Post by CM Poor on Dec 18, 2014 13:29:13 GMT -5
The Way & The Light
I was, as I'd come to find myself a thousand times over throughout the course of my career, at a crossroad.
It seems that whenever a decision was to be made, the magnitude of such ranging from when to arrive in town for a show to whether or not to accept another man's offer of comraderie, it came to bear an almost immeasurable impact upon the outcome of the very path upon which I happened to find myself at the time. As I'd prepared to depart the city of New York, following the last WFWF pay-per-view, my first, I'd come across a man screaming in a sort of tortured disparity, calling out the names of people who had long since made their stage left exit from his life. The simplest decision would have been to have simply blended into the crowd - the ticket counter would be opening shortly, and in a matter of moments the double paned glass of a chartered bus to the next stop on the map would have nestled comfortably between myself and what I ultimately perceived to be a largely vocal, if not sordidly misunderstood cry for help. In my nature of living my life in an ongoing effort to be every bit the man that I felt God wanted me to be, I took pity on the man I called Isaac, then Frank, then finally, after weeks of actions on his part casting a pall in my mind that perhaps I hadn't, in this instance, done the right thing, David Brennan.
Though we came to blows at an alarmingly increasing rate those first few weeks as David - under the influence of my own travel habits which, at the time included a strict regimen of decent eating, a regular sleep schedule, and a hard line adherence to a personal policy of zero illicit substance abuse - worked through his inner demons, I'd come to find in the waning months and weeks of the year 2014 that, for all the hardship I'd endured as a result of my own discretionary decision to take in a man where others would have simply boarded the bus, perhaps I had managed to, whether by the wisdom of God or the kindness of one man to another, make a call that had not only improved the life of another, but brought a small tinge of increased quality to my own. After all, prior to my visit to New York City, I'd traveled very much alone, and though I'd had more avenues of travel at my disposal then than I had since taking David under my wing, interstate solo trips can weigh a heavy toll on one's mental well being, and I'd be wrought with lies if I were to tell you that, once he'd begun seeing the world a little more clearly, I was adverse to the addition of conversation to my travels.
It holds true, however, that in life, no road is a smooth, solid, contiguous path from beginning to inevitable end. Amid any number of twists, turns, bumps, and breaks, there too will come a time when the roads of life converge upon the ultimate meeting place of splits and crosses, and it is here that we make our most dire, most consequential decisions in life that though they may appear on the surface minuscule or inconsequential, more often than not shape the very course of how where get from the here to the eventual there.
Having taken on the care of a soul apart from my own back in New York, I'd made the conscious, almost obvious decision to forgo any manner of travel that would encapsulate myself and my new companion in any form of close quarters with any number of unsuspecting innocents on board, lest David's demons, the nature of which I then knew not, chose to rear their ugly heads as I so daringly discovered them to do so as he and I embarked on our several weeks long journey by four door across this great land of ours. Seated at my side or splayed out across the backseat, David could let loose nary an outburst or fit of rage which I, his lone companion, could not handle or quell. To take that very same nature aboard a charter or train or, Heaven forbid, into the skies above seemed to spell almost imminently disastrous results for the both of us, and so to the road we took.
As the sun set on the ear 2014, however, the WFWF had chosen to close out another banner year by taking its traveling exhibit across the pond. Named for just one of the countless English exports to have had their name become household commonplace, The Clash was to take over Wembley Stadium for an international display of all the WFWF had come to be known around the world for, and once more, I found myself in a most peculiar and opportune position on the card, and thus began, my trip to the great white north notwithstanding, my first foray to a locale truly beyond the confines of the United States of America. Perhaps those of you who are so geographically inclined have already drawn an astute conclusion in regard to the unique predicament in which I now found myself.
Without trying to sound like I'm putting myself upon too high a pedestal, the simple fact is some folks in life need some manner of human embodiment of a conscience to get them through one day to the next. Amid the proper surroundings, David Brennan could flourish to be every bit the honest, hardworking man he once presented to the world - eight years of sobriety had once told that tale and with the right influence, there's no reason that story couldn't continue. The sobering reality, if you'll pardon the u intentional pun, was that the day I'd accepted David as a traveling companion was the day that all my life's choices that involved him would ultimately come packaged with the far off, distant choice that would send him crawling back to the depths from which he'd barely managed to escape with his life's breath.
