Post by Craig Lassiter on Aug 1, 2007 10:56:02 GMT -5
"You ready to hit the heavy bag?"
"Give me a few minutes, ok?"
"You got it." Sean shook his water bottle, indicating that he needed a refill and headed off to find one.
Craig leaned forward on the blue mat and gulped down as much oxygen as his lungs could handle. Zeke stood in front of him, wearing a tie-dyed workout suit, and hand-rolled a cigarette.
"I'm telling you dude, you haven't looked that good in the ring in years."
"Really?" Craig gasped. "Sixty seconds in, and I thought my lungs were gonna explode."
"Yeah, stamina was never your strong suit. 'Get in, kick some ass, and get out,' that's what you used to say. "Don't worry, though. Sean knows all about roadwork. The guy used to run track."
"Yeah?" Craig said, reaching for his own bottle of water and tipping it back.
"Sure, man. I'm pretty sure he's got a mantle full of medals and trophies."
Craig finished drinking and offered the bottle to Zeke, who declined. "I don't suppose I've got a mantle full of medals somewhere?"
Zeke started to laugh, then stifled it when he saw the earnest look on Craig's face. "Organised sports were never your thing, dude. And you didn't stay in school long enough to really get into that stuff anyway."
"Really? You mean, I didn't graduate high school?"
"Nope."
Craig finally pulled himself back to his feet, still breathing heavily. "I can't believe I'm a high school dropout."
"Um," Zeke started, then stopped. After a look from Craig, he continued. "Junior high dropout, actually."
Shaking his head, Craig walked off the mat and wandered to the corner of the small gym where a heavy bag suspended from the ceiling. He gave it a few weak punches.
"Don't worry about it, dude. In this business, an education isn't exactly a pre-requisite. What was it you used to say about wrestlers? The good guys only need to know how to count to three, and the bad guys only need to know how to count to five. You knew what you wanted to do before most people, and you wanted to get your feet wet. Hell, you were taking indie bookings before you were old enough to drink." Zeke laughed and walked up beside him. "You want to hear about your first match?"
That brought a smile to Craig's face and he gingerly placed his back against the heavy bag, allowing its weight to support him. "Sure!"
"Well, this is how you told me, right? And you weren't always the most honest fellow back then, so I'm not sure it's 100 percent true, but I think it's pretty close. See, you were working for Duke Giggins' outfit out of Chicago; helping setup chairs, putting flyers on windshields, that kind of thing. Well, the main event for the night was going to be Barbarian Borenz--he was the hometown monster--taking on Colonel Vaschev, some Russian bad guy."
At this point, Sean returned to the gym. Without interrupting, he handed Craig a fresh bottle of water and opened one of his own. Zeke continued his story.
"Now this show was in late October, and they had some kind of freak snowstorm the day before. Flights were grounded in the city. Nothing coming in or going out. Back then, most of the talent drove from show to show. Only the big names flew. Well, Vaschev had just done a show in Atlanta, and his flight got rerouted along the way. So Giggins finds out less than an hour before the show that Vaschev wasn't going to make it."
"And I volunteered to wrestle in his place?" Craig beamed.
"You better believe it. You were tipping the scales at less about 150 at the time, and couldn't have been more than 15. Giggins wouldn't hear of it, but you laid out so much BS about having taken martial arts since you were eight, that you managed to convince him. Course, the thought of 300 angry fans wanting their money back probably went a long way to convincing him as well."
"The way I heard the story," interjected Sean, "you told him that you were going to be 18 in three months, and you were so skinny because you had cut weight for the high school wrestling team on account of there being no competition at 185."
Zeke nodded as the two of them laughed. "I forgot about that part. So, all this is going on in the middle of the show. People are freaking out backstage, and Barbarian Borenz was totally pissed. Vaschev had really done a number on him last time he was in town, so Borenz--and the fans--were out for blood. Now this is the main event, don't forget. So Giggins' number two man, Jefferson I think he was called, looked at you and said there was no way this was going to work. So, they dressed you up in Mickey Midnite's old gear, cause he was the smallest guy Giggins had ever booked. Then they took shoe polish to your hair until it was jet black and combed it into this wicked side part. They found an old green combat jacket and stuck that over top. Then, for the icing on the cake, they put a smudge of shoe polish right in the middle of your upper lip.
"Then, right before the main event, Borenz hit the ring and tore Vaschev a new one about being too much of a coward to even show up. Then Jefferson comes out and says that Vaschev couldn't make it, but he sent his good friend out here to make things right. At this point, the crowd was rabid, they'd been waiting for Borenz and Vaschev to hook it up for months. So, out you come."
Zeke paused to compose himself and light up his cigarette. Sean began to laugh and Craig just watched with a smile on his face.
"So, out you come, looking like Hitler and Emo Philips' lovechild. I think they billed you as Herr Flick, or something stupid like that. Now the way you told it, you just about shit yourself as you walked to the ring. Borenz was a monster, built much like that Rayne guy you fought the other night, only hairy as hell. So, about halfway to the ring, you figure this is the night you're going to die anyway, so you say, 'to hell with it.' You start goose-stepping around the ring and barking orders to the ring crew and the timekeeper in this rediculous German accent. The fans started hurling crap at you, and one guy even jumped the barricade but got stopped by security before he could get a piece of you.
"As you told it, it was a solid ten minutes of ringside shtick before you finally climbed through the ropes for the first match of your illustrious career. Borenz was on you like a shot, picked you up for his airplane spin / gorilla press combo, and you were done like dinner."
Craig joined in with Sean and Zeke, who were laughing heartily.
"You were laid up in bed for almost a solid week after that night, but the crowd left happy, and you got your first wrestling paycheck. And the next time Colonel Vaschev came to Chicago, guess who was in his corner, riling up the crowd."
"Herr Flick?" Sean said.
"You got it, man."
The laughs subsided and the three of them just stood around, smiling, until Sean spoke.
"So, you ready for that heavy bag now?"
"You know it."
"Give me a few minutes, ok?"
"You got it." Sean shook his water bottle, indicating that he needed a refill and headed off to find one.
Craig leaned forward on the blue mat and gulped down as much oxygen as his lungs could handle. Zeke stood in front of him, wearing a tie-dyed workout suit, and hand-rolled a cigarette.
"I'm telling you dude, you haven't looked that good in the ring in years."
"Really?" Craig gasped. "Sixty seconds in, and I thought my lungs were gonna explode."
"Yeah, stamina was never your strong suit. 'Get in, kick some ass, and get out,' that's what you used to say. "Don't worry, though. Sean knows all about roadwork. The guy used to run track."
"Yeah?" Craig said, reaching for his own bottle of water and tipping it back.
"Sure, man. I'm pretty sure he's got a mantle full of medals and trophies."
Craig finished drinking and offered the bottle to Zeke, who declined. "I don't suppose I've got a mantle full of medals somewhere?"
Zeke started to laugh, then stifled it when he saw the earnest look on Craig's face. "Organised sports were never your thing, dude. And you didn't stay in school long enough to really get into that stuff anyway."
"Really? You mean, I didn't graduate high school?"
"Nope."
Craig finally pulled himself back to his feet, still breathing heavily. "I can't believe I'm a high school dropout."
"Um," Zeke started, then stopped. After a look from Craig, he continued. "Junior high dropout, actually."
Shaking his head, Craig walked off the mat and wandered to the corner of the small gym where a heavy bag suspended from the ceiling. He gave it a few weak punches.
"Don't worry about it, dude. In this business, an education isn't exactly a pre-requisite. What was it you used to say about wrestlers? The good guys only need to know how to count to three, and the bad guys only need to know how to count to five. You knew what you wanted to do before most people, and you wanted to get your feet wet. Hell, you were taking indie bookings before you were old enough to drink." Zeke laughed and walked up beside him. "You want to hear about your first match?"
