Post by CM Poor on Sept 9, 2014 18:51:06 GMT -5
Up to this point, you've heard me refer often to "after all that has happened". I don't like to play my cards in a vague fashion that often, but my story here is something of a linear one, and "all that has happened", for as unspecific as it may sound, is actually quite on point, because "all that has happened" is quite a loaded stack of a lot of thing building up over the course of time, but it all can be traced back to a very pointed origin - specifically, the morning following the Battle at the Garden pay-per-view, when I missed my flight out of New York.
If you're something of a planner, like myself, New York City can be pretty manageable to traverse. I'd gone in knowing that I had little to no interest in navigating the city streets behind the wheel of a vehicle, and that I wanted to be as close to Madison Square Garden as reason would allow. The nice thing about putting yourself in that sort of position is that you've got an easy in, easy out in the way of Penn Station, which happens to neighbor the arena and provides something of a hot bed of public transit, in and out, at all hours. I hadn't made any friends to that point within the WFWF, so I found myself traveling early and alone. In many ways, that's a more convenient approach, if lacking in a certain companionship when the days get long and boring.
I'd packed the night before, intent on checking out early and getting a head start on the move to Indianapolis, the slow to pass rush of adrenaline from my victory over Gabriel Black in the greatest arena on Earth propelling me past the concern of a good night's sleep. The one benefit of taking to the road all by one's lonesome is the unencumbered feeling of taking off whenever you so please - your travel time is never hindered by the needs of another. Early in my career, I was still just a kid, traveling outside the reaches of Texas for the first time, and consequently, when the lights went down and the trucks hauled out, I was rarely ever far behind them, foaming at the mouth for the chance to see another corner of a country that was once just a map to me. That's how I found myself in a short line outside a ticketing station in Penn Station that morning before the clock had a chance to strike six. I counted maybe four or five fellow early risers ahead of me who'd lined up prior to the arrival of the attendants, when, with one single word - a name, to be exact - my world was once again, just as it had been a short time ago with the stroke of a signature, turned upside down.
"ISAAC!!!"
Just as mine did, four or five heads in front of me turned their attention away from the dullness of the shuttered ticket window to the commotion that had arisen on the concourse behind us. At first, it was hard to pinpoint the source of the eruption - even at the early hour, the station had already begun to bustle with activity - but then it came again, even clearer before, being able to now put a body to the sound.
"MICHAEL! MIKE! ISAAC?!"
He could have been there for hours, and admittedly, if he'd never begun shouting, I'd have never caught sight of him - New York City, I've learned, is eclectic enough a place that one could dress in close to anything they desire, so long as they dress, and they'd blend into a crowd within seconds. This fellow was no different, save for the way he sort of ambled in a small, distorted circle, not quite going with the intended flow of the foot traffic that otherwise passed him by. Even for his against the grain pattern of step, he didn't warrant attention enough for any passerby to stop and tend to him, and so it continued for several beats more.
"MIKE?! SHORT STACKS!!! ISAAC!!!!"
If it weren't for the circular lenses of his darkened sunglasses, I'm sure his eyes would have told a story of vacancy and loss. His face was obscured by a long, scraggly beard that looked altogether unintentional and unkempt - not a statement of fashion so much as a tale of neglect. He wasn't at all dressed for the season - August had hit the northeast in an entirely mild fashion, but it certainly wasn't call for long pants and a weighted leather jacket. I could only imagine he didn't own anything else.
Behind me - for I'd now turned my full attention to the shouting man in the station terminal, the short line had begun to move, and I hadn't noticed the small crowd that had formed behind me as well. Sighing, I glanced at my boarding pass - my plan had been that day to grab a quick bus ride to Laguardia well ahead of my scheduled flight, but that plan all seemed trivial now in the face of this confused, shouting man. Stuffing the card stock into my back pocket, I excused myself from the line, offering my spot to those behind me, and slowly approached the man, who'd by now stopped in his tracks, mouth agape, and looked positively lost.
"Hey, there. Everything alright?"
"MICHAEL?!"
"Whoa, easy there. I'm right here, man. Name's Daniel. Who's Michael?"
It was hard to tell if my words were getting anywhere, or if they were just another layer of fog to him. I'm inclined to believe the latter, because at no point did he ever lock eyes with me, or acknowledge my presence in any way. He just stood , mouth still open wide, lending an almost hopeless look of exasperation to his bespectacled face. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his head tilted back, not the way one might stretch out their neck, but rather almost involuntary, and he collapsed, hitting the concrete in a slump like a sack of bricks. The impact snapped his glasses, letting them fall lazily to the side of his face, showing me his eyes for the first time, which revealed only the whites, as they'd rolled to the back of his skull, presumably right before he'd dropped.
I'll level with you - if I were to get into that ring tomorrow, to this very day, and drop a guy on his head the wrong way, I'd be praying for nothing less than a miracle. When it comes to basic life saving techniques, I'm something of a lost cause. I don't attribute that to my faith, or anything like that - I think I've established before that there's something very strong to be said for the advances in scientific research over the years - I just sort of missed the scouts boat in my youth. That said, it didn't appear plainly obvious that anyone passing us by was going to stop and heed the call of a passed out vagrant in a busy New York City station, and so for the foreseeable future, this poor guy's life had just fallen, as hard as he'd hit the inset tile, into my hands.
"Whoa, hey. Come on, not like this, let's get you up, huh?"
A groan from the back of the throat let me know that he was still of this living world, but consciousness wasn't exactly streaming in. Being the inexperienced saving grace that I was, I went on instinct to try and elevate his head and get him talking.
"Come on, stick with me here. What's going on, huh? You got a name? Can you tell me your name?"
"Mmmmuuuuuhhhh...."
"Come on, man. What's your name?"
".........................Isaac....."
Good enough for me.
"Alright then Isaac - I'm Daniel. Let's get you off the ground, huh?"
If he hit the ground like a ton of bricks, it might be on account of his physical weight being roughly the same. Even in the physical condition I was in, hauling him to his feet took strength that I probably didn't exercise even the night before against Gabriel Black. I remember saying to myself that if I never have to lift that kind of mass ever again, it'd be all too soon. Nevertheless, he was upright and conscious, albeit with a fair bit of support.
"Alright Isaac, does uh...does anyone know you're here?"
"...the hell are you?"
"I'm Daniel, remember? Come on, Isaac. You got any friends or relatives nearby?"
"Hmph. Danny's a joker."
Fair enough. During a momentary lapse, wherein I tried to plot just exactly where to go from here, this, when stacked against me, monster of man practically slung over my shoulder, I glanced aside just quick enough to see the bus, which I'd just moments earlier been waiting to book and board to catch a flight to the next stop in the journey, pulling away from the terminal. That pretty much signed the warrant for missing my flight then and there. All the same, it didn't appear that I'd be boarding any planes any time soon, prompt arrival or otherwise. Call it what you will, but I wasn't exactly about to just saddle up and leave Isaac there to rot - it seemed evident enough at the time that just about everyone else in his life had done the same, and that maybe a kinder approach might do the trick.
"Well, that'd be my flight. What would you say to some breakfast, Isaac?"
The irony of being put into a self described "proving ground" match against Nikki Dean's husband certainly wasn't lost on me.
I came to the WFWF with maybe something of a short sighted, preconceived notion that I would find myself stacked against all manner of men who were the very antithesis of everything that I was. Flip on the tube sometime to tune into one of our shows, and maybe you'd be able to find where I might have drawn that conclusion. I came up watching stars like Reverend Shadow, Jason Vieira, and Obo the Hobo - cult leaders, suspected murderers, and the homeless insane. Throw a clean cut, self professed Jesus Freak into the mix, and if nothing else, he's bound to stick out like a sore thumb.
The truth is, however, by the time I'd landed a deal with the WFWF, the landscape of the industry had shifted - not necessarily upward or downward in terms of content or character, but more so in a lateral sense that blurred the lines of good and bad. Morality was a perception of the fan and less a calling card of the star, and yet, there I was, stepping out onto the stage each and every night with my heart on my sleeve and a cross to bear emblazoned on the back of a tell tale white vest.
In turn, for as much as everyone likely assumed where I firmly stood on the basis of right and wrong, I found myself on an almost constant, unending, heightened sense of alert to try and read those around me in the locker room. The dust up leading in to New York City certainly helped draw those lines. Seating arrangements had been made at all ends of the table, so much so that even the corners found themselves occupied by those gnashing for a shot at the centerpiece.
If the table were surrounded by the blurred lines of morality espoused by the likes of The Final Revolution, Drakz, Dex, and Jason Garrett, then the surely, amid all the questionable acts that one might partake upon in their journey to achieve whatever ends justify such means, surely all could look to the pentultimate "good guys" - Dave Demento. Josh Dean. His wife Nikki. If nothing else, three brave souls, upon the backs of which the fandom and undercard of the WFWF alike, seemingly caught in the midst of a fog of questionable intent, could unload the burden of standing up for what is right and just against false idols, false leaders , and false champions - the unified fist of solidarity for all that should be good in the WFWF.
"Knowing" where Josh Dean stood in the grand scope of good versus evil when I saw his name printed opposite mine should have come as a welcome breath of fresh air. The burden of uncertainty and unquantified variables going into my match in New York against Gabriel Black would have been a stark contrast from that headed into match against Joshua Dean, whose early career was familiar territory to me, and whose actions leading into the Battle at the Garden event had seemingly cemented himself on the side of good. Facing down against the likes of Joe Bishop or Tugarin Zmey, one would have to be weary of Trace Demon or DMK waiting in the wings, their intents almost undoubtedly malicious, but Josh Dean - even as an opponent, there stood a man you could trust.
Or so I thought.
The truth is, at Battle at the Garden, I didn't recognize the man situated across the ring from Phillip Schneider. I'm certain that if I were to get close enough to see the whites of his eyes that night, I would have see them glazed over beneath a film of rage and hate. It's possible that there are snippets of time that I'd missed over the course of the former International Champion's career, but I'll admit that I feared for Dean's well being going into that match, only if because I was certain that that level of violence was something he simply wasn't capable of.
In my assured certainty, I'd underestimated Joshua Dean.
I can't begin to understand the mental state that must have overtaken him as he stepped toe to toe with Phillip Schneider, a man whose name is synonymous with violence, pain, vulgarity, and depravity. To truly contend with that degree of a man, I firmly held that one would be required to stoop down to their level, whether that was indicative of their true being or not.
I just didn't think Josh could.
Schneider pulls no punches - whether fisted or spoken. For each way that night that he, in my own sight, tried to take the life of another human being before thousands of WFWF fans, Schneider compounded each hit, each cut, each gouge of Dean's flesh, with enough words to down the most venomous snake on Earth. Perhaps that was the straw that broke the camel's back - the slights at Dean. The insinuations at his beloved wife. Words that would drive any decent man into a frenzy of unyielding, blinding rage. Even when the match finally, for the sale of all involved, drew to its final crescendo and both men ceased their attacks, there was a tone of voice that left every man, woman, and Heaven forbid, child in that arena with an undoubted certainty that Dean didn't mean a single word of it when he uttered those words that seemed to need to claw themselves out from the back of his very throat, a man who'd been torn down to an almost equal degree as he had been physically, his only choice lying somewhat between a modicum of self respect the shimmering blade of, and it still baffles me to say this to this day, a katana.
Over the course of thirteen years, I'd found an ever increasing ability to turn the other cheek whenever I felt wronged or slighted. I would enter that ring not with a thirst for violence and bloodshed like some, but in the spirit of competition, self improvement, and continued inspiration, both to myself and to others. I had come to the WFWF to fulfill a lifelong dream, and in my hasty shortsightedness, I'd come to find myself questioning the strength of my resolve even more so having "made it" than I did when I first began my journey toward Christ.
In many ways, Dean and I were polar opposites. Once more, the tenured veteran meets the green as grass rookie. Josh had many things I'd one day strive for - a wife, children - a family. He had a circle of close confidants within the WFWF upon whom he could rely when push may come to shove in his wife Nikki and Dave Demento. To date, I'd traveled alone. I made small talk with ring hands and the production crew. While the waves were beginning to roll upon the shore of my relatively young career, I had, to that point, not so much as exchanged pleasantries with any of my colleagues in the ring. Those layers add up - the uncertainty, the inability to read the people around you, the foreboding inclination to always begin watching over your shoulder, and the dwelling loneliness of being a one man army - to the point that the moment I found myself booked in a match dubbed "Proving Ground" against Josh Dean, I felt, more than ever up until that point, a great sense of detachment from who I was and what my purpose there in the WFWF had become.
As you reach high school, if you're party to an organized youth group within a church or otherwise religious organization, you begin embarking on overnight retreats. For some, these are something of a social getaway - a little obligation to the purpose of the group, peppered in with games and food and maybe a movie or two. If, however, you're one of the increasingly few individuals there by choice, you can expect to be subject to some pretty intense soul searching in regard to your own convictions and relationship with God. Looking back , it might almost be a tad bit malicious to use these late nights away from home to really lay on the hard and heavy of what faith can mean to some people, but all the same, if the conviction is there, you can walk away feeling closer to The Lord for having done so.
Group members who've since go on to lead youth of their own tell me that for years now, really since the story became commonplace lore, one of the studies that tends to be introduced around this time is the story of Cassie Bernall. If the name rings a bell, it may draw you back to 1999, a little bit before my conscious "time", but a bit relevant all the same. Cassie was a seventeen year old student at Columbine High School on the day that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold barged in and massacred a large handful of students before finally turning their munitions upon themselves.
The story, as it's presented, at least, goes that Cassie, hidden beneath a desk in desperate fear for her life following the start of the massacre, is approached by the mastermind of the whole ordeal, Eric Harris. Trembling before her would be shooter and staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, she's questioned by Harris, presumably due to her pleas of "Oh, God", whether or not she believes in God.
As a tool for introspection for young minds questioning their own conviction and their path to the light, it has a tendency to be immensely effective. It's usually followed by a sort of round table discussion of how we, as individuals, might act in a similar scenario - would we, empowered by the light and wisdom of Jesus Christ our savior, have the wherewithal to stand down the face of evil, its mockery, disregard, and personification amplified ten fold, our very human life hanging in the balance? Or would we relent - cower in fear, relinquish that which normally empowers us to wake up and face the day again and again in exchange for the gift of life we hold so dear that we'd deny that which brought us to this Earth to begin with?
Battle at the Garden confirmed that Josh Dean, when pushed to his very breaking point, is capable of a great many things. For him, perhaps, that point was more confined, less worldly. A wife. A family. A circle of unwavering love and devotion that, when permeated by the unyielding force that is Phillip Schneider, creates a storm of a man that blurs recognition and familiarity, replacing it instead with a creature of unthinkable power and capability that will rain down upon any man a downpour of unthinkable hurt who dare speak an unkind word or harbor a malicious thought about those a man holds most dear.
Josh Dean had proven that if you could push him to the point of unhinging, he could very well take a man apart, stopping only when he was threatened - not with bodily harm or a life without those he held most dear, but with his own life. A katana to the throat was what it took for him to call for a cease and desist with those three small words that must have pained him to speak to a man like Schneider, and it caused me to pause and think - could I do the same?
What if he spoke ill of my parents?
Made similar insinuations about my mother?
What if he mocked my Lord?
I'd like to tell you that my role in the world as "that Christian wrestler" had solidified in me a conviction made of stone that no mere mortal could shatter, but the truth is, at that point, I didn't have the answers to those questions.
My match against Josh Dean wouldn't put me in a situation where I'd be called upon then and there to make those decisions. The count of three or submitting to a well executed hold wouldn't call into question the validity of my faith - though far be it for me to ignore then that I was headed into the ring to meet what was, to me, a newly unquantified factor in Josh Dean following the pay per view. I couldn't even console myself in the fact that he didn't manage to walk out of Madison Square Garden the victor. Does anyone really win in a match like that?
Undefeated though I may have been headed into Grudge, my confidence had been thoroughly shaken. One wrong move, one perceived slight, and Josh Dean could tear me limb from limb. There's no washing those images from your mind, much less when you're running on minimal sleep and constantly on the move. There was a time where I would have been perfectly content to kneel in prayer and unload all my worries on the man upstairs, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, that solution just couldn't seem to take the edge off, and that put me into an entirely new realm of concern. I guess, looking back, that it would have just been nice to have had someone to verbally converse with.
Funny how that all works out.
The guy could eat. There's no questioning that.
If I had to guess, I'd have chalked it up to what I then imagined was a cocktail of an unthinkable about of substances coursing through his body at the time that I found him. Surprising no one, I never really dabbled in any sort of illicit substance use - I had a beer once for my twenty first birthday and altogether detested the taste, which was enough to put me off of the stuff good an easily. Maybe that drew the contrast between our plates - a modest pair of scrambled eggs with a couple of strips of bacon on the side for me, and the veritable feast across the table which, at that juncture, certainly didn't seem like it'd be going to waste. I don't think he'd set his utensils down since the waitress dropped our food off, and that was saying something, given the amount of pancakes and breakfast meat he'd already cleared, never mind the slices of French toast and the pile of eggs , hash browns, and toast left to go. I took a good, long swig of my coffee before mustering up the gall to try and get some new words out of him.
"So, you as much as said you haven't got any family about. What brings you to New York?"
If looks could kill, well, I probably wouldn't be sharing my story with you, that's as much as certain. His sunken eyes stared daggers through me for what seemed like hours, his gorging momentarily paused in place, bits of egg precariously dangling from his fork, threatening to join those caught in his overgrown beard.
After what seemed like an eternity, he set his fork down gently, resting his arms upon the table, his face looking all the more concentrated, as if trying to piece together bits of the story that seemed to have fallen by the wayside. Finally, he spoke, his words still slurred - I imagine it would have taken a few more feasts of equivocal size and scope to really bring him back down from whatever cloud he was on, but all the same, there was an air of coherence and awareness there that may have been absent back at the terminal station.
"Mmmm. I'm....well, I'm not sure, really. Heh. I guess I hadn't quite appreciated that I was here. Uh...you?"
"Work."
"Oh yeah? Waddaya do?"
"I guess you could say I'm something of an athlete."
"Little small to play football, aren't ya?"
"I imagine I would be, yeah. Forgive me if I'm brash in assuming so, but you haven't got a job tying you down here, do you?"
"I like you, man. Jokes for days."
"That'd be a no, then."
I'd managed to get him this far. Still, the small details - the fact that I'd bailed on my flight to Indianapolis to see about what others had written off as nothing more than a drunken, stark raving lunatic - loomed in the back of my mind. The simple fact was that I was booked for another show, smaller in magnitude than the night before but no less important in the scope of things and getting from point A - New York City - to point B - Indianapolis was not just an inevitability, but an obligation is taken on by way of my hand etched signature, and not something I was too keen on skipping out on.
All the same, the idea of comping the bill, packing up, and leaving Isaac behind to fend for himself, or, in all greater likelihood, crawl back into the depths where our paths first crossed just exactly jive with my worldly outlook at the time. For all the confusion that had set in - defying my parents to pursue a dream they found piped, their sudden change of heart upon seeing me on screen, my pilgrimage to to heart of America where my journey toward God had first begun in a hail of smoke, fire, and fear - I felt like crossing paths with Isaac was God gracefully passing his brush across the canvas of my life, leaving in its wake an opportunity to go further than stepping into the ring and inspiring someone, but to really put forth my best foot and do some honest to graces good. Isaac's ramblings in the station that morning were more than just the vocalizations of a drunkard or a junkie - they were a cry for help. I couldn't accept the notion that it was mere coincidence that we'd both happened upon that area of the terminal so early that morning.
"Listen, I've got a long haul ahead of me. Indianapolis. I don't mind telling you that, given your frame of mind this morning, I'm not exactly crazy about the idea of leaving you to your own defenses."
"Oh yeah? Meaning what?"
"Meaning I feel like you need help. I'm not sure what kind, exactly, but to send you back out there? The streets? I feel like that's just inevitable death - sooner rather than later."
"So what, you want me to...what, come with you?"
"You want to come to Indianapolis?"
"I 'unno. Never been."
"What would you do if you stayed? I go my way and you...what?"
"Find a drink, I guess."
"Full glass of water right in front of you..."
"I said a drink."
There it is.
"Right, right. I dunno. Maybe you should come with me. I won't lie, it wouldn't hurt to have someone to talk to."
"Yeah? So when're we leavin'?"
"Well, there's the logistics of that, too. I had a plane ticket that's since taken off on me, but - and don't take this the wrong way - I can't see the TSA being all too willing to let a...well, let you on a plane today."
"Take a bus. Think that's how I landed here."
"Ah....I'm not nuts about the idea, but I think you might benefit from not so close quarters. There's an Avis counter back at the station. Up for a little road trip?"
"May as well. Where're we headed?"
This one was going to take some time.
"Indiana. It's a long haul. Couple of days, at least. Sure you're up to it."
Remarkably, he pondered this question deeper than any other snippet of our conversation that morning, his steely, sunken eyes trailing off, as if somewhere in his addled state of mind, he was trying to wrap his head around a coherent weight of the options laid out before him. To be frank, I didn't know exactly what I could do for the vagrant seated across from me. His appearance, to the unknowing eye, showed ages, well before my time, I gathered, of neglect, hurt, anger, and malice. When I first encountered him, he had what I thought was a close cropped hair style, which, upon further inspection, revealed itself to be an intricate web of tattoos that started atop his head and, by my guesses when the sleeves of his coat road up, traveled well down the course of his entire body. His beard, I guessed, was something of a recent fashion statement, at least in its current state of unkempt. His jaw slacked open for a moment, before he hastily reached for a napkin to wipe the bits of breakfast that had become tangled in the marsh hanging from his face. He snatched up his circular glasses, snapped his neck with a swift twitch of the head, and then, through his thicket of facial hair, let off a small, almost unnoticeable smirk.
"Ah, what the hell. You seem alright. Change o' scenery might be nice."
"Sounds like a plan then, Isaac. Hit the road, then?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Just one thing...ah...question."
"What's up?"
"Why the f*ck do you keep calling me Isaac?"
Isaac
If you're something of a planner, like myself, New York City can be pretty manageable to traverse. I'd gone in knowing that I had little to no interest in navigating the city streets behind the wheel of a vehicle, and that I wanted to be as close to Madison Square Garden as reason would allow. The nice thing about putting yourself in that sort of position is that you've got an easy in, easy out in the way of Penn Station, which happens to neighbor the arena and provides something of a hot bed of public transit, in and out, at all hours. I hadn't made any friends to that point within the WFWF, so I found myself traveling early and alone. In many ways, that's a more convenient approach, if lacking in a certain companionship when the days get long and boring.
I'd packed the night before, intent on checking out early and getting a head start on the move to Indianapolis, the slow to pass rush of adrenaline from my victory over Gabriel Black in the greatest arena on Earth propelling me past the concern of a good night's sleep. The one benefit of taking to the road all by one's lonesome is the unencumbered feeling of taking off whenever you so please - your travel time is never hindered by the needs of another. Early in my career, I was still just a kid, traveling outside the reaches of Texas for the first time, and consequently, when the lights went down and the trucks hauled out, I was rarely ever far behind them, foaming at the mouth for the chance to see another corner of a country that was once just a map to me. That's how I found myself in a short line outside a ticketing station in Penn Station that morning before the clock had a chance to strike six. I counted maybe four or five fellow early risers ahead of me who'd lined up prior to the arrival of the attendants, when, with one single word - a name, to be exact - my world was once again, just as it had been a short time ago with the stroke of a signature, turned upside down.
"ISAAC!!!"
Just as mine did, four or five heads in front of me turned their attention away from the dullness of the shuttered ticket window to the commotion that had arisen on the concourse behind us. At first, it was hard to pinpoint the source of the eruption - even at the early hour, the station had already begun to bustle with activity - but then it came again, even clearer before, being able to now put a body to the sound.
"MICHAEL! MIKE! ISAAC?!"
He could have been there for hours, and admittedly, if he'd never begun shouting, I'd have never caught sight of him - New York City, I've learned, is eclectic enough a place that one could dress in close to anything they desire, so long as they dress, and they'd blend into a crowd within seconds. This fellow was no different, save for the way he sort of ambled in a small, distorted circle, not quite going with the intended flow of the foot traffic that otherwise passed him by. Even for his against the grain pattern of step, he didn't warrant attention enough for any passerby to stop and tend to him, and so it continued for several beats more.
"MIKE?! SHORT STACKS!!! ISAAC!!!!"
If it weren't for the circular lenses of his darkened sunglasses, I'm sure his eyes would have told a story of vacancy and loss. His face was obscured by a long, scraggly beard that looked altogether unintentional and unkempt - not a statement of fashion so much as a tale of neglect. He wasn't at all dressed for the season - August had hit the northeast in an entirely mild fashion, but it certainly wasn't call for long pants and a weighted leather jacket. I could only imagine he didn't own anything else.
Behind me - for I'd now turned my full attention to the shouting man in the station terminal, the short line had begun to move, and I hadn't noticed the small crowd that had formed behind me as well. Sighing, I glanced at my boarding pass - my plan had been that day to grab a quick bus ride to Laguardia well ahead of my scheduled flight, but that plan all seemed trivial now in the face of this confused, shouting man. Stuffing the card stock into my back pocket, I excused myself from the line, offering my spot to those behind me, and slowly approached the man, who'd by now stopped in his tracks, mouth agape, and looked positively lost.
"Hey, there. Everything alright?"
"MICHAEL?!"
"Whoa, easy there. I'm right here, man. Name's Daniel. Who's Michael?"
It was hard to tell if my words were getting anywhere, or if they were just another layer of fog to him. I'm inclined to believe the latter, because at no point did he ever lock eyes with me, or acknowledge my presence in any way. He just stood , mouth still open wide, lending an almost hopeless look of exasperation to his bespectacled face. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his head tilted back, not the way one might stretch out their neck, but rather almost involuntary, and he collapsed, hitting the concrete in a slump like a sack of bricks. The impact snapped his glasses, letting them fall lazily to the side of his face, showing me his eyes for the first time, which revealed only the whites, as they'd rolled to the back of his skull, presumably right before he'd dropped.
I'll level with you - if I were to get into that ring tomorrow, to this very day, and drop a guy on his head the wrong way, I'd be praying for nothing less than a miracle. When it comes to basic life saving techniques, I'm something of a lost cause. I don't attribute that to my faith, or anything like that - I think I've established before that there's something very strong to be said for the advances in scientific research over the years - I just sort of missed the scouts boat in my youth. That said, it didn't appear plainly obvious that anyone passing us by was going to stop and heed the call of a passed out vagrant in a busy New York City station, and so for the foreseeable future, this poor guy's life had just fallen, as hard as he'd hit the inset tile, into my hands.
"Whoa, hey. Come on, not like this, let's get you up, huh?"
A groan from the back of the throat let me know that he was still of this living world, but consciousness wasn't exactly streaming in. Being the inexperienced saving grace that I was, I went on instinct to try and elevate his head and get him talking.
"Come on, stick with me here. What's going on, huh? You got a name? Can you tell me your name?"
"Mmmmuuuuuhhhh...."
"Come on, man. What's your name?"
".........................Isaac....."
Good enough for me.
"Alright then Isaac - I'm Daniel. Let's get you off the ground, huh?"
If he hit the ground like a ton of bricks, it might be on account of his physical weight being roughly the same. Even in the physical condition I was in, hauling him to his feet took strength that I probably didn't exercise even the night before against Gabriel Black. I remember saying to myself that if I never have to lift that kind of mass ever again, it'd be all too soon. Nevertheless, he was upright and conscious, albeit with a fair bit of support.
"Alright Isaac, does uh...does anyone know you're here?"
"...the hell are you?"
"I'm Daniel, remember? Come on, Isaac. You got any friends or relatives nearby?"
"Hmph. Danny's a joker."
Fair enough. During a momentary lapse, wherein I tried to plot just exactly where to go from here, this, when stacked against me, monster of man practically slung over my shoulder, I glanced aside just quick enough to see the bus, which I'd just moments earlier been waiting to book and board to catch a flight to the next stop in the journey, pulling away from the terminal. That pretty much signed the warrant for missing my flight then and there. All the same, it didn't appear that I'd be boarding any planes any time soon, prompt arrival or otherwise. Call it what you will, but I wasn't exactly about to just saddle up and leave Isaac there to rot - it seemed evident enough at the time that just about everyone else in his life had done the same, and that maybe a kinder approach might do the trick.
"Well, that'd be my flight. What would you say to some breakfast, Isaac?"
I Respect You
The irony of being put into a self described "proving ground" match against Nikki Dean's husband certainly wasn't lost on me.
I came to the WFWF with maybe something of a short sighted, preconceived notion that I would find myself stacked against all manner of men who were the very antithesis of everything that I was. Flip on the tube sometime to tune into one of our shows, and maybe you'd be able to find where I might have drawn that conclusion. I came up watching stars like Reverend Shadow, Jason Vieira, and Obo the Hobo - cult leaders, suspected murderers, and the homeless insane. Throw a clean cut, self professed Jesus Freak into the mix, and if nothing else, he's bound to stick out like a sore thumb.
The truth is, however, by the time I'd landed a deal with the WFWF, the landscape of the industry had shifted - not necessarily upward or downward in terms of content or character, but more so in a lateral sense that blurred the lines of good and bad. Morality was a perception of the fan and less a calling card of the star, and yet, there I was, stepping out onto the stage each and every night with my heart on my sleeve and a cross to bear emblazoned on the back of a tell tale white vest.
In turn, for as much as everyone likely assumed where I firmly stood on the basis of right and wrong, I found myself on an almost constant, unending, heightened sense of alert to try and read those around me in the locker room. The dust up leading in to New York City certainly helped draw those lines. Seating arrangements had been made at all ends of the table, so much so that even the corners found themselves occupied by those gnashing for a shot at the centerpiece.
If the table were surrounded by the blurred lines of morality espoused by the likes of The Final Revolution, Drakz, Dex, and Jason Garrett, then the surely, amid all the questionable acts that one might partake upon in their journey to achieve whatever ends justify such means, surely all could look to the pentultimate "good guys" - Dave Demento. Josh Dean. His wife Nikki. If nothing else, three brave souls, upon the backs of which the fandom and undercard of the WFWF alike, seemingly caught in the midst of a fog of questionable intent, could unload the burden of standing up for what is right and just against false idols, false leaders , and false champions - the unified fist of solidarity for all that should be good in the WFWF.
"Knowing" where Josh Dean stood in the grand scope of good versus evil when I saw his name printed opposite mine should have come as a welcome breath of fresh air. The burden of uncertainty and unquantified variables going into my match in New York against Gabriel Black would have been a stark contrast from that headed into match against Joshua Dean, whose early career was familiar territory to me, and whose actions leading into the Battle at the Garden event had seemingly cemented himself on the side of good. Facing down against the likes of Joe Bishop or Tugarin Zmey, one would have to be weary of Trace Demon or DMK waiting in the wings, their intents almost undoubtedly malicious, but Josh Dean - even as an opponent, there stood a man you could trust.
Or so I thought.
The truth is, at Battle at the Garden, I didn't recognize the man situated across the ring from Phillip Schneider. I'm certain that if I were to get close enough to see the whites of his eyes that night, I would have see them glazed over beneath a film of rage and hate. It's possible that there are snippets of time that I'd missed over the course of the former International Champion's career, but I'll admit that I feared for Dean's well being going into that match, only if because I was certain that that level of violence was something he simply wasn't capable of.
In my assured certainty, I'd underestimated Joshua Dean.
I can't begin to understand the mental state that must have overtaken him as he stepped toe to toe with Phillip Schneider, a man whose name is synonymous with violence, pain, vulgarity, and depravity. To truly contend with that degree of a man, I firmly held that one would be required to stoop down to their level, whether that was indicative of their true being or not.
I just didn't think Josh could.
Schneider pulls no punches - whether fisted or spoken. For each way that night that he, in my own sight, tried to take the life of another human being before thousands of WFWF fans, Schneider compounded each hit, each cut, each gouge of Dean's flesh, with enough words to down the most venomous snake on Earth. Perhaps that was the straw that broke the camel's back - the slights at Dean. The insinuations at his beloved wife. Words that would drive any decent man into a frenzy of unyielding, blinding rage. Even when the match finally, for the sale of all involved, drew to its final crescendo and both men ceased their attacks, there was a tone of voice that left every man, woman, and Heaven forbid, child in that arena with an undoubted certainty that Dean didn't mean a single word of it when he uttered those words that seemed to need to claw themselves out from the back of his very throat, a man who'd been torn down to an almost equal degree as he had been physically, his only choice lying somewhat between a modicum of self respect the shimmering blade of, and it still baffles me to say this to this day, a katana.