I took every precaution. A mid-week, mid-day flight would alleviate the number of collateral travelers packed in alongside us. First class travel arrangements, which would ultimately make this transatlantic trip entirely more expensive than it needed to be, would provide a healthy buffer between us and our fellow travelers. I ran down and addressed every important detail I could conjure up in my mind as bearing the potential to trigger an outburst or in someway delineate from our otherwise having a quiet, peaceful trip from the states into London.
"You're not on any no-fly lists are you?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Any history of in-flight...what's the word? Transgressions?"
"Come on, man, it's been ages since me and the law've crossed paths."
"I know, I know, it's just..."
"Look, Dan. Nothing's gonna happen. I mean, sh*t, short of you dancing around the ring for a couple hours each night, we've hardly been outside one another's company for what? Couple months now at least. You've done good kid - I haven't touched the sauce since the day you came sauntering through Grand Central and offered me a stack of pancakes."
He'd stuck it out, I'll give him that much. Before setting off in a long term rental to townships entirely less dense than the massively populous city of New York, I'd made it abundantly clear that while I'd pony up the costs of an extra mouth to feed, house, and transport, I had a strict schedule and regimen that would be adhered to, which, among other details not entirely pertinent to how we'd come to arrive in the here and now, meant absolutely no usage of illicit substances. I'd paid dearly for those convictions early on, but for every bit of damaged hotel property, every night that ended in a sudden and poorly anticipated brawl, and every long mile spent stewing in a sort of poorly justified malicious silence, David had held up his end of the bargain, and each day brought with it a slightly less veiled sense of clarity in the way he spoke, listened, and responded.
In my naïveté, I told myself early on that he hadn't a choice in the matter - I mean, what options were there? Wallow in the streets of New York until the inevitability of death that trailed behind one's actions finally caught up to the trail, or take a stranger up on the offer of goodwill and charity and perhaps live to see another day. Another week. Maybe another year. But the more I got to know David as the shades of inebriation began to slowly slip away to reveal the more honest, ruffled interior of a man who, by his own account, had seen a good deal of it all, I realized that he'd made the choice, even early on when the throws of addiction had only begun sinking their teeth in, to reject opportunities to reconnect, rekindle, and reemerge himself back into the world. It pained me to have lost sight of the fact that through it all - the mysteries of faith and the hand of God and the often times unclear ways in which The Lord works, one constant, for better or for worse, has always been the notion of free will. Just as I chose to find a path to God, to seek him in reconciliation for the things I didn't understand and in the ways that I'd erred, David had chosen to get in that car time and time again. He knew the consequences of his choices that day no better than I did. In the fading dark of an early northeastern morning, all he saw was a light and a way.
"It's a long flight."
"You know I've been to Japan, right?"
Choose and Perish
I've discussed at great lengths the consequences of letting myself get ahead of myself.
I have a tendency, perhaps to a fault, to let bumps in the road - obstacles, distractions, whatever name you want to use for them - wreck immeasurable degrees of havoc upon the path which I so diligently strive to fix myself upon when pursuing a goal or some other sort of end game. Scholastically, this sort of thing kind of brought itself back into directed focus as I began developing a relationship with God, and the wisdom of prayer allowed me to sort of center myself and my energies on what demanded the most of me. When you've got that sort of beacon, coupled with the institutionalized nature that a structured school system provides, getting oneself "back on track" is usually an end result attainable by anyone who truly wishes to set their sights upon it. The real test comes when time and environment becomes more fluid, and plans for tomorrow and the decisions that will influence such must be made much more on the fly.
I very publicly learned a harsh, harsh lesson in this reality when, upon my feet, I found laid what I thought was my ticket into an elevated status within the WFWF. A win over International Champion Dave Demento had led me to the next obvious step - going toe to toe against Joe Bishop, the top challenger for Demento's International strap. Concurrently, impressed with my undefeated streak up to that point, Demento had come to me with a lucrative and seemingly irrefutable offer to join him and his soldiers in the Saviors of Salvation. Convinced I'd traversed the toils of the undercard and had found myself on the path to bigger and better things, I respectfully and publicly declined. The epilogue pretty much fills itself in from there.
1
2
3
There are some who would come to call my first time, devastating loss to Joe Bishop a fluke. An off night. That a follow up win over National Champion Ante Whitner would prove that Bishop had found a weak spot and exploited it for a clean but devastating win. Industry watchers were quick to sweep the loss under the rug and chalk it up to that old notion and go-to phrasing that "you can't win 'em all".
