It was a cold winter’s night; the snow was glistening on the ground outside of the arena. Our coliseum didn’t have much heating, so we warriors in the back were forced to fend for ourselves. I was sitting in the locker room on a bench, waiting for my time. I could hear the crowd chanting “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” I could tell when the match came to a halt when I heard the masses roar in unison, some hissing and booing, some others screaming with joy, and even others were handing money to the person nest to them because they had lost the bet on who would win. It was very much like a Roman coliseum.
I saw the wounded warriors come back through the ramp. I congratulated my friend, Chuck, on putting on a good match. Our little crowd of die-hard fans didn’t go crazy like that often, and when they did you knew that you had done one amazing job. I promised him I would buy a DVD of his match later, as long as he would do the same for me.
It was about an hour-and-a-half into the show. I had to wait about fifteen more minutes until I was on. I was the semi-main event. I had to wait through a promo and a TV Title match until I was on. I could feel myself tense up. I wasn’t quite used to performing publically yet. I felt like taking a nice warm shower, the steam would calm me down. No, it would take too long for me to put my gear back on. I was trapped, I was scared of performing publically, but I was also scared of chickening out. I went to talk to my friend, coach, and booker, DJ.
I went to DJ who was just standing by the lockers, talking to my opponent tonight, El Loco. Loco had nearly 10 years on me, and was nearly six foot eight. I was making my debut match tonight, and I couldn’t have been more apprehensive. It was my fault, though. I hyped the match up too much; I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. Instead I called out Loco 3 times, demanding for a match. And not just any match, but my “specialty,” a street fight.
I went up to Loco and shook his hand, then turned to DJ and did the same. I then just jumped into their conversation where it had left off. You wouldn’t have known it from looking at me, but I was terrified. Loco was a beast, and I was this little thing, not even 5’10”. This match was going to hurt.
About five minutes before it was my turn to go on, Jose left to get himself into character, and I did the same. The conversation did very little to calm my nerves. I could be just hear the crowd chanting “Tables! Tables! Tables!” I knew that by the end of the night, one of us would be put through a table.
I was sitting on the bench, trying to become the most defiant and ignorant person in the world for my match. I was getting there, too, until I heard Loco’s music blare. It was traditional Mexican fiesta music, not an intimidating song at all for people who weren’t fans of the promotion I worked at. But to fans and athletes alike, that song was terrifying, because that song was synonymous with tables. The Mexican Patriot who loved tables (or putting people through them, I should say) was about to go to war with Hollywood’s top gangster, me.
I heard “Undead” by Hollywood Undead blare through the sound systems, and I charged through the curtain and into the sea of fans each taking pictures of me. I paused at the top of the ramp, and closed my eyes to take in the moment. The music was doing nothing to block out the chorus of boos and chants of “You suck!” from the audience. I grinned my characters trademark grin, and began shouting insults and profanities at the audience. I once asked DJ to try and do a poll with our audience, see who the most hated man was in this company. Even though I had only been doing promos for about three months, and hadn’t even wrestled a match, I was positive I’d be in the top three.
I strutted down the audience, yelling out random insults to the audience, but I never stopped locking eyes with Loco. Some people thought it was for dramatic effect, I was doing it because I wanted him to show some sort of sign that I would walk out in one piece. I forgot that the man inside the ring was completely different than the one I was talking to in the locker room only a few minutes ago.
I climbed in through the ropes, and stood in my corner. I was doing my best to not look like the frightened little boy I was in the inside. “You idiot!” I thought to myself. “Why did you put yourself into the most dangerous match, against the most dangerous guy, and not even for a title?” I couldn’t answer that question before I heard the bell ring.
I jumped through the ropes and onto the floor immediately. My character was a coward. By now the butterflies in my stomach were gone; I HAD to be the worm. When he came out after me, I jumped back in the ring, and back out again before I decided that a game of tag for thirty minutes wouldn’t be entertaining, so I purposely got caught by him this time.
His reputation of being the most painful wrestler in the locker room was definitely proven beyond a shadow of a doubt by me, as he proceeded to throw me around the ring. Clotheslines, suplexes, the whole nine yards before he finally let me go. I slid out of the ring, holding my chest. “Good lord,” I thought, “twenty five more minutes of this?” I ran behind the announcer’s table to get away from him, but he kept coming. I was trying to signal to him that I needed a breather, but I realized it was all in vain.
