Post by Johnny Reb on Dec 3, 2011 12:49:58 GMT -5
A chilly, early December afternoon finds the Inveterate Confederate taking a leisurely stroll through a public park. The morning’s frost has disappeared, leaving the grass wet, dewy, and shining under the bright sun. He passes a playground, where a few hardy parents huddle on benches, wrapped up against the cold and trading a Thermos full of coffee back and forth while they watch their children play on the jungle gym. The kids seem oblivious to the cold, casting aside heavy coats in favor of maneuverability. A boy, no more than eight or nine, climbs atop the monkey bars and, spotting Johnny, strikes a pose in imitation of his favorite WCF superstar – until a sharp reprimand from his father brings him back to the ground, and relative safety. Reb gives the kid a grin, waves, and moves on.
Reb: These are the moments we live for. I mean, sure, there’s always the thrill of vict’ry; the unmitigated joy of walkin’ out of a match with a title belt; or the exhilaration of pure, unspoiled competition with a worthy adversary. There’s quite a bit to be said for those things. But… more than winnin’, it’s recognition we crave. It’s a deep-rooted human need. We don’t do what we do for ourselves alone; if we did, we wouldn’t put up with all the bull-hockey of bein’ on television week in an’ week out. As much as this profession means to any of us, without the fans, there wouldn’t be a lot of point. Whether we are beloved or despised, we get a reaction…an’ that counts as much as any triumph in the ring. It might be said, then, that we have a responsibility to the fans – especially the children – to set an example, for better or worse.
The footpath leads Johnny around the edge of a soccer field, quiet and tranquil now, the nets long since taken down from the goals. Beyond, a stand of bare-limbed trees shivers in the slight wind. A few tenacious leaves cling to branches here and there, fluttering wildly when the breeze picks up, only to still again.
Reb: Sometimes, the examples we set are not those of our own choosin’. There are situations we come into, situations beyond our immediate control, an’ sometimes we have to choose between the lesser of two evils. In this case, it seems to be: work with my mortal enemy, or stand in the unemployment line; two equally untenable propositions. Pride makes me want to say “to hell with it” an’ walk away. That’s the problem with pride: it blinds a man to the bigger picture. Honor, however, dictates that I must continue down this path; that I find a way to beat Doc Henry – an’ Seth Lerch – at their own game.
Now, I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t feel a certain kinship with my Southern counterparts whom I will be facin’ this week. An’ I’ll admit, even, that Adam Young made a rather astute observation… namely, that Mr. Lerch is attemptin’ to punish us Confederates by throwin’ us all into the ring together. Whether this is his own Yankee intolerance comin’ to light, or whether there’s somethin’ more personal in it, I can’t hazard a guess. I reckon it don’t really matter. We’ve done this tango before, Mr. Young, an’ we’ll do it again ‘fore it’s all said an’ done. Difference is, you got a partner you can rely on, while I… have Doc Henry.
Johnny gives a derisive snort, looking thoroughly displeased with the whole arrangement.
Reb: That ain’t to say that ol’ Doc won’t have my back. He can’t afford to let me get injured again, not now. Not when he’s forced me into this position where, once again, I have to carry the New Confederacy to success. The man has essentially taken me outta the main event scene, let alone any shot at the World Title again… an’ I gotta wonder if Lerch had a little somethin’ to do with that as well. For now, that’s neither here nor there. I’ll deal with Lerch when the time is right.
Don’t think I’m gonna go easy on ya, Mr. Young – you, or your protégé, Hunter. I may respect ya, but that don’t mean I like ya. An’ the kid? I don’t even know him. The fact that he’s allied with you tells me all I need to know about him.
He shrugs in a noncommittal way.
Reb: Come tomorrow night, gentlemen, the New Confederacy will walk out of Slam the same way we walked outta the Supershow on Thanksgivin’… with our hands raised in vict’ry an’ our heads held high. Deo vindice!
Reb: These are the moments we live for. I mean, sure, there’s always the thrill of vict’ry; the unmitigated joy of walkin’ out of a match with a title belt; or the exhilaration of pure, unspoiled competition with a worthy adversary. There’s quite a bit to be said for those things. But… more than winnin’, it’s recognition we crave. It’s a deep-rooted human need. We don’t do what we do for ourselves alone; if we did, we wouldn’t put up with all the bull-hockey of bein’ on television week in an’ week out. As much as this profession means to any of us, without the fans, there wouldn’t be a lot of point. Whether we are beloved or despised, we get a reaction…an’ that counts as much as any triumph in the ring. It might be said, then, that we have a responsibility to the fans – especially the children – to set an example, for better or worse.
The footpath leads Johnny around the edge of a soccer field, quiet and tranquil now, the nets long since taken down from the goals. Beyond, a stand of bare-limbed trees shivers in the slight wind. A few tenacious leaves cling to branches here and there, fluttering wildly when the breeze picks up, only to still again.
Reb: Sometimes, the examples we set are not those of our own choosin’. There are situations we come into, situations beyond our immediate control, an’ sometimes we have to choose between the lesser of two evils. In this case, it seems to be: work with my mortal enemy, or stand in the unemployment line; two equally untenable propositions. Pride makes me want to say “to hell with it” an’ walk away. That’s the problem with pride: it blinds a man to the bigger picture. Honor, however, dictates that I must continue down this path; that I find a way to beat Doc Henry – an’ Seth Lerch – at their own game.
Now, I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t feel a certain kinship with my Southern counterparts whom I will be facin’ this week. An’ I’ll admit, even, that Adam Young made a rather astute observation… namely, that Mr. Lerch is attemptin’ to punish us Confederates by throwin’ us all into the ring together. Whether this is his own Yankee intolerance comin’ to light, or whether there’s somethin’ more personal in it, I can’t hazard a guess. I reckon it don’t really matter. We’ve done this tango before, Mr. Young, an’ we’ll do it again ‘fore it’s all said an’ done. Difference is, you got a partner you can rely on, while I… have Doc Henry.
Johnny gives a derisive snort, looking thoroughly displeased with the whole arrangement.
Reb: That ain’t to say that ol’ Doc won’t have my back. He can’t afford to let me get injured again, not now. Not when he’s forced me into this position where, once again, I have to carry the New Confederacy to success. The man has essentially taken me outta the main event scene, let alone any shot at the World Title again… an’ I gotta wonder if Lerch had a little somethin’ to do with that as well. For now, that’s neither here nor there. I’ll deal with Lerch when the time is right.
Don’t think I’m gonna go easy on ya, Mr. Young – you, or your protégé, Hunter. I may respect ya, but that don’t mean I like ya. An’ the kid? I don’t even know him. The fact that he’s allied with you tells me all I need to know about him.
He shrugs in a noncommittal way.
Reb: Come tomorrow night, gentlemen, the New Confederacy will walk out of Slam the same way we walked outta the Supershow on Thanksgivin’… with our hands raised in vict’ry an’ our heads held high. Deo vindice!