I just couldn't let go of it that easy.
That's the real kicker behind being one of those people who get ahead of themselves is that when you finally catch up to yourself - in my case finally having to chalk up a loss - the results can be psychologically damaging. Even still, in the very heat of the moment, amid the fog and uncertainty of having to walk back to the locker room to the beat of another man's music, I was left with a very plain, very imperative choice.
Choose and prevail, or choose and perish.
For as devastatingly hard as that loss hit me, I made the clear, conscious decision to not let it define me. I'd come to identify with my winning streak, and almost as quickly as I'd managed to scrawl my name across the dotted line of my first ever competitive contract, I was left with the insurmountable task of redefining myself in the eyes of the fans, in the eyes of my competition, and in the eyes of the man who'd stare back at me each and every time I stepped foot before a mirror. In an instant, gone was Daniel Kirkbride, undefeated superstar. The next time his boots traversed the steel ramp that led to a WFWF ring, they'd be filled with the feet of a man not undefeated, but a man who refused to be defined by defeat. A man who chose to defined by perseverance - his ability to overcome, to prevail, to come out on the other side better than he'd been before. Ante Whitner was no short order, but before his name had even appeared across the card from my own, before the smoke had even settled on Joe Bishop's unparalleled victory, I'd made the solemn promise that come whatever may from that day forth, I'd never do my opponent the disrespect of underestimating their abilities in step with mine ever again.
The Clash
"So wait. Theoretically, you could demand a shot at the world title, right?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I guess I'd have to check. Should probably, you know, see about winning first, right?"
"See about...huh? Have you seen who you're up against, Dan? Nobodies! Guys who'd have hardly held a candle to Andrew Carter or Lincoln Dina! Hang on..."
That was just one of the increasingly apparent disparities between myself and David Brennan. If I had to guess, I'd wager than he probably possessed a greater aptitude for letting things like a defeat sandwiched between a handful of hard fought victories roll down the back of his shoulders than I. I pressed my memory for what little I could muster in recollection of his initial run, several years ahead of my eventual debut. Admittedly, though likely not all that surprising, I wasn't much a fan of David and his cohorts in The New Epoch. Before recalibrating my life approach to be entirely less preachy, I once considered them the bane of the industry - everything that had gone wrong with a business I wanted nothing more than to become a part of. Broken bottles, bear mace, and substance abuse turned up to eleven. I found myself, in evaluating the landscape upon signing my name to the WFWF ledger, quietly thanking the graces of God for having put the benefit of time between us, lest I became just another burning wake in the path of the triage of Michael Kyzer, Drakz, and David Brennan. The irony that I could now, in good conscience, call even one of the three a friend was not lost on me for even a moment.
As David continued in vain to try and hail a cab from the densely crowded walk just outside London's Heathrow Airport in an increasingly vulgar manner, I was left to ponder the vast margin between myself and my colleagues within the locker room of the WFWF. I've been accused in the past of overthinking things. To me, each battle to which I stepped up to each time I made my way down that ramp was a psychological toll, unique in its own individual way and very much unlike the match before it or the match next to follow. Was it possible that by over-analyzing, overthinking each opponent, each match, and each outcome that I was hindering my own upward momentum? After all, if David was right, and I were to prevail with minimal effort over not one but two separate opponents, then was all my forethought in vain?
I had to reassure myself that that was not the case. Be as it may that David perceived Axel Thornstowe and Jack Sabbath to be little more than a couple of "nobodies", the truth was, I was simply incapable of seeing another human being in that sort of light. Another vast disparity between myself and my only friend. Were it a fresh faced, younger David Brennan lacing up my boots, in all likelihood, he'd still be stateside. Maybe catch a last minute flight out. Drown the anxieties of flight with a hearty glass or twelve of the airliner's finest spirits, and not give a second thought to the blatant instability of the man in one corner and the mysterious yet storied accomplishments of the man poised in the other.
Axel Thornstowe was a terrifyingly unknown quantity. What he lacked in accomplishments, he more than made up for in sheer outward uncertainty. I'd seen a thousand guys come and go who'd sprung the exact same switch I'd come to find myself anticipating from Axel at just about any point as we soldiered on into London. As I'd so vehemently demonstrated after falling to Joe Bishop in a moment of pure vulnerability, losses can take a toll on ones' psyche, and Axel had himself a stack of defeats that piled higher week in and week out.
