Post by Jay Stevens on Jan 29, 2021 19:05:16 GMT -5
The warehouse in South Chicago is home to the gym of The Wrecking Crew team. Dimly lit, colored gray with grime and the equity of many nights of hard work, the interior of the building lies in stark contrast to the vibrant city surrounding it.
"It kills you, doesn't it? That I've done in five months what you couldn't do in fifteen years…"
Jay Stevens.
"Make people care."
Seated on the ring apron, the young competitor rubs his hands together to generate heat. The “Windy City” is definitely living up to it’s name on this night, the gusts shaking the windows, the endless howl making itself heard.
There are no "warm smiles" here, only icy glare of a determined young man.
“Two thousand and seven seems to be a year that sticks out to you. You mention Team Danger and Eric Dane. Jeff Andrews and Dusty Griffith and the apparent masses who didn't take you seriously and it sticks with you still.”
Stevens speaks with a serious and deliberate tone. He works to hold back a sneer as the words spill out.
“Two thousand and seven was a banner year for me too. I got a bike. It was my eighth birthday. But I remember you from even back then. Watching you trying to insert yourself in conversations with champions, desperate for attention, a hanger-on, an imposter. We never shared words because even as a child, I was taught not to associate with losers.”
A smirk that would rival the best, tempered only by Jay quickly pushing the snark away, staying focused on his purpose.
“You have the audacity to mention Ryan Corey amongst those names, a man who was barely a blip even before Dane snuffed him out of existence. It makes sense that he is your hero, he was an imposter too. But Adrien, the past is the past. You may be trapped in it, seeking the validation of the last generation, but it’s over… and you’ll never get it.
You were, at best, a punchline to the last generation and you don’t exist at all to this generation, save for maybe a cautionary tale of what happens when a man deludes himself for year after year, living a life of pure fantasy in belief that maybe this time is different. Maybe this time will be the one where you make it.”
He sighs, his furrowed brow relaxing.
“But it won’t be. It won’t ever be your time. You’re not a professional wrestler. You’re not a fighter. You’re not a man. You are an insecure boy. You’ve spent your adult life emulating teenagers and being the ‘fun guy’, trying to fill the role of the ‘down to earth man of the people,’ praying you’ll become someone that people will like, appreciate, even love.
I’m sorry that you can’t let go of the past, but I appreciate your tenacity to continue fighting despite years of disappointment. Unfortunately, you’ll just have to chalk this one up as yet another moment in time that you came up short.
I’m going to beat you, Adrien. It’s of no consequence that you’re the ‘Dropkick King’, a father, a musician or some guy from the street. I am going to beat you.
And maybe you’ll be able to let it go. Maybe not.”
Jay shrugs.
“But it won’t matter either way, because you’ll still have to watch me then defeat Eron Hunter again or Chris Cavenaugh and have my name etched in history.
Because this time won’t be any different for you. This time it’s my time.”
Jay rolls into the ring, to his feet, and starts to walk away.
“But maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you do have something. After all, you’ve hung on to that bottom rung for all this time.”
He stops and turns back.
“Or maybe everyone was right about you in two thousand and seven.”
"It kills you, doesn't it? That I've done in five months what you couldn't do in fifteen years…"
Jay Stevens.
"Make people care."
Seated on the ring apron, the young competitor rubs his hands together to generate heat. The “Windy City” is definitely living up to it’s name on this night, the gusts shaking the windows, the endless howl making itself heard.
There are no "warm smiles" here, only icy glare of a determined young man.
“Two thousand and seven seems to be a year that sticks out to you. You mention Team Danger and Eric Dane. Jeff Andrews and Dusty Griffith and the apparent masses who didn't take you seriously and it sticks with you still.”
Stevens speaks with a serious and deliberate tone. He works to hold back a sneer as the words spill out.
“Two thousand and seven was a banner year for me too. I got a bike. It was my eighth birthday. But I remember you from even back then. Watching you trying to insert yourself in conversations with champions, desperate for attention, a hanger-on, an imposter. We never shared words because even as a child, I was taught not to associate with losers.”
A smirk that would rival the best, tempered only by Jay quickly pushing the snark away, staying focused on his purpose.
“You have the audacity to mention Ryan Corey amongst those names, a man who was barely a blip even before Dane snuffed him out of existence. It makes sense that he is your hero, he was an imposter too. But Adrien, the past is the past. You may be trapped in it, seeking the validation of the last generation, but it’s over… and you’ll never get it.
You were, at best, a punchline to the last generation and you don’t exist at all to this generation, save for maybe a cautionary tale of what happens when a man deludes himself for year after year, living a life of pure fantasy in belief that maybe this time is different. Maybe this time will be the one where you make it.”
He sighs, his furrowed brow relaxing.
“But it won’t be. It won’t ever be your time. You’re not a professional wrestler. You’re not a fighter. You’re not a man. You are an insecure boy. You’ve spent your adult life emulating teenagers and being the ‘fun guy’, trying to fill the role of the ‘down to earth man of the people,’ praying you’ll become someone that people will like, appreciate, even love.
I’m sorry that you can’t let go of the past, but I appreciate your tenacity to continue fighting despite years of disappointment. Unfortunately, you’ll just have to chalk this one up as yet another moment in time that you came up short.
I’m going to beat you, Adrien. It’s of no consequence that you’re the ‘Dropkick King’, a father, a musician or some guy from the street. I am going to beat you.
And maybe you’ll be able to let it go. Maybe not.”
Jay shrugs.
“But it won’t matter either way, because you’ll still have to watch me then defeat Eron Hunter again or Chris Cavenaugh and have my name etched in history.
Because this time won’t be any different for you. This time it’s my time.”
Jay rolls into the ring, to his feet, and starts to walk away.
“But maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you do have something. After all, you’ve hung on to that bottom rung for all this time.”
He stops and turns back.
“Or maybe everyone was right about you in two thousand and seven.”