Post by Howard Black on Apr 9, 2015 19:25:03 GMT -5
The scene begins with a close-up shot of a young man throwing shots at a worn punching bag, held by a grizzled older man, in a dilapidated gym. The young man is shorter than the older man, but he is broad shouldered and distinctively muscled. He wears a gray-blue zip-up hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his head. His dark brown hair is slick with sweat, and his bangs hang down over his forehead, though they are not quite long enough to obscure his eyebrows. His brow is furrowed in concentration and wet with the perspiration dampening his hair. His hands are wrapped in white athletic tape, though the condition of the tape is tarnished and dirty from what appears to be a rigorous work-out. His fists are quick; a left jab, followed by a right, followed by two left jabs, and finally a right hook. The older man releases the bad and sighs loudly in frustration.
Older Man: “You’re slowin’ down, Howie. You think this is good enough? Huh? You think ya gonna get a shot at the title with shoddy shit like this?”
The young man, Howard Black, lowers his fists but continues to bounce in place, maintaining his footwork. His brow remains furrowed, and he reaches up to wipe his brow with the back of a taped hand. His voice is even and collected, though his heavy breathing betrays his fatigue.
Howard Black: “We’ve been going at this all day, Coach Halliday. Ain’t a match that’s gonna go for a couple hours.”
The old man’s frustration intensifies, his mouth twisting down into a sneer and pulling his cracked lips taunt to expose stained but straight teeth. He raises a large, calloused hand and moves towards Howard, towering over him by at least half a foot. He jabs a fat, dirty finger roughly into Howard’s chest, his voice becoming an angry bark.
Coach Halliday: “Couple hours? Couple hours?!”
He juts his finger against Howard’s chest again to accentuate the volume increase and indignation in his voice. The height discrepancy between the men becomes evident, with Coach Halliday standing at least five inches taller than Howard.
Coach Halliday: “Don’t matter if it’s a couple hours or twenty frickin’ seconds! You ain’t just throwin’ no blows ‘gainst some bag when ya step in that ring! You takin’ a beatin’, and even when ya given the beatin’ ya takin’ a beatin’! You complainin’ ‘bout hittin’ some bag that ain’t hittin’ back and ain’t got no bones when you’re ‘bout to be squarin’ with some fat, ugly Neanderthal sumbitch who’d punt ya like the runt you are! Now take a break and don’t gimme no more of that ‘couple hours’ crap again.”
Howard nods.
Howard Black: “Yes, Coach.”
With that, Howard falls forward, his fists balled still, into push-ups. His brow only seems to furrow further with pronounced intensity. The camera pulls away to give a look at the complete attire of the young man. He wears black wrestling tights with the white silk-screened image of a beast in attack upon the side. On his feet are a pair of black wrestling boots. In the push-up position, a gold crucifix necklace falls from the opening in his sweatshirt and hangs down. Upon each push-up, he gives a quick, powerful breath, and he is noticeably careful to never let the crucifix lie flat on the ground as he descends. Coach Halliday paces as he watches Howard perform the exercise.
Coach Halliday’s hair is longer than Howard’s, pushed back, frazzled, and gray. A thick mass of gray beard covers his jaw and upper lip, framing his chapped, thick lips. Above it lies a bulbous nose, crooked from a break suffered some time ago. He wears a gray pullover sweater and black track pants, both stained and slightly dirty. After Howard completes his twentieth push-up, the Coach speaks.
Coach Halliday: “Alright, alright, ya made ya point. Take a real break; take five.”
Howard pushes himself up and walks over to a ratty gym bag placed by a wall. He unzips it and digs around inside producing a water bottle, a lighter, and a pack of Camel Turkish Royal cigarettes. He shoves the cigarettes and the lighter momentarily in his pocket to free his hands to he can unscrew the cap of the water bottle and take a drink. Afterwards, he replaces the cap and tosses the bottle back into his gym bag. He produces the cigarettes, removing one from the pack and placing it in his lips, then lights it. He takes a deep drag then exhales before shoving his hood off his head. Coach Halliday is noticeably displeased by this, the sneer returning to his face in a look of disgust.
Coach Halliday: “Ya know, maybe if you wasn’t puttin’ that shit in ya body, you’d be able to go more than a couple hours. You think they gonna let ya have a smoke break in the match? Light up ringside?”
