Post by Harry "Bomber" Calden on Sept 27, 2017 18:33:53 GMT -5
"My name is Harry ‘Bomber’ Calden. I’m forty-seven years old. I’m a professional wrestler, and War XVI is probably going to be my last match. You know something though? I couldn’t be happier."
I.
“You realize you’re signing your career away, right?” - Seth Lerch.
I didn’t think I would feel nervous. I’ve performed in front of audiences all across the world for two decades; you would think that would I dunno, desensitize you to the feeling of nerves. Yet when I sat down in the chair opposite the owner of the biggest wrestling company in the world it was like those butterflies were having a party in my gut and only clammy hands and shortness of breath were invited to be dance partners. The room looked as if the year two thousand had regurgitated the decor theme; childish paraphernalia lay strewn about the cluttered desk. A torn and tattered Ocarina of Time strategy guide with a post-it note affixed to the top with the words ‘FUCK YOU WATER TEMPLE!!’ scribbled in crayon. Pokémon cards...shit, I remember having to go from store to store sweeping up the packs at seven in the goddamn morning so my nephew could finally get the Charizard holo card he wanted so badly. The little guy’s slack, cretinous face lit up when he finally opened the pack containing it. Happy thirtieth birthday, Charles.
Oddly, the strangest quirk of kitsch lay directly in front of Lerch. A signed copy of ‘Load’ by Metallica - huh, from the looks of it they even got Cliff Burton’s signature? Okay, this is fishy. This one came with a note all of its own.
‘Hey there boss! Just thought I’d give you a little something you’d appreciate. *nudge nudge wink wink* I’m sure you will think of me when you’re deciding the entrance order for War!
Your best buddy, Gravedigger’
Your best buddy, Gravedigger’
What obvious sycophantic pandering! I was gobsmacked, well shit I guess it’s true what they say - don’t meet your heroes or accept fake autographed albums of mediocre bands from them.
“So uhh...yeah, are we doing this or not?” Lerch spoke for the first time. The boss of the company was an interesting man, on television he looks like a bronzed adonis - rippling muscles, a chiselled jawline that looks like it was carved from granite and a butt that just won’t quit. In person, he was every bit a complete dork. I reached my hand across the desk and embraced his limp handshake. I felt like telling him ‘only corpses and queers have that droopy limp wrist action’ but didn’t want to get removed from the meeting...or get on SJW’s bad side.
Mark with an X whatever you want signed Lerch. If ol’ Lucifer himself was unfurling a parchment damning my soul to eternal damnation I would still have given that my finest Hancock. I would go through whatever it takes for this opportunity. Eternal damnation...well shit, if it meant a chance at War, I sure was in the mood for a Jay Omega marathon.
“Of course we are doing this” I printed my name and gave him the perfunctory scribbles that signed and sealed the contract.
$1000 flat appearance fee.
No win/performances incentives.
All image rights belong to the WCF as do all the merchandise sales with a waiver on royalties.
No promised booking dates.
A guaranteed entrance spot in War XVI.
Seth Lerch had been advertising for talent, both established and enhancement from all across the indies, he managed to sweep a couple of minor names from more established independant companies like Universal Championship Infinite. People like Kevin Bishop and Shadowlove; both elite talents in their own right getting the chance to fight in the ultimate proving ground of the sport. These were the names that would sell the tickets, that would put asses in seats - that would get the sports magazines and talking heads buzzing. They would be the ones that the other wrestlers would be targeting. Bomber is on the card? Just a glance and a yawn. I was in this match as just roster filler fodder.
“You realize you’re signing your career away, right?” Lerch asked, a smirk across his growingly punchable face as I strode across the room - I turned to him.
“What career?”
II.
The morning alarms were getting easier to ignore. The body’s aches and pains were getting harder to ignore. It was four thirty in the morning, the birds were still an hour from breaking the stony silence of the sky with their song. Both knees were strapped for the morning run. This would be the last time, I promised myself the moment that I took this opportunity. My body was failing me - I fought for the last five years on a reduced schedule with two fully reconstructed knees. MCL and PCL tears on the left and a fully ruptured ACL on the right. I just needed to damage a lateral ligament and I would have the full house. Bust for you Harry. Well this is me, I’ve been dealt seventeen but I’m taking a hit. It is the only way. One...last...hit.
The WCF had sent a camera crew to document the various wrestlers in their preparations for this match. A tall lanky flame haired young man called Lionel was my personal shadow for the week.
“Just train and act normally Bomber. I’m not even here”he said as I stretched before my run. You’re right, just film and stay quiet kid.
“Who said that?” I chuckled as I began stepping out across the cold, moist and windy streets of Queens.
My body was failing me, but never has my mind been more focused on one match. On one opportunity, on one goal, on reaching the one pinnacle of the business I have dedicated my entire life to. On One.
August 3rd 2003, Atlanta, GA.
When Harry Calden first stepped inside an arena for a Wrestling Championship Federation show, he was in awe. Everything was different. From the dressing rooms, the servicing and catering in the back, the tech guys and runners all the way through to the ringside area itself - everything was a step above any event he had attended before. He had been part of the local AWA federation in Atlanta, Georgia; he had been enjoying a moderate amount of success as the midcard babyface for the past six months. It had seen his paychecks hit upwards of five hundred bucks an appearance, comfortably his highest pay day of his career. It was through the AWA that he had gotten this opportunity.
The WCF was in town and was asking the local companies for bodies to be able to use in a few entrance set pieces for their weekly show, Slam, that was going to be taking place in the Philips Arena this Sunday. Each wrestler would be paid a head charge of two hundred dollars and the AWA would be subsidised by a year long set of sponsorship payments from the Seth Lerch and the board of directors. It was a no brainer, Harry was already on his way to the stadium when he heard the news.
He spent the early part of the morning helping set the ring up, along with a few ring hands and tech crew. Calden was halfway through the finishing touches to one of the turnbuckles when a voice addressed him from ringside.
Gruff Voice: Hey. How’s it going guys?
Harry Calden looked down through the ropes to see the then Wrestling Championship Federation World Champion - Creeping Death. The man, if he could even be called that was a bizarro adonis - his wild black hair cascaded down his face, facial hair navigated his strong jawline and his voice boomed like God himself on forty Marlboro a day.
Harry Calden: It goes well, champ. How’s it looking for you tonight?
The champion gave a shrug.
Creeping Death: Same way it looks every night. It’s a ring and I’m going to win. How’s it looking for you?
Harry Calden: The same.
Creeping Death: So, are you a worker too?
Harry’s eyes narrowed and his heartbeat quickened.
Harry Calden: Yeah, you could say that.
Creeping Death: No, there’s no could. You either are or you aren’t.
Harry Calden: I…
/am not good enough/am too old/am worthless/gave up everything I loved for this business/
am. Yeah.
Creeping Death: Good shit. What’s your name?
Harry Calden: Bomber.
Creeping Death gave a guttural cackle.
Creeping Death: Bomber huh? Never heard of you.
You will. No, no you won’t. Stupid. Stupid delusional overmatched fuck.
Harry Calden: I guess not
Creeping Death: Where are you fuckin’ balls man, why didn’t you say some shit like ‘you will’. I’m done.
With that the World Champion left. He had taken what was left of Harry Calden’s masculinity with him. He clenched a fist.
I will prove it to you. I will prove it to everyone in this company, to everyone in the world that I do belong. I am willing to do whatever it takes for this. I am willing to kill for this. I am willing to die for this. I am willing to go to war for this.
My name is Harry ‘Bomber’ Calden.
You WILL remember my fucking name.
When Harry Calden first stepped inside an arena for a Wrestling Championship Federation show, he was in awe. Everything was different. From the dressing rooms, the servicing and catering in the back, the tech guys and runners all the way through to the ringside area itself - everything was a step above any event he had attended before. He had been part of the local AWA federation in Atlanta, Georgia; he had been enjoying a moderate amount of success as the midcard babyface for the past six months. It had seen his paychecks hit upwards of five hundred bucks an appearance, comfortably his highest pay day of his career. It was through the AWA that he had gotten this opportunity.
The WCF was in town and was asking the local companies for bodies to be able to use in a few entrance set pieces for their weekly show, Slam, that was going to be taking place in the Philips Arena this Sunday. Each wrestler would be paid a head charge of two hundred dollars and the AWA would be subsidised by a year long set of sponsorship payments from the Seth Lerch and the board of directors. It was a no brainer, Harry was already on his way to the stadium when he heard the news.
He spent the early part of the morning helping set the ring up, along with a few ring hands and tech crew. Calden was halfway through the finishing touches to one of the turnbuckles when a voice addressed him from ringside.
Gruff Voice: Hey. How’s it going guys?
Harry Calden looked down through the ropes to see the then Wrestling Championship Federation World Champion - Creeping Death. The man, if he could even be called that was a bizarro adonis - his wild black hair cascaded down his face, facial hair navigated his strong jawline and his voice boomed like God himself on forty Marlboro a day.
Harry Calden: It goes well, champ. How’s it looking for you tonight?
The champion gave a shrug.
Creeping Death: Same way it looks every night. It’s a ring and I’m going to win. How’s it looking for you?
Harry Calden: The same.
Creeping Death: So, are you a worker too?
Harry’s eyes narrowed and his heartbeat quickened.
Harry Calden: Yeah, you could say that.
Creeping Death: No, there’s no could. You either are or you aren’t.
Harry Calden: I…
/am not good enough/am too old/am worthless/gave up everything I loved for this business/
am. Yeah.
Creeping Death: Good shit. What’s your name?
Harry Calden: Bomber.
Creeping Death gave a guttural cackle.
Creeping Death: Bomber huh? Never heard of you.
Harry Calden: I guess not
Creeping Death: Where are you fuckin’ balls man, why didn’t you say some shit like ‘you will’. I’m done.
With that the World Champion left. He had taken what was left of Harry Calden’s masculinity with him. He clenched a fist.
I will prove it to you. I will prove it to everyone in this company, to everyone in the world that I do belong. I am willing to do whatever it takes for this. I am willing to kill for this. I am willing to die for this. I am willing to go to war for this.
My name is Harry ‘Bomber’ Calden.
You WILL remember my fucking name.
III.
"BOMBS UNLOADED PART ONE"
A small room, one cameraman, one man. Lionel hit the *record* button on his RED Raven 4.5k camera and let Bomber take center stage.
"I was at the MetLife stadium last year, for the big one. Section 241, Row 10, Seat 5. I watched more intently than anyone else in the stadium that night. As the snow fell around the arena I watched as Thomas Bates fought Joey Flash in the main event of the biggest show on Earth, for the biggest company on Earth. I saw two men with god given gifts I can’t even comprehend. I saw the things that went on between the ropes that night and to be honest? It was humbling. It was like watching a whole different world. It’s like...uhh - how do I describe this? Like one day you know that the Earth is the center of the universe, that you actually mattered in the grand scheme of things. Then one moment everything comes together and you realize that you are just a speck of dust drifting in the wind.
The very next day I handed in my resignation in all my remaining federations. I was going to fulfil all my booking commitments and then that would be it. No more distractions, no more bullshit. I’ve spent nearly thirty years in this sport, if I’m going to accomplish anything in this business this would be my last chance. I was going to train the entire year to try and make it to the main event of One.
Sounds stupid right? I mean my buddies all said the same thing.
“You’re a stubborn old bastard.”
“You’ll get killed in there, if you don’t kill yourself training”
I laughed it off of course, but inside...it hurt. That’s all I am to them, I’m Bomber - local comedy act job guy. Talk smack to the crowd, taunt an old lady and then take the three count. What business does someone like this have even considering winning War? Only the best of the best of the best have won this match.
(Lionel interrupted with “...and Jay Omega.” - This was removed from the tape.)
Why am I even in this match? I mean shit just look at the flyer.
‘War XVI - Featuring Jay Omega, Jayson Price, Gravedigger, Bonnie Blue, Ethan King, David Sanchez, Mikey eXtreme and more!’
...and more. For my entire career never once has my name been in the lights on the marquee, on the side of a casino, on the top of a goddamn flyer - for my entire career I have only ever been ‘...and more’.
That’s my lot in life. That’s what I thought, that’s probably what a lot of you fans watching this think. You go along day to day with a number assigned to your worth, with a designation on who you are by the accolades others laud on you. I’m here in this match as a two fingered salute to that notion that you can’t define yourself and your own legacy. Folks, I’m in War because of me. Not because of anyone else, I didn’t get picked, I didn’t get asked - I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps. It wasn’t anyone else pounding the road at five in the morning in preparation for this, it wasn’t anyone else throwing up with exhaustion in the weight room; muscles spasming to the point of agony as I get the last rep out. It wasn’t anyone else putting in work in the empty, hard, old wrestling ring in my local gym.
It was me.
You don’t know me.
Why would you? I’ve done nothing in my career so far. I have drifted aimlessly in a sea of mediocrity using excuses and platitudes as a float.
My name is Harry Calden. I wrestle under the name Bomber.
You don’t know me. After War…
...you will know me.
Monday, April 17th, 2017
My husband is a selfish asshole. Sure, he knows how to push my buttons but never in our seventeen years of being married did he ever hit the ‘nuke my heart’ button. Well congratulations Harry, you got what you wanted.
“I’ve signed a contract with WCF, I’m going to be competing in their War event in October and-”he said with confident happiness. I felt my blood boil.
“You son of a bitch.” the look on his face was indicative of the tone of my voice as he turned aghast Casper in a millisecond. “You promised me.” He took a step forward, hands raising apologetically he reached a hand toward my shoulder. “Do not touch me. You promised me you were done with this shit.”
“Jo, I-” he pleaded.
“You nothing! Do you want to die? Is that it?”I could feel my voice starting to break and my sinuses contract with tears. No. I can’t be weak. Not on this, not this time. “Do you really want to throw everything we have together, your life, your health for the sake of this stupid dream of yours? You are forty seven years old, you are not an athlete, you’re not a sportsman - you are a middle aged man who is going bald and grey...and you fucking promised me.” I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer as the warm droplets began trickling down my face. Pathetic, I can’t even be strong for him. He didn’t respond at first, he took a seat on the armchair in our lounge. It was a modest room, the dusk light falling across the buildings opposite our semi-detached townhouse streaked in through the window illuminating Harry’s ‘Wrestling Wall of Achievement and Accolade’ he kept as pride of place in the lounge. It was the one part of the house that Harry ever cleaned. Pictures of his meetings and matches with superstars through the ages, I had been there for them all. I had been there six months ago when he swore to me he was fighting his last match. I was ringside. I cried. I cried tears of happiness.
Now I cry tears of fury.
“Listen, Joanna, please. Listen okay?” he tried to take my hand. I recoiled as if his fingers were made of flame. I recoiled, but I listened. “I love you. Okay? I love you more than anything else in this world. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a cliche I know but it’s the truth. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. I wouldn’t be the man that stands in front of you without you” his voice was starting to break too.
“What? A liar? Good job I did.” I snapped.
“No! I’m not...I just, look please. This is the last thing, this is the only thing. I don’t want to fight over this.” Harry said.
“What do you think we’re doing right now Harry?” I steadied myself. “It’s not happening. Period. You are not going to risk your health for one stupid match.”
“It is NOT stupid!”Harry’s emotions finally spilled into anger. “I have to do this Jo.”
“No Harry, you have to come to bed safe at night. You have to sip Mojito’s in Hawaii with me next summer. You have to see Edward graduate. That’s what you have to do.” the sobs took over this time. Why wouldn’t he listen? Doesn’t he care anymore? Doesn’t he care about me? About his own son? His arms embraced me. Those same, strong, safe muscular arms that I fell in love with. He cupped the small of my back with one hand and raised my chin to look at him with the other. I sniffled as I looked in those beautiful brown eyes. I fell in love with those too.
“You’re right. I made a promise to you. I promised I would never wrestle again. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I will be here for you, I will be here for Eddie. Do you remember what you told me our first night in Venice?”he said as he ran his hand through my hair.
“Yes” I sniffled.
We spoke in synchronicity.
“No matter what. You need to follow your dreams.”
Harry continued. “This has been my dream since the moment I became aware of how big the world of professional wrestling was. I’ve never had a chance like this. I’ve never even been a big fish in a small pond let alone something like this. I’m not even fodder for the sharks swimming the water here. I might fail. I mean fuck, I probably will fail. But I want to try. Goddamn I wanna try, when my grandkids ask me what my greatest moment in my career was should I tell them it was fighting Mark Ventor in front of five hundred people in a school gym? Or should I be able to tell them that I fought in the biggest match in professional wrestling on the planet against the greatest wrestlers in the world? Please. Let me fight.”
He already knew the answer. Those god...damned...eyes.
“Fight? No honey. You’re not going to fight.”
I took his hand in mine and planted a soft kiss on his lips.
“You’re going to win.”
My husband is a selfish asshole. Sure, he knows how to push my buttons but never in our seventeen years of being married did he ever hit the ‘nuke my heart’ button. Well congratulations Harry, you got what you wanted.
“I’ve signed a contract with WCF, I’m going to be competing in their War event in October and-”he said with confident happiness. I felt my blood boil.
“You son of a bitch.” the look on his face was indicative of the tone of my voice as he turned aghast Casper in a millisecond. “You promised me.” He took a step forward, hands raising apologetically he reached a hand toward my shoulder. “Do not touch me. You promised me you were done with this shit.”
“Jo, I-” he pleaded.
“You nothing! Do you want to die? Is that it?”I could feel my voice starting to break and my sinuses contract with tears. No. I can’t be weak. Not on this, not this time. “Do you really want to throw everything we have together, your life, your health for the sake of this stupid dream of yours? You are forty seven years old, you are not an athlete, you’re not a sportsman - you are a middle aged man who is going bald and grey...and you fucking promised me.” I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer as the warm droplets began trickling down my face. Pathetic, I can’t even be strong for him. He didn’t respond at first, he took a seat on the armchair in our lounge. It was a modest room, the dusk light falling across the buildings opposite our semi-detached townhouse streaked in through the window illuminating Harry’s ‘Wrestling Wall of Achievement and Accolade’ he kept as pride of place in the lounge. It was the one part of the house that Harry ever cleaned. Pictures of his meetings and matches with superstars through the ages, I had been there for them all. I had been there six months ago when he swore to me he was fighting his last match. I was ringside. I cried. I cried tears of happiness.
Now I cry tears of fury.
“Listen, Joanna, please. Listen okay?” he tried to take my hand. I recoiled as if his fingers were made of flame. I recoiled, but I listened. “I love you. Okay? I love you more than anything else in this world. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a cliche I know but it’s the truth. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. I wouldn’t be the man that stands in front of you without you” his voice was starting to break too.
“What? A liar? Good job I did.” I snapped.
“No! I’m not...I just, look please. This is the last thing, this is the only thing. I don’t want to fight over this.” Harry said.
“What do you think we’re doing right now Harry?” I steadied myself. “It’s not happening. Period. You are not going to risk your health for one stupid match.”
“It is NOT stupid!”Harry’s emotions finally spilled into anger. “I have to do this Jo.”
“No Harry, you have to come to bed safe at night. You have to sip Mojito’s in Hawaii with me next summer. You have to see Edward graduate. That’s what you have to do.” the sobs took over this time. Why wouldn’t he listen? Doesn’t he care anymore? Doesn’t he care about me? About his own son? His arms embraced me. Those same, strong, safe muscular arms that I fell in love with. He cupped the small of my back with one hand and raised my chin to look at him with the other. I sniffled as I looked in those beautiful brown eyes. I fell in love with those too.
“You’re right. I made a promise to you. I promised I would never wrestle again. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I will be here for you, I will be here for Eddie. Do you remember what you told me our first night in Venice?”he said as he ran his hand through my hair.
“Yes” I sniffled.
We spoke in synchronicity.
“No matter what. You need to follow your dreams.”
Harry continued. “This has been my dream since the moment I became aware of how big the world of professional wrestling was. I’ve never had a chance like this. I’ve never even been a big fish in a small pond let alone something like this. I’m not even fodder for the sharks swimming the water here. I might fail. I mean fuck, I probably will fail. But I want to try. Goddamn I wanna try, when my grandkids ask me what my greatest moment in my career was should I tell them it was fighting Mark Ventor in front of five hundred people in a school gym? Or should I be able to tell them that I fought in the biggest match in professional wrestling on the planet against the greatest wrestlers in the world? Please. Let me fight.”
