Post by CM Poor: DeepFigureValue on Nov 12, 2014 6:32:08 GMT -5
"Look, man. I don't want to alarm you or anything, but this business? Sh*t'll change you."
I had lost focus.
In allowing myself to get caught up in all the tertiary details of a war I had no sensical part of, I managed to lose sight of the goals I'd laid out for myself when the day finally came and I was extended an offer to compete in the WFWF.
To strive for continued self improvement.
To inspire others.
To push myself to my own limits, and then break through those limits.
To accomplish all and achieve as much as I could reasonably achieve according to God's plan.
God's plan, however shrouded in mystery it may be, had clearly shown itself to not dictate an early, meteoric rise to immediate stardom amid the names that had at that time defined the International Title picture. God had no plans for me to play the role of an independent soldier in the war of good and evil as it related specifically to the WFWF, and in turn, as he's often want to do, God stepped forth to blanket the path I'd embarked upon in my moment of weakness in darkness, casting new light on the direction in which I was to be heading, according to all his wisdom and love.
Unfortunately, the path of enlightenment often comes at an exorbitantly high cost - in my case, a loss, my first loss, no less, to Joe Bishop.
The path of least resistance comes when a man is able to take a good look in the mirror and see the error of his ways staring back at him. Suffice to say, for as wayward as I had gone in pursuit of what I thought was within reach, I didn't make it even as far as the curtain before I'd recognized how far off course I'd fallen. The distance between the ring and that curtain, I could now say from experience, becomes exponentially longer when you're not being propelled by the sound of the crowd at your back and the reprise of your music pounding in your ears.
My up-until-then undefeated streak had only just become a topic that was beginning to pick up traction of synonimity with the mere utterance of my name, and yet, the old adage, for however clichéd and parodied it may become, still rings true.
The Lord giveth, and The Lord taketh away.
Just as quickly as my rise to significance had begun, with the count of three and the resounding strike of the bell, it so too had ended.
It was, by no means, a stake in the heart of my career to lose to Joe Bishop. Given the magnitude of stacking his career to that point against mine, it would hardly become so much as a blemish. There's something to be said for holding one's own that deep into a debut run. Sooner or later, in all walks of life, we come to taste defeat. What defines our next step is how we swallow that bitter pill, recoil, and rise to face another day.
To Thine Own Self Be True
"Look - I know. You don't need me to tell you, but I know. Losing's a b*tch, man. Sucks."
I momentarily defied all my best judgement and took my eyes off the road to glance in David's direction. His gaze was still fixed upon the road ahead of us, as mine best ought to have been the entire time, but at that moment, he struck me. Not physically, and that was kind of the point.
The night I fell to Joe Bishop was something of an anomaly in more ways than one. We've already covered the most obvious ground - my first loss since setting foot in the WFWF - but there was something more.
Week after week, I'd check us into a local hotel, gather my gear, and head off for the arena, leaving David, each week under a different pseudonym he'd be using to hide from me in plain sight, behind to develop whatever irrational outburst would cause him to greet my return several hours later with a fastball to the head in the form of whatever household object was within closest reach the moment I walked through the door. I never could quite pin down if it was some sort of nostalgic yearning for his glory days or some deeply rooted, seething hatred for his former comrades that kept him glued to the television, stuck on the same show that I'd be working at just across town each night, but I'd established by then that he was, in spite of his rather unceremonious ouster from the company, watching each and every show. It's how we'd come to establish the grounds between us. He'd felt deceived when he first came to discover how it was that I made my living, and irony not at all lost on me, given the fact that it took several post show outbursts for him to finally come clean with exactly who he was. Once our identities had been firmly established, however, plainly laid out upon the table for all to see, our travels became much more relaxed. Even if secrets once restrained the working relationship between two individuals, once those barriers have been demolished, the air sort of breathes cleaner. It sort of pays testament to living an honest and forthright way of life, though retroactively, he did have himself one heaving bit of laughter over the fact that up until he out it out there, plain as day, I'd had no idea exactly who I'd been sharing the road with.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Really?!"
"I'm serious. Really."
"Man, I don't know whether to feel accomplished or insulted...."
"Well, look, it's nothing personal."
"Nothing personal - I'm David f*cking Brennan, man! I thought you were a fan of this sh*t!"
"You believe me when I say it's nothing personal?"
"Sure, just..."
"You look different."
A lot of people got a kick out of that - traveling with the former protege of the New Epoch, none the wiser to just who sat beside me on each of those long hauls between shows, but I learned pretty early not to take it to heart. Sure, I knew of David Brennan in his prime. There was a time when he was poised to become the next big thing in the WFWF, and the main event at the Psycho Circus pay-per-view might have graced the history books in a much different way if he'd never let his demons take the wheel and get the best of him, but even still, at the peak of his drunken rampage through the ranks of the WFWF, you'd never be able to stand that man next to the one who now accompanied me on my travels and unknowingly be able to tell me that they were one in the same.
Even if you were able to get past the wildy unkempt beard that expanded well beyond the confines of his jaw line, the name David Brennan never drew to mind the grimey, weathered, run down man I met all those weeks back in the New York City transportation hub. I knew enough about the skinhead culture he once so vehemently adopted to know that a modicum of pride once ran coursingly through those veins, and yet this man, if he had any straws of pride left, he was working his hardest to hide them from the world at large. His eyes, when he'd let you see them emerge beyond the circular, darkened glasses he now wore, likely to defend himself against normal emissions of light that his senses deemed overtly bright, were sunken well into the recesses of his skull. His once domineering figure, extremities that tore a path through the Survival of the Fittest tournament had withered, and I had begun to suspect that more than just his trademark vices had entered the confines of his ruined body.
It's easy to write off what many would consider to be "undesirables" amid society, to sort of cast them aside and turn away lest we expose ourselves to a very dark, and yet very real side of life that many of us are graced with the good fortune to not have to endure - the addicts, the homeless, the violently insane, the feeble minded. Many times we as a society would rather create an image in our collective minds where these people don't exist so that we can rest easy at night and rise to face the day knowing that we have confidently shoved them out of sight, out of mind. Anyone who's pursued a life of faith, most especially as an adolescent, knows that in most cases a more sympathetic approach is encouraged, and youths who've chosen to seek the light will often spend their time preparing meals and treats for the incarcerated, volunteering at feeding stations for the needy, and providing blankets to those out in the streets on a cold winter's night.
It's difficult sometimes to find a comfortable balance between the pull of what your conscience tells you is the best approach and what society would have you do to better conform to their way of sight. It's where many waver in their faith, and at the risk of sounding only slightly self congratulatory, it's a bold call to reject the norms of society and to take pity upon a stark raving lunatic on the verge of passing out in a public transit center in the heart of the biggest city in America. Many times over the course of those first few weeks I'd have liked to have taken the easy approach and abandoned David in some new town along the side of the open highway and let him befall some other corner of the world, but for all the sight I'd lost upon the goals I'd set for myself upon arriving in the WFWF, I just couldn't bring myself to abandon those principles and leave a man to his own defenses and inevitable death, given the state he'd been in.
Slowly, but surely, the payoff had begun to shine through. The man who'd begun making a habit out of his repeated attempts to forcefully remove my head from my shoulders was now the only one consoling me over a dip in my career's momentum - not Dave Demento, or Josh Dean, or any other member of the Saviors of Salvation, who'd been so quick to try and recruit a new soldier to serve in their fallen comrade's stead - but a vagrant. A drunk. An addict I'd plucked off the street and offered my own brand of salvation toward and just an ounce or two of patience was slowly becoming my only friend in the world, and in that moment, behind the wheel cruising toward the next stop, and the next, and the next, the very notion had taken me entirely by surprise.
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to try and make a habit out of it or anything."
Not in the least. Having my shoulders pinned to the mat by Trace Demon's ward was an eye opening experience - one that I had very little intention of so much as needing to experience again anytime soon. Often times it takes the Earth shattering hammer of reality to shake ones environment to its very core, leaving nothing but rubble in its wake, so much to the degree that all but forces a man to realign his focus on what matters, what's right, and what's static.
I've spoken on how the events of September 11 served as the focal catalyst in my searching for answers and coming to find The Lord and the light. That's not so much a realignment as it is a turning point - one sharp curve that would forever alter my young life that, up until that point, simply lacked focus - not for a lack of effort or care, but rather the naïveté of youth. In the wake of the towers, it was not at all unusual to come across stories of people who altered the entire daily makeup of their lives in reaction to what they saw as a need for a greater refocusing of the world's collective charitable efforts - the fashion designer who quit her job to pursue a degree and become a school teacher. The day laborer who saw through his ill conceived perception of law enforcement and started down the path of studying for the police academy exam.
All of these people had their lives put into perspective of them, whether they were directly affected by the events of that day or not, all on account on one massively Earth shattering event. Now, that's not to say that my loss to Joe Bishop was on par with the insurmountable losses of September 11, but on a massively smaller scale, it took my momentum, which I'd ridden into a position I didn't quite understand and I was not fully aware of, and turned it up on its head. I hadn't come to the WFWF and ridden an undefeated streak because of my potential to square off in the midst of a war between the Saviors of Salvation and The Final Revolution. I hadn't amassed a following behind some ill conceived drive to climb right to the top of the ladder and pluck the first title off of the waist of whoever stood there ready to present it. I'd gone undefeated for as long as I did on the back of hard work and focus. I like to think that I'd won the crowd over by offering an alternative to the same old dichotomy between good and bad, right and wrong. I'd come to the ring, week after week after week and squared off against a host of wildly different opponents in the name of positivity, sportsmanship, and the spirit of competition. That is what brought the hard earned victories. That is what drove the masses to cheer when my music signaled my entrance, and the minute I lost sight of that and placed myself in the midst of a war that wasn't mine, that is what pinned my shoulders to the mat for the count of three. Joe Bishop was little more than an advantageous vehicle for my own shortcomings, and it was by the pure grace of God that I'd been afforded the opportunity for redemption against Ante Whitner, an up and comer in his very own right.
