Introducing The Showman: Apologies to the Hunter and Madman
Apr 22, 2020 14:48:24 GMT -5
BonnieBlue, Spartan, and 3 more like this
Post by Issac Cooke on Apr 22, 2020 14:48:24 GMT -5
The laying on of hands was always a tradition within my pop’s church when I was coming up as a boy. The experience involved the congregation coming together and doing exactly what it sounds like they’d do. Whenever anybody had a big moment happen in their life - a new child, a wedding, a graduation, an impending move, a new job - everyone came together to place their hands upon the recipient of the ceremony and bless them as a child of god while the recipient moved into a new chapter of their life.
Well, on this day, it was my turn to be blessed. Within a matter of days, I’d be leaving this loving, nurturing church, a home-away-from-home which my father had built for me and the entire congregation. Confronting the reality of my changing life and my ever developing future was certainly bittersweet, but in the time when my father’s congregation - my adoptive family - was heaping blessings and love upon me, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me, and the knowledge that I was in fact making the right decision for my career overtook any of the doubts I’d been experiencing up to that point. Afterall, this had been perhaps my highest goal since I was a child, and seeing it all manafest in front of me now?
“Wow.”
I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia in the shadow of the territory days of wrestling. To exist as a kid in my city meant growing up watching wrestling. Those were the days of the Southern Grapplers, right before the dawn of the high flying, death defying style I’ve come to know and love. As a kid, I desperately wanted to be one of those Grapplers. I would sit cross legged in front of the screen on Saturday mornings to watch that week’s matches from the Atlanta territory. I always wanted to go to the matches, but it just never worked out for my pop. The busiest part of a preacher’s week is everyone else’s weekend, and that was when the matches took place.
“Now, Issac, you’ll just have to make due with the television. I’m sorry I can’t take you, but the church demands my undivided attention on Saturday and Sunday.”
I understood. I didn’t like it necessarily, but I understood it. Jesus and the church came before wrestling. It just was what it was. But with nearly the same fervor as I had sitting in the pew listening to pop light a fire in the souls of the people. Just as I felt the words of my father in the core of my being as a young child. I sat there in my living room watching through the static on our television screen feeling every strike in the ring, every hold, every slam and drop. I would wait until commercials to adjust the rabbit ear antenna on my set to ensure I caught every word of commentary and saw every maneuver executed on the canvas of the ring. A bathroom break mid-match was almost a sin on par with those pop preached about from the pulpit.
Even as a child, when I saw wrestling, I saw art being performed, I saw a brute force dance performed by men who wanted nothing more than they wanted to claim glory. I yearned to be in the ring. I set my trajectory for the show, where someone like me - a charismatic natural athlete perpetually moved in the direction of progress by an engine and work ethic that simply never stopped - would be able to make a life for himself and would be able to build a career, maybe a family, and possibly even his own home.
I knew it wasn’t exactly the same as what I saw on tv every Saturday as a child, but as soon as I learned that my high school had a wrestling team, I was hooked. All of the running. All of the specifically tailored lifting and training plans. All of the diets and weight cutting. It was my life for four years of high school, and when I walked away with my diploma, I had won three consecutive state titles and set my school’s career records in pins and wins in my weight class. When the colleges came knocking, I was recruited by some of the finest collegiate programs in the country. Everything was coming together exactly as I’d planned. I was named an All-American, I won a national championship, and I did it all with the end goal in mind of entering the squared circle and making my name in wrestling of a different sort.[/i]
My, MY, MY! THE SHOWMAN debuts at the BIGGEST SHOW OF THE YEAR?! How. Fitting.
I have been looking forward to this moment since I put pen to paper and laid that hot, wet ink down on the dotted line. My whole life has led me to this moment: Gods of Wrestling. April 27, 2020. This is my moment. This… is SHOWTIME!
The powers that be have booked a triple debut match. Coming in, we’re all mysteries to each other. I’ve never seen Alvara Rose in action. She’s never seen Issac Cooke in a ring. I’ve never seen James Nightmare in action. He’s never seen Issac Cooke in a ring. It’s the perfect test of skill and talent. Now, I understand that both of these two have likely seen my work on the mats back in my college days, but that’s nothing compared to what they’ll see come Gods of Wrestling. Though the sports share a name, collegiate wrestling’s a different sport entirely. In college, I always knew that I was in for straight up, fair match competition with someone my size. In APW? It’s yet another mystery. Will my opponent be a fair fighter or a rat? Will they be enormous or built like...a rat? (It turns out there is a good amount of rat-like things in wrestling.) While the mystery of the ring must always stay in the back of your mind, your opponent - in my case, opponents - must ALWAYS stay right, smackdab in the forefront.
So the front of my mind, this week is occupied twofold. First in line is Alvara Rose, a hunter with a handler. Look, y’all, I don’t have the slightest idea what this hunter is aiming for. I don’t have a clue what a handler does, but I’m excited to find out. You see this whole experience, beyond one where I am to be as competitive as I am able, is one where I am looking to learn and grow. Right out of the gate, I have an excellent opportunity to learn if nothing else. Like any prepared learner, I’m entering this opportunity with some questions: How does a 144 pound woman call herself a brawler? Is this “hunting” some kind of ritualistic murder? Given the murdering, how does Alvara sleep at night, especially while frontin’ and calling herself a good guy? I’m not about to go out on the biggest stage in this company and lay down for some Katniss Everdeen cosplayer in my first ever bout in an Alpha Pro ring. Nope. Not this time, Hunter. I mean, that whole killing and contract thing… that’s got to be a joke, right? I mean, in what universe could someone who is literally paid to spill the blood of people identify themselves as a good person? It’s either some sort of stunning lack of self-awareness or a joke that doesn’t have a punchline. As someone in your crosshairs, I sure hope it’s a not funny ha-ha, but I’m certainly ready to defend myself if you’re looking for blood.
And then there’s the psycho. A real madman. So here’s the deal, I’ve been watching wrestling essentially all my life. There have been seemingly endless pSyCHos and cRAzIeS and inSAnE people. It’s a schtick that’s getting worn out. Let’s be real, here, Nightmare, your whole thing is an insult to the real traumatic experiences of everyone who is forced to confront the realities of mental illness and the traumas that come from the stigmatization therein. You though? You use it as a gimmick?! How insulting! How dismissive! How dastardly! You feel the compulsion - the need! - to exploit the real struggles of real people to inflict your brand of fear? How dare you, Nightmare?! That’s weak, man. That shows me everything I need to know about you. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Willing to attempt to manipulate people to get what you want no matter who or what you have to step on to get that job done. I’ve spent my whole life standing up to people like you, so it feels wonderfully fitting that I have the opportunity to stand up for the right things straight out of the gate in APW. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a truth-justice-and-the-American-way or a say-your-prayers-and-take-your-vitamins type, but I am the Issac Cooke type. The show you the light type. The never back down type. And look, man, maybe I’m all wrong about you. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions about a man I’ve never seen or met before who is presenting himself as The Psycho. Maybe. But... I’m certainly not holding my breath. Now I know that these debut matches, they are frequently kind of make or break situations. A lot of folks who show up once and lose realize they’re not cut out for the game and they bolt. Nightmare, my plan is to beat you so clearly, so decisively that you either get the picture and display some empathy or you turn tail and leave. I want to save the people from the destructiveness of your demonization of people who experience real mental health problems. Having a psychotic break isn’t what makes you a bad guy, Nightmare; being the type of guy who weaponizes psychosis does.
So I get to make my first impressions at Gods of Wrestling. I get to introduce myself to the audience, to the locker room, Alpha Pro Wrestling. Why wait until April 27 to do that?
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…
I AM THE SHOWMAN!
I AM WORTH ALL THE HYPE YOU’VE EVER HEARD AND MORE!
I AM THE FUTURE OF APW!
I!
AM!
ISSAC!
COOKE!
What you see is what you get, and what you’ll see come April 27… is a debut for the ages!
And that brings us back to this moment where I stood in the chapel of my retired father’s former church, the church my father built with his words and ability to keep a crowd interested. Surrounded by the hundreds of people who had witnessed and cheered me on at every step in my life thus far. Countless people with hands laid on. And all of them were willing into the world their prayers for my success in this next stage of my life, the stage that would take me to Alpha Pro Wrestling.
“Lord, carry our boy to the peak of the mountain and shine your glory upon him!”
“Oh Jesus! PLEASE! Guide Issac’s feet in the right direction and his heart ALWAYS toward you!”
“Heavenly Father, protect young Issac as he ventures out into such new terrain and allow his work to bring glory to you!”
I felt the warmth of all of their love. I was engulfed in the fire of their faith and their passion for the spirit and power of god. I appreciated that every one of these people was surrounding me here to do what they thought was the most powerful thing in their arsenal to support me in my efforts to become a professional wrestler. I appreciated that they were doing something for me that they truly believed would help me in my journey. Honestly though, it had been years since I saw prayer as something of importance or any power beyond a placebo effect. I had, many years ago, come to believe there was no divine hand which guided the universe and that we were doing good things for corrupt reasons if we did so just for the reward of a comfortable afterlife. I had begun to question my own faith years ago, but for the sake of my father and his congregation, kept up the appearance of being a devout man of faith. Now that I was about to leave the church and strike out on my own as a globe trotting professional wrestler, the appearances would be less important. No one would whisper should I not attend church. My pop would not be aware if I failed to abide by the every word of god. I was setting myself free in this moment, and the weight of this facade I had been crafting to protect myself and others whom I cared about lifted off of me as if they themselves were prayers being lifted up to the heavens.
As I stood there in that moment, I was overcome with emotion, and tears streamed down my cheeks as I wept elated tears. I was finally completely free to be who I’d always wished to be but never felt allowed to express. One instance comes to me as I explain this. In high school, I was a sophomore and ranked number two in the state for my weight class. Going into a match where my opponent was the top ranked wrestler in our weight class - undefeated for two complete seasons, working on making it three - I was floored with excitement. When I surprised him by pinning him at the state tournament, I celebrated by rising to my knees and throwing my arms in the air while letting out a deep guttural scream. Anyone in my position would have done the same! It’s human nature when you accomplish what was supposed to be impossible. My dad simply wasn’t having any of it.
“It’s too showy. Do you really think Jesus wants you bragging and rubbing in a something like that? What about your opponent? How do you think it made him feel to see you hotdoggin’ out there?”
Of course, I disagreed with him, but that was its own battle about respecting my elders and honoring my mother and father. My pop just never understood how good he had it with me. I talked to all sorts of other KOPs - kids of preachers - and it was clear as day that most of them used their status to get away with all but literal murder. It was a lifestyle of constant partying and debauchery, because, I mean, no one suspected them of anything. Yet I never stepped out of line on my folks. I never did anything reckless or stupid. I never disobeyed them. But my pop, he would look for those little things that he just had to try to snuff out like the embers of a building fire.
“Theatre is too…I don’t know. I just want you to spend your time on something else.”
“Showchoir?! Why would you ever?”
“We don’t read or watch stories about witches in this house. Harry Potter is going to hell, Issac. He’s no role model.”
Now I don’t mean to make things sound like I hate - or even dislike - my pop. I love that man. Truly. He was always there when I needed that voice to pick me up or refocus my energy on my immediate goals. He was always there, a support beam that literally always held me up and made me stronger. But now, I was going out on my own.
Pop and I sat down before I departed. He placed his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me. I just kind of sat there and let him do his thing. When he had finished, he looked at me with pride welling up in his eyes.
“You know, Issac, this isn’t necessarily the life I had in mind for you, but son, it’s your life and your decision to make. The choice I have is whether I support you, and I couldn’t imagine a world in which I would neglect to give you my blessing to pursue your dreams. Your mother and I have raised a good man. A man with a moral compass. A man who holds God close to his heart.”
You know the old saying? Two out of three ain’t bad. Yeah. I was feeling that hard in the moment.
“But Issac, should you need anything… I mean ANYTHING… I’m a phone call away.”
“I know, pop, and I appreciate it.”
“I’m proud of you, Issac. I love you.”
“Thanks, pop. I love you, too.”
Pop stood up and he took me in his arms. I don’t think my old man had ever hugged me with that kind of intensity before, but when he broke the bear hug, I saw him try to sneakily wipe away a tear in his eye.
“Pop, this isn’t a goodbye. I’ll see you later. Promise.”
My old man smiled.
“I know, Issac. I’m just… I’m just so proud of you. Proud of the man you’ve become. I know you’ll just continue to make me proud. And to top everything off, you’re about to have an incredible platform for spreading the good word, too.”
“Um, yeah, pop. Sure.”
He pulled me in tight again for another crushing hug. I love him, man. I do. But April 27th could not have come soon enough.
Well, on this day, it was my turn to be blessed. Within a matter of days, I’d be leaving this loving, nurturing church, a home-away-from-home which my father had built for me and the entire congregation. Confronting the reality of my changing life and my ever developing future was certainly bittersweet, but in the time when my father’s congregation - my adoptive family - was heaping blessings and love upon me, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me, and the knowledge that I was in fact making the right decision for my career overtook any of the doubts I’d been experiencing up to that point. Afterall, this had been perhaps my highest goal since I was a child, and seeing it all manafest in front of me now?
“Wow.”
I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia in the shadow of the territory days of wrestling. To exist as a kid in my city meant growing up watching wrestling. Those were the days of the Southern Grapplers, right before the dawn of the high flying, death defying style I’ve come to know and love. As a kid, I desperately wanted to be one of those Grapplers. I would sit cross legged in front of the screen on Saturday mornings to watch that week’s matches from the Atlanta territory. I always wanted to go to the matches, but it just never worked out for my pop. The busiest part of a preacher’s week is everyone else’s weekend, and that was when the matches took place.
“Now, Issac, you’ll just have to make due with the television. I’m sorry I can’t take you, but the church demands my undivided attention on Saturday and Sunday.”
I understood. I didn’t like it necessarily, but I understood it. Jesus and the church came before wrestling. It just was what it was. But with nearly the same fervor as I had sitting in the pew listening to pop light a fire in the souls of the people. Just as I felt the words of my father in the core of my being as a young child. I sat there in my living room watching through the static on our television screen feeling every strike in the ring, every hold, every slam and drop. I would wait until commercials to adjust the rabbit ear antenna on my set to ensure I caught every word of commentary and saw every maneuver executed on the canvas of the ring. A bathroom break mid-match was almost a sin on par with those pop preached about from the pulpit.
Even as a child, when I saw wrestling, I saw art being performed, I saw a brute force dance performed by men who wanted nothing more than they wanted to claim glory. I yearned to be in the ring. I set my trajectory for the show, where someone like me - a charismatic natural athlete perpetually moved in the direction of progress by an engine and work ethic that simply never stopped - would be able to make a life for himself and would be able to build a career, maybe a family, and possibly even his own home.
I knew it wasn’t exactly the same as what I saw on tv every Saturday as a child, but as soon as I learned that my high school had a wrestling team, I was hooked. All of the running. All of the specifically tailored lifting and training plans. All of the diets and weight cutting. It was my life for four years of high school, and when I walked away with my diploma, I had won three consecutive state titles and set my school’s career records in pins and wins in my weight class. When the colleges came knocking, I was recruited by some of the finest collegiate programs in the country. Everything was coming together exactly as I’d planned. I was named an All-American, I won a national championship, and I did it all with the end goal in mind of entering the squared circle and making my name in wrestling of a different sort.[/i]
My, MY, MY! THE SHOWMAN debuts at the BIGGEST SHOW OF THE YEAR?! How. Fitting.
I have been looking forward to this moment since I put pen to paper and laid that hot, wet ink down on the dotted line. My whole life has led me to this moment: Gods of Wrestling. April 27, 2020. This is my moment. This… is SHOWTIME!
The powers that be have booked a triple debut match. Coming in, we’re all mysteries to each other. I’ve never seen Alvara Rose in action. She’s never seen Issac Cooke in a ring. I’ve never seen James Nightmare in action. He’s never seen Issac Cooke in a ring. It’s the perfect test of skill and talent. Now, I understand that both of these two have likely seen my work on the mats back in my college days, but that’s nothing compared to what they’ll see come Gods of Wrestling. Though the sports share a name, collegiate wrestling’s a different sport entirely. In college, I always knew that I was in for straight up, fair match competition with someone my size. In APW? It’s yet another mystery. Will my opponent be a fair fighter or a rat? Will they be enormous or built like...a rat? (It turns out there is a good amount of rat-like things in wrestling.) While the mystery of the ring must always stay in the back of your mind, your opponent - in my case, opponents - must ALWAYS stay right, smackdab in the forefront.
So the front of my mind, this week is occupied twofold. First in line is Alvara Rose, a hunter with a handler. Look, y’all, I don’t have the slightest idea what this hunter is aiming for. I don’t have a clue what a handler does, but I’m excited to find out. You see this whole experience, beyond one where I am to be as competitive as I am able, is one where I am looking to learn and grow. Right out of the gate, I have an excellent opportunity to learn if nothing else. Like any prepared learner, I’m entering this opportunity with some questions: How does a 144 pound woman call herself a brawler? Is this “hunting” some kind of ritualistic murder? Given the murdering, how does Alvara sleep at night, especially while frontin’ and calling herself a good guy? I’m not about to go out on the biggest stage in this company and lay down for some Katniss Everdeen cosplayer in my first ever bout in an Alpha Pro ring. Nope. Not this time, Hunter. I mean, that whole killing and contract thing… that’s got to be a joke, right? I mean, in what universe could someone who is literally paid to spill the blood of people identify themselves as a good person? It’s either some sort of stunning lack of self-awareness or a joke that doesn’t have a punchline. As someone in your crosshairs, I sure hope it’s a not funny ha-ha, but I’m certainly ready to defend myself if you’re looking for blood.
And then there’s the psycho. A real madman. So here’s the deal, I’ve been watching wrestling essentially all my life. There have been seemingly endless pSyCHos and cRAzIeS and inSAnE people. It’s a schtick that’s getting worn out. Let’s be real, here, Nightmare, your whole thing is an insult to the real traumatic experiences of everyone who is forced to confront the realities of mental illness and the traumas that come from the stigmatization therein. You though? You use it as a gimmick?! How insulting! How dismissive! How dastardly! You feel the compulsion - the need! - to exploit the real struggles of real people to inflict your brand of fear? How dare you, Nightmare?! That’s weak, man. That shows me everything I need to know about you. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Willing to attempt to manipulate people to get what you want no matter who or what you have to step on to get that job done. I’ve spent my whole life standing up to people like you, so it feels wonderfully fitting that I have the opportunity to stand up for the right things straight out of the gate in APW. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a truth-justice-and-the-American-way or a say-your-prayers-and-take-your-vitamins type, but I am the Issac Cooke type. The show you the light type. The never back down type. And look, man, maybe I’m all wrong about you. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions about a man I’ve never seen or met before who is presenting himself as The Psycho. Maybe. But... I’m certainly not holding my breath. Now I know that these debut matches, they are frequently kind of make or break situations. A lot of folks who show up once and lose realize they’re not cut out for the game and they bolt. Nightmare, my plan is to beat you so clearly, so decisively that you either get the picture and display some empathy or you turn tail and leave. I want to save the people from the destructiveness of your demonization of people who experience real mental health problems. Having a psychotic break isn’t what makes you a bad guy, Nightmare; being the type of guy who weaponizes psychosis does.
So I get to make my first impressions at Gods of Wrestling. I get to introduce myself to the audience, to the locker room, Alpha Pro Wrestling. Why wait until April 27 to do that?
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…
I AM THE SHOWMAN!
I AM WORTH ALL THE HYPE YOU’VE EVER HEARD AND MORE!
I AM THE FUTURE OF APW!
I!
AM!
ISSAC!
COOKE!
What you see is what you get, and what you’ll see come April 27… is a debut for the ages!
And that brings us back to this moment where I stood in the chapel of my retired father’s former church, the church my father built with his words and ability to keep a crowd interested. Surrounded by the hundreds of people who had witnessed and cheered me on at every step in my life thus far. Countless people with hands laid on. And all of them were willing into the world their prayers for my success in this next stage of my life, the stage that would take me to Alpha Pro Wrestling.
“Lord, carry our boy to the peak of the mountain and shine your glory upon him!”
“Oh Jesus! PLEASE! Guide Issac’s feet in the right direction and his heart ALWAYS toward you!”
“Heavenly Father, protect young Issac as he ventures out into such new terrain and allow his work to bring glory to you!”