He already knew the answer. Those god...damned...eyes.
“Fight? No honey. You’re not going to fight.”
I took his hand in mine and planted a soft kiss on his lips.
“You’re going to win.”
IV.
"BOMBS UNLOADED PART TWO"
“People have been telling me that I can’t win my entire life. That I’m not good enough. Am I starting to sound like a broken record yet? Yeah. It’s okay, you can fast forward anyway. You probably haven’t watched any of this so far so what do I care. It’s time to start talking about the facts heading into this match. I’ve checked the odds.
Ethan King 13/8 - he stands strong as the favorite.
Bomber 250/1 - absolutely bottom of every odds makers book
I’m not meant to win this match. I’m not meant to even compete. I’ve watched what my competitors have had to say about me in the lead up to this match. I think the combined length of the mentions could fit into a solid minute compilation. I’m supposed to be a non-factor in this match. What happens when...perception does a one eighty in its slow dance with reality?
Let’s set some things straight. I am not in this match to be an easy elimination. I am not in this match to be a statistic. Seth Lerch signed me to a contract looking at my age, my past work, how out of shape I was and thought I was going to be just another guy to make one of his pet projects look strong. I am not going to let things go the way you want. I am not going to be an easy mark in this match and if you want to pin my shoulders to the mat? You better bring a hammer and some fucking nails.
I’m not the strongest, I’m not the fastest, I’m not even the smartest. There are guys in the WCF who can do stuff I can’t even understand when it happens in the ring, some of the guys are even in this match but ya know what? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. They might have all the skill in the world, but nothing...nothing is going to beat the sheer will and desire I have to win this one wrestling match. One by one by one - that’s the way I need to treat this match. You can’t go into something so grueling, so daunting by thinking you’re going to waltz through the competition, that doesn’t happen. One pin at a time, one more wrestler eliminated: one more threat to my future eliminated.
Stephen Singh, John Rabid, Teo del Sol. One of these three men will be fighting the winner of this match. The two wrestlers competing at One will be turned from pencil into permanent ink following this Sunday’s outcome. Let me just give you gentleman a bit of advice. What happens at War...consider it a warning. A warning about the bomb that is about to consume your world as the year ends.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy New World Champion.
I’m not coming into War with contempt or ignorance about the match. I’ve watched every single one of the matches, I’ve been in the stands for damn near half of them as a fan. Like the rest of you watching this at home. Now as I step through the ropes I do so with the hopes and dreams of anyone who ever wanted to take up wrestling as a profession but were told to ‘go out and get a real job.’ What an ironic pipe bomb. This IS a career, this IS a viable job. You can you live out your dreams. Just watch. Every punch I throw, every hold I lock in at War is for you people, to show you that dreams can come true, it can happen to you. You just need to take that first step, grab that feather and fucking believe. Then you can fly. Oh boy can you fly.
I intend to. I’m not going to go gently into the night, I’m going to fight and claw my way to the top with every last breath I have left in my body. Singh, Rabid, Teo: I am coming. I am coming for everything you have, for everything you are. Show your fighting spirit in your match and then watch mine. I will match your intensity and I will crank it all the way up to eleven. So watch please. Watch as the 250-1 man defies every single bet that has been placed against him. Watch as the faces at ringside turn from laughter to shock to awe when Bomber starts his march through wrestlers who were thought his better. Listen to Davis and Whoa as they question who I am, as they laugh about how my debut is going to ‘Bomb’ and that my chances have ‘exploded’ - then listen to them whisper in hushed tones as I systematically pin all their favorites, all the company endorsed men one by one by one.
Do I sound overconfident? Do I sound conceited? No. This is the sound of a man who is safe and secure in himself. I don’t need validation, I don’t need support, I don’t need recognition. This is the sound of a man who has worked his ass off and doesn’t think anyone else in the world can match his work rate. These men you think are athletes? I’ll have them blowing up after thirty seconds. The talent is out of this world here. But the work ethic? That’s a different thing entirely.
