Continued from Nazareth. (Chapter 1)


Maybe it’s more of a commonplace phenomena than I realize, but for some reason it always seems like things go awry for me right at any height of elation. Please don’t mistake that for me thinking I’m special or anything, because I am a firm believer that we’re all, as my father would say:

“-uniquely unimportant”,

Dad really had a way of hammering it home just how inconsequential we all were on a larger scale, but a great deal of that was probably just an overexertion of his humility.

I too think it’s a solid way of looking at things, the whole ‘no man is an island’ sentiment. But it also might have led me to subconsciously overexerting my wish for phenomena to be commonplace.

My father, Glenn and myself were on our way back to Bridgeport from the American Legion hall in Nazareth. I had just witnessed my first ever live action wrestling event and at a feverous pitch, my excitement had curled into a wild imagination. I was looking off into the future, and I could already reminisce on the scars of combat that hadn’t come. I could already find the unique satisfaction of the cumbersome gold resting on my shoulder. I could smell the sweat, I could feel the falling confetti, I could hear the roars of-

“The National Weather Service has issued a severe winter advisory for the following counties in Central and South Eastern Kentucky: Anderson, Franklin-”

The sudden wail from the radio pierced somewhere deep into my subconscious like a dog whistle triggering an anxiety that only I could sense. On either side of me Dad and Glenn halted whatever conversation they were carrying to listen to the radar alert, while in the middle of my core, pitted like a swelling knot in my gut, was a terror that ran ice all along my bones. I was suddenly remembering something that I had been long neglecting in my new addiction to the television. My ‘Cubs Card’.

My Cubs Card was a little daily planner filled with double-sided, receipt-like paper issued by Bridgeport Elementary. It was 1998, and in the age of barely functioning dialup internet, and before the times of households not owning a personal computer, or even in some cases a telephone, would be considered a novelty, the Cubs Card was meant to serve as a form of accountability for students and parents in regards to the cruel and unusual punishment known as homework.

The unnerving screech of the weather alert had served as a sort of name-association, or like how people train monkeys to expect food when they hear a certain bell ring, only with this sound I was now anticipating a hearty, rear blistering whipping from my father; and to think, we had just had such a great time together.

Having zoned completely out from reality, I glazed over the reasoning for the sudden stop at the grocery that saw my father scrambling back to the pickup truck with a buggy full of the essentials: beer, cottage cheese, milk, hamburger beef, and more beer.

The rest of the ride home from thereon was a continued blur. I would pick up bits and pieces of what sounded like an argument between Dad and Glenn,

“You don’t need the fucking thing, Glenn, and I don’t want it in the house! Especially with Reggie being there.”

I recall picking up on a bit of tension between the two of them, and looking over to Glenn all I heard were few expletives amongst what was mainly a groan as he pulled the bill of his hat over his face. But it all paled in comparison to what I was dealing with.

All I could think about was my Dad’s worsening mood, and how that was going to affect the ass whooping I was going to catch. Tomorrow was a school day, and if I didn’t have Dad’s signature on my Cubs Card, pardon me, about a month's worth of signatures on my Cubs Card then I was going to fail the fourth grade.

I already made my mind up that I was going to show him the pages of empty slips for him to sign, and the non-existent homework that was supposed to accompany the blessing of his John Hancock. I knew of the two potential beatings, this one would be better than completely failing the fourth grade without ever raising my hand.

It was getting late, and as we got out of the truck to go inside of the house Dad was starting to sway his right arm out with a little jig while singing the Beach Boys’ ‘In The Jungle The Mighty Jungle’ so I knew he was pretty lit. If I could just stall long enough, but not so long that he ends up passed out, I could probably get him to sign these without him even looking at the damn things.

An hour or so had come and gone as I sat quietly in my room clutching the little planner with a sweaty, and anxious grip. From beyond my door I could hear a continued spat between Dad and Uncle Glenn.

"I don't know why people have to be so fucking selfish! We're not that important!"

I heard Dad shouting from his room down the hallway and out towards the living room where Glenn would regularly be plopped, sipping brandy in his recliner,

"If I'm not important, then what difference does it make, Brady?"

Glenn spat back with a slurring shout,

I still had no idea what they were arguing over, but I could hear the frustration mounting in my Dad's voice. If I was going pull of this coup, I'd better strike before the his ire grew any hotter.

"Dad?"

I asked after wondering into his room with a sheepish tone,

"Son?"

He quipped back,

It was now or never.

"Will you sign my Cubs Cards?"

My voice rattled out as did my arm from behind my back revealing the planner as I handed it over to him.

Setting aside one of prized leather-bound Charles Dickens books from his collection, Dad shot me an incredulous glance from over the top of the frames of his glasses and took the planner from my shaking hand. He reviewed it for a moment, flipping back and forth through the pages that were lacking signatures and asked,

"Okay. Where's the homework?"

My heart sank. Dad obviously wasn't near as drunk as I'd hoped he was. I stood there quietly for a moment, trying to press together some excuses in my head, why hadn't I already prepared for this? Nothing. I couldn't muster a single sentence, and watching my father's gaze turn from confused to cold as I felt the blood flushing out of my face I already knew that he knew.

Dad kicked down the leg rest of his recliner and started towards me aggressively.

"Dad if I don't turn those in tomorrow I'm going to fail this year!"

I cried out while flinching over, trying to cover as much of my body as I could with my twig-like arms. Feeling him approach me I knew it was over, all of that dreamy and good-spirited high I was feeling, the newly realized desire to become a professional wrestler, it was all about to be beaten into an embarrassing submission. But suddenly Uncle Glenn sang out a very loud, very melodious harmony from down the hallway:

"Weeheeheehee dee heeheeheehee weeoh aweem away!"

I look up at my Dad, the frustration on his face seemed to just melt away as he let out a long sigh. I like to imagine in that moment he recognized mistakes as commonplace and the capacity to grow past them as a phenomenon not to be so easily overlooked.

"Let me show you something, Reggie."

Dad said putting his arm around me with a warm smile growing across his face,

Dad walked me out onto the front porch where I was amazed to find the night sky was glowing with a heavy blanket of snow flakes floating to the earth at an indescribable rate. My eyes became wide and starlit. It was like watching the elegance and majesty of that wrestler flying from the top rope with an elbow drop all over again.

"Don't you worry about failing, son. I don't think there's going to be any schools open tomorrow."

He was right, and in fact, the school's ended up being closed for almost two weeks. The Kentucky blizzard of '98 saw an unprecedented (In those recent years anyway) twenty-two inches of snowfall cloak the state. I was able to quickly catch up on all of my homework and soon after embark on a series of surreal winter adventures with my neighborhood comrades.

Later on as the beauty of the blizzard was melted back by the salt, leaving only black chunks of frozen slush along the roadways it became unfortunately evident what Dad and Uncle Glenn had been arguing over. The night before I was set to return to school, Dad was out at the Legion Hall again, leaving Glenn and I at home. A loud pop from the living room jolted me from my bed and out into the hallway. Uncle Glenn, who had been dying of cirrhosis of the liver, fired a .38 round into the ceiling, and just as I laid my eyes on him, he turned the gun and fired another round into his face.

Maybe a blizzard is just a commonplace phenomena, much like a feeling of happiness and excitement being wrenched away by reality during it's apex. But there was something particularly, dare I say "special" about that blizzard, and about those fleeting feelings that would from thereon lead me down a path not commonly trekked.

The path from Nazareth to the XWF.

-end chapter 1-

———————-

Sometimes the things we build up as being really important, or consequential, end up being, ya' know, not. And instead the gravity of outside forces that we weren't even aware of make their presences felt in a much more relevant manner.

Sort of like this match with Claude Savage, the man of few no words.

Little did I know while I was preparing for this match, ready to get into that ring and get the win as quickly as possible so I could get the hell out of Italy and back home to my family that I was being booked for an opportunity of a lifetime at Snow Job.

A Hart Championship match.

See, while a few weeks ago I would have been content in describing myself as "fledgling", or "Just lucky to be signed here", that whole narrative has shifted. Now, I have a chance to not only fulfill a dream I've carried with me since I was nine years old, but to fulfill it without leaving much to the imagination. Three other men, including the champion himself, will be vying for that win, and when R.L. Edgar walks out of Green Bay, Wisconsin with that belt draped over his shoulder, there will be no doubt who's on the up and up in the this industry.

But just so we're clear here, overlooking simple things while in the midst of a grander scheme is a habit I shook years ago. Contrary to much of the way I was raised, I've taken it to heart that every moment is uniquely important.

So what does all of this mean for Claude Savage?

The "Murder Horse"?

It means he better damn well hope that he isn't this big reveal of the Left Hand, ya know? The Pale Horse Man or whatever?

I mean it's not like that shit show needed any help of falling on it's own sword, but CHRIST ALMIGHTY! If that's you, bruh? Let it be known, right here, right now, I'm about to put an end to all of that nonsense before it even starts.

Claude, all you are is a man standing in the way of what's next to come. A homecooked meal, a kiss from the Mrs., a hug from the kids, and a date with destiny. And I meant what I said last time about fucking you up for making me listen to Five Finger Death Punch. I'm still pissed off about it. So if you stick around any longer after the beating I'm about to inflict on you, if your trainer doesn't decided just to put the horse down after his folly, then I want you to remember all of this and I want you to take it personally and come back at me with some fire.

Because if there is one thing I do know: it's that the mistakes are just important as the corrections.

Peace.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep