Post by america on Sept 27, 2020 22:54:23 GMT -5
2010
“Hey, looking good champ.”
Isaiah grabbed America’s hand, pulling him close and giving him a clap on the back as he left the mat. America leaned in, exhausted. He’d just had his final match of the meet and his opponent had given him hell. They specialized in picking the leg and he’d had to fight differently and more defensively than he typically preferred. In the end, he was able to get back to his feet and regain control of the match. The thought passed through his head as he and Isaiah walked to the bleachers to hydrate that without that tutelage, he’d never have pulled through.
“Where you want all this to go?” Isaiah asked.
“What, like…next year or something?” America asked in response. Isaiah laughed.
“Think bigger, man. You want to go to college? Go to the Olympics or something? Maybe end up in FTW one day?” Isaiah let the question linger a moment before adding. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
“On the farm, probably.” America said. “Pa worked that land since he was a kid and sure enough he’ll pass it into my hands one day. When that comes, I’ll have to take it. I can’t let him or my ma down.”
“I suppose.” Isaiah said. “Hell of a waste though. You might just be a generational talent out there. Lotta places you could go that exist past Glen Rose.”
“Guess so.” America considered. “How about you?”
“Somewhere far away.” Isaiah answered without hesitation. “This place…lot of folks who are born here, die here. I was never gonna be one of ‘em. I got my own path to make in this world…just gotta figure out where it is. First step’s college. Got my scholarship lined right up. But then…” He smiled as he considered it. “Then the whole damn world’s gonna open up to me.”
“Huh.” America found himself in thought at that. “Gonna miss you something awful at these meets.”
“You’ll manage.” Isaiah replied. “You’re the superstar. Give it enough time, ain’t nothing that you can’t do.”
2020
“So…what do you think?”
America holds his arms wide, the better to showcase the full scale gym and ring which Zaigon Carter has provided him access to. As with many aspects of his wrestling ventures, Zaigon always imparted the need to stay prepared. Thus he has gyms in several major cities across America to train in. Once America had joined him in the Storm, he had been granted access to all of them. In this moment, he is quite drunk as he fumbles his way to the ring.
“Hell…your boss knows how to offer the perks. Damn.” Isaiah says, looking the place over in awe.
“Come on…let’s have a go.” America says, sliding out of his jacket and shirt before rolling into the ring. Isaiah laughs and shakes his head, all while moving to do the same.
“This is so stupid.” Isaiah says, but he rolls in as well. “Should probably go to the briefs if we’re gonna do this. Don’t want to blow the crotch out of pants this expensive.”
America agrees and the two strip down further. America can see that despite years away from anything resembling professional athleticism, Isaiah has kept in shape. His body is a work of bulky musculature built in layers denser than America’s tighter cut. Years back, someone had called Isaiah fat and when unconvinced of the muscles beneath, found himself careening through the air into the bleachers. While not having the build of a fitness model, America knows well that there’s still power in there.
They lock up and to his surprise, America has difficulty taking the larger man down. Isaiah moves slower than he did when they shared a team, but the bulk he’s added in the interim combined with old instincts and knowledge coming alive allow him to hold his own against the World Champion. It’s not for long…eventually America is able to break through and roll him over into a pin but it’s a lot closer than he would have expected.
Isaiah laughs.
It’s a warm laugh. America realizes how long it’s been since he’s felt anything that warm. The void in the shape of his mother. The absence in the shape of his father. The cold leadership of Zaigon Carter. All of these people forming the framework of a life and yet none of them giving any life to him. Yet here in the dim light of this after hours gym, Isaiah laughs with a warmth that gives America no choice but to collapse to the mat and laugh with him.
“I needed this.” Isaiah says. “Lawyering is…well, it’s not unrewarding work even beyond the money, but damn it has been a while since I’ve just got to…go like that.”
“I hear you.” America says. “I got people always coming for the throat. So much pressure on my shoulders…be a symbol, be a good son, keep the lights on, be a champion…sometimes I just need to let go and be…I don’t know, me?”
“And who is America Jackson?” Isaiah asks. “When the cameras are off, the bills are paid, the parental obligations attended…who’s the man left at the heart of all this?”
“I don’t know.” America says. “I’ve never…I haven’t had the time or the space to figure it out. It’s always one fight after the next, another battle with everything that matters to me on the line. Nothing but high stakes and…at the heart of it, I never really get to think about how I feel. I don’t get to feel anything. So how the hell am I supposed to know who I am?”
Isaiah nods.
“My family…we haven’t really talked since college.” he says. “They didn’t approve of who I became. Couldn’t accept it was the same person I’d been all along. I dunno. It still hurts but…that feeling, knowing who I am at the heart of me. When I found it, I couldn’t let it go.”
America smiles at the idea of it.
“Maybe you can show me how you got there.” He says.
“Maybe I can.” Isaiah replies.
America is aware of several things at once. He feels the fingers move gently into his hair and Isaiah leaning into his body. The thought crosses his mind unbidden that it feels like a fairy tale or a movie. The kiss is everything those things would convey…gentle and warm and sending fireworks through his head. His mind tells him he should pull away but his body leans into it…lets the moment carry for just a little longer.
When they break apart, America pushes Isaiah away. Gentle, but firm.
“I’m not…” America says faintly. Isaiah looks sad, but just nods before replying.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
“It’s fine.” America says. “You should get going. The front desk will call you a car. They’ll pay for it too. I’ll call you next time I’m in town.”
“Sure.” Isaiah says. “Take care.”
As Isaiah walks out of the gym, some part of America wants to follow him. He wants to wrestle him again and go back to talking and feel the warmth he felt after years filled with nothing but cold. He wants to tell him that was his first kiss, though whether he wants that to be a point of anger or not, he couldn’t say. In the end, America does nothing. He simply lies back in the ring and embraces the empty space which he has come to know so well.
A champion is the face of a company.
You have to consider it every single day. When you go out or when you’re seen with friends by paparazzi. When the dirt sheets examine your conduct under a fine tooth comb. The man holding the title sets the standard for what this company looks like.
Damon Warrens built a company of challenges.
Jason Ryan built a company of opportunism.
Zaigon Carter built a company of greatness.
America Jackson…
Well, I’ll save my legacy for after I’ve lost it.
When I step out there I know that I have to be my absolute best self.
And that’s something you’ll just never get, Andrew.
You’re so loud and yet you say nothing. You think that being funny and clever and witty will make people believe in you, but it doesn’t. All you do is show the weakness behind your smile. The lack of confidence that someone carrying the name of a father who never wanted him was always bound to have in there. I’m sure some part of you thinks that by following his footsteps you’ll make him proud of you or stick it to him. But that’s the problem with shitty fathers…they’ll never give you what you want from them.
Every joke.
Every fight.
Every win.
Nothing you do is ever going to matter to him.
Nothing you do is ever going to change things.
Nothing you do will scrub that ‘II’ from your name.
You want so badly for this to be your moment.
But blood won’t make you a champion.
No matter how much of it I spill.
The heart and the spirit that got you this far?
It’s not enough.
Being a champion takes more than being your best self.
It means abandoning any self that isn’t a champion.
Zaigon tried so hard but in the end, his fear betrayed him.
I am not driven by fear.
I am the champion that APW needs.
A fair champion.
A fighting champion.
A champion who embodies the best of what this business can be.
You can come here and talk your best game.
Put up all the fight that you have.
In the end, you’re nothing but a pretender.
The false son of a bastard king who thinks that makes him a prince.
An uncrowned lord of nothing, come from nothing and to nothing you’ll return.
You can’t beat me because you don’t have it in you.
The ambition.
The heart.
The guts.
You’ve taken your failures and stitched them into yourself.
The man who was beaten by Eli Beazley.
The man whose father never loved him.
The man who had the second best night at Showdown.
You will always be defined by absence and me?
I don’t know anything but glory.
So take your shot.
Fight your fight.
Then get the fuck out of my ring.
The reign…continues.
2020 until forever.
