Tag Archives: Wrestling

Jobber

{Feb 27, 2024}

Mack had two roles. The first was to lose every match and the second was to ensure his opponent appeared like a winner, no, an alpha in the process. He was, in wrestling industry terminology, a jobber. No more than that. It would never be more than that. Not for him. Too skinny, the boss said. No abs, he said. Worse, no charisma. The other wrestlers got the wins. Mack didn’t.… more

Collage of Sport as Self, Self as Sport

CREATIVE NONFICTION by Michael Copperman

{Feb 21, 2024}

I loved the old room, though it was dim and ugly and old, stank of the pungent antiseptic soap we used to mop the mats and the brininess of sweat that couldn’t really be scrubbed away. It smelled like what it was: a box of straining bodies on a soft floor, blocked in by padded walls, a training ground that contained as much of yourself as you were willing to release.… more

Mementos

FICTION by Patrick Strickland

{Jan 14, 2024}

We’d been cutting weight for weeks, wearing garbage bags in the sauna and running a few miles two or three times a day. I’d already shucked fifteen pounds just to save space for booze, but I started to worry Mikey would be a downer all night. Worst thing about a guy like that—he gets you worried you did something wrong, like all his problems are your fault.… more

Cutting

FICTION by Daniel Kennedy

{Nov 9, 2017}

I found my father’s bed at the end of the corridor. A nurse held his pallid arm up to the light. She adjusted one of the tubes and lowered his arm back to his side. In the neighboring bed, a man older than my father was connected to beeping monitors. He followed me with his eyes. Landis and my mom turned their heads as the nurse walked out.

“What are you doing here?” asked Landis.… more

Remote Controls and Menus (XVII)

FICTION by Mathew Serback

{Oct 2, 2017}

Things that go hand and hand – like professional wrestling and pornography.… more

Don’t Mess

FICTION by Jeff Kass

{Jul 16, 2012}

“Here’s how to think of the double arm-bar: imagine you’re lying face-down in the street and some roid-ripped police officer’s got his knee jammed between your shoulder-blades. Then he takes his nightstick and… more

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