It's kind of funny. You take two individuals and you give them similar but different personal make up, and the varying output can prove itself to be worlds apart. While I could never say for certain, given his penchant for winning more often than not, I have to imagine that, even with anger issues that were amplified by his toxin of choice, David Brennan wouldn't have been the type to let even a run of losses cut him that deeply. If I were to guess, and given the circumstances, that's all I could ever do, I'd wager that his cold, calculating, almost vengeful nature, again, amplified by each drop of liquor that permeated his liver, would lead him to not wallow and "snap", but rather strike at carelessly unguarded weaknesses, exacting not an end in which he'd "finally" achieve victory, but rather a delicious, hard fought end of vengeance.
I wasn't anticipating this sort of visceral strike of vengeful defeat from Axel Thornstowe, but that's not to say that I was free of concern in facing him. He too shared Brennan's penchant for anger, and yet his brand of venomous spite seemed altogether more unwieldy, uncalculated, and about as far from domesticated as one could be - in a word, "wild". To those that would brush aside the validity of an opponent of Axel's nature, the expectation might be that he'd trip. Fall. Get ahead of himself in an entirely different way than the over processed mind may expect, and become the cause of his own destruction.
But what if he didn't?
What if one were to underestimate Axel Thornstowe? Draw the conclusion that with each passing loss, the validity of any threat he may pose diminishes ten-fold? Anyone who's followed this business for any length of time knows that that is the precise moment at which the guard comes down, and the armor is no longer impenetrable.
1
2
3
Sound familiar?
I'd underestimated Joe Bishop by defeating a man I'd perceived to be his superior. Surely, if I could best Dave Demento, then I could easily topple Joe Bishop. Guard goes down, and in comes Bishop.
It was nice to have a friend at my side, reassuring me that I had the tools and the talent to easily overcome whatever Thornstowe could throw my way, but I couldn't - rather, I wouldn't allow him to shake my guard, put me at ease, and give a man so desperate to attain victory the opportunity to expose that crack in the shade and bring me to my knees.
After all, what is more dangerous than a man with little to lose and everything to gain? Imagine yourself at the very bottom of the totem pole in regard to your chosen profession, with but one simple, solitary achievement between you and the ability to dispel all doubt that had ever been cast upon you. I had no doubt in my mind that if Axel Thornstowe were to pull the upset of the year and lay to waste both myself and Jack Sabbath, he'd utilize his new found "golden opportunity", the grand prize in this three way dance, to aim for the very peak of the upper echelon of the competition. What's that old phrase?
"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land amongst the stars."
The three of us, one and all, each stood to gain an insurmountable edge over the seemingly endless pool of competitors coming and going on a weekly basis, looking to make their mark in the WFWF. Even if a "non-title" clause was to be had, the opportunity to square off against any number of top names in the industry at a time when so many still converged upon the WFWF was an invaluable prize to take home. In a single bound, therein lay the opportunity to make the leap from relative obscurity to WFWF stardom, and if that isn't the end game on everyone's mind, then what is?
If you're a fan of the product, there's a sort of unspoken rule that says you're either a WFWF guy, or you're an XWA guy. I was, and continue to be very irrefutably of the former. Were I more "well rounded" of a fan in my youth, or even as I began to wet my feet within the independent circuit, I might be more familiar with the man who called himself "Diamond" Jack Sabbath.
If Axel Thornstowe were to be called the yin of my opponents, Jack Sabbath would very much be the yang. Technically proficient, exceptionally charismatic, with a laundry list of accomplishments to boot, he would be sure to fill in each empty gap that Axel Thornstowe would leave vacant in terms of what was brought to the table, and so much more. I remember trying to place myself in a similar mindset to when I first found myself competing in a WFWF pay-per-view against another unknown quantity in Gabriel Black. Both men would pose a similar threat - a wealth of footage and accolades and talent that I was altogether unfamiliar with. Of Jack Sabbath, I knew little more than a name and a face, only vaguely coming to mind from a brief, brief stint in the WFWF before his departure to seek his fortunes with the XWA.
I'd spent the hours leading up to The Battle at the Garden studying hours upon hours of footage from Gabriel Black's years as a mainstay on the independent circuit, trying to hone in on any nuances or patterns in his style and approach. A calculated, almost scholastic approach had led me to a hard fought victor on arguably the biggest stage in the industry.
But that was then. This is now.
Admittedly, my range of focus was all the likely more centered going into my last pay-per-view than it was now. I was traveling solo, at my own pace, my lone concerns revolving around a pointed destination and an opponent in the opposite corner. That was before I'd taken pity on a rambling vagrant who'd ultimately become my lone traveling partner as I traversed the world in a journey of self discovery and self improvement. While my desired end game had only strayed momentarily in a temporary lapse of judgement, the means by which I was able to direct all my energy toward that end had become severely diluted. Without any possible foresight into exactly what the end result would be, I'd inadvertently made a choice in New York that had only just revealed itself to be capable of exposing a sizable weakness, which, if left unchecked, could be my very undoing.
As panic began to set in, a blistering winter breeze shocked me back to reality, which, among other harsh facets, involved David vulgarly beckoning me to catch up, as he'd finally managed to catch the attention of a driver willing to take us in amid the hustle and bustle of the airport departure area.
"F*ckin' cold out there, huh? Alright, uh, sh*t, you got that reservation print out? Right - get us here."
Without needing any evidently further direction, the driver sped off with a force that drove me to involuntarily relax into the back of my seat. The weight of what had just crossed my mind could not be lifted by the sudden warmth of a dingy, speeding cab. Had I overloaded my plate? Would the dichotomy between my own goals and my desire to act in the eyes of The Lord continue to unravel into my own undoing, preventing me from ever reaching my own full potential?
"Hey, David. You ever cross paths with Jack Sabbath?"
"Guy you're facing? Nah. After my time, I think."
"Right."
"What, you're not worried about this guy, are you?"
"I dunno. He's had a pretty decorated run, right?"
"Decorated in sh*t, maybe. What's he, one of those XWA guys? Lightweight division, man. Sally shoes. F*ck you gonna worry about him for?"
Like I said, disparity in stereo.
I decided that there had to be a hybrid approach - to the match at hand, to the undertaking of a career in the WFWF, to remain stoic in my efforts to give David a second chance at life, to life itself. As if I were the only man walking this Earth who faced down a decision that could alter the course of tomorrow each and every waking day. In a matter of days, I'd be standing across the ring from two men who likely bore equally sleep depriving thoughts in their mind. I decided to treat Jack Sabbath as I'd treat Axel Thornstowe as I'd treated Ante Whitner, Gabriel Black, and any other opponent who'd come before me or would come before me again - as an equal. A challenge. A viable, dangerous, yet entirely surmountable hurdle through which the only path to the next step and beyond lie. I'd weigh my disadvantages - in the case of Sabbath, a relatively short career of inexperience to his vastly superior edge of decorum and victory and accomplishment - against my strengths - the crowd at my back, a mind free of malintent, the desire to want it more, and a more working familiarity with the landscape of the WFWF. Surely, in wherever their travels may presently have found them, Axel Thornstowe and Jack Sabbath both sat, minds racing equally, either alone or with their respective companions, weighing the strengths and shortfalls of their own approach, not calculating, not formulating, but rather, deciding upon an approach which they felt would beat lead them to victory over the other two. Choose and prevail, or choose and perish.
I never stopped to consider, at least, not then, how deeply they may have been already considering the next choice that would present itself, should the odds lie in their favor.
"You given any thought to who you're gonna pick? I mean, after. Sh*t - match of your choice. Sure didn't hand 'em out like that a few years back."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were in line for a title shot, were you not?"
"Hey, I earned that sh*t. I dunno if they pull that Survival of the Fittest garbage anymore, but it wasn't some walk in the park."
"Still...must have been something else - to be in that spot I mean."
"Heh. Sure was. Dumbass me for walking off on that, huh?"
...
"Who would you face?"
"Me? Heh. I dunno. Guess it'd all depend on whether we know about that title clause or not."
"No title shots - just for argument's sake. Then who?"
"Mmm. Drakz."
"Drakz?"
"Isaac f*ckin' Cray. You know I squared off with that proper piece of piss twice and never got the edge? F*ck, sure like to give him a proper go..."
"Still sore about all that?"
"If I'm honest? I'm sore about a lot of sh*t, kid. Ideal world, I'd put myself in your shoes, gun after the two of 'em - lotta empty friendship, there. Mike's dead I suppose, though. Take on his midget friend - little f*ck's still running his mouth, yeah?"
"If you mean DMK, then yeah. He's pretty good at that."
"That'd be something else - just take on the whole lot of 'em."
"Vendetta?"
"Heh. Yeah, yeah I suppose you could call it that."
I dont know good luck 