Fuck anyone who gets in the way.
“Hey, looking good champ.”
Isaiah grabbed America’s hand, pulling him close and giving him a clap on the back as he left the mat. America leaned in, exhausted. He’d just had his final match of the meet and his opponent had given him hell. They specialized in picking the leg and he’d had to fight differently and more defensively than he typically preferred. In the end, he was able to get back to his feet and regain control of the match. The thought passed through his head as he and Isaiah walked to the bleachers to hydrate that without that tutelage, he’d never have pulled through.
“Where you want all this to go?” Isaiah asked.
“What, like…next year or something?” America asked in response. Isaiah laughed.
“Think bigger, man. You want to go to college? Go to the Olympics or something? Maybe end up in FTW one day?” Isaiah let the question linger a moment before adding. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
“On the farm, probably.” America said. “Pa worked that land since he was a kid and sure enough he’ll pass it into my hands one day. When that comes, I’ll have to take it. I can’t let him or my ma down.”
“I suppose.” Isaiah said. “Hell of a waste though. You might just be a generational talent out there. Lotta places you could go that exist past Glen Rose.”
“Guess so.” America considered. “How about you?”
“Somewhere far away.” Isaiah answered without hesitation. “This place…lot of folks who are born here, die here. I was never gonna be one of ‘em. I got my own path to make in this world…just gotta figure out where it is. First step’s college. Got my scholarship lined right up. But then…” He smiled as he considered it. “Then the whole damn world’s gonna open up to me.”
“Huh.” America found himself in thought at that. “Gonna miss you something awful at these meets.”
“You’ll manage.” Isaiah replied. “You’re the superstar. Give it enough time, ain’t nothing that you can’t do.”
2020
“So…what do you think?”
America holds his arms wide, the better to showcase the full scale gym and ring which Zaigon Carter has provided him access to. As with many aspects of his wrestling ventures, Zaigon always imparted the need to stay prepared. Thus he has gyms in several major cities across America to train in. Once America had joined him in the Storm, he had been granted access to all of them. In this moment, he is quite drunk as he fumbles his way to the ring.
“Hell…your boss knows how to offer the perks. Damn.” Isaiah says, looking the place over in awe.
“Come on…let’s have a go.” America says, sliding out of his jacket and shirt before rolling into the ring. Isaiah laughs and shakes his head, all while moving to do the same.
“This is so stupid.” Isaiah says, but he rolls in as well. “Should probably go to the briefs if we’re gonna do this. Don’t want to blow the crotch out of pants this expensive.”
America agrees and the two strip down further. America can see that despite years away from anything resembling professional athleticism, Isaiah has kept in shape. His body is a work of bulky musculature built in layers denser than America’s tighter cut. Years back, someone had called Isaiah fat and when unconvinced of the muscles beneath, found himself careening through the air into the bleachers. While not having the build of a fitness model, America knows well that there’s still power in there.
They lock up and to his surprise, America has difficulty taking the larger man down. Isaiah moves slower than he did when they shared a team, but the bulk he’s added in the interim combined with old instincts and knowledge coming alive allow him to hold his own against the World Champion. It’s not for long…eventually America is able to break through and roll him over into a pin but it’s a lot closer than he would have expected.
Isaiah laughs.
It’s a warm laugh. America realizes how long it’s been since he’s felt anything that warm. The void in the shape of his mother. The absence in the shape of his father. The cold leadership of Zaigon Carter. All of these people forming the framework of a life and yet none of them giving any life to him. Yet here in the dim light of this after hours gym, Isaiah laughs with a warmth that gives America no choice but to collapse to the mat and laugh with him.
“I needed this.” Isaiah says. “Lawyering is…well, it’s not unrewarding work even beyond the money, but damn it has been a while since I’ve just got to…go like that.”
“I hear you.” America says. “I got people always coming for the throat. So much pressure on my shoulders…be a symbol, be a good son, keep the lights on, be a champion…sometimes I just need to let go and be…I don’t know, me?”
“And who is America Jackson?” Isaiah asks. “When the cameras are off, the bills are paid, the parental obligations attended…who’s the man left at the heart of all this?”
“I don’t know.” America says. “I’ve never…I haven’t had the time or the space to figure it out. It’s always one fight after the next, another battle with everything that matters to me on the line. Nothing but high stakes and…at the heart of it, I never really get to think about how I feel. I don’t get to feel anything. So how the hell am I supposed to know who I am?”
Isaiah nods.
“My family…we haven’t really talked since college.” he says. “They didn’t approve of who I became. Couldn’t accept it was the same person I’d been all along. I dunno. It still hurts but…that feeling, knowing who I am at the heart of me. When I found it, I couldn’t let it go.”
America smiles at the idea of it.
“Maybe you can show me how you got there.” He says.
“Maybe I can.” Isaiah replies.
America is aware of several things at once. He feels the fingers move gently into his hair and Isaiah leaning into his body. The thought crosses his mind unbidden that it feels like a fairy tale or a movie. The kiss is everything those things would convey…gentle and warm and sending fireworks through his head. His mind tells him he should pull away but his body leans into it…lets the moment carry for just a little longer.
When they break apart, America pushes Isaiah away. Gentle, but firm.
“I’m not…” America says faintly. Isaiah looks sad, but just nods before replying.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
“It’s fine.” America says. “You should get going. The front desk will call you a car. They’ll pay for it too. I’ll call you next time I’m in town.”
“Sure.” Isaiah says. “Take care.”
As Isaiah walks out of the gym, some part of America wants to follow him. He wants to wrestle him again and go back to talking and feel the warmth he felt after years filled with nothing but cold. He wants to tell him that was his first kiss, though whether he wants that to be a point of anger or not, he couldn’t say. In the end, America does nothing. He simply lies back in the ring and embraces the empty space which he has come to know so well.
A champion is the face of a company.
You have to consider it every single day. When you go out or when you’re seen with friends by paparazzi. When the dirt sheets examine your conduct under a fine tooth comb. The man holding the title sets the standard for what this company looks like.
Damon Warrens built a company of challenges.
Jason Ryan built a company of opportunism.
Zaigon Carter built a company of greatness.
America Jackson…
Well, I’ll save my legacy for after I’ve lost it.
When I step out there I know that I have to be my absolute best self.
And that’s something you’ll just never get, Andrew.
You’re so loud and yet you say nothing. You think that being funny and clever and witty will make people believe in you, but it doesn’t. All you do is show the weakness behind your smile. The lack of confidence that someone carrying the name of a father who never wanted him was always bound to have in there. I’m sure some part of you thinks that by following his footsteps you’ll make him proud of you or stick it to him. But that’s the problem with shitty fathers…they’ll never give you what you want from them.
Every joke.
Every fight.
Every win.
Nothing you do is ever going to matter to him.
Nothing you do is ever going to change things.
Nothing you do will scrub that ‘II’ from your name.
You want so badly for this to be your moment.
But blood won’t make you a champion.
No matter how much of it I spill.
The heart and the spirit that got you this far?
It’s not enough.
Being a champion takes more than being your best self.
It means abandoning any self that isn’t a champion.
Zaigon tried so hard but in the end, his fear betrayed him.
I am not driven by fear.
I am the champion that APW needs.
A fair champion.
A fighting champion.
A champion who embodies the best of what this business can be.
You can come here and talk your best game.
Put up all the fight that you have.
In the end, you’re nothing but a pretender.
The false son of a bastard king who thinks that makes him a prince.
An uncrowned lord of nothing, come from nothing and to nothing you’ll return.
You can’t beat me because you don’t have it in you.
The ambition.
The heart.
The guts.
You’ve taken your failures and stitched them into yourself.
The man who was beaten by Eli Beazley.
The man whose father never loved him.
The man who had the second best night at Showdown.
You will always be defined by absence and me?
I don’t know anything but glory.
So take your shot.
Fight your fight.
Then get the fuck out of my ring.
The reign…continues.
2020 until forever.
Fuck anyone who gets in the way.
