Post by Nighthawk on Nov 16, 2012 20:46:30 GMT -6
“A champion is afraid of losing. Everyone else is afraid of winning.” Billie Jean King.
As Nighthawk walks out of a small convenience store a few blocks away from his Chicago home with three shopping bags filled with ice to somehow try and deal with the bruises and other assorted injuries that dot his body like a giant road map one can’t help but wonder if the usually impassive Chicago native is starting to feel the beginnings of frustration after yet another draw with Caleb Lockwood.
Because while he has always taken a great deal of pride in keeping his emotions under control the “Wrestling Machine” has also never found himself in a situation like this either, which makes the entire experience for him quite complicated. Despite the tricky situation that he finds himself in Nighthawk can be expected to do the same thing that he has done for years: keep his nose to the grindstone, and his mind on the task in front of him.
The task, in this case, being to finally defeat the man who has forced him to empty more of his offensive arsenal than he ever thought he would have to. The question that is left is this: Can the “Man of 1000 Holds” do it? Or will he find himself staring back at a loss, the kind of loss that can make a person doubt their entire career trajectory?
But as Nighthawk puts the ice in a cooler in the trunk of his car he feels a slight pull on the bottom of his shirt, causing him to wheel around like a flash. But as he turns around he sees a small child standing in front of him, an innocent look on her face as she hoists an autograph book in his general direction while wearing a vintage Nighthawk shirt that literally is hanging off of her entire body like a sheet. Smiling the “Man of 1000 Holds” visibly relaxes, his smile proof that despite his frustrations he still enjoys being someone that young fans can look up to.
A few hours later…..
As Nighthawk staggers inside the small Chicago townhouse that he keeps in his boyhood neighborhood of Bridgeport, carrying a cooler full of ice packs to place on the small armada of bruises that dot his torso and legs, one can’t help but see in his eyes a desire that is both impressive, and frankly a little off-putting. For while, up to this point, the Chicago native has always been defined by the need to prove himself worthy of the hype that came with his signing in NCW this feels different in a meaningful way.
Because, for maybe the first time since he has arrived in NCW, the “Wrestling Machine” is defined by the need to hear something that he has not heard in weeks: The sound of his own name being called in victory.
But as Nighthawk lies down on the couch, ice packs and bags of ice dotting his entire body from just underneath his throat to his ankles, his wife Sin wanders in and takes one look at her husband before shaking her head and kneeling down next to him.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Spanish.)
Sin: “You and I both know why this happened. And if you ask anyone else, they’ll give you the same answer to this question. Your travel schedule was too ambitious, and Caleb Lockwood gave you far more of a challenge than you thought he was going to. And now, because you needed to pay respect to the man who helped to shape you into the man you are, you find yourself in this position: struggling to get yourself back in working order, knowing that you are going to be facing Caleb Lockwood as soon as you can stand upright. But I also know you. I know the man I married. I know the principles and the honor that got you to this spot in your life are not just going to go away because they hurt you when you follow them. But there is something else, and this we actually do need to talk about. What is happening with you? I have never, not once, known you to brag like you have been. Telling Caleb Lockwood, and the world, how good you are is one thing. But to keep doing it, to keep professing your greatness, is something else. That’s not the man I married. And it’s not you that I see doing that.”
Nighthawk, chastened: “You’re right. And you’re not the first one to tell me that. Everywhere I go now, people keep coming up to me and telling me that they didn’t become fans of me because I bragged about how good I am, like everyone else does and did. They told me that they liked me because I was different, because I was one of them who made good. And they begged me, literally with tears in their eyes, to not be like everyone else. And I made them that promise, that I would. So I'm done bragging. Bragging got me here with ice packs all over my body, wondering why I hurt so much. Bragging got me almost beaten last week. Bragging doesn’t help me.”
Sin, smiling as she sits next to her husband: “That’s the man that I married. Now, then, to the other thing. This has got to stop between you and him. For his sake as much as yours. I don’t care how you do it, what you have to say or promise to make it happen. All that I am concerned about, the only thing, is that it ends. I want to see it end. And I'm not alone. Every week, someone calls here from Japan. They ask it in different ways. Some plead. Some beg. Some demand. But they all want the same thing. They want this to end. They’ve grown tired of this, of the back-and-forth insults. Please tell me that you’re going to find some way to fix this.”
Nighthawk, steel in his voice and a cool promise in his eyes: “I promise you, honey, this ends. Whether it’s a fight, or a negotiation, I'm going to be the one to put a stop to this. This will end. Even if I'm not sure how, I'm going to put a stop to this.”
A few hours later….
As Nighthawk walks back from a supermarket near his home he suddenly feels another pull on his shirt. Turning around again this time he finds himself confronted by a young-looking woman with an almost absurdly large press pass around her neck. Shaking his hand with a kind of world-weariness, as though he knew something like this was going to be coming and had prepared himself for it, the “Wrestling Machine” puts his groceries in the trunk of his car and sits down on the hood of it.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Japanese.)
Reporter: “Yumiko Toyota, Fighting Spirit Magazine. With all of the controversy that has swirled around you and the Black Dragon, I think it’s only fair to ask this question and let you respond in whatever way you feel is appropriate: Do you think it’s past time for you to settle this finally? And even more than that, do you think his criticisms of you are valid?”
Nighthawk: “I'm actually, as odd as this might seem, thankful for this chance to talk to the fine people of Japan in general, and to the Black Dragon in specific. Black Dragon, I want you to hear this because it’s the last time that I am going to say it. We were friends once, and tag team partners. You were the best man at my wedding. I can safely say that there have been few men, if any, whose friendship has been as valuable to me as yours was. You weren’t just my partner in Rising Dawn. You were my friend. We went through the dojos together. And understanding that, because of a mistake that I made, you have started this campaign of deliberate misinformation against me. And it used to hurt me, more deeply than I think you could ever honestly understand. But as you kept going, kept telling the people of Japan that I betrayed you, i can’t help but wonder whether anything that I could have done would have been enough. I don’t know you anymore, Black Dragon. I used to think I understood where the bitterness came from, how it had to make you what you were. But this? I thought all of this was settled. I said I was sorry. loudly and repeatedly. But you keep going. So I make this request to you, and I hope that Fighting Spirit Magazine repeats it and shares it with all of the wrestling magazines throughout Japan: Fight Me. Or meet with me so that we can hash this out like the warriors you realize we both are. Either way, whatever decision you choose, end this. I know you want to see it end. And so do i.”
And with that, Nighthawk gets up and walks away from the reporter, the stress of having to constantly rehash his past slowly fading away from him.
The next morning……
As Nighthawk sits outside an abandoned stockyard in Chicago, his eyes closed as he tries to find his center, he takes one deep breath. Clad in a black Yoshiaki Fujiwara t-shirt, blue leather pants with white and silver pinstriping up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Wrestling Machine” slowly opens his eyes and stares into the camera.
Nighthawk: “Have you ever seen someone make a sword? It’s a slow, laborious, process. It’s a craft practiced on a level that those who don’t do it as their life can never honestly comprehend. But when you master it, I imagine it is endlessly thrilling in a way that those of us who don’t strive for that level can’t comprehend. Whenever I see swordsmiths make a sword, I can’t help myself. I draw parallels to the work that was done, the work that keeps getting done, by wrestlers all over the world to turn themselves from a ‘good little hand’ into that most elusive and ephemeral of categories, a master. And in that vein, I have a confession to make. It’s something that I should have realized I was doing, but I didn’t.
Caleb Lockwood, I didn’t give you enough credit. You are a master. Admittedly, a master of an entirely different style than mine, but a master nonetheless. And that’s what’s gotten us here. The knowledge that we are both skilled, both worthy of our hype. But, as this has gone on, I have wondered something, Caleb. So forgive me if I ask you this: When was the last time the Ace taught you something? You’d figure that after the 1st match, he’d have seen a fellow master injured and stopped what he was doing to help out a man who would fight for him with the honor and vigor that you have. He hasn’t. Instead, he’s done what I knew he would do, and what you must slowly be coming to realize he’ll always do: look out for his own interests. I'm not here to tell you what you need to do with your life. But I would just like to point this out, because it needs to be said. My trainers have always had my back. Anytime I needed to call on them, for any reason, I never had to doubt that they would always help. If you have to make the same call, will the Ace help you?
But that’s not the point this week. This week, when you and I step into the ring, this stops. I will scrap and claw and fight with my last breath, because I want to win. 2 weeks in a row, Caleb, we’ve stepped in the ring against each other and nothing has been settled. And I hate it as much as you do. So this week, it ends. Come hell or high water, it stops. I'm going to beat you, Caleb. It doesn’t matter how long it’s going to take me, how many times I will feel that familiar burning in my lungs knowing I have no more breath left to give, because I'm not going to stop. I'm going to keep going. This week, Caleb, you’re going to learn why they call me the ‘Wrestling Machine’. Because I won’t stop until my job is done. And this week, Caleb, my job is to beat you. As much respect as I have myself finding for you, as much fun as I am honestly having testing myself against your skills, I am getting tired of doing all of this. I am getting tired of coming to the ring every week and coming out of the match with none of the satisfaction of winning, but all of the bumps and bruises that come from the work that it takes to win. I don’t like this feeling. And I'm going to end it.
Goodnight Caleb. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”
As Nighthawk walks out of a small convenience store a few blocks away from his Chicago home with three shopping bags filled with ice to somehow try and deal with the bruises and other assorted injuries that dot his body like a giant road map one can’t help but wonder if the usually impassive Chicago native is starting to feel the beginnings of frustration after yet another draw with Caleb Lockwood.
Because while he has always taken a great deal of pride in keeping his emotions under control the “Wrestling Machine” has also never found himself in a situation like this either, which makes the entire experience for him quite complicated. Despite the tricky situation that he finds himself in Nighthawk can be expected to do the same thing that he has done for years: keep his nose to the grindstone, and his mind on the task in front of him.
The task, in this case, being to finally defeat the man who has forced him to empty more of his offensive arsenal than he ever thought he would have to. