A Brave Face
Dec 23, 2016 23:28:53 GMT -6
Jason Anderson The Boss, Order: Jessica Tendonin, and 1 more like this
Post by Ace King on Dec 23, 2016 23:28:53 GMT -6
Let’s call a spade a spade: Losing sucks.
Going into WrestleFest, I tried to play myself off as the third wheel nobody cared about in the war between Luke and Griffin; I really didn’t set any expectations for myself leading up to the match, and I know I wasn’t really seen as a legitimate contender, having only gotten in because of interference I didn’t ask for or want.
Of course, everything changes when the bell rings; competitive instincts take over, and any red-blooded person will tell you that settling for second or third-best simply isn’t good enough.
I know I left everything I had in there, just as Wolfe and Hawkins did; they both went all-out, and fair play to Griffin for going all Spider-Man to win it.
Yet, it all leaves me feeling empty inside. Who’d have thought a match I had no business being in would provoke such a visceral reaction?
You know, maybe that’s part of the problem. I tend to operate in extremes, so in an effort to not be one of the litany of guys who willingly buy into their own hype, I’ve always beaten myself up every time I don’t have my hand raised. It’s always a question of ‘What could I have done differently?’, which can lead down a very dark road if I’m not careful.
Right now, I don’t know where the road leads.
Obviously, coming out on the wrong end at WrestleFest wouldn’t put me anything near the Undisputed Championship, but with Xplode reclaiming it, that’s probably going into hibernation for the winter anyway, waking up around StrangleMania time.
United States Championship? Nope; Omega used literally every last breath in her body to earn another shot at it.
Television Championship? Maybe, but it would feel a bit like hand-me-down gold since Griffin wouldn’t be the obstacle to overcome; call me old-fashioned, but there’s more satisfaction in beating the reigning champion for a belt, so while I would consider it an honour to be a champion of any kind, this one runs the risk of feeling a little bit hollow.
So what do I have to fight for at the moment? My pride is pretty damaged at the moment; I had a very real chance to make a big statement, and I blew it.
Whatever happens from here, I know I can’t just sit back and let things pass me by; I’m still relatively new to EWC, so the threat of being stuck in wrestling purgatory is very real, and it terrifies me.
For now, I guess it’s just a matter of putting my head down to find the missing piece that will make 2017 the best year of my career.
December 21, 2016
Ninoy Aquino International Airport
Manila, Philippines
6:36 a.m. Central Time
The locals are looking at me funny.
Is it because I’m still stiff as a board after enduring Hell just 24 hours ago, rendering me nearly unable to move? Maybe; I mean, the EWC doctors wouldn’t let me leave yesterday, and if they had their way, I still probably wouldn’t be in any position to fly right now, but c’est la vie; it’s the price you pay for a shot at doing something extraordinary.
Is it because I’m wearing thick sunglasses in the middle of the terminal? Again, maybe. They’re a front to mask the black holes where my eyes once were; seriously, I’ve got Blackstar-era David Bowie eyes going here. Nearly driving yourself to tears backstage after a match, combined with not sleeping a wink afterward, can do that to a person.
More likely, it’s the combination of my hobbling and groaning that has locals, not to mention people waiting behind me in line, starting to grumble. As I take a seat on one of the benches, I can’t help being sore; I’m usually pretty good at internalizing it, but this time around just isn’t the same.
See, while the physical pain is bad enough, the torture I’m reliving in my own head makes this so much worse. So close to stealing the show and shutting up more doubters, and yet it was just out of my reach. Sure, I’ve lost before; even lost a couple World Heavyweight Championships before. Yet somehow, this hurts so much more.
All I wanted was to make something of myself, and now? God knows.
A few kids recognize me in the distance, and they come running over with my special Wrestlefest t-shirts. Many are local, so I don’t fully understand their Tagalog dialect; I do understand having a shirt and Sharpie in hand, though. I offer the kids a simple smile as I sign their clothing; five pieces in total. They excitedly run back to their parents, and the smile remains for a few extra seconds.
Even in times of despair, wrestlers have to put on a brave face for the public, but right now, I couldn’t tell you if I’m more broken physically or mentally.
As I hear the boarding call for my flight to LAX, I know I’m going to have a really, really long time to think about it with nothing but the depths of the ocean below for companionship.