Howard shrugs, taking another drag and exhaling. He leans against the blank concrete wall of the gym.
Howard Black: “Been doin’ this since high school and it ain’t slowed me down yet, Coach. Need something to take the edge off, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be keen on me having a nip before the match.”
Coach Halliday gives a muffled snicker, but it’s not one of genuine amusement. His voice drips with sarcasm.
Coach Halliday: “Goootcha. Ya need to take the edge off. Maybe we can get ya a nice lady to give ya massages backstage. Betcha can find one real easy dependin’ on the town. Maybe she’ll even give ya a happy endin’. Ya think they gonna allow that in the locker room?”
Howard does not visibly react to the coach’s taunting. He continues to drag on his cigarette, occasionally glancing up at the clock to gauge the length of his training break.
Howard Black: “Look, Coach, I don’t need this. I have to stay focused on training. This is my big debut coming up, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make an impression right off the bat.”
Coach Halliday gives a laugh. His sneer turns into a smile, confidant and somewhat malicious. He jabs his fat finger into Howard’s chest again, though with less force than earlier. His voice takes a taunting tone, as if intentionally trying to egg him on.
Coach Halliday: “Yeah, big debut. And look at you, little man. Little fish in a big pond swimmin’ with the sharks. You’re out ya size, Howie. Runt of the litter goin’ ‘gainst the best physical specimen. All ass kickers, every one of ‘em. And you think ya gonna waltz on in and get to the top of the mountain? Think they ain’t gonna shove ya head in the toilet like high school and make ya eat boogers while they say lewd things ‘bout ya mom?”
At this, the collected veneer of Howard Black shakes. The intensity returns to his face, and he drops his cigarette, crushing it underfoot. He throws his hood back over his head and leans forward into his fighting stance, his fists raised. He bounces, resuming his footwork, and begins shadow boxing with quick jabs and the occasional uppercut or hook.
Howard Black: “Nothing’s ever been given to me Coach. You know that. Let them call me the little man. Let them call me the runt. When I get in that ring on Sunday, they’ll see exactly who they’re messing with. I’m gonna make a statement.”
Coach Halliday grins a hungry grin. He slaps Howard on the back a few times in encouragement.
Coach Halliday: “That’s what I like to hear, kid. Now let’s get back to work so ya can be ready to show those pricks whose boss.”
Howard advances on the punching bag, no longer shadow boxing but connecting his fists with it. Coach Halliday watches on.
Coach Halliday: “By the way, ya thought of ya ring name yet?”
Howard continues to throw punches, the question not breaking his concentration.
Howard Black: “Yeah. ‘Honey Badger’ Howard Black.”
Coach Halliday gives him a peculiar look and snorted laugh.
Coach Halliday: “Honey badger? Ya get that off some stupid Youtube video? Ya gonna go out there Mister Don’t-Care and growl at ‘em?”
Howard pays the taunts no mind. He continues his routine, his face creasing with intensity as he takes the mocking comments.
Howard Black: “No, Coach. The honey badger is the meanest sonovabitch in the wild. It ain’t big, but that thing will square off with a lion four times its size and beat it bloody. That’s what I want. I want to fight lions.”
The coach watches as the young man continues to throw shots. For once, though unknown to the tunnel-visioned Howard, his smile is warm and understanding.
Coach Halliday: “Lions. Yeah. No shit you’ll be doin’ that soon.”
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Later that evening, a woman sits alone on a green fabric coach inside a modestly furnished, rather old house. She’s young, possibly in her late 20’s, and her face radiates her youth. Her rich auburn hair falls straight and to her shoulders, and her lips are pursed as she looks down at the book in her lap. A pair of reading glasses sit on the bridge of her nose, and she wears a pair of loose, black pajama pants and a light blue camisole. After a moment, the door’s deadbolt clicks open loudly, and through the door comes the sweat-drenched figure of Howard Black. He is still wearing the sweatshirt, but his wrestling tights and boots have been replaced with a pair of basketball shorts and grey slip-on canvas sneakers. As he comes through, she looks up and smiles. She places the book down, takes off her glasses, and approaches him for an embrace and a kiss which he accepts gladly.
Woman: “How was training, baby?”