That brought a smile to Craig's face and he gingerly placed his back against the heavy bag, allowing its weight to support him. "Sure!"
"Well, this is how you told me, right? And you weren't always the most honest fellow back then, so I'm not sure it's 100 percent true, but I think it's pretty close. See, you were working for Duke Giggins' outfit out of Chicago; helping setup chairs, putting flyers on windshields, that kind of thing. Well, the main event for the night was going to be Barbarian Borenz--he was the hometown monster--taking on Colonel Vaschev, some Russian bad guy."
At this point, Sean returned to the gym. Without interrupting, he handed Craig a fresh bottle of water and opened one of his own. Zeke continued his story.
"Now this show was in late October, and they had some kind of freak snowstorm the day before. Flights were grounded in the city. Nothing coming in or going out. Back then, most of the talent drove from show to show. Only the big names flew. Well, Vaschev had just done a show in Atlanta, and his flight got rerouted along the way. So Giggins finds out less than an hour before the show that Vaschev wasn't going to make it."
"And I volunteered to wrestle in his place?" Craig beamed.
"You better believe it. You were tipping the scales at less about 150 at the time, and couldn't have been more than 15. Giggins wouldn't hear of it, but you laid out so much BS about having taken martial arts since you were eight, that you managed to convince him. Course, the thought of 300 angry fans wanting their money back probably went a long way to convincing him as well."
"The way I heard the story," interjected Sean, "you told him that you were going to be 18 in three months, and you were so skinny because you had cut weight for the high school wrestling team on account of there being no competition at 185."
Zeke nodded as the two of them laughed. "I forgot about that part. So, all this is going on in the middle of the show. People are freaking out backstage, and Barbarian Borenz was totally pissed. Vaschev had really done a number on him last time he was in town, so Borenz--and the fans--were out for blood. Now this is the main event, don't forget. So Giggins' number two man, Jefferson I think he was called, looked at you and said there was no way this was going to work. So, they dressed you up in Mickey Midnite's old gear, cause he was the smallest guy Giggins had ever booked. Then they took shoe polish to your hair until it was jet black and combed it into this wicked side part. They found an old green combat jacket and stuck that over top. Then, for the icing on the cake, they put a smudge of shoe polish right in the middle of your upper lip.
"Then, right before the main event, Borenz hit the ring and tore Vaschev a new one about being too much of a coward to even show up. Then Jefferson comes out and says that Vaschev couldn't make it, but he sent his good friend out here to make things right. At this point, the crowd was rabid, they'd been waiting for Borenz and Vaschev to hook it up for months. So, out you come."
Zeke paused to compose himself and light up his cigarette. Sean began to laugh and Craig just watched with a smile on his face.
"So, out you come, looking like Hitler and Emo Philips' lovechild. I think they billed you as Herr Flick, or something stupid like that. Now the way you told it, you just about shit yourself as you walked to the ring. Borenz was a monster, built much like that Rayne guy you fought the other night, only hairy as hell. So, about halfway to the ring, you figure this is the night you're going to die anyway, so you say, 'to hell with it.' You start goose-stepping around the ring and barking orders to the ring crew and the timekeeper in this rediculous German accent. The fans started hurling crap at you, and one guy even jumped the barricade but got stopped by security before he could get a piece of you.
"As you told it, it was a solid ten minutes of ringside shtick before you finally climbed through the ropes for the first match of your illustrious career. Borenz was on you like a shot, picked you up for his airplane spin / gorilla press combo, and you were done like dinner."
Craig joined in with Sean and Zeke, who were laughing heartily.
"You were laid up in bed for almost a solid week after that night, but the crowd left happy, and you got your first wrestling paycheck. And the next time Colonel Vaschev came to Chicago, guess who was in his corner, riling up the crowd."
"Herr Flick?" Sean said.
"You got it, man."
The laughs subsided and the three of them just stood around, smiling, until Sean spoke.
"So, you ready for that heavy bag now?"
"You know it."