"Guy like you? Your age, point you're at? No shame there, gettin' bested by a guy like Bishop. Sh*t, man. You know I went toe to toe with the guy two times, and I still never got the jump on Drakz?"
"What, does he get inside your head or something?"
"That mother f*cker? Hell no. Guy's crafty. Quick. He's got a little something extra about it. Not like that Joe Bishop. I know I've been on the outs man, but take my word - no way that guy gets a repeat performance."
"You still follow it."
"You asking or telling?"
"Stating. You may as well still hold down the job, David. Every time this comes up you know the ins, the outs. The names, the faces. Dave Demento was nothing more than a kid sidekick when you were cutting your path."
"Yep. Gift is a curse, man."
"Do you miss it?"
"I dunno. Sure was a hell of a legal excuse for going around stomping heads every night. 'Just doing my job, officer'. Hahaha."
David might have been suited better for the role I'd tried to play going into my match against Joe Bishop. I have to guess that a large part of the appeal of his days with The New Epoch was just that - the uninhibited expectation that he would cut a swath through the locker room, striking without so much as a moments notice and moving on without the inhibition of the guilt that might follow a more conscious man. I couldn't begin to pretend to understand that mindset. I'd come to find over time that while it remained a desirable gift to have for anyone who'd take it upon themselves to step into that ring, the ability to get inside the heads of many, maybe even most of my opponents would become something of a career-spanning elusive skill set. For all the eclectic personalities that the professional wrestling industry seems to attract, it was never lost on me that my situational background was somewhat unique when stacked up against my peers. I had no life experiences that could make me understand what drove David Brennan to drink. My past wasn't peppered with closeted skeletons like the ones that awoke disorders in the mind of Ante Whitner. A life of normalcy wasn't at all common in the industry I'd come to know and love, and if success was to be a part of my long term goals, I'd have to come to grips with that and simply do all I could to stand out on my own merits.
"Seriously, though. Even still, don't take this...ah...Whitner? That his name? Don't take that sh*t lightly, man."
"Got much experience squaring off against Ante Whitner, do you?"
"Nah, piss off man. I don't know Ante from Adam, but all the same - you took it on the chin from Bishop. Sh*t's gonna happen, but that can be a hell of a curveball too. Drag you down, y'know? You don't wanna get caught in some downward spiral. Whitney's a small fry next to Joe Bishop, and even if Joe's bending over at the altar of Trace Demon, he's still stabile, best as one can be in that situation. This Whitner? I dunno. I don't like the looks of him. Those eyes, man..."
In truth, David Brennan might have walked down the ramp more prepared to face Ante Whitner than I had been going into Black Friday. That's not to say that I wasn't familiar with the man's career up until that point - we'd both debuted around the same point in time and had subsequently begun cutting our own rookie year paths, which up until then had twisted and turned in entirely opposite directions. The problem was, and this was on me, the fact that I'd never really gauged him as an opponent until his name sat opposite mine on the show's card lineup.
You can learn so much about a man and still never know what to expect until the bell rings and the two of you lock horns for the very first time. At Battle at the Garden, everything I learned about Gabriel Black told me that I was in for the biggest challenge of my life - by all accounts, he was more experienced than me, more versed in the industry, and more equipped to take the easy win, given his years upon years of experience on the independent circuit, and yet, when looking back, in spite of the magnitude of the stage upon which we performed, I rarely give that match a second glance when considering a retrospective of my career.
If I'd have spent half the time sizing up the Ante Whitners of the WFWF - the real league into which I fell in the grand hierarchy of the roster - that I'd spent consider the Saviors of Salvation's offer, or drawing my own personal line in the sand, or letting the blinders fall upon my eyes until I'd been pinned to the mat for three, I'd probably have headed into Black Friday a bit more soundly confident in my ability to best Ante Whitner. Were I another man, more stereotypically cast for the WFWF locker room, I'd demand a microphone and talk about the fact that I'd already taken down the International Champion, and that a mere contender for the National Championship picture would somehow fall too easily in my hands, but then, that was never my place here. Yes, I'd defeated Dave Demento, who beaten Joe Bishop, who'd in turn, beaten me. I've never been one for equations, but that layout somehow didn't quite have the space for me yet, and the sooner I came to grips with that reality and got back up to assert myself amid the ranks to which I so clearly fell in place with, the sooner I'd have the opportunity to rebound and make my loss to Joe Bishop little more than a memory.
And so, I'd face Ante Whitner, with all the energy that I'd once exerted to face the opponents that had come before him. I'd step into the ring and look across the canvas into the eyes of a madman, and as I'd done before, I'd draw upon the strength that I knew dwelled within me, a strength that I'd carried with me for so many years that I'd let distractions, much like those I found myself decrying, shield me from recognizing. I chose to face Ante Whitner not under the mentality of climbing back upon some horse that I'd ride to the very top of the hill, but rather, under the mentality that had led me to find success prior to my letting the scope exceed my goals.
The matter of the fact was that there was no understanding quite what made Ante Whitner tick, and even if I had that sort of sight within my possession, what good would it do me to try and comprehend the things that Ante Whitner had seen? A childhood boogeyman and an ongoing journey toward God would probably have come off as child's play stacked next to the things that Whitner had seen, and to try and put myself into that sort of position would not only serve to level a disadvantaged toward me, blinding me from the real task at hand which was putting my best foot between the ropes before the other, but it would serve as an insurmountable degree is disrespect to my opponent, who for any flaws he may have had or screws that had turned loose, had still overcome many of the same odds I and countless others had hurdled to get where he was, the trials and tribulations that peppered his past notwithstanding.
Perhaps blinded by the notion of catapulting myself into the International title picture, I'd led Joe Bishop become less an opponent and more a hurdle. I hadn't come to the WFWF to jump hurdles - I'd come to face opponents. To be put to the test. To overcome. To succeed. To inspire. In facing Joe Bishop, in preparation to face Joe Bishop, I'd done none of those things. I'd broken into a sprint toward the next hurdle in my way, I'd let my legs get tangled, and as often times happens to those with all the speed and none of the force to propel themselves upward, I'd fallen.
It was all I could do to not perceive Ante Whitner as a hurdle in my way, but rather a living, breathing opponent who would require all my faculties, all my focus, and every last shred of my determination to overcome. In triumph, I'd help him to his feet and insist the crowd deliver unto him his due recognition simply for stepping up to the plate. In defeat, I'd humbly step aside, allowing him to revel in match own and a victory earned. At no time had those thoughts crossed my mind in facing Joe Bishop - all I'd wanted, all I'd settle for were his shoulders pinned to the mat - 1...2...3. That sort of inflexibility works for some - they triumph through it, soldier on til the rematch upon which they are granted what they see as the do over, the fix, the ability to right the wrongs, to erase the mistakes.
Life, to me, has never come with an eraser - we're given one shot at each turn we take, and it's up to us to see our way through it or to learn from our failure to do so so that when the time comes once more to face down adversity we don't tear out the pages upon which we've failed, but rather we keep the story from becoming redundant.
"Sometimes I wonder if it'd be easier to see it that way."
"Nah, not you. You're too good for this sh*t. Your heart's too big."
"Bigger heart? Easier to get tripped up."
"Hell, no. Knock that sh*t off. I mean, I've seen this business, man. Inside and out. Not a lot of guys in there'll do what you've done, take a guy in, stick it out for him, all that. Barbecue death matches, or whatever's gettin' Obo's jollies this week? Kid's stuff, man. What you do, going in there and keepin' up the audacity to roll holy and be good - takes balls. That's the real tough sh*t."
"Don't look now David, but you're actually starting to sound grateful. What, you afraid I'm gonna become one of them? Join the Final Revolution or something?"
"Betcher piss I'd be singing a different tune if you let me right back to the bottle, man. Point is you don't. You get that that sh*t kills and you go off it enough you start seein' the world for what it is. Look, man. I don't want to alarm you or anything, but this business? Sh*t'll change you."
"I'd like to think without climbing a high horse that I'm above that."
"Yeah, I would too, but then look at me."
"I don't follow..."
"Yeah, yeah. WFWF's resident packie stock broker - you know I was stone cold sober when I got there, right?"
"Guess I didn't."
"Big detail, f*ckin' everyone seems to miss it. Something like eight years or something. Had my head on nice and right too, but there's some f*cked up people in that line of work. Maybe this uh, Ante Whitner gets in your head or something. Mike Kyzer comes back tomorrow and takes an interest in you. All the sudden you're right on down the broken path. You ask if I miss it? Probably not, but if you told me I could go back tomorrow and redo it all over again, you betcher ass I'd tell the Welsh and the junkie to take a hike. Do it all different. Do it Danny's way."
"Why not start fresh?"
"Don't always get that chance kid. Sometimes that ship's good and sailed."