Lost In Translation - Printable Version

I ask myself these questions every day. And, by the look of it, the media does too. They see a story they can’t piece together, a riddle wrapped in fists and fury. The crowd chants my name, talks about my wins and losses like they know me, but truth is, they’re just as lost as I am. Sometimes, I don’t know where I start and where I end. Who am I anymore?

I remember the kid who used to roam free in the streets of Mijas, reckless and wide eyed, thinking he’d conquer the world on his terms. A kid with fire in his gut and peace in his heart, a rare combination. That feels like a lifetime ago, that kid died long ago and it was replaced by something unloveable. I have nothing in common with that kid anymore, other than the recklessness, but the peace within me was burnt the moment I was replaced and abandoned.

I lost everything and everyone, most of all myself, in the process of building what you, the people see everytime I walk into this fucking ring. A long time ago, I set my sights on becoming this, and as the years passed, I began to wonder if any of it was even worth it.

You don’t see the effort and sacrifices that were made to gain all the fame, glory and attention that I receive now. You see just a small set of accolades and assume they tell the whole story. Guess what? YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT. You see my pride, my arrogance, the way I taunt opponents as if I’m bulletproof. But you don’t see the cries of agony every time I go to sleep, the walks of shame I do everytime I experience defeat, the price of putting my body on the line for nothing. All of those sacrifices are overlooked, each and every time I walk to a ring strips away a part of myself that doesn’t fit your ideal image, the weak parts, the soft one. Sure I might be left with a hardened version of myself, I’m much better in the ring now that I was before, but there’s no humanity left in me, I’m just a machine made for this business, and that’s it.

That was the prize for a young fuckin’ kid from a shitty town fifteen hours by plane to reach this country and make his dream come true. I bet my soul and body and won, was it even worth it?

That’s the toll it takes, those pieces I lost I will never get back. I had to cut ties with those who couldn’t understand my vision. Family? They couldn’t recognize me, they were not able to see past the layers of grit and blood, and I don’t blame them. Last time I talked to my own father was when I won my first championship, the UWK one. He called me that very evening and told me that I had become a stranger, that I wasn’t his son anymore, I was just some mad bull running through everything on his path, I guess that’s the same reason I carry that nickname nowadays.

Not too long after he died, I could not muster the courage to allow myself to cry. Haven't visited his tomb since, my siblings despise me, they blame me for his death.

But I must be a playboy right? What about all those speculated lovers, a young man as yourself, carrying that dominican genes
inside you must have? There was one, been a long time since I lost her, my highschool sweetheart, that girl I thought would remain by my side forever. Haven't allowed myself to form a connection since. Betrayed time and again, the only touch I trust now is in that ring, when I’m smashing someone’s skull to the mat for the win.

So who is the Bull? By your standards and rumors, an unbreakable machine made for one thing, dominance. That’s what you see when I step into the ring, but that ain’t no persona I switch on and off, that beast lives inside me for better or worse, he took over the moment I realized that there’s no room in this business for weakness. He doesn’t secon’ guess, I don't hesitate.

But there are nights when I wonder if I’m still able to save myself, If i can gain control again, or if I’m just being used.

I thought I did this for a reason, I told myself it was all for something bigger, that all the fucking pain, the sacrifices, the long nights spent alone with no one cheering me on were leading me to greatness. But when I look in the mirror, I barely recognize the man staring back at me. My body is full of scars, I tell myself they are lessons, and armor of experience meant to remind me not to mess up next time, but the truth has always been that they remind me of how much I’ve lost. How much I’ve let go of to reach this point. And every time I hear the crowd chanting, I feel a pull. A reminder of that kid in Mijas who just wanted to make something of himself.

Some nights, after the crowd dies down, I walk through the empty streets, trying to find that quiet. It’s ironic, really. I fight in the spotlight, but the only peace I ever find is in the shadows. That’s when the questions hit the hardest. Who am I doing this for? Is this what I wanted? And most of all, who am I now?

People talk about legacy, about making your mark, leaving something behind that’ll outlast you. But what if the price of that legacy is losing yourself in the process? What if you’re remembered not for who you were, but for who you became when you turned your back on everything that made you human?

I have seen people admire me…do they really? Think it through, you don’t know me, you don’t know the man behind the curtains, what I went through, this is the moment you get a tiny taste of what truly goes inside the mind of a broken man driven by rage and spite and nothing else. You love the armor I made, the shield I specifically build to hide the pieces of myself that are too broken to show, and with each win, everytime my hand’s raised, I hear a mental click knowing another piece of armor locks into place, making it harder to feel anything real.

Who the fuck am I? That’s the very question that keeps me up all night, that very simple question that lingers long after the crowd has gone home. I got no answer, so I have to keep going, life goes on and I keep moving forward, carrying the questions with me, but I know one thing.

