They call you the \u201cFlying Squirrel.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s a stupid moniker, one you used to try to drop. Back when you cared about those kinds of things. You used to care about a lot of things you\u2019ve sacrificed over the years, along with your pride, your relationship with your son, and plenty of your brain cells.<\/p>\n
You step through the top two ropes, the rubber exterior brushing against your back. It\u2019s pale, unlike so many of your colleagues\u2014you\u2019ve always had the complexion of a vampire. You used to worry the promoters would force you to wear fangs or some shit. That would be even worse than the \u201cFlying Squirrel.\u201d You can live with a degree of silliness.<\/p>\n
That wasn\u2019t always the case, which is why your son dodges your calls these days.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook, Dad, I appreciate the effort,\u201d he told you the last time you talked. That was six months ago, and only the third time he relented and answered your call this year. \u201cBut you can\u2019t make up for a decade of bad parenting with a few birthday cards and phone calls.\u201d<\/p>\n
Fuck. You knew he was right. He\u2019s no longer afraid to call you on your bullshit\u2014if he ever was. He got that from his mom, who could always tell when you\u2019d been drinking too much or sticking your dick where it didn\u2019t belong. Mostly inside ring rats (what your kind calls groupies); they were willing and didn\u2019t judge you. Shit, they actually thought you were something. Still do.<\/p>\n
You lift your right foot onto the second rope to begin your ascent. You\u2019re wearing the black leather boots with yellow lightning bolts you sprang for before your tryout in Cicero, in case it might sway the bookers. (It didn\u2019t. Or maybe it was because one of their writers caught you getting handsy with a younger wrestler in the back.)<\/p>\n
You\u2019ve always had bad luck like that. Tanya got pregnant just when you were building up some buzz on the indies, and you needed to keep a full-time day job to pay for car seats, cribs, strollers, the endless list of \u201cessentials\u201d for this parenthood entrapping you.<\/p>\n
You lean back and pull your left leg onto the top rope, hoisting all of your 187 pounds atop the ropes, your boots on either side of the red vinyl turnbuckle pad. You know these material details from setting up this pain-in-the-ass ring with eager wannabes, refs, and other awkward hangers-on too many times to count. You figured you\u2019d leave them all behind at some point, but the bigger promotions were too caught up in gimmicks to appreciate your wrestling skills\u2014the whole damn point of this business in the first place.<\/p>\n
You remember wrestling with a couple drinks in you, once. Never again. You might be a low life, but not that low. Doing this sober is hard enough, despite what these people in the crowd think. Actually, they appreciate what you do. Clearly. They\u2019re willing to pay to watch you, buy your scratchy, screen-printed shirts for $20 a pop.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s your coworkers on the line at the plant, the guys at the bar who whisper behind your back, people like your ex-wife and her new man. The ones who turned your kid against you. You\u2019d like to see them all try to take a bump. No, you\u2019d like to dump them onto the canvas-covered plywood yourself.<\/p>\n
You rise, your thigh muscles tightening, your abs squeezing, demonstrating the physical core strength you\u2019ve built while hollowing out your moral core. Maybe once you give this up, you\u2019ll rebuild that interior, volunteer with kids, make your own proud.<\/p>\n
You look up at the off-white popcorn ceiling that\u2019s probably hiding asbestos. You used to rip that shit out of houses all around this town, back before people cared so much about remediation and government red tape. Before you needed a permit to build a fucking deck.<\/p>\n
The black-haired kid lying about 10 feet below your eyeballs on the mat looks up at you while feigning unconsciousness. You two have grappled before; he\u2019s a good kid who could\u2014should\u2014make it out of here. If he\u2019s smarter than you.<\/p>\n
You take one final breath, then leap, arching your back and rotating backward, wishing you could roll back the years just as easily.<\/p>\n
Instead, you soar through air that reeks of cheap beer and body odor, your legs rotating up as your head whirls back.<\/p>\n
And then you continue your descent.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The rubber soles of my boots slam against the cement floor in the bowels of this arena. Green Bay, right? We\u2019re in Green Bay tonight? I can\u2019t always keep track, especially when I\u2019m pissed. And I always walk too aggressively when I\u2019m in this state\u2014my girlfriend tells me that, every time, without fail.<\/p>\n
Where is she? Not this shit, not tonight. And here I thought our news had smoothed over this recent rough patch.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, you seen Shelly?\u201d I ask one of the writers, a tall, lanky guy who would get broken in half if he stepped into the ring. He shakes his head, then goes back to his show notes while drinking a coffee. There\u2019s perpetually talk of trimming the budget, cleaving the roster, but there\u2019s always plenty of coffee.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve got Banks tonight in the main event for the Heartland title. Not winning it, of course. Not yet. I\u2019m still establishing my character here, trying to act like the cocksure douchebag that I apparently resemble. That\u2019s how the wrestling nerds on Reddit see me, at least. The phrase \u201cpunchable face\u201d gets used a sobering amount of times. Pretty sure my high school girlfriend would agree.<\/p>\n
Stevens is doing his pre-match routine in the hallway, pushups to make his pecs swell even more, stretches that someone with his burly frame has no business mustering. He looks up and nods at me. We\u2019ve played Fortnite together in enough hotel rooms for him to read my mood.<\/p>\n
\u201cLooking for your girl?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
I nod, hoping I seem more in control of my shit than I am, knowing I\u2019m probably failing. I\u2019ve never had much of a poker face.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think I saw her with Tanya before,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
Tanya, a continual pain in my ass. Always up in Shelly\u2019s shit and, by extension, mine. Despite having plenty of her own drama involving half the locker room.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d I mumble, then clasp his hand, gently out of habit from all these years trying to show promoters and other wrestlers they can trust me, that I know how to work in the ring, not too rough. The opposite of the approach favored in the phony business world that shaped my dad, with all his judgment about my lack of financial stability and a respectable career.<\/p>\n
I stomp up a set of stairs, push through some metal doors toward where I think the women\u2019s locker room is hidden in this labyrinth. They all start to blur together after a while, night after night of shows in front of rednecks, marks and jocks like me who secretly loved this more than any of the \u201creal sports\u201d we were forced to play as kids.<\/p>\n
Framed photos from the concerts and shows that have passed through here adorn the walls, old rockers, B-list pop stars, dance troupes. Some mid-major college basketball team plays here, along with a junior hockey team. Kids who think they\u2019re hard because they get into shirt-pulling contests dressed up as fights while slipping around the ice. Shelly used to date a hockey bro, back in her teenage days in Canada. I hate it when she references him.<\/p>\n
Up ahead, Banks is shooting a promo for our match, so I\u2019m forced to stop. God, he\u2019s so much better than me on the mic, one of those guys who could probably go do standup comedy if his preferred method of torture was mental instead of physical. I need to call that improv coach when I get back home after this run of shows.<\/p>\n
Now I\u2019m pacing. The camera guy notices, turns from Banks and Alex, our fake backstage reporter, to film me. Thinks it\u2019s part of a bit, that Banks and I planned this to hype our match.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat, you couldn\u2019t wait to get your ass whooped?\u201d Banks hollers out. Of course he pivots seamlessly into this. When I glare at him, I think I catch a glimmer of concern in his eyes, like he can tell I\u2019m not putting on an act. He shuts down the segment, yells something about how I\u2019m going to need to wait a little bit. I don\u2019t really hear it, just see the camera light turn off before stomping my way past them.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey JT, are you OK?\u201d Alex asks in her Minnesota accent. I know I\u2019m being an asshole not even acknowledging her.<\/p>\n
And then, as I walk past utility room doors and carts filled with extra folding chairs, I hear her crying. Sobbing, body-shaking wails. She looks up at me, mascara streaked down her cheeks, Tanya sitting next to her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, and at once I know that she deserves better, that all those fans online are right, that I have no business being a father anyway.<\/p>\n
I do the minimum that\u2019s expected of me, kneel down, pull her toward me until our foreheads meet and our tears intermingle.<\/p>\n
My dad used to tell me to \u201cMeet the moment,\u201d during cringy pep talks before my high school football games. What he really meant was, \u201cDon\u2019t embarrass me, after everything I\u2019ve done for you.\u201d (Translation: \u201cI didn\u2019t beat your ass like my dad did to me.\u201d) But the phrase drops into my mind amid thoughts that slam into each other like my coworkers and me in a battle royal.<\/p>\n
I hold her, try to think of comforting words, fail, my throat burning from suppressing my own wails. I have no concept of time passing as the show starts and people blur past us, the roars of the crowd leaking back here, into my ears.<\/p>\n
A hand gently rubs my back, and I turn to see Alex, red-eyed, fighting back more tears of her own. Word has gotten around. I know it\u2019s time for my match. I kiss Shelly on the forehead, stand, wipe my eyes, try to run through the plan in my mind while I walk toward the entrance.<\/p>\n
On this cold January night, what\u2019s one more loss?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They call you the \u201cFlying Squirrel.\u201d It\u2019s a stupid moniker, one you used to try to drop. Back when you cared about those kinds of things. You used to care about a lot of things you\u2019ve sacrificed over the years, along with your pride, your relationship with your son, and plenty of your brain cells.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":20459,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3530],"tags":[1336,713,863,2756,1301],"class_list":["post-19966","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-flash-fiction","tag-bad-men","tag-fatherhood","tag-flash-fiction","tag-pro-wrestling","tag-professional-wrestling","writer-tom-ziemer"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19966","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19966"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19966\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20460,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19966\/revisions\/20460"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20459"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19966"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19966"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19966"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}