10-29-2014, 10:49 PM
Wit and sarcasm have had their place in the sun for now. The royal trumpets are blaring.
Monday, November 3rd 2014. The King of the Ring Tournament. It’ll begin with twenty four men and whittle down to the one man who will earn the right to be called the King of the XWF for the coming year. These men will have their wills tested, their bodies pushed to the limit and their drive to win contested. The man who remains when the dust settles will rightfully be called the best in the company, the best in the business, maybe even the best in the world.
Today there are no cameras, no sets and no cast of characters. There will be no mocking, no joking, no tearing people apart through the magic of wit and intellect. Today is about focus. About determination. Steven Kessler stands alone on top of his apartment building in Chicago. Below him the city is lit up like wildfire. It is not a scene of relaxation, but to the muscled young wrestler it feels like home. It reminds him of his childhood. And in that moment, looking down into the city, he begins to think of his father.
As good a man as Michael Kessler had been outside the ring, he had been equally vicious inside it. In his hey-day, well before Steven had been born, he had been known as “The Real Man” Michael Fazetti, an Italian wrestler whose real last name, Kessler, had been deemed “too German” to be a success in wrestling. He had been a master of his craft and the best mentor that his son would ever have. He met Charles Fazetti in the spring on 1975 and together they formed a successful tag team known as The Italian Stallions. Throughout their run together, they were known for one thing in particular; winning their matches under decidedly… less than moral means. In fact, one of the most important things Michael ever told his son at a young age was this;
“If you can win clean, win clean. If you can’t win clean, then just win.”
Michael had two qualities that would be very important to his son. First and foremost, he possessed an ego that had previously been unheard of, even in the world of professional wrestling, an ego so large that he couldn't help but pass onto his son. And secondly, possibly even more important, he had instilled in his son a sense of pride in the wrestling business. Michael always strove to be the best, no matter the cost, and it was an example he set for his son in everything that he did, no matter how large or small, and no matter what you had to do to achieve your goals. Without a father like Michael Kessler, Steven Kessler would not exist today.
In 1982 Michael became a father for the first time. Steven Michael Kessler was both on February 4th, and less than three months Michael retired from in-ring competition and moved his young family across the world to Australia, returning some fifteen years later to open and operate Chicago City Pro Wrestling with his old partner Fazetti. Steven spent much of his adolescence in and around the arena, meeting his fathers friends and secretly cheering on the bad guys, the men he knew to be secretly like his father. He could see, even at a young age, the passion and love his father had for the business and he shared that passion in a way few children truly can. By the age of sixteen he was wrestling his younger brother in the ring after the crowds had gone home, and by the age of eighteen he was training at Charles Fazetti's wrestling school in New Jersey, learning the trade from the same man who had taught his father.
Before long, it was obvious to all parties involved that Steven was going to be something big in the world of professional wrestling. Determined to make his own name and not ride the coat-tails of his father, Steven opted out of using the famed Fazetti name and instead went by his own "Kessler". Escaping his fathers legacy but never forgetting it, he spent the better part of the next decade honing his craft around the world, building up a name for himself on the independent scene, before returning to the United States at the age of thirty, just in time to lose his father to ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig's Disease and in this he lost not only his father but a friend and a mentor. It was on that day, staring into his fathers face in hospital, Steven Kessler decided that everything he had accomplished until that point was worthless. Right then and there, he decided that he would be the future of the professional wrestling business, the man who would not stop until he had it all. He was doing it for his father, for his memory, but also he was doing it for himself. His father had slowed down to raise a family, and ended his career before it could truly be considered great. His son would not follow that same path.
He was determined to be great.
He planned to defy the odds.
Not for his father, or Charles Fazetti.
For himself.
Even in the jumble of noise below him, the air seems cool and quiet as he stares off into the night. This is his solace, where he feels comfortable. Deep down, below the oily surface of a venomous snake waiting to strike the heart of any man he crosses in the upcoming tournament, lies a scared, shaking sixteen year old stepping into the ring for the first time. He thinks of his father, watching down on him. Is he proud? Does he think his son has lived up to the legacy?
A voice from behind him shakes the young man from his trance. Charles "Charlie" Fazetti emerges from the darkness, his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat.
Fazetti: "You doin' okay, kid?"
Kessler stares ahead for another moment.
Kessler: "Yeah. Just thinking."
