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Ned Kaye · (03-15-2023)

The Father and the Spirit

The soccer field was bright, green, and pungent that morning. If you looked down just right, you could eye the dirt peeking through, just barely in-between the neon hue of the grass. Coated on the field were lines of white paint, stuck to the grass to determine the legal areas of play, but that wasn't what Ned was focused upon as he moved into a more advantageous defensive position while one of the opposing team barreled towards him. His eyes were locked onto the larger kid, swallowing his fear as best he could as he tried to intercept the ball. The score was tied and there was only a minute or so remaining in the game. It was now or never, Ned thought. 12 years of his life leading to this triumphant moment.

Ned's head bounced against the immaculate grass as he was collided into, his smaller body merely unprepared for the taller and wider boy. There were some calls from the parents lined up at the stands for a yellow or red card, however when the boy who knocked Ned down scored a goal, it was shown that these pleas were as impassioned as they were irrelevant. He watched helplessly from his cushion of earth as the ball flew past the goalie and strode into the net uninterrupted. He witnessed the scowls and heartbroken faces his teammates wore, all pointed towards prone, tiny Ned. It was the same old story of his life: get hit by some kid and receive all of the blame for being on the receiving end of another person's fist. He didn't even like soccer that much, but something about letting down his team- again, just tore him up inside. The walk to his father's car was like a shameful stroll in front of his peers, hearing again how little they thought of him. To them, Ned was dirt and the issue had been that he wasn't obscured by the grass like he should have been.

He was quiet for most of the car ride home, staring out the window and watching the foreground blur slightly as landmarks further away seemed to pass by slower. He traced a fingertip against the glass, trying to think of anything to distract him, but only finding the thoughts burrow their way through. His ears perked when his father spoke up.

“You shouldn't be so down on yourself, Ned,” he said in the most understanding tone he could muster, even though his attention was mainly on the road, “it's just one game. Y'all will get 'em next time.”

“It's always the time before next time,” Ned replied dismissively, his attention still mostly on the window, rather than his father. His dad rolled his eyes somewhat, uncertain how best to convey what Ned needed to hear.

“Buddy, I know it's hard to lose, but it happens,” David, for all his tact as a father, was horrible about repeating himself. This was the beginning of a spiel Ned had heard maybe a million times at this point and one he simply didn't have the patience for this time.

“No, you don't!” He shouted from the back seat, cutting his father off before he got into the meat of this long-tired lecture, “I suck! Everyone on my team thinks I suck! And all the other kids are stronger, faster, have played longer and I'm just crappy, old Ned!”

“Now listen here!” His father didn't enjoy sounding so stern to Ned, but he never liked hearing either of his sons talk that way.

“You do not suck. See, those kids might be bigger, and they might be quicker, but you know what that means? It means they're used to having everything given to them. They're spoiled and they expect you to roll over and take it and quit. But that means that you have to do something that they'll never get used to: you gotta try. And there is nothing more difficult to deal with for a spoiled brat than a kid who'll try. So, are you gonna roll over or are you gonna try?”

Ned's head hung forward a bit, his father's motivation already working some of its magic.

“I'm... gonna try.”

“What was that?” He asked his son loudly, looking to fan some of those flames.

“I'm gonna try!”

“And why is that?”

Ned looked up happily, noticing his father's smile from his glance at the rear-view mirror. There was a reassuring warmth to his father's smile. Something that reminded him that no matter what, there was somewhere safe to return to. A little safe haven in a world that felt chaotic and cruel. He didn't go on to win all of his soccer games from that moment forward, but he never got knocked down on the field again.

“Because I'm a Kaye and Kayes don't quit!”

“That's right,” David nodded proudly as he took an unusual right turn to head towards somewhere that might help cheer Ned up after the tough start to the day.

“How does some ice cream sound, buddy?”

“Cold,” Ned replied snarkily. They shared a laugh there in the car and, despite everything, for that brief moment, the world made a little more sense.

Cold.

That was the sensation that shocked Ned to consciousness. An icy, uncomfortable beam of water striking him and pulling him from the comforting, warm world of dreams and memories and sticking him back in the cool, gray hillside. This was the way he had woken up for the fourth day in a row now. Darcy protested against him putting up with it, but Ned insisted he would get used to it and it'd just make the training tougher.

He hadn't, but it certainly did.

Dewey Main sat in a handmade, wooden chair across from Ned's bed, holding a hose and pointing it at him, letting the water do its job. It was far from the kind of fatherly love Ned had experienced from his Dad, nor an exact comparison to the tough, but fair coaching he remembered Dewey for.

“You up, boy?” The older man asked, expecting a swift response. Ned was still attempting to process what he had dreamt of, let alone waking up. He attempted to gather his thoughts before trying to formulate a sentence.

The hose splashed him with another thorough blast of water, causing Kaye to shiver heavily. The cabin barely had any heating in these guest rooms. The drenching didn't help matters at all.

“I'm up,” Ned stated firmly, his teeth almost chattering with his eyes acclimating once again. Dewey's methods during these most recent training regimens felt... different, but he couldn't quite place his finger on the word.

“Bout time,” Dewey said exasperatedly, checking down at his wristwatch, “we're already running 3 minutes behind.”

He tossed Ned a towel, the fabric stiff in the chilly, stagnant air. It took him a few moments to dry off relatively, making sure to knock on the wooden door that led to Darcy’s temporary arrangements. Almost as soon as he was done knocking, she swung the door open and walked out, readily prepared for their departure towards the mountainside. Despite the change of clothes, Kaye’s hair was disheveled, and his skin drained slightly of its color. Being out here was draining in a way Ned struggled to articulate. Darcy was readily available to assist, however.

“You’re looking like a stack of shit,” she said, slightly smiling as she nudged his shoulder, “still enjoying ol’ Dewey’s training regimen?”

“I don’t recall turning my home into some sorta Hilton. If you’re enjoying yourselves, I’m doing my job wrong. I should probably also put a lock on the door in that case.”

Darcy rolled her eyes, stepping towards the door leading outside and nudging it open, the bitter winds of the outside world filling the room. The chill surged through his right shoulder, highlighting how sore it truly was. He knew where they were training today, but it didn’t make him dread it any less.

Today was the waterfall.

As they hiked through the hillside, Ned peered ahead. Despite the time Darcy and he had spent around Dewey, he held none of the warmth he recalled lying underneath the harshness that the man had held when they last met. Something inside Dewey has shifted utterly, but whatever it was eluded him. It would not for much longer.

The flowing river tumbled over the edge of the steep cliff, a few scattered rocks peeking out of the rapids. Ned had come to terms with heights a few years ago, but that didn’t mean that he liked them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Darcy asked, setting up a place to sit and watch as Ned shivered softly, stepping closer to the splashing waters, “seems pretty stupid.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Ned tied a long rope around his waist, the end of it being held by Dewey as he stepped into the bitter, rushing rapids just a few meters removed from the edge of the waterfall. There was a small body of water at its base, but it was a steep as hell drop. As Ned was in place, Dewey began to speak, trying to place his student into the right mindset.

“What do you fear, boy?” He asked, his voice almost booming over the splashing waves pelting Ned as he stood firm, held in position by Dewey Main.

“Nothing,” Ned shouted, mostly answering out of instinct rather than honesty.

“Nothing?” Dewey gave a sinister chuckle, giving some slack to the rope that abruptly carried Ned inches closer to the drop behind him, “You sure about that?”

“Not a damn thing,” Ned muttered under his breath, trying to keep composed. Main seemed unimpressed. The slack grew, less abruptly, but it was to the point where Kaye’s heels were pressed onto the edge of the waterfall, feeling every wave bounce off of him and plummet below.

“Then I suppose you won’t mind if I do this if you’re so lacking in fear!” Dewey shouted, nearly letting go of Ned and letting him tumble over the edge. Darcy looked on in horror, even as the old man caught the rope in time.

“Will you cut this out?! You’re gonna get him hurt!”

“Not until he says it. Not until the man’s honest.”

Ned strained himself, his body shaking at the combination of adrenaline and the icy weather. Almost calmly, he answered.

“I… I am afraid. I don’t want to let people down. I care about those who get hurt by others' actions. I care immensely and I have to be ready…”

Dewey spoke in the first reassuring way he had this entire trip.

“Ned… you were always ready. Even I knew that.”

That’s when Dewey let go of the rope, allowing Ned to plummet into the water below. He panicked for a moment before an intense calm and serenity washed over him. As he pulled himself from the river, hearing Darcy curse Rob’s dad he looked up, basking in the glow of the sun that peaked through the clouds.

He could feel the warmth.

“The measure of any man is what he is willing to put himself through. How much pain he will accept and how much he won't.”

“I’m not always the best at setting that limit for myself. I get it in my head that to struggle and face pain head-on is what it means to be noble. But that isn’t the whole truth of it all, is it? There is pain you should accept and a level of suffering that is gratuitous. I don’t deserve to be defined by my worst moments, and I refuse to act any longer like I do. But you, Page? Your worst moments are your greatest, so to speak. We were both given a choice with our demons, and we have accepted them in distinctly different ways. I looked them in the eye and decided that even though they were a piece of me, they didn’t define the whole. Conversely, Chris, you realized that your demons were the only thing in place between you and being the kind of athlete you presume me to be: irrelevant and unimportant.”

“But I won this title fair and square, Chris. I don’t see a championship belt around your waist, yet you parade around as if the belts of your employees say anything about the man you are. Y’know, at some point, it all fell into place for me. I understood why you do the things you do. Why try and take out Rob or get in the way of Kido’s career or attempt to push me into the irrelevance you so greatly fear for yourself? Simple: because in the eyes of Chris Page, he is professional wrestling. It begins and ends with him and if something harms that illusion, then the rest of the cracks start to peek through. He needed to try and delegitimize any potential star without ties to him because otherwise… he must accept that this business doesn’t live and die with him. That’s why he’ll try and act tough, but when he faces the fastest rising star in pro wrestling, he does it on his turf, on his terms, and surrounded by his buddies, even his very wife, just in case. That’s why he’ll rattle his mouth about how CCPE is the most important and powerful thing ever, but also try to present them like plucky guys taking on “the world,” which, of course, is people handpicked by him to represent everybody else. A man who says his employees can come and go as they please but creates an entire crusade in the name of “loyalty.” Who the fuck are you fooling, Chris? Because it seems like it's just yourself.”

“You swoop in every time someone is proving themselves in this business to try and kneecap before they’ve kicked off or assimilate them into your brand. Cutthroat business acumen to disguise the core, simple, elegant truth of the matter: you’re scared that this business doesn’t need you, and you’re right to do so, because it doesn’t. To be perfectly fair, you’re not unique in that fact. Professional wrestling will outlast all of us and that’s okay. We’re not going to be here forever, nor remembered that way. But it eats you up inside that wrestlers like James Raven and Steve Jason and Centurion are just as recognizable as you, if not more, despite not having to aggressively advertise themselves. You know that bell-to-bell, where it really matters, you stumble short of the finish line in their wake and it is a searing jealousy, the same one you shared for Robert Main. You had to sell every part of your life away for a fraction of their recognition and success and it left you an angry, bitter, small man, casting the shadow of a tremendous ego.”

“And Chris, I crush egos.”

“You want to know the true identity of the person betraying Chris Page? The guy who will single handedly cause his organization to crumble into a pile of ash? Here’s your answer: it’s Page himself. Despite all of his immense talent at being the worst kind of human businessman, he desperately wants to stand alongside his peers, and he just can’t without a scheme or plot up his sleeve. Chris Page will never stop being an asshole because he doesn’t trust himself to be able to win if he isn’t. Sure, he’ll goof around the north pole, but that’s little more than whitewashing his long history of atrocious acts in the name of not sinking into irrelevance. The measure of a man is what he will put himself through and Chris, you simply do not stack up to me. That’s why I don’t work in your world. In Page’s narrative of professional wrestling, Chris Page is supposed to identify and decide the stars. He glanced at me and saw nothing. That’s all he expected from me. And whether or not he admits it, I defied this expectation, and the fact that I protect this belt is proof alone. I clawed my way back up after my entire career was supposed to be set in stone by this so-called “god of pro wrestling.” I’ve gone on to be the brightest star of the modern era, the man who unified the TV and Supercon, the man who traveled through hell and grabbed gold on the other side merely because he would try where others would give in. And the existence of a man like that is world-shattering for someone like Chris Page. For me? It’s Sunday night.”

“I know his crusade is doomed. I’m not fooled by his attempts to sway me or pretend like he has a chance at outmaneuvering the long stretch of time. And yet, I still burn. A fury spurred on by years of existing in a landscape that treated his delusions as reality. A landscape of bastards, barriers, and broken bones. A long list of people who deserved far more, whom I will pave the way for. I will put myself through any amount of pain to achieve it because it is worth fighting and bleeding for! That fact swells a burning passion in my chest that none can douse or tamper with! I am the man to tear this tower of hubris down and reveal the slime lying underneath. I’ve seen everything that he’s done, every awful deed, every idiotic plot, every self-important ploy and I shall be the first domino that knocks it all over in a pattern obvious to all but him. The next era of Chris Page’s dark, self-serving schemes ends before it is fully written, struck over by a swift swipe that erases it in one motion, delivered from my hand.”

He raised his hand, swiping in a quick, deliberate motion across his body as if he held a pen, the brevity of the moment drawn out by his pure intensity.

“Whiteout.”

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