This isn’t a ‘WCF’s Got Talent’ match. This is War. This is a battle of attrition, a battle of stamina, a battle of desire. I will not be defeated in any of these three categories. I can cut out the first four words of that sentence and it applies to the outcome of this match.
I will not be defeated.
Which of you is going to do it? You who doesn’t care about me? You who doesn’t know my name? No. I’m the blade in the night to you all. This match will have you focused on names, not on threat. If so, I would have the biggest X on my chest. But for now I am shrouded in a ‘no name’ cloud. That cloud will be all consuming by the time the final bell rings. I will step from the cloud, hello again - my name is Bomber.
You don’t know me.
At War I come out swinging my bat.
I need you to know me.
I ain’t ever proved anything to anyone. I’ve never even so much as wrestled in this ring, you don’t know what I’m going to bring to this match. To this ring, after Sunday night is over and every single one of you are licking your wounds and wondering what was different, what changed, what went wrong? It’s simple really.
The one mistake that will cost all of you the main event at One. The one mistake that will see me walk through every single one of you.
You underestimated me...and for that?
You lose. You...all...lose."
V.
I said my goodbyes to Lionel for the day. He was a good kid. He had a good head for the business, I was happy to be giving this exclusive shit to him over a jobsworth who didn’t care about the business. I slid my sneakers off as quiet as possible, it was daybreak and Jo was working the late shift at the hospital. To hell with War, she’d tear my head off before I even stepped through the ropes.
As I padded into the lounge, my wrestling wall was starting to catch the cresting rising light of daybreak. I felt drawn to a picture sat on my mantlepiece.
Bomber and Eddie Calden (Age Five) - showing a muscular man with a short military buzz cut holding a young boy - face alight with joy, aloft. Eddie.
He was at all the live shows, he was there every time I performed. Then he hit high school and his friends told him wrestling was ‘fake’. His hero became a phony, Santa Clause became...just dad in a beard. He didn’t know about the bruises, the concussions, the beatings, the sleepless nights, the travel...but I didn’t care. He didn’t believe anymore, and that was enough.
Before I knew it, I was calling him.
‘Hey there you’ve reached Eddie Calden, uhh, yeah just like...leave a message after the beep!’
*BEEP*
“Hey there Edward. It’s Dad. I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re studying, you have all the brains in our family. This is nothing, right? Anyway.
Son. Please, be there for War. Okay? I’ve already sent your ticket out a week ago. I don’t know if you’ve gotten it or not. I hope so. I miss talking to you. I miss our Messenger chats. I’m just rambling. Please be there. I know you’re not the biggest fan of wrestling, I know you don’t even care anymore about what I do but I still want you to come watch. How stupid is this hah, it’s like a kid begging a parent come to watch them playing a sheep for a nativity performance. I just want you there. What is going to happen in this match is going to to tell you everything you need to know about your father. Whatever happens in this match is going to tell you everything you need to know about the sport I’ve been fighting in.
I’m going to win this match, I’m going to win for you, for your mother, for my own professional goddamn pride. The job I’ve worked for my whole adult life isn’t a game, it’s not ‘fake’. I’m going to win this match because no one else believes I can. I mean shit, I don’t know if even I believe anymore. But...your mother believes, and that twelve year old boy who sat on my shoulder as I paraded him around the ring while I held the AWA title on the other shoulder - he believes too.
Edward.
You have no idea how much your childish words hurt me. When you told me that you thought what I did was a sham it made me, your big strong dad cry in his room at night. Let me show you. Stand there, watch at ringside as I humble the biggest celebrities and superstars in the world. But...the big underdog winning a match like this just doesn’t happen, does it? Rocky stories aren’t real. That’s all they are, stories. The narrative is I get eliminated early and take a few commemorative photographs with my family and the wrestlers.
I’m going to write a brand new story. One for the ages, one that shatters all preconceptions and notions of superiority in this business. One that is stranger than fiction.
Middle aged unheralded wrestler makes debut in biggest company in world...wins the whole goddamn thing.
There is nothing fake about what is going to happen at War. It’s the story of a man fighting for his beliefs and for his dream. It’s the story about a father proving to his son that professional wrestling is the greatest sport in the world. It’s the story about Bomber upsetting all odds. It’s the story about Bomber winning War."
...beep.