Howard lets out an exaggerated sigh, trying to feign agony and failing horribly. He does his best Coach Halliday impression for her.
Howard Black: “Terrible, Sarah, just terrible! Dis here kid, Howie? He ain’t doin’ nuttin’ right! Why durin’ his break, ya know what he was doin’? Smokin’ dem cancer sticks! And I bet he’s been eatin’ at McDonald’s, too!”
She laughs, even if the impression isn’t terribly good and the jokes not terribly funny. She keeps her arms looped around his shoulders, standing perhaps an inch or two shorter than him. She brings her nose to his and lowers her face to bring his forehead with his as he reciprocates the gesture.
Sarah Black: “Well, I’m always glad to have you back in one piece. I never know when that man is going to work you ‘til the point of death. You hungry?”
Howard Black: “Yeah, famished.”
Sarah Black: “Well, I got a plate for you in the oven. And Joey’s in bed right now, but I didn’t put him down too long ago, so maybe you could see him for a bit.”
Howard Black: “That sounds great. Lemme hop in the shower to clean up quickly.”
He gives her another kiss, then the two break their embrace. He looks over to his right at a wooden door with several children’s decorations nailed to the door (a spaceship, a lion, and a dinosaur), then heads through the living room towards the bathroom as Sarah sits back on the couch to return to her book.
In the bathroom, Howard turns the two dials to start the shower, being careful to calibrate the water’s heat to his preferred temperature. He reaches down to his gym bag, zipping it open and fishing around to find his iPhone. He unlocks it and taps the music app, scrolling through his library and eventually selecting the music of Django Reinhardt. “The Limehouse Blues” begins to play as he strips down and enters the hot water to nurse his aches and scrub the dirt from his body. In the shower, he whistles along to the music, an act which never fails to make Sarah faintly smile when she can hear it.
After the shower, Howard emerges from the bathroom clothed in a towel. He makes his way quickly upstairs, changing into a loose red v-neck t-shirt and fresh underwear. He makes his way back down the stairs and approaches Sarah from behind, leaning down to kiss her on the top of the head.
Howard Black: “I’m gonna go check on the little man first, if that’s alright.”
She looks up at him, the tip of her nose touching his.
Sarah Black: “Mmmm. Kay. But it’s a good dinner.”
Howard smiles at her.
Howard Black: “I can’t wait.”
He approaches the door with the figures on it and gently twists the handle. The room is dark, save the hot air balloon-shaped nightlight in the corner. The walls are a bare white, much like the rest of the house, but a few pictures of dinosaurs and a map of the solar system hang on the walls. The little boy lays fast asleep in the petite bed, clad in plain blue sheets with a red comforter. Howard smiles at the sleeping form for a moment before closing the door.
Howard Black: “Sleeps like the grave. I’ll catch him in the morning.”
Sarah nods and keeps her eyes on the book, only pausing to lick her right index finger and turn the page. Howard proceeds through the living room and dining room to the kitchen. He picks up an oven mitt, slips it on, and opens the oven door, fishing inside for a plate covered by foil. He closes the door of the old gas oven and turns the dial to turn it off, then carries the plate over to the wooden dining room table. He peels back the foil to release the mouthwatering aromas of the rosemary potatoes and roast chicken breast. Hunger overtakes him; he picks the food up with his hands and begins to eat them, only pausing to open his mouth and fan steam off the scalding bite of potato. Sarah looks back at him and immediate starts laughing, raising a hand to cover her mouth.
Sarah Howard: “Yes, ya big caveman, it’s hot.”
She places the book and reading glasses down again and walks through the dining room to the kitchen. She returns with a fork and knife, placing them down in front of Howard.
Sarah Black: “Here. I don’t care if you’ve been training; we eat like civilized human beings in this house.”
She sits down next to him and musses his hair with her hand. He smiles warmly at her and picks up the silverware, now cutting the food on his plate and blowing gently on each bite to cool it before putting it into his mouth.
Sarah Black: “Are you excited for the big debut this week?”
Howard chews a bite thoughtfully and swallows.
Howard Black: “Excited? It’s probably gonna keep me up at night all week.”
Sarah Black: “Got you worried?”
Howard Black: “I mean, it’s gotta, you know? Could go out there and face plant. Even worse, could just look completely average.”
