--Lansing, Michigan, 2000--

"He did! Martin O'Connor, you did it! God bless you, you did for the USA!"

Coach Douglas sat up in his hospital bed, tears welling up underneath his sleek eyes and flowing down his high cheekbones. It was a powerful thing, seeing Coach cry. He was his rock; even just looking into those little, yellow eyes that seemed to glow with ancient wisdom never failed to reassure him that all the pillars of the Earth were set, that things were going to be okay.

He was a little man, Coach Douglas, no heavier than 130 or so even now, decades removed from his days on the US national team at 125, when he himself competed against and strove with little giants like Yojiro Uetake, Don Behm and Dan Gable. His face ran narrower and narrower yet like a valley that ended at his little, tiny chin. He had small, precise features that reminded Tyrone of a mongoose...one like Rikki Tikki Tavi, that had spent its whole life taking out King Cobras. Whenever coached moved, there a sense that he was deliberately abstaining from absolutely destroying everything and everybody in the room he was in. Every step, every turn seemed to contain so much potential energy within in it, energy that could explode at anytime.

And here the great man was, sitting up in a hospital bed, crying as he watched the television set. Martin O'Connor, the man everyone was calling Captain America had, along with Brandon Slay and Rulon Gardner, taken home a gold medal for the United States. He seemed no weaker because of it; even his sobs had this pathos, this grandeur to them.

And yet, the very fact that he, the Great Coach Douglas, was crying seemed to bring home the realization to Tyrone that some events in this life were so big, so enormous that they dwarfed mere individuals. That once individuals were caught up in their tide, they could either surrender to it or be crushed by it. That this was such a moment. That Tyrone Gunder, the struggling high school wrestler, was privileged to be able to share this moment with his coach.

"Did I ever tell you about my grandfather, Tyrone? Did I tell you that he was the one who taught me to wrestle?"

"No, I don't think so...he was a coal-miner, like a lot of the wrestlers back in those days. They wrestled for side-bets during their time off. It was all in wrestling, anything goes...on whatever surface they might have. They were a rough and tumble bunch...and some of them might've fought dirty. But they didn't fight for the money Tyrone. If they wanted money, they would've boxed or done some such."

On the TV screen, the crowd is still going wild for the victorious O'Connor, as chants of "USA! USA!" break out in the stands. O'Connor, after a brief celebration, helps his Russian opponent to his feet, shakes his hand and embraces him.

"They did it because wrestling was in their hearts and in their souls. And they were the men that built the foundation for us...my grandfather taught me...just as the old carney wrestlers taught the likes of Paul Prehn...just as Farmer Burns taught Frank Gotch...and those men...we followed the trail of their blood, sweat and tears...its their efforts that gave us mats and rings to train with...that gave us scholarships...that made wrestling a scholastic sport...and we in turn...in turn, we gave our hearts, our best efforts, all the insights that a lifetime of training can muster to the next generation...to Martin O'Connor's generation...they didn't want a black man on the US national team back in my day...I had to wrestle the same fellow 16 times straight to earn my spot...even then, I fell ill for one Olympics and the next time around, it was the Carter boycott that stopped me from going...but all that work, all that I inherited from my forbears, we gave as much as we could to fellows like O'Connor...do you understand? You, O'Connor, you guys share that legacy, regardless of how your wrestling career ends up. Each mans efforts makes the next man stronger...and finally, finally...they can transcend into greatness...you understand, don't you?"

Tyrone nodded. On the TV, a reporter came up to interview O'Connor.

"Martin O'Connor, is there anyone, anyone at all you'd like to thank?"

"Well, a very special man is in the hospital right now, with cancer actually. So, I guess I'd just like to say, Coach Douglas, if you're listening...this Gold medal...I couldn't have done it without you!"

Douglas, usually stoic in the face of compliments, smiled easily. Happily. He closed his eyes.

--THE PRESENT DAY--

Tyrone Gunder bristled with shock and rage as he watched the masked behemoth known as Agony blast an unsuspecting Martin O'Connor in the face with a lighting fast super-kick before locking him into a modified Octopus hold. His hands balled into fists, his eyes narrowed into determined slits of pure fury as he watched Agony wrench the deadly submission until O'Connor passed out from the pain.

Tyrone Gunder had seen enough, far more than he could take. So Gunder stormed out of the sports bar where'd been chugging mineral water and scarfing on chicken breast....and set off to find somebody...something...that could do something to correct the injustice he'd just observed.

Of course, Tyrone Gunder was simply a guy who, despite his best efforts, was never good enough to wrestle in college. Who, in spite of all the hours spent in the weight room and on the mat, was never able to transfer his love of wrestling into actual success in the sport. There was no way that Tyrone Gunder would stand a ghost of a chance against a monster like Agony.

But he knew where to look for someone who could stand against him...and stand up for the legacy of American wrestling.

So he drove a few blocks down to Slam Masters wrestling gym.

He opened the door and walked past the ring, past the weights, past the mats and into the locker room. And there he found the man he was looking for. Opening up locker 39, he found the wrist bands, the tights, the boots and most of all....the mask.

As soon as he locked his eyes on that red, ruby quartz vizor, Tyrone Gunder disappeared. And yet, the man who was going to set things right still hadn't appeared.

That didn't happen until he donned the mask. Then and only then did KnightMask arrive. He emerged from the locker room and went straight to the Olympic rings, filled with the determination that comes to a man when he is certain he is going to fight a righteous battle for a cause greater than himself.

"Hey, hey, hold yer horses!"

KnightMask stopped short of the Olympic rings.

"Whatever's gotten yer goat, y'looked pumped. But time t'get REAL pumped!"

Hagar pressed play on his CD player, and suddenly Red Rider's 'Lunatic Fringe'--wrestling's answer to 'Eye of the Tiger' was blasting the gym through its speaker system.

KnightMask gripped the rings, pulled himself through a muscle up and followed into a hand stand. Then he went down and did another, and another. He was going to do as many as he could, until he would collapse from the rings in utter exhaustion. And then he would do likewise with Hindu squats. And then. Then he would roll. He would drill technique. He would train endless and tirelessly until Saturday arrived and Agony lay defeated.

That much he promised Coach Douglas and Martin O'Connor...and all who carried the Legacy on their shoulders.