I felt the warmth of all of their love. I was engulfed in the fire of their faith and their passion for the spirit and power of god. I appreciated that every one of these people was surrounding me here to do what they thought was the most powerful thing in their arsenal to support me in my efforts to become a professional wrestler. I appreciated that they were doing something for me that they truly believed would help me in my journey. Honestly though, it had been years since I saw prayer as something of importance or any power beyond a placebo effect. I had, many years ago, come to believe there was no divine hand which guided the universe and that we were doing good things for corrupt reasons if we did so just for the reward of a comfortable afterlife. I had begun to question my own faith years ago, but for the sake of my father and his congregation, kept up the appearance of being a devout man of faith. Now that I was about to leave the church and strike out on my own as a globe trotting professional wrestler, the appearances would be less important. No one would whisper should I not attend church. My pop would not be aware if I failed to abide by the every word of god. I was setting myself free in this moment, and the weight of this facade I had been crafting to protect myself and others whom I cared about lifted off of me as if they themselves were prayers being lifted up to the heavens.
As I stood there in that moment, I was overcome with emotion, and tears streamed down my cheeks as I wept elated tears. I was finally completely free to be who I’d always wished to be but never felt allowed to express. One instance comes to me as I explain this. In high school, I was a sophomore and ranked number two in the state for my weight class. Going into a match where my opponent was the top ranked wrestler in our weight class - undefeated for two complete seasons, working on making it three - I was floored with excitement. When I surprised him by pinning him at the state tournament, I celebrated by rising to my knees and throwing my arms in the air while letting out a deep guttural scream. Anyone in my position would have done the same! It’s human nature when you accomplish what was supposed to be impossible. My dad simply wasn’t having any of it.
“It’s too showy. Do you really think Jesus wants you bragging and rubbing in a something like that? What about your opponent? How do you think it made him feel to see you hotdoggin’ out there?”
Of course, I disagreed with him, but that was its own battle about respecting my elders and honoring my mother and father. My pop just never understood how good he had it with me. I talked to all sorts of other KOPs - kids of preachers - and it was clear as day that most of them used their status to get away with all but literal murder. It was a lifestyle of constant partying and debauchery, because, I mean, no one suspected them of anything. Yet I never stepped out of line on my folks. I never did anything reckless or stupid. I never disobeyed them. But my pop, he would look for those little things that he just had to try to snuff out like the embers of a building fire.
“Theatre is too…I don’t know. I just want you to spend your time on something else.”
“Showchoir?! Why would you ever?”
“We don’t read or watch stories about witches in this house. Harry Potter is going to hell, Issac. He’s no role model.”
Now I don’t mean to make things sound like I hate - or even dislike - my pop. I love that man. Truly. He was always there when I needed that voice to pick me up or refocus my energy on my immediate goals. He was always there, a support beam that literally always held me up and made me stronger. But now, I was going out on my own.
Pop and I sat down before I departed. He placed his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me. I just kind of sat there and let him do his thing. When he had finished, he looked at me with pride welling up in his eyes.
“You know, Issac, this isn’t necessarily the life I had in mind for you, but son, it’s your life and your decision to make. The choice I have is whether I support you, and I couldn’t imagine a world in which I would neglect to give you my blessing to pursue your dreams. Your mother and I have raised a good man. A man with a moral compass. A man who holds God close to his heart.”
You know the old saying? Two out of three ain’t bad. Yeah. I was feeling that hard in the moment.
“But Issac, should you need anything… I mean ANYTHING… I’m a phone call away.”
“I know, pop, and I appreciate it.”
“I’m proud of you, Issac. I love you.”
“Thanks, pop. I love you, too.”
Pop stood up and he took me in his arms. I don’t think my old man had ever hugged me with that kind of intensity before, but when he broke the bear hug, I saw him try to sneakily wipe away a tear in his eye.
“Pop, this isn’t a goodbye. I’ll see you later. Promise.”
My old man smiled.
“I know, Issac. I’m just… I’m just so proud of you. Proud of the man you’ve become. I know you’ll just continue to make me proud. And to top everything off, you’re about to have an incredible platform for spreading the good word, too.”
“Um, yeah, pop. Sure.”
He pulled me in tight again for another crushing hug. I love him, man. I do. But April 27th could not have come soon enough.