Sarah studies his face silently for a moment. That phrase struck her immediately as the sort of phrase her husband would use: “completely average.” She smiles, though perhaps the faintest hint of pity of sadness shone in those large blue eyes of hers, and after a moment, she stands up and pushes in her chair.
Sarah Black: “Well, I’m going to go to bed. I’ll see you up there soon?”
Howard looks up from his plate. He swallows the food in his mouth before he speaks.
Howard Black: “Very soon. I love you, Sarah.”
Whatever pity or concern was in her eyes washes away. Her smiles shines back as she looks down at him.
Sarah Black: “I love you, too, Howie. Come up soon.”
With that, she turns and ascends the stairs, leaving Howard alone in the kitchen to finish his dinner.
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Outside of the Sullivan Center, Howard Black stands alone. It’s a mild spring day, even if cloudy, and the temperature sits at a brisk 41?. It’s that time of the year where the sun hangs in the sky just a bit longer than it does further south, and even well into what could be considered the evening, the temperature has just peaked. He leans against one of the walls in the back area, keeping his head down and puffing on the Camel Turkish Royal cigarette he holds in his right hand. He shivers slightly; he’s only wearing his ring gear, and while accustomed to colder weather from his life in Nebraska, he can’t help but feel chilled. He instinctively tightens his muscles to prevent the tremors; keep any weakness concealed.
Fans walk by but don’t acknowledge him; why would they? Who would approach another no-name rookie expected to job for an autograph or a photo? Another drag off of the cigarette calms his nerves and quiets his mind. There’s no time for doubt when the bell rings; he knows this well. As he smokes in silence, he can’t help but wonder if Sarah and Jeff, his son, are watching. The idea of failure before them is enough to cause him a certain disquiet. He shakes his head at this internal monologue, not caring who may be watching. He has a job to do. He has lions to fight.
The metal door to the back opens, and a stagehand pops his head out. He makes eye contact with Howard.
Stagehand: “You’re up soon, Mister Black.”
Howard takes a final drag of his cigarette before dropping and crushing it beneath his boot. He follows the stagehand into the building and towards the entrance to the stage. As he lines up with the other participants of the battle royal, he keeps to himself, his eyes cast down on the floor. After a wait that feels like an eternity, the lights on the stage dim and the familiar beginning of “Lost Boys” by Death Grips, the song he carefully selected to announce him, begins to reverberate through the arena. A stagehand taps him on the shoulder.
Stagehand: “You’re up. Good luck out there.”
Howard doesn’t respond. He pulls the hood up over his head and makes his way towards the curtains which hang before the stage.
Older Man: “You’re slowin’ down, Howie. You think this is good enough? Huh? You think ya gonna get a shot at the title with shoddy shit like this?”
The young man, Howard Black, lowers his fists but continues to bounce in place, maintaining his footwork. His brow remains furrowed, and he reaches up to wipe his brow with the back of a taped hand. His voice is even and collected, though his heavy breathing betrays his fatigue.
Howard Black: “We’ve been going at this all day, Coach Halliday. Ain’t a match that’s gonna go for a couple hours.”
The old man’s frustration intensifies, his mouth twisting down into a sneer and pulling his cracked lips taunt to expose stained but straight teeth. He raises a large, calloused hand and moves towards Howard, towering over him by at least half a foot. He jabs a fat, dirty finger roughly into Howard’s chest, his voice becoming an angry bark.
Coach Halliday: “Couple hours? Couple hours?!”
He juts his finger against Howard’s chest again to accentuate the volume increase and indignation in his voice. The height discrepancy between the men becomes evident, with Coach Halliday standing at least five inches taller than Howard.
Coach Halliday: “Don’t matter if it’s a couple hours or twenty frickin’ seconds! You ain’t just throwin’ no blows ‘gainst some bag when ya step in that ring! You takin’ a beatin’, and even when ya given the beatin’ ya takin’ a beatin’! You complainin’ ‘bout hittin’ some bag that ain’t hittin’ back and ain’t got no bones when you’re ‘bout to be squarin’ with some fat, ugly Neanderthal sumbitch who’d punt ya like the runt you are! Now take a break and don’t gimme no more of that ‘couple hours’ crap again.”
Howard nods.
Howard Black: “Yes, Coach.”