Over the course of thirteen years, I'd found an ever increasing ability to turn the other cheek whenever I felt wronged or slighted. I would enter that ring not with a thirst for violence and bloodshed like some, but in the spirit of competition, self improvement, and continued inspiration, both to myself and to others. I had come to the WFWF to fulfill a lifelong dream, and in my hasty shortsightedness, I'd come to find myself questioning the strength of my resolve even more so having "made it" than I did when I first began my journey toward Christ.
In many ways, Dean and I were polar opposites. Once more, the tenured veteran meets the green as grass rookie. Josh had many things I'd one day strive for - a wife, children - a family. He had a circle of close confidants within the WFWF upon whom he could rely when push may come to shove in his wife Nikki and Dave Demento. To date, I'd traveled alone. I made small talk with ring hands and the production crew. While the waves were beginning to roll upon the shore of my relatively young career, I had, to that point, not so much as exchanged pleasantries with any of my colleagues in the ring. Those layers add up - the uncertainty, the inability to read the people around you, the foreboding inclination to always begin watching over your shoulder, and the dwelling loneliness of being a one man army - to the point that the moment I found myself booked in a match dubbed "Proving Ground" against Josh Dean, I felt, more than ever up until that point, a great sense of detachment from who I was and what my purpose there in the WFWF had become.
Cassie
As you reach high school, if you're party to an organized youth group within a church or otherwise religious organization, you begin embarking on overnight retreats. For some, these are something of a social getaway - a little obligation to the purpose of the group, peppered in with games and food and maybe a movie or two. If, however, you're one of the increasingly few individuals there by choice, you can expect to be subject to some pretty intense soul searching in regard to your own convictions and relationship with God. Looking back , it might almost be a tad bit malicious to use these late nights away from home to really lay on the hard and heavy of what faith can mean to some people, but all the same, if the conviction is there, you can walk away feeling closer to The Lord for having done so.
Group members who've since go on to lead youth of their own tell me that for years now, really since the story became commonplace lore, one of the studies that tends to be introduced around this time is the story of Cassie Bernall. If the name rings a bell, it may draw you back to 1999, a little bit before my conscious "time", but a bit relevant all the same. Cassie was a seventeen year old student at Columbine High School on the day that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold barged in and massacred a large handful of students before finally turning their munitions upon themselves.
The story, as it's presented, at least, goes that Cassie, hidden beneath a desk in desperate fear for her life following the start of the massacre, is approached by the mastermind of the whole ordeal, Eric Harris. Trembling before her would be shooter and staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, she's questioned by Harris, presumably due to her pleas of "Oh, God", whether or not she believes in God.
As a tool for introspection for young minds questioning their own conviction and their path to the light, it has a tendency to be immensely effective. It's usually followed by a sort of round table discussion of how we, as individuals, might act in a similar scenario - would we, empowered by the light and wisdom of Jesus Christ our savior, have the wherewithal to stand down the face of evil, its mockery, disregard, and personification amplified ten fold, our very human life hanging in the balance? Or would we relent - cower in fear, relinquish that which normally empowers us to wake up and face the day again and again in exchange for the gift of life we hold so dear that we'd deny that which brought us to this Earth to begin with?
Battle at the Garden confirmed that Josh Dean, when pushed to his very breaking point, is capable of a great many things. For him, perhaps, that point was more confined, less worldly. A wife. A family. A circle of unwavering love and devotion that, when permeated by the unyielding force that is Phillip Schneider, creates a storm of a man that blurs recognition and familiarity, replacing it instead with a creature of unthinkable power and capability that will rain down upon any man a downpour of unthinkable hurt who dare speak an unkind word or harbor a malicious thought about those a man holds most dear.
Josh Dean had proven that if you could push him to the point of unhinging, he could very well take a man apart, stopping only when he was threatened - not with bodily harm or a life without those he held most dear, but with his own life. A katana to the throat was what it took for him to call for a cease and desist with those three small words that must have pained him to speak to a man like Schneider, and it caused me to pause and think - could I do the same?
What if he spoke ill of my parents?
Made similar insinuations about my mother?
What if he mocked my Lord?
I'd like to tell you that my role in the world as "that Christian wrestler" had solidified in me a conviction made of stone that no mere mortal could shatter, but the truth is, at that point, I didn't have the answers to those questions.
My match against Josh Dean wouldn't put me in a situation where I'd be called upon then and there to make those decisions. The count of three or submitting to a well executed hold wouldn't call into question the validity of my faith - though far be it for me to ignore then that I was headed into the ring to meet what was, to me, a newly unquantified factor in Josh Dean following the pay per view. I couldn't even console myself in the fact that he didn't manage to walk out of Madison Square Garden the victor. Does anyone really win in a match like that?
Undefeated though I may have been headed into Grudge, my confidence had been thoroughly shaken. One wrong move, one perceived slight, and Josh Dean could tear me limb from limb. There's no washing those images from your mind, much less when you're running on minimal sleep and constantly on the move. There was a time where I would have been perfectly content to kneel in prayer and unload all my worries on the man upstairs, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, that solution just couldn't seem to take the edge off, and that put me into an entirely new realm of concern. I guess, looking back, that it would have just been nice to have had someone to verbally converse with.
Funny how that all works out.
Breakfast
The guy could eat. There's no questioning that.
If I had to guess, I'd have chalked it up to what I then imagined was a cocktail of an unthinkable about of substances coursing through his body at the time that I found him. Surprising no one, I never really dabbled in any sort of illicit substance use - I had a beer once for my twenty first birthday and altogether detested the taste, which was enough to put me off of the stuff good an easily. Maybe that drew the contrast between our plates - a modest pair of scrambled eggs with a couple of strips of bacon on the side for me, and the veritable feast across the table which, at that juncture, certainly didn't seem like it'd be going to waste. I don't think he'd set his utensils down since the waitress dropped our food off, and that was saying something, given the amount of pancakes and breakfast meat he'd already cleared, never mind the slices of French toast and the pile of eggs , hash browns, and toast left to go. I took a good, long swig of my coffee before mustering up the gall to try and get some new words out of him.
"So, you as much as said you haven't got any family about. What brings you to New York?"
If looks could kill, well, I probably wouldn't be sharing my story with you, that's as much as certain. His sunken eyes stared daggers through me for what seemed like hours, his gorging momentarily paused in place, bits of egg precariously dangling from his fork, threatening to join those caught in his overgrown beard.
After what seemed like an eternity, he set his fork down gently, resting his arms upon the table, his face looking all the more concentrated, as if trying to piece together bits of the story that seemed to have fallen by the wayside. Finally, he spoke, his words still slurred - I imagine it would have taken a few more feasts of equivocal size and scope to really bring him back down from whatever cloud he was on, but all the same, there was an air of coherence and awareness there that may have been absent back at the terminal station.
"Mmmm. I'm....well, I'm not sure, really. Heh. I guess I hadn't quite appreciated that I was here. Uh...you?"
"Work."
"Oh yeah? Waddaya do?"
"I guess you could say I'm something of an athlete."
"Little small to play football, aren't ya?"
"I imagine I would be, yeah. Forgive me if I'm brash in assuming so, but you haven't got a job tying you down here, do you?"
"I like you, man. Jokes for days."
"That'd be a no, then."
I'd managed to get him this far. Still, the small details - the fact that I'd bailed on my flight to Indianapolis to see about what others had written off as nothing more than a drunken, stark raving lunatic - loomed in the back of my mind. The simple fact was that I was booked for another show, smaller in magnitude than the night before but no less important in the scope of things and getting from point A - New York City - to point B - Indianapolis was not just an inevitability, but an obligation is taken on by way of my hand etched signature, and not something I was too keen on skipping out on.
All the same, the idea of comping the bill, packing up, and leaving Isaac behind to fend for himself, or, in all greater likelihood, crawl back into the depths where our paths first crossed just exactly jive with my worldly outlook at the time. For all the confusion that had set in - defying my parents to pursue a dream they found piped, their sudden change of heart upon seeing me on screen, my pilgrimage to to heart of America where my journey toward God had first begun in a hail of smoke, fire, and fear - I felt like crossing paths with Isaac was God gracefully passing his brush across the canvas of my life, leaving in its wake an opportunity to go further than stepping into the ring and inspiring someone, but to really put forth my best foot and do some honest to graces good. Isaac's ramblings in the station that morning were more than just the vocalizations of a drunkard or a junkie - they were a cry for help. I couldn't accept the notion that it was mere coincidence that we'd both happened upon that area of the terminal so early that morning.
"Listen, I've got a long haul ahead of me. Indianapolis. I don't mind telling you that, given your frame of mind this morning, I'm not exactly crazy about the idea of leaving you to your own defenses."
"Oh yeah? Meaning what?"
"Meaning I feel like you need help. I'm not sure what kind, exactly, but to send you back out there? The streets? I feel like that's just inevitable death - sooner rather than later."
"So what, you want me to...what, come with you?"
"You want to come to Indianapolis?"
"I 'unno. Never been."
"What would you do if you stayed? I go my way and you...what?"
"Find a drink, I guess."
"Full glass of water right in front of you..."
"I said a drink."
There it is.
"Right, right. I dunno. Maybe you should come with me. I won't lie, it wouldn't hurt to have someone to talk to."
"Yeah? So when're we leavin'?"
"Well, there's the logistics of that, too. I had a plane ticket that's since taken off on me, but - and don't take this the wrong way - I can't see the TSA being all too willing to let a...well, let you on a plane today."
"Take a bus. Think that's how I landed here."
"Ah....I'm not nuts about the idea, but I think you might benefit from not so close quarters. There's an Avis counter back at the station. Up for a little road trip?"
"May as well. Where're we headed?"
This one was going to take some time.
"Indiana. It's a long haul. Couple of days, at least. Sure you're up to it."
Remarkably, he pondered this question deeper than any other snippet of our conversation that morning, his steely, sunken eyes trailing off, as if somewhere in his addled state of mind, he was trying to wrap his head around a coherent weight of the options laid out before him. To be frank, I didn't know exactly what I could do for the vagrant seated across from me. His appearance, to the unknowing eye, showed ages, well before my time, I gathered, of neglect, hurt, anger, and malice. When I first encountered him, he had what I thought was a close cropped hair style, which, upon further inspection, revealed itself to be an intricate web of tattoos that started atop his head and, by my guesses when the sleeves of his coat road up, traveled well down the course of his entire body. His beard, I guessed, was something of a recent fashion statement, at least in its current state of unkempt. His jaw slacked open for a moment, before he hastily reached for a napkin to wipe the bits of breakfast that had become tangled in the marsh hanging from his face. He snatched up his circular glasses, snapped his neck with a swift twitch of the head, and then, through his thicket of facial hair, let off a small, almost unnoticeable smirk.
"Ah, what the hell. You seem alright. Change o' scenery might be nice."
"Sounds like a plan then, Isaac. Hit the road, then?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Just one thing...ah...question."
"What's up?"
"Why the f*ck do you keep calling me Isaac?"
I dont know good luck 