I won’t stop, the bull won’t let me, and maybe, in the end, that’s all I have left. Drive, hunger, and relentless need to prove that I’m still here, that I’m still fighting, even if I don’t know exactly who or why I still keep doing so.

Who is Adam García? Who is the Mad Bull? Who’s in control?

Maybe, one day, I’ll find an answer. But until then, I keep pushing forward, one fight at a time, because stopping would mean facing the silence, and I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

We meet again, Syn. Once again reunited, oh my love...how much I’ve awaited this reunion. But maybe we should start with a little introduction, huh? Should I be the one to explain how you tried to claim a win against me, only for MY team to kick you out of the King of Trios tournament? Does it sting, Matthias? Does it burn to know that all that effort was in vain? You were never meant to lift that cup, I was.

Oh yes, XWF universe, this isn’t the first time Matthias and I have come face to face. There’s history here, something of a ‘back and forth’ at the other X place. No, baby, not talking about any videos, I’m talking about X-H-W. We’ve fought, we’ve bled, we’ve stood toe to toe, and yet here we are, still bound to the same fate. The difference? I’m still rising, and he’s about to be six feet under.

You see, Syn, there’s somethin’ I’ve learned over the time we’ve spent at the same companies, you love to let that mouth run free, huh? I’ve lost count of how many times my name has spilled from your lips, drippin’ with that simmering anger. Anger that you’re not where you think you should be. Main Event material, Devil’s Dance headliner. You think YOU belong at the top of the food chain, yet here we are, side by side, and I’m here to remind you of what happened the last time we clashed. Ready to deliver the same result and prove who the man deserving to be at the top is.

There’s no need to have Cashe by my side to beat your ass, Syn. I don’t need Drake either. I’m fine working alone. In fact, I’ve been alone from the moment I stepped into this business. And unlike you, I don’t need a support system, I won’t blame anyone but myself for my defeats.

And you can go on claiming to be the most violent man on the planet, the one people fear. But you only say that because people have already realized something about me that you haven’t, I’m not bound by what people consider human. I don’t have to look you in the eyes to know that all your bravado is just that, a front. You’re hiding behind this violent man persona like every other guy who’s come through here claiming to be some kind of dark savior, some force to be reckoned with. But in the end? You’re no different than any of the rest.

That's why XHW doesn’t give you the chances you claim to deserve. That’s why you lost on Anarchy to the Extreme Champion,

why you were tossed out of that battle royale as soon as it started, and it’s the same reason you’ll be defeated by another Extreme Champ in just a couple of days. You’re not special, Syn. Not in the way you want to believe. You’re not that monster you pretend to be. You’re just one more guy pretending, hoping the act will take him places his skill alone never could.

Let’s cut the crap, Syn. You want to be some kind of revolutionary? Look dude, I’ve seen your type a thousand times. You spit out the same dark speeches that every guy with your gimmick does. You think you’re tapping into something primal, but all you’re doing is running the same script, recycled lines and borrowed rage. We all have been there and done that, unlike you, we moved on and learnt how to do a proper promo, ‘cause each and every promo you cut, every line you spit, it’s like you’re trapped in a bad horror flick.

In fact, no, let me put it another way. You’re the wrestling equivalent of every My Chemical Romance fan in the early 2010s, crying their heart out on Tumblr and Reddit, waiting for someone to validate their angst and using sexism comments to get some traction on their social media page. You’re like a guy who thinks his poetry about pain and shadows will make him a legend. And the worst part? You actually believe your own hype. You think what you do is violence. You think you’re the definition of ruthless. But what do you bring to the table? It’s not violence, Syn. It’s a parody of it.

You want to know what violence is, Syn? Real, brutal, unfiltered violence? Step in that morgue with me, and I’ll give you a taste of it. ‘Cause the moment you stand across from me, there won’t be any hidin’ behind your words, no shield to cover up the fact that you are just another pretender trying to keep up with the real threat.

So here is where I bury every lie, every excuse, false claim you could have ever made about yourself and Syn city. And the best part? There’s no need for me to pin your shoulders to the mat, I won’t be there to make you tap out, oh no. I’m here to bury you so deep than when they lower that casket, they’re not just burying Mattias Syn, I will make sure they are buryin’ every misguided hope, every dream, and fuckin’ illusion you have ever clung to, and specifically your wrestling career.

You can keep running that mouth of yours, but I can’t wait to hear what kind of shit you will spit next. Will it be a racist comment? Will you call me a simp like you did to Duke? Or will it just be a nerd reference to some comic like you did to Adeyemi? At the end of the day, I don’t give a fuck. You can keep that redditor act going as long as you like. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re running out of time.