With that, Howard falls forward, his fists balled still, into push-ups. His brow only seems to furrow further with pronounced intensity. The camera pulls away to give a look at the complete attire of the young man. He wears black wrestling tights with the white silk-screened image of a beast in attack upon the side. On his feet are a pair of black wrestling boots. In the push-up position, a gold crucifix necklace falls from the opening in his sweatshirt and hangs down. Upon each push-up, he gives a quick, powerful breath, and he is noticeably careful to never let the crucifix lie flat on the ground as he descends. Coach Halliday paces as he watches Howard perform the exercise.
Coach Halliday’s hair is longer than Howard’s, pushed back, frazzled, and gray. A thick mass of gray beard covers his jaw and upper lip, framing his chapped, thick lips. Above it lies a bulbous nose, crooked from a break suffered some time ago. He wears a gray pullover sweater and black track pants, both stained and slightly dirty. After Howard completes his twentieth push-up, the Coach speaks.
Coach Halliday: “Alright, alright, ya made ya point. Take a real break; take five.”
Howard pushes himself up and walks over to a ratty gym bag placed by a wall. He unzips it and digs around inside producing a water bottle, a lighter, and a pack of Camel Turkish Royal cigarettes. He shoves the cigarettes and the lighter momentarily in his pocket to free his hands to he can unscrew the cap of the water bottle and take a drink. Afterwards, he replaces the cap and tosses the bottle back into his gym bag. He produces the cigarettes, removing one from the pack and placing it in his lips, then lights it. He takes a deep drag then exhales before shoving his hood off his head. Coach Halliday is noticeably displeased by this, the sneer returning to his face in a look of disgust.
Coach Halliday: “Ya know, maybe if you wasn’t puttin’ that shit in ya body, you’d be able to go more than a couple hours. You think they gonna let ya have a smoke break in the match? Light up ringside?”
Howard shrugs, taking another drag and exhaling. He leans against the blank concrete wall of the gym.
Howard Black: “Been doin’ this since high school and it ain’t slowed me down yet, Coach. Need something to take the edge off, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be keen on me having a nip before the match.”
Coach Halliday gives a muffled snicker, but it’s not one of genuine amusement. His voice drips with sarcasm.
Coach Halliday: “Goootcha. Ya need to take the edge off. Maybe we can get ya a nice lady to give ya massages backstage. Betcha can find one real easy dependin’ on the town. Maybe she’ll even give ya a happy endin’. Ya think they gonna allow that in the locker room?”
Howard does not visibly react to the coach’s taunting. He continues to drag on his cigarette, occasionally glancing up at the clock to gauge the length of his training break.
Howard Black: “Look, Coach, I don’t need this. I have to stay focused on training. This is my big debut coming up, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make an impression right off the bat.”
Coach Halliday gives a laugh. His sneer turns into a smile, confidant and somewhat malicious. He jabs his fat finger into Howard’s chest again, though with less force than earlier. His voice takes a taunting tone, as if intentionally trying to egg him on.
Coach Halliday: “Yeah, big debut. And look at you, little man. Little fish in a big pond swimmin’ with the sharks. You’re out ya size, Howie. Runt of the litter goin’ ‘gainst the best physical specimen. All ass kickers, every one of ‘em. And you think ya gonna waltz on in and get to the top of the mountain? Think they ain’t gonna shove ya head in the toilet like high school and make ya eat boogers while they say lewd things ‘bout ya mom?”
At this, the collected veneer of Howard Black shakes. The intensity returns to his face, and he drops his cigarette, crushing it underfoot. He throws his hood back over his head and leans forward into his fighting stance, his fists raised. He bounces, resuming his footwork, and begins shadow boxing with quick jabs and the occasional uppercut or hook.
Howard Black: “Nothing’s ever been given to me Coach. You know that. Let them call me the little man. Let them call me the runt. When I get in that ring on Sunday, they’ll see exactly who they’re messing with. I’m gonna make a statement.”
Coach Halliday grins a hungry grin. He slaps Howard on the back a few times in encouragement.
Coach Halliday: “That’s what I like to hear, kid. Now let’s get back to work so ya can be ready to show those pricks whose boss.”
Howard advances on the punching bag, no longer shadow boxing but connecting his fists with it. Coach Halliday watches on.
Coach Halliday: “By the way, ya thought of ya ring name yet?”
