Post by Johnny Reb on Aug 15, 2011 10:30:30 GMT -5
Inside the Target Center in Minneapolis, the arena is still and silent; the ring already assembled. Soon, technicians will perform their various tests on the sound and lighting equipment, but for now, all is calm and peaceful – but not empty. A sense of anticipation fills the air, so powerful as to be perceived through even the simple medium of television. Johnny Reb prowls the perimeter of the ring, trailing his fingers along the ropes as he completes the circuit. He pauses at the steel steps, looking up with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the altar.
And then, slowly, he climbs up the steps, slips between the ropes. His gaze is drawn upward to the overhead lights, dark now; later, they will burn bright and hot, like dozens of miniature suns. Blinding, illuminating, life-giving suns. It’s an entire universe, shrunken to a twenty-foot by twenty-foot square. But that’s all the Inveterate Confederate needs.
Johnny: It all comes down to this. This moment. Week in, week out; no matter the venue, the event, or the match. It’s the moment you step into the ring – fleetin’, ephemeral, but no less real. An’ every single time, it’s like bein’ reborn, made anew. Whatever may have come before just falls away; there is only the ring, only the opposition.
Reb paces the ring briefly, his expression reflective. Without thinking, he steps onto a turnbuckle and climbs up, taking in the view from this new position, looking at it all with fresh eyes. Or perhaps he envisions the thousands of fans who will fill the empty seats, cheering, screaming, and waving signs. He shakes off the reverie and jumps back down, leaning casually now against the ropes.
Johnny: If ya asked me why I do this, I couldn’t give ya a simple answer. There are a lotta reasons. I’m damn good at it, for one. But it’s more’n that. Gold an’ glory, the roar of the crowd, even the paycheck…hell, those are just the trappin’s. It’s the challenge, the purity of the competition, the chance to test myself week after week; to learn from those experiences an’ grow. Then again… Maybe there is a more straightforward reason. Somethin’ about this sport draws me, if you’ll pardon the cliché, like a moth to flame. Hell, I got so many pins in my neck – thanks to Mr. Doc Henry – I can’t even get through airport security without bein’ manhandled half a dozen different times… an’ in spite of that, in spite of what my doctor advised… I just can’t seem to stay away.
I reckon some folks in the locker room don’t like that. Maybe they was expectin’ their self-styled dominance to continue unchallenged. Maybe they figured guys like me an’ Jay Williams would stay gone, so they’d have an easy time pickin’ over what’s left… like vultures feedin’ on roadkill.
A slight frown creases Reb’s brow, and he sighs just audibly.
Johnny: All right, so maybe that ain’t quite fair. I’ll give credit where it’s due. Odin, as he likes to point out rather stridently, is the World Champion – for however long that lasts. An’ Mr. Baines is the Hardcore Champion. Good for him. But this ain’t no hardcore match. Now, does all this intimidate me?
To be honest, a little. Not ‘cause of all that, not really. I’m gonna let y’all in on a little secret: fear is one element of what I feel when I step into this ring. It’s natural. It’s healthy. Fear is a survival mechanism. It has allowed the human race to thrive for this long. It’s what keeps us from nuking the planet into oblivion. But what I most appreciate an’ savor about fear… is overcomin’ it. Fear is instinctive, subconscious, irrational. Much like Mr. Balfore, it’s not somethin’ that can be reasoned with. So ya gotta push it aside, work through it… eventually embrace it.
Now, I understand why some of y’all might think I don’t deserve this. I know what Baines tried to imply, sayin’ I promote egotism an’ indulgence. Does that piss me off? You’re damn straight it does. That’s just more fuel for the fire… an’ believe me, there is a fire inside. Call it determination. Call it whatever ya like. See, I didn’t come back here just lookin’ to reassert my own dominance. In fact, if Mr. Deruty hadn’t directed my attention to this little “Alliance,” I might not’ve paid them much mind at all. An’ if truth be told, I certainly wasn’t expectin’ to be put in such a high-profile match so quickly. I expected the minnows, not the sharks. Be that as it may, this is the situation we find ourselves in.
In the end, gentlemen, y’all can say whatever ya like. Argue the legitimacy of mine an’ Mr. Williams’ respective injuries. Talk all ya want about “cleansin’ the soul” of the WCF. We’ve heard it all before, an’ in the end, things are always the same. It don’t matter. What matters is what happens between the time that bell rings… an’ the instant the referee slaps his hand on the canvas for the third time. Anythin’ else is just talk.
That bein’ said, I can assure you that I have the utmost confidence in my partner. Jay Williams is, arguably, a better, more experienced performer than I. That’s why he took the World Title from me in the first place. I ain’t got no hard feelin’s about that. There is no distrust between us. We may not be best friends, but we don’t gotta be. We are united by mutual respect an’ a common goal. An’ tonight, The Inveterate Confederate an’ Dynamite Jay Williams will be the ones with our hands raised in vict’ry, when all’s said an’ done. Beyond that, I ain’t got much else to say, except…
Now, Johnny flashes a cocky grin.
Johnny: Deo vindice!
And then, slowly, he climbs up the steps, slips between the ropes. His gaze is drawn upward to the overhead lights, dark now; later, they will burn bright and hot, like dozens of miniature suns. Blinding, illuminating, life-giving suns. It’s an entire universe, shrunken to a twenty-foot by twenty-foot square. But that’s all the Inveterate Confederate needs.
Johnny: It all comes down to this. This moment. Week in, week out; no matter the venue, the event, or the match. It’s the moment you step into the ring – fleetin’, ephemeral, but no less real. An’ every single time, it’s like bein’ reborn, made anew. Whatever may have come before just falls away; there is only the ring, only the opposition.
Reb paces the ring briefly, his expression reflective. Without thinking, he steps onto a turnbuckle and climbs up, taking in the view from this new position, looking at it all with fresh eyes. Or perhaps he envisions the thousands of fans who will fill the empty seats, cheering, screaming, and waving signs. He shakes off the reverie and jumps back down, leaning casually now against the ropes.
Johnny: If ya asked me why I do this, I couldn’t give ya a simple answer. There are a lotta reasons. I’m damn good at it, for one. But it’s more’n that. Gold an’ glory, the roar of the crowd, even the paycheck…hell, those are just the trappin’s. It’s the challenge, the purity of the competition, the chance to test myself week after week; to learn from those experiences an’ grow. Then again… Maybe there is a more straightforward reason. Somethin’ about this sport draws me, if you’ll pardon the cliché, like a moth to flame. Hell, I got so many pins in my neck – thanks to Mr. Doc Henry – I can’t even get through airport security without bein’ manhandled half a dozen different times… an’ in spite of that, in spite of what my doctor advised… I just can’t seem to stay away.
I reckon some folks in the locker room don’t like that. Maybe they was expectin’ their self-styled dominance to continue unchallenged. Maybe they figured guys like me an’ Jay Williams would stay gone, so they’d have an easy time pickin’ over what’s left… like vultures feedin’ on roadkill.
A slight frown creases Reb’s brow, and he sighs just audibly.
Johnny: All right, so maybe that ain’t quite fair. I’ll give credit where it’s due. Odin, as he likes to point out rather stridently, is the World Champion – for however long that lasts. An’ Mr. Baines is the Hardcore Champion. Good for him. But this ain’t no hardcore match. Now, does all this intimidate me?
To be honest, a little. Not ‘cause of all that, not really. I’m gonna let y’all in on a little secret: fear is one element of what I feel when I step into this ring. It’s natural. It’s healthy. Fear is a survival mechanism. It has allowed the human race to thrive for this long. It’s what keeps us from nuking the planet into oblivion. But what I most appreciate an’ savor about fear… is overcomin’ it. Fear is instinctive, subconscious, irrational. Much like Mr. Balfore, it’s not somethin’ that can be reasoned with. So ya gotta push it aside, work through it… eventually embrace it.
Now, I understand why some of y’all might think I don’t deserve this. I know what Baines tried to imply, sayin’ I promote egotism an’ indulgence. Does that piss me off? You’re damn straight it does. That’s just more fuel for the fire… an’ believe me, there is a fire inside. Call it determination. Call it whatever ya like. See, I didn’t come back here just lookin’ to reassert my own dominance. In fact, if Mr. Deruty hadn’t directed my attention to this little “Alliance,” I might not’ve paid them much mind at all. An’ if truth be told, I certainly wasn’t expectin’ to be put in such a high-profile match so quickly. I expected the minnows, not the sharks. Be that as it may, this is the situation we find ourselves in.
In the end, gentlemen, y’all can say whatever ya like. Argue the legitimacy of mine an’ Mr. Williams’ respective injuries. Talk all ya want about “cleansin’ the soul” of the WCF. We’ve heard it all before, an’ in the end, things are always the same. It don’t matter. What matters is what happens between the time that bell rings… an’ the instant the referee slaps his hand on the canvas for the third time. Anythin’ else is just talk.
That bein’ said, I can assure you that I have the utmost confidence in my partner. Jay Williams is, arguably, a better, more experienced performer than I. That’s why he took the World Title from me in the first place. I ain’t got no hard feelin’s about that. There is no distrust between us. We may not be best friends, but we don’t gotta be. We are united by mutual respect an’ a common goal. An’ tonight, The Inveterate Confederate an’ Dynamite Jay Williams will be the ones with our hands raised in vict’ry, when all’s said an’ done. Beyond that, I ain’t got much else to say, except…
Now, Johnny flashes a cocky grin.
Johnny: Deo vindice!
