a storied career preceeding him, and Nikki herself was already on her own path, which, if carefully traversed, could lead her to the WFWF National Title. That's a short, yet already highlighted career that you don't want to take lightly when faced with it across the ring.
She was also a two time mother.
We all play our roles.
A round of Hail Marys in penance if that didn't compound the weight of my guilt right there on the sidewalk. Just as soon as she was temporarily bumped from my mind by a buzzing phone, mom came charging right back in, front and center.
I didn't know a lot about Nikki Dean, then. She was only slightly less green than I was, and yet, as stated, she'd already accomplished quite a fair bit for a newcomer. If facing Enchanted was getting my feet wet in the WFWF, then a match with Nikki Dean would be a full blown swan dive into the deep end. I'd come to the WFWF with a sense of upward propulsion - to leave my all in that ring, each and every night, in a manner that would be perfectly becoming of a man who swore a conviction such as the one I claimed to have. You'd get everything I had, each and every night, and you'd get it clean. Square. Honest. No cheap shots, and at the same time, no pulled punches.
You see where we're going, here?
In that moment, for all she had accomplished, and all she would accomplish, I couldn't see in my mind's eye 'Nikki Dean - opponent'. I didn't see 'Nikki Dean - wife' or even 'Nikki Dean - athlete'. All I could see, running through my mind, was 'Nikki Dean - mother' and 'Marie Kirkbride - mother'.
I couldn't formulate in my head an approach I would take, or a weakness that I might exploit with a countered strength of my own. I couldn't envision a win, or a loss. A count out, a draw. None of it came to mind. All that came to mind was that one reoccuring thought.
Nikki Dean. Marie Kirkbride.
In a short matter of time, I'd be stepping into the ring, the expectation being that I would lock up, execute moves upon, and wear down to a pin or a submission someone's mother.
I'd be committing the sin of lie if I told you that wouldn't make me slightly uncomfortable, were it my mother in Nikki's place.
It's worth noting that I never saw the female contingency of WFWF talent as anything less or anything different than the male contigency. WFWF had already, before my time, brought to the forefront a female World Champion, who'd bested not only the most storied champion perhaps in all of WFWF's history, but five other men as well. Nikki Dean, as I've stated, was already a top contender in a tournament to determine the next WFWF National Champion. To look upon those competitors as somehow inferior to their male counterparts, simply due to a prevalent gender in an industry, does a disservice to the entire industry as a whole. In time, I would see past my own hesitance, fortunately for myself, well before I made my way down that ramp, to the fact that Nikki Dean would serve as my first real challenge here in the WFWF, and that was something to look upon with respect and humility.
But in that moment, minutes removed from a call that went direct to voicemail, all I could think of was those two kids - the admiration they must have for their mother, doing what she does, following Josh Dean into this whirlwind of professional wrestling, and how I'd feel, in their shoes, to watch anyone - male, female, dragon, short person, drug addict, Christian, alcoholic, veteran, rookie, legend, or otherwise - try and put the boots to my mother. Surely, outside the ropes, she had her own nuances. Her own troubles. Maybe a hurt, similar to my mother. Maybe a routine, since traded for a pair of boots.
The time would come for that moment of anxiety to pass, eased upon with much contemplation and prayer. In the days leading up to our match, I prayed not just for the strength, wisdom, and courage, but for my father, and most especially for my mother. I prayed for the Dean children, that they too would grow to recognize the absolute significance of their parents and be able to thrive in the love they no doubt received. I prayed for Josh Dean, leading his love into the ring to share a passion he once partook upon alone, and of course, I prayed for Nikki Dean - that she'd share the same strength, wisdom, and courage I hoped would be bestowed upon me. That we'd enter the ring, lock up, and meet in competition with a shared respect and admiration for one another.
And, of course, I kept trying to reach my mother.
I dont know good luck 