Howard continues to throw punches, the question not breaking his concentration.
Howard Black: “Yeah. ‘Honey Badger’ Howard Black.”
Coach Halliday gives him a peculiar look and snorted laugh.
Coach Halliday: “Honey badger? Ya get that off some stupid Youtube video? Ya gonna go out there Mister Don’t-Care and growl at ‘em?”
Howard pays the taunts no mind. He continues his routine, his face creasing with intensity as he takes the mocking comments.
Howard Black: “No, Coach. The honey badger is the meanest sonovabitch in the wild. It ain’t big, but that thing will square off with a lion four times its size and beat it bloody. That’s what I want. I want to fight lions.”
The coach watches as the young man continues to throw shots. For once, though unknown to the tunnel-visioned Howard, his smile is warm and understanding.
Coach Halliday: “Lions. Yeah. No shit you’ll be doin’ that soon.”
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Later that evening, a woman sits alone on a green fabric coach inside a modestly furnished, rather old house. She’s young, possibly in her late 20’s, and her face radiates her youth. Her rich auburn hair falls straight and to her shoulders, and her lips are pursed as she looks down at the book in her lap. A pair of reading glasses sit on the bridge of her nose, and she wears a pair of loose, black pajama pants and a light blue camisole. After a moment, the door’s deadbolt clicks open loudly, and through the door comes the sweat-drenched figure of Howard Black. He is still wearing the sweatshirt, but his wrestling tights and boots have been replaced with a pair of basketball shorts and grey slip-on canvas sneakers. As he comes through, she looks up and smiles. She places the book down, takes off her glasses, and approaches him for an embrace and a kiss which he accepts gladly.
Woman: “How was training, baby?”
Howard lets out an exaggerated sigh, trying to feign agony and failing horribly. He does his best Coach Halliday impression for her.
Howard Black: “Terrible, Sarah, just terrible! Dis here kid, Howie? He ain’t doin’ nuttin’ right! Why durin’ his break, ya know what he was doin’? Smokin’ dem cancer sticks! And I bet he’s been eatin’ at McDonald’s, too!”
She laughs, even if the impression isn’t terribly good and the jokes not terribly funny. She keeps her arms looped around his shoulders, standing perhaps an inch or two shorter than him. She brings her nose to his and lowers her face to bring his forehead with his as he reciprocates the gesture.
Sarah Black: “Well, I’m always glad to have you back in one piece. I never know when that man is going to work you ‘til the point of death. You hungry?”
Howard Black: “Yeah, famished.”
Sarah Black: “Well, I got a plate for you in the oven. And Joey’s in bed right now, but I didn’t put him down too long ago, so maybe you could see him for a bit.”
Howard Black: “That sounds great. Lemme hop in the shower to clean up quickly.”
He gives her another kiss, then the two break their embrace. He looks over to his right at a wooden door with several children’s decorations nailed to the door (a spaceship, a lion, and a dinosaur), then heads through the living room towards the bathroom as Sarah sits back on the couch to return to her book.
In the bathroom, Howard turns the two dials to start the shower, being careful to calibrate the water’s heat to his preferred temperature. He reaches down to his gym bag, zipping it open and fishing around to find his iPhone. He unlocks it and taps the music app, scrolling through his library and eventually selecting the music of Django Reinhardt. “The Limehouse Blues” begins to play as he strips down and enters the hot water to nurse his aches and scrub the dirt from his body. In the shower, he whistles along to the music, an act which never fails to make Sarah faintly smile when she can hear it.
After the shower, Howard emerges from the bathroom clothed in a towel. He makes his way quickly upstairs, changing into a loose red v-neck t-shirt and fresh underwear. He makes his way back down the stairs and approaches Sarah from behind, leaning down to kiss her on the top of the head.
Howard Black: “I’m gonna go check on the little man first, if that’s alright.”
She looks up at him, the tip of her nose touching his.
Sarah Black: “Mmmm. Kay. But it’s a good dinner.”
Howard smiles at her.
Howard Black: “I can’t wait.”
He approaches the door with the figures on it and gently twists the handle. The room is dark, save the hot air balloon-shaped nightlight in the corner. The walls are a bare white, much like the rest of the house, but a few pictures of dinosaurs and a map of the solar system hang on the walls. The little boy lays fast asleep in the petite bed, clad in plain blue sheets with a red comforter. Howard smiles at the sleeping form for a moment before closing the door.