Fazetti takes a few steps forward and places his hand on the shoulder of his former protege. Both men stand in silence for a while, staring off into the city. After a quiet that seems to last forever, the elder man breaks the silence.
Fazetti: "He'd be damn proud of you, kid."
Kessler turns to look at Fazetti, a small smile on his face.
Kessler: "I know."
Fazetti: "You know, it's funny. Back when we were on the road together, maybe a few months before you were born, he used to talk about you a lot, about how you'd be great someday. It was his dream that someday you were gonna be just like him."
Kessler scoffs, looking over the edge of the building, careful not to meet the eyes of his mentor.
Kessler: "But am I, Charlie?"
Fazetti smiles and pats him on the back.
Fazetti: "Nah, kid. You're better."
Fazetti turns away to leave Kessler his opportunity to sit and think. Before he reaches the door, he turns back to his former student, a look of concern on his face.
Fazetti: "You gonna be alright, kid?"
Kessler: "Me? Oh yeah, sure. I'll be fine. The first bracket in the tournament is going to be a breeze-"
Fazetti: "I'm not talking about the tournament. I'm talking about right now."
Kessler scowls as he turns to look back at the skyline.
Kessler: "Ever since I joined the XWF, my career has been on a down turn. Sure, I haven't been pinned yet, but I haven't won a match either. In the lead up to War Games I gave it everything I had and it still wasn't enough. I know I'm a better wrestler than just about every other guy there. Hell, I know I'm a better talker than just about anyone. I just feel like... I'm letting Dad's legacy down."
Fazetti simply nods his head, putting his arm around the shoulder of his former best friend's child.
Fazetti: "You came in and you did it all backwards, kid. You tried to run before you could walk. You talked a big game, and even called out the Universal Champion. That was a stupid idea. You want opportunities? You want respect? You're gonna have to earn it the old fashioned way. I know you can do that. Stop making jokes and telling people that you're going to win matches, and start actually winning. This isn't about your fathers legacy. It's about your legacy. It's why you went off on your own years ago. It's why you kept the Kessler name. You don't need to do this for him. I know he's looking down on you now and he's proud. He's proud of your abilities. He's proud of your work ethic. I know for certain he wouldn't change a damn thing about you. But this is about YOU. This is about chasing your own dreams, not his. You don't have to make me or your dad proud of you... we're already proud of you. This tournament is about you going out there and showing guys like Ghost Tank and Justin fuckin' Sane that they're not going to take this dream away from you. This is about climbing to the top of the ladder yourself. We know that you can do it. Do it next week, not because you HAVE to, but because you CAN."
Kessler smiles, nodding his head, and the two men act for a moment like they might hug. Obviously thinking better of it, Fazetti turns to leave.
Kessler: "Thanks, Charlie."
Fazetti nods and walks towards the door. Kessler turns around and the motion causes Fazetti to pause before he walks inside.
Fazetti: "Need something else, kid?"
Kessler: "I've been thinking, since War Games... how would you like to get involved in the business again?"
Fazetti: "Sorry kid. I'm too old to run the ropes these days."
Kessler: "Not as a wrestler... as my manager. Just like old times."
Fazetti: "Heh. I'll think about it."
Fazetti chuckles and walks inside. Kessler lets out a sigh and turns to look back out over the cityscape before him, a smile of contentment etched on his face. Fazetti was right, this wasn't about his father. It was all about Steven Kessler. His father would always be his hero, but Fazetti had been the voice of reason, and that voice of reason called out to swallow the hurt, swallow the shame and swallow the emotion.
The King of the Ring Tournament was coming, and Kessler had every intention of being crowned. Not to prove himself to the world, or to his father, God rest his soul. No, Steven Kessler is going to walk into Monday Night Madness and win the King of the Ring Tournament, and he's doing it because he wants to.
He wants to feel the resentment of the crowd as the referee slaps his hand down for that final third count. He wants to taste his own warm blood trickling down his face. He wants to feel the explosion of pyro and wipe the sweat from his eyes.
He wants to hurt people, and walk away with one of the grandest prizes in the XWF; the right to be called King.
A solemn smile comes over his face as he takes one last look out over the city.
Kessler: "Take a good, hard look."
He mutters this to no one in particular, as he stares out into the city. He has to. He wants to remember it as it is right now, at this very moment, for one important reason. Finally, he turns and walks towards the staircase.
Madison Square Garden was going to be in for a hell of a show.