MY ONE TRUE LOVE

This year continued to surprise me. In January I was in limbo. Literal limbo. I was languishing in dark matches and curtain raisers, suffocating under the weight of an overprotective pillow being smothered over my face.

Just under a year later, I’ve won three championships, defended those championships. I’ve main-evented pay-per-views, competed against some of the best this industry has to offer. I shocked the wrestling world when I defeated Peter Vaughn. I took one of the greatest to ever lace a pair of boots in Chris Page, to his absolute limit.

Even though I’ve been a pro wrestler for ten years, you could argue I’m still a rookie and if someone were to have a better rookie year than me, I’d love for them to point it out.

But this is different. There’s something about going home that does something to my soul. My heart is a tumultuous storm of emotions, a tempest of memories, encapsulating an undying love for the land that bore me. I could almost feel the moment, that one that hangs suspended in time and seems to last forever. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. That moment, when you go on vacation and you step off the plane and feel that heat sweep over you, hitting you in the face like a beautiful punch?

I can almost feel the moment when I eventually step off the plane at Edinburgh Airport. I can’t help it. I can feel the smile literally pulling at the corners of my mouth like a reflex action. That moment when I take that first deep exhalation, my lungs filling with the clean, Autumn air. My soul will be warm.

There is no place on earth, to me, like this. When you walk through the capital, there is nary a part of this historic city that doesn’t provide even the smallest look at our beloved castle. She’s been battered over the centuries. By invading forces, by the harsh Scottish climate, by Mother Nature. But she is still standing, watching, like a silent guardian, a shepherd looking over the flock.

It's been far too long, and each time I return, it hits differently.

America, the land of opportunity, where I met my beloved Eve, where my career started, derailed and built back up again. It has offered me so much, yet it’s not and never will be my true home. No, that privilege belongs to you, Scotland, my heart's true abode.

It doesn’t matter where I am. It could be the cobbled, storied streets of beautiful Edinburgh. The majestic, serene, picturesque backdrops of Argyll and Bute where I spent my early years as a child. Or the familiar, seemingly-forever-rain-drenched run-down housing estates of Dunfermline, the city of my birth, the country’s ancient capital in the times of kings and queens past. I am filled with a profound sense of belonging. The familiar sights, sounds, smells, tastes;  they all welcome me back like old friends, like kindred spirits calling out to me.

Truth be told, I left a piece of myself here when I ventured across the Atlantic, a piece that longed for the rugged beauty of your landscapes, the warmth of your people, and the deep history that permeates every nook and cranny of your ancient land.

Yes, America was where I found love, where I built a life, but it’s never truly been my home. My heart remains tethered to you, Scotland, and the love that I found here, the love of my homeland, it will never waver

I remember the first time I laid eyes on the incredible rolling hills of Lochgilphead as a child, the memory forever etched in my mind. I remember the joy of running through meadows, the thrill of exploring the hidden mountain lochs, and the comfort of a cozy pub, where stories flowed as freely as the whisky and the draught lager. It's here that I learned the meaning of community, of strength, and of the unbreakable bonds that tie us to our roots.

And then, the love of my life, she entered it. I met her in the land of the free, a place where dreams are spun like golden thread, and we began our journey together. We forged a bond as strong as any steel, but even as our love grows, Scotland never left my heart. I yearned to share it with her, to introduce her to the land that had given me everything I had ever known.

She’s one of the few that understands why Scotland means so much to me, why it's more than just a place, but a part of my very being. It's where my story began, where my roots run deep, where my ancestors whisper in the wind, and where the earth beneath my feet sings a song that only I can hear.

So, as I return to you, my beloved Scotland, I am overwhelmed with gratitude, with a sense of coming home. The years in America are just mere chapters in my life, but this, this is the story of my soul. I'm coming back to where I belong, where my heart beats in time with the rhythms of the land, where my spirit soars on the wings of the golden eagles that grace your skies.

They have no inkling what this place is to me. What this country means to me. They have no inkling what having the chance to compete here means to me.

As I think about what it will mean to compete in Scotland for the first time, I think about what my life might have been if I hadn’t made the decision to get on that plane at 16 years old with all the money I’d saved from shitty jobs, skipping school and being just a general low-life pain in the arse. What could have been my life?



WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN AND THANK CHRIST IT DIDN'T!

Amid the dimly lit, cluttered apartment in the heart of Edinburgh, I find myself perched on a threadbare couch that had seen better days. The room was a vivid tapestry of despair, its walls stained with the grime of countless nights that had slipped into oblivion. A stale, musty air hung heavy, a testament to the life I had led—the highs and lows of addiction had etched themselves onto my features, my eyes having lost their youthful spark, replaced by the weight of countless regrets.

Beyond the window, the relentless rain painted a gloomy backdrop for the room. My bony fingers idly drummed on the frayed armrest as his mind wandered through the chaotic mosaic of his life. I’d witnessed it all, been to the depths and heights of Edinburgh's underworld. I knew the pleasures and pain of my homeland, the city's rich history blending with the desolation that had overtaken it.

The radio played an eclectic mix of voices and music, an ironic contrast to the desolation within. My lips curled in a bitter smile, and he turned to my equally jaded friends, my voice a mixture of resignation and sarcasm. "It's shite being Scottish."

In the suffocating atmosphere, my words lingered like a specter, each syllable echoing the shared experiences of those gathered. It was a sentiment forged in the crucible of disillusionment, a stark realization that life in Scotland was far from the romanticized tales of old. The drizzle outside seemed to underscore the melancholic truth.

My gaze drifted around the room, settling on my friends, their faces etched with stories of their own. Matt, with his disheveled hair and vacant expression, nodded in agreement. Deano’s piercing eyes, once sharp but now dulled by years of addiction, conveyed a silent concurrence.

As I continued, my words were an eloquent testament to our collective struggles. "We're the lowest of the low. The scum of the fucking Earth. The most wretched, miserable, servile, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization."

In the confined space, it felt as though the walls themselves absorbed the weight of my words. The room tightened around us, a shared recognition of the darkness that had enveloped our lives. Heather, the wild card of our group, stared at me with a mixture of understanding and defiance, her presence a reminder of our complex, interwoven destinies.

As my voice waned, the room descended into a solemn silence, the radio's voices intermingling with the ceaseless rhythm of the rain. The truth of my words reverberated in the stillness, a stark acknowledgment of the harsh realities they faced. It was shite being Scottish, indeed, and they were all ensnared in a cycle of self-destructive choices, caught in the relentless grip of their own making.

The shadows deepened in the room, as the weight of my words lingered. It was Matt who broke the silence, his voice carrying a tone of quiet resignation. "Aye, Sean's right. It's a constant struggle, this. Nae matter how hard ye try, it's like quicksand. The harder ye fight, the deeper ye sink."

Deano, his gaze unfocused, spoke with a trace of cynicism. "Aye, true, true. And it's no just being Scottish, is it? It's life itself, a constant kick in the fuckin’ baws, a lifetime o’ fuckin’ misery."

My bitterness couldn't be quelled as I leaned forward, my voice tinged with a sarcastic edge. "Aye, but it's the Scottish flavor that gives it that extra dose of misery, lads. Makes it feel more poetic, don’t ye think?"

Heather, with a hint of mischief in her eyes, chimed in, “Aye well, it's no all doom and gloom, Sean, ya depressing cunt! We've got our own peculiar charm, haven't we? Wur own wee special way of looking at the world."

Deano smirked, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Aye, fuckin’ right we do, Hev! And sometimes, it's those stolen moments of ecstasy that make it aw worthwhile, ken?"

Matt, ever the optimist, added with a hint of whimsy, "And let's no' forget the friends we've got in this mad journey, eh? They're worth their weight in gold."

“Steady oan, Matt,” I said, deadpan, “Heather’s no gonnae gie you a fuckin’ blowjob again!”

The room erupted in a chorus of laughter, a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the chaos of our lives. Despite the darkness that loomed, there was a shared understanding that bound us together, a recognition that we were in this struggle as a unit.

As the laughter subsided, Heather shifted her gaze to me. "So, what's the plan, Sean? What's next for us miserable, dour-faced, dirty, low-order, hoachin’, stinkin’ bastardin’ Scots?"

I leaned back, a hint of determination in my eyes. "We keep surviving. We keep fighting, against the odds, against the shite. We find those moments of beauty in the chaos, and we cling tae them. Because no matter how shite it is being Scottish, it's our story tae tell, and we'll tell it wur own way."

The room fell into a contemplative hush, as the weight of our collective experiences settled around us. In that moment, the camaraderie among us was our shield against the despair, a reminder that in the darkness of our lives, there were still glimmers of hope, however fleeting.

Time moved at its own pace in the cramped apartment, where the rhythms of despair and fleeting moments of connection converged. I glanced around the room, my eyes tracing the walls, each stained with their own history. A sense of acceptance enveloped the group, our shared experiences forming an unspoken bond that transcended words.

Deano leaned forward, his gaze piercing as he addressed me. "And what about that bag o’ gear, mate? It's still oot there, waiting for us. A way tae forget, even if just for a moment."

I hesitated, my internal struggle etched on my face. The bag of drugs represented the escape we all craved, a temporary reprieve from the harshness of reality. But it was also a path fraught with danger and consequences.

Matt, ever the voice of reason, added, "Aye, but we've seen where that road leads, Sean. It's a vicious cycle, one that's dragged us doon mair times than we can count."

Heather nodded in agreement. "We've lost too much tae those pills, Sean. Sometimes, we need tae remember the beauty that life can offer without the haze of chemicals."

My resolve wavered as I contemplated their words. I knew the allure of the drug, the false promises it whispered to my wounded soul. But I also understood the toll it had taken on our lives, the dreams it had shattered.

With a sigh, I shook my head. "Yer right, aw o’ you. We've been doon that road too many times. There's mair tae life, even in the shite, and am tired o’ running in circles."

As our collective decision settled in, a sense of unity washed over the room. Despite the challenges we faced as Scots in a harsh world, we were determined to find our own way, to create our own moments of beauty amidst the chaos.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, a reminder that life would always have its storms. But within the confines of their shared experience, a fragile hope blossomed, a beacon that guided us through the darkness. It was shite being Scottish, but we were determined to navigate it on our own terms, one day at a time, sieve through it until we found something worth it being shite for.

Thank Christ that didn’t happen…

BACK IN THE REAL WORLD...

You know, when XWF announced there would be an event taking place in Scotland and under the watchful eye of Edinburgh Castle no less, I could have sworn my heart skipped a beat. Seriously, I was like a kid on Christmas Day waking up at ridiculous o’clock, wanting nothing more than to run through to the living room to open my presents. All I wanted to do was pack my stuff and jump on a plane.


I've been a professional wrestler for a long time. In the past five months, I’ve wrestled across the entire North American continent, I’ve wrestled in London…hell in a few short weeks I’ll be traveling to Cambodia!

But the opportunity to compete on home soil, in my home country, on the hallowed grounds of our most iconic landmark?

I can’t help but smile.

It really doesn’t get better than that.

As quickly as it had appeared in the first place, my smile vanishes.

But as the details start to become clearer, as time draws nearer, my disdain for what the outside world’s perception of my country is also becomes much clearer.

I begin to pace and back forth and I shake my head in disgust.

See, to XWF, to everyone, all Scotland is a joke.

An accent forever mocked, a culture always parodied.

Americans pretend they know a goddamn thing about what being Scottish is or what it means.

They watch Braveheart a bunch of times, believing Mel Gibson actually has a passable Scottish accent. Or they sign up for some bullshit DNA test that shows they’re…

I put on my most bastardized, cringeworthy American accent I can stomach eliciting.

“One-Eighth Scotch”...

Ugh. That was painful.

….And they then saunter across the Atlantic wearing stupid their tartan baseball caps acting like they’re one of the people, visiting “Edinborough” and “Glas-gow”. They claim their Great Great Grandad on their second cousin’s dog’s side twice removed was Scottish so that must make them Scottish too.

If I roll my eyes anymore they’re going to fall out of my skull. You’re not Scottish, you imbecile, you work in Target and live in Wisconsin, buy a fridge magnet and fuck off!

None of you have the faintest semblance of an inkling of just how fucking insulting that is.

And Thaddeus Duke? You’re one of those ignorant people. You want to be this… pantomime villain, bringing out your son like a jester-like hype man, using Edinburgh Castle as your stage. You think it’s funny to blast “Scotland the Brave'' across the speakers for cheap heat.

But you don’t even know what it means, do you? To you, it’s an opportunity to troll.

It’s the very heartbeat of our nation. It is a powerful emblem of our heritage, resilience, and indomitable spirit.

But to you, it’s a joke.

With every triumphant note and stirring lyric, it encapsulates the essence of my country’s history and its people's unyielding determination. It's a rallying cry for Scots across the globe, invoking a deep sense of unity and belonging that transcends geographical boundaries. When the skirl of the bagpipes heralds its arrival, a surge of emotion swells within us, reminding us of the heroes and heroines who fought for our freedom and the countless generations who continue to honor that legacy.

But to you, it’s a joke.

It is performed at every Remembrance Day ceremonies to pay tribute to our fallen soldiers and veterans who gave their lives in conflict. Hell, it even played as my father went on his final journey.

But to you, it’s a joke.

It reminds us of our ancestors' struggles, the struggles we face today, and the bright future we strive to build. It is our anthem, our identity, our legacy, and the unwavering reminder that Scotland will forever stand as a nation of courage, and unwavering pride.

But to you… it’s just an opportunity to play the villain. Because that’s all I and my country are to you. One big. Fucking. Joke!

I told you last month on Madness, Thad. I know how successful you are. I know how good you can be even on your worst day. At any other time, I’d happily give you your flowers ten times over.

You’ve achieved more in your short career than most of us could only dream of doing in decades. But right now, you’re no better in my eyes than the Kevin Mears of the world.

You spew this rhetoric that you can play the part of the bad guy when it suits you like it’s some twisted badge of honor, like a serial killer’s calling card that I’m supposed to recoil at the notion of.

My brow furrows and my eyes narrow, an incredulous, almost mocking smile. A dismissive wave of my hand follows.

You don’t scare me, Thaddeus Duke. You want me to quake under the weight of your reputation, to quiver in fear at the veritable rogues gallery of your past vanquished opponents. Believe me, Thad. I know your history. EVERYONE knows your history…but that’s all it is now, is history. And the only aspect of history I’m interested in is making it at your expense come Fire and Ice.

You know, when I first arrived at Madness, when we had that long conversation about how you planned on revolutionizing the show and bringing it back from the depths of despair, how you saw me as this important piece of a much bigger puzzle, you excited me, Thad. You sounded like you had a fire in your belly, that you believed in me.

And I can’t believe it took agreeing to face you in a match to show me who you really are. Peel the flesh away from that handsome face and all that’s left is a wooden husk. Pull back your hood, all I’d see is a snout, jagged teeth, and pointed ears. You’re a trickster, Thaddeus Duke.

You had no plans on bringing Kevin and I into XWF to create some legendary rivalry that you could gloat to Theo Pryce about. All you were interested in was cementing your own wife’s main event status by creating this facade that you cared about the magic Kevin and I could have made. And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

My palms collide in a smattering of mock applause.

You know, I really thought we had something in common, when you sold me on your plans for Madness. I thought I was going to lead the charge for you, taking the brand to greater heights than the projections you oh-so-excitedly told me about all those months ago. Looks like I was wrong. Guess I was just another victim of the Thad Duke charm, another sailor drawn to the death notes of your siren song.

We may be close in age but aside from that our battle with Chris Page, that's where the similarities of you and I end, boss.

We’ve both suffered the heartbreak of defeat at Page’s hands, both lost something that was dear to us. You were there, you remember don’t you? Of course you did, you were hiding in the crowd like a fucking coward.

I was inches from caving in his skull. Amongst the metallic tinge of my own blood on my tongue, I could almost make out the sweet taste of victory on my pallet. Could you say the same?

I allow, for once, an almost arrogant smirk to grace my face.

You were comprehensively beaten, exposed and left for dead as Page left with the last real material possession that has given you any sort of relevance in pro wrestling. That XWF Universal Championship.

Again, the smile disappears.

But I finally understand,...you don’t care about professional wrestling. But me? I live for it. I am obsessed with it. It’s all I think about. After my match with Page, do you know what I was doing? Working out what I’m gonna do the next time I stand across from him.

There’s a reason I’m the first one through the door and I’m the last one to leave. That I help the ground crew set the ring up, that I sit in Gorilla in watching every match, that I go to Warfare, to Anarchy when I’m not even on those shows. Its the love I have for this sport, because it’s all I’ve ever fucking known, Thad!

But you? You just don’t want to be here, do you? Not really. You’re really just killing time now.

As soon as Madness goes off the air, you can’t wait to leave, to go back to your life outside of wrestling. I see the look on your face backstage. It’s the look of a man who's looking for the best time to clock out, like he’d rather be somewhere else. I don’t even bother speaking to you anymore because all I get are shrugs and half-hearted nods. You don’t care about this business, not really. As long as the old trust fund is replenished, amirite?

That’s why you sneer and smirk in the direction of guys like me. Guys who don’t know anything else either other than this, because it’s the only thing WE know! You can’t fathom why people dedicate their entire existences to something because you cannot comprehend something you know absolutely nothing about! You’ve never had that love or desire for professional wrestling. You did it because you could, it was a skill you were particularly good at and you capitalized on it. And you know what? Fair play, I actually applaud you for it.

But all that success? All those accolades? Those championships? You may have won them, hell you may have earned them. But you don’t DESERVE them.

So… I’m coming back to my home country but not just to bask in her beauty but to protect and safeguard her legacy… because there's a pretender in my midst, a mocking villain who thinks he can waltz into my story, wearing a costume of arrogance and entitlement. He thinks he's seen it all, that his miles on the life experience engine grant him a glimpse into the very soul of my home.

But let me make one thing crystal clear: this villain doesn't know me, he doesn't know what makes me tick. He has no idea.

So I’m coming back home to stand as a guardian. To defend my country, to defend my pride, my legacy and, most importantly, to defend professional wrestling against the would-be villain, Thaddeus Duke.