Howard Black: “Sleeps like the grave. I’ll catch him in the morning.”
Sarah nods and keeps her eyes on the book, only pausing to lick her right index finger and turn the page. Howard proceeds through the living room and dining room to the kitchen. He picks up an oven mitt, slips it on, and opens the oven door, fishing inside for a plate covered by foil. He closes the door of the old gas oven and turns the dial to turn it off, then carries the plate over to the wooden dining room table. He peels back the foil to release the mouthwatering aromas of the rosemary potatoes and roast chicken breast. Hunger overtakes him; he picks the food up with his hands and begins to eat them, only pausing to open his mouth and fan steam off the scalding bite of potato. Sarah looks back at him and immediate starts laughing, raising a hand to cover her mouth.
Sarah Howard: “Yes, ya big caveman, it’s hot.”
She places the book and reading glasses down again and walks through the dining room to the kitchen. She returns with a fork and knife, placing them down in front of Howard.
Sarah Black: “Here. I don’t care if you’ve been training; we eat like civilized human beings in this house.”
She sits down next to him and musses his hair with her hand. He smiles warmly at her and picks up the silverware, now cutting the food on his plate and blowing gently on each bite to cool it before putting it into his mouth.
Sarah Black: “Are you excited for the big debut this week?”
Howard chews a bite thoughtfully and swallows.
Howard Black: “Excited? It’s probably gonna keep me up at night all week.”
Sarah Black: “Got you worried?”
Howard Black: “I mean, it’s gotta, you know? Could go out there and face plant. Even worse, could just look completely average.”
Sarah studies his face silently for a moment. That phrase struck her immediately as the sort of phrase her husband would use: “completely average.” She smiles, though perhaps the faintest hint of pity of sadness shone in those large blue eyes of hers, and after a moment, she stands up and pushes in her chair.
Sarah Black: “Well, I’m going to go to bed. I’ll see you up there soon?”
Howard looks up from his plate. He swallows the food in his mouth before he speaks.
Howard Black: “Very soon. I love you, Sarah.”
Whatever pity or concern was in her eyes washes away. Her smiles shines back as she looks down at him.
Sarah Black: “I love you, too, Howie. Come up soon.”
With that, she turns and ascends the stairs, leaving Howard alone in the kitchen to finish his dinner.
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Outside of the Sullivan Center, Howard Black stands alone. It’s a mild spring day, even if cloudy, and the temperature sits at a brisk 41?. It’s that time of the year where the sun hangs in the sky just a bit longer than it does further south, and even well into what could be considered the evening, the temperature has just peaked. He leans against one of the walls in the back area, keeping his head down and puffing on the Camel Turkish Royal cigarette he holds in his right hand. He shivers slightly; he’s only wearing his ring gear, and while accustomed to colder weather from his life in Nebraska, he can’t help but feel chilled. He instinctively tightens his muscles to prevent the tremors; keep any weakness concealed.
Fans walk by but don’t acknowledge him; why would they? Who would approach another no-name rookie expected to job for an autograph or a photo? Another drag off of the cigarette calms his nerves and quiets his mind. There’s no time for doubt when the bell rings; he knows this well. As he smokes in silence, he can’t help but wonder if Sarah and Jeff, his son, are watching. The idea of failure before them is enough to cause him a certain disquiet. He shakes his head at this internal monologue, not caring who may be watching. He has a job to do. He has lions to fight.
The metal door to the back opens, and a stagehand pops his head out. He makes eye contact with Howard.
Stagehand: “You’re up soon, Mister Black.”
Howard takes a final drag of his cigarette before dropping and crushing it beneath his boot. He follows the stagehand into the building and towards the entrance to the stage. As he lines up with the other participants of the battle royal, he keeps to himself, his eyes cast down on the floor. After a wait that feels like an eternity, the lights on the stage dim and the familiar beginning of “Lost Boys” by Death Grips, the song he carefully selected to announce him, begins to reverberate through the arena. A stagehand taps him on the shoulder.
Stagehand: “You’re up. Good luck out there.”
Howard doesn’t respond. He pulls the hood up over his head and makes his way towards the curtains which hang before the stage.