So I decided to turn the tide. I picked up a chair and hit him in the gut with it outside the ring. I watched him cringe on the ground, and then I planted him on the back with it. I then ran up on the apron and hit him with a moonsault from the ropes. I then ran back into the ring, waiting for him to get up.
The match seemed to be endless, constant counters. It was insatiably brutal. I was thrown onto a ladder from just about 7 feet in the air, I was thrown over the top rope, and I was power slammed onto a metal chair. Likewise, I beat him with kendo sticks and baseball bats, I was able to knock him through a table, and I hit him with more aerial maneuvers than the German Blitzkrieg did in World War II. I then received the signal from the commentary at ringside to end the match.
I ran into him, and he lifted me up, and slammed me to the mat. He obviously didn’t see the signal. I tried to tell him as he lifted me up again to end it, but before I could he gave me a spine buster. The referee had to tell him that the match was ending. Then he knew what to do, and as he lifted me up he whispered “Sorry, bro” in my ear.
He picked me up, and power bombed me through the table, his signature move. I felt the sharp pain of splinters in my back as the ref counted, and when the bell rang, the crowd erupted. I didn’t know what was going on. For a second, I thought they were outraged at a horrible match and were going to riot in the arena to try and get their money back.
I hobbled my way backstage, every weary of a fan attack. As I got into the locker room I was met with an uproarious applause from my coworkers. “Great match, kid.” “Amazing.” “Not bad for a rookie.” I was suddenly the most popular person in the back.
DJ did poll the fans, but not on who the most hated man in the company was. It was on the best match of the night. My match with El Loco apparently took the cake with about 43% of the vote! It was an amazing feeling. I was floating on cloud nine.
It felt amazing, even though I was sore as ever. I felt pride from my injuries. As I hobbled out of the arena, never noticed before, I was suddenly swept up by a swarm of fans trying to get my autograph. I was too swept up, and ran to my car.
As I was driving home, I was practically cheering the whole way home. Regardless of whether or not I was sore or not, I was feeling better than I had than in years. I had fans. I was a somebody, at least in their eyes. This is what I wanted to do.
I saw the wounded warriors come back through the ramp. I congratulated my friend, Chuck, on putting on a good match. Our little crowd of die-hard fans didn’t go crazy like that often, and when they did you knew that you had done one amazing job. I promised him I would buy a DVD of his match later, as long as he would do the same for me.
It was about an hour-and-a-half into the show. I had to wait about fifteen more minutes until I was on. I was the semi-main event. I had to wait through a promo and a TV Title match until I was on. I could feel myself tense up. I wasn’t quite used to performing publically yet. I felt like taking a nice warm shower, the steam would calm me down. No, it would take too long for me to put my gear back on. I was trapped, I was scared of performing publically, but I was also scared of chickening out. I went to talk to my friend, coach, and booker, DJ.
I went to DJ who was just standing by the lockers, talking to my opponent tonight, El Loco. Loco had nearly 10 years on me, and was nearly six foot eight. I was making my debut match tonight, and I couldn’t have been more apprehensive. It was my fault, though. I hyped the match up too much; I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. Instead I called out Loco 3 times, demanding for a match. And not just any match, but my “specialty,” a street fight.
I went up to Loco and shook his hand, then turned to DJ and did the same. I then just jumped into their conversation where it had left off. You wouldn’t have known it from looking at me, but I was terrified. Loco was a beast, and I was this little thing, not even 5’10”. This match was going to hurt.
About five minutes before it was my turn to go on, Jose left to get himself into character, and I did the same. The conversation did very little to calm my nerves. I could be just hear the crowd chanting “Tables! Tables! Tables!” I knew that by the end of the night, one of us would be put through a table.
I was sitting on the bench, trying to become the most defiant and ignorant person in the world for my match. I was getting there, too, until I heard Loco’s music blare. It was traditional Mexican fiesta music, not an intimidating song at all for people who weren’t fans of the promotion I worked at. But to fans and athletes alike, that song was terrifying, because that song was synonymous with tables. The Mexican Patriot who loved tables (or putting people through them, I should say) was about to go to war with Hollywood’s top gangster, me.
I heard “Undead” by Hollywood Undead blare through the sound systems, and I charged through the curtain and into the sea of fans each taking pictures of me. I paused at the top of the ramp, and closed my eyes to take in the moment. The music was doing nothing to block out the chorus of boos and chants of “You suck!” from the audience. I grinned my characters trademark grin, and began shouting insults and profanities at the audience. I once asked DJ to try and do a poll with our audience, see who the most hated man was in this company. Even though I had only been doing promos for about three months, and hadn’t even wrestled a match, I was positive I’d be in the top three.
I strutted down the audience, yelling out random insults to the audience, but I never stopped locking eyes with Loco. Some people thought it was for dramatic effect, I was doing it because I wanted him to show some sort of sign that I would walk out in one piece. I forgot that the man inside the ring was completely different than the one I was talking to in the locker room only a few minutes ago.
I climbed in through the ropes, and stood in my corner. I was doing my best to not look like the frightened little boy I was in the inside. “You idiot!” I thought to myself. “Why did you put yourself into the most dangerous match, against the most dangerous guy, and not even for a title?” I couldn’t answer that question before I heard the bell ring.
I jumped through the ropes and onto the floor immediately. My character was a coward. By now the butterflies in my stomach were gone; I HAD to be the worm. When he came out after me, I jumped back in the ring, and back out again before I decided that a game of tag for thirty minutes wouldn’t be entertaining, so I purposely got caught by him this time.
His reputation of being the most painful wrestler in the locker room was definitely proven beyond a shadow of a doubt by me, as he proceeded to throw me around the ring. Clotheslines, suplexes, the whole nine yards before he finally let me go. I slid out of the ring, holding my chest. “Good lord,” I thought, “twenty five more minutes of this?” I ran behind the announcer’s table to get away from him, but he kept coming. I was trying to signal to him that I needed a breather, but I realized it was all in vain.
So I decided to turn the tide. I picked up a chair and hit him in the gut with it outside the ring. I watched him cringe on the ground, and then I planted him on the back with it. I then ran up on the apron and hit him with a moonsault from the ropes. I then ran back into the ring, waiting for him to get up.
The match seemed to be endless, constant counters. It was insatiably brutal. I was thrown onto a ladder from just about 7 feet in the air, I was thrown over the top rope, and I was power slammed onto a metal chair. Likewise, I beat him with kendo sticks and baseball bats, I was able to knock him through a table, and I hit him with more aerial maneuvers than the German Blitzkrieg did in World War II. I then received the signal from the commentary at ringside to end the match.
I ran into him, and he lifted me up, and slammed me to the mat. He obviously didn’t see the signal. I tried to tell him as he lifted me up again to end it, but before I could he gave me a spine buster. The referee had to tell him that the match was ending. Then he knew what to do, and as he lifted me up he whispered “Sorry, bro” in my ear.
He picked me up, and power bombed me through the table, his signature move. I felt the sharp pain of splinters in my back as the ref counted, and when the bell rang, the crowd erupted. I didn’t know what was going on. For a second, I thought they were outraged at a horrible match and were going to riot in the arena to try and get their money back.
I hobbled my way backstage, every weary of a fan attack. As I got into the locker room I was met with an uproarious applause from my coworkers. “Great match, kid.” “Amazing.” “Not bad for a rookie.” I was suddenly the most popular person in the back.
DJ did poll the fans, but not on who the most hated man in the company was. It was on the best match of the night. My match with El Loco apparently took the cake with about 43% of the vote! It was an amazing feeling. I was floating on cloud nine.
It felt amazing, even though I was sore as ever. I felt pride from my injuries. As I hobbled out of the arena, never noticed before, I was suddenly swept up by a swarm of fans trying to get my autograph. I was too swept up, and ran to my car.
As I was driving home, I was practically cheering the whole way home. Regardless of whether or not I was sore or not, I was feeling better than I had than in years. I had fans. I was a somebody, at least in their eyes. This is what I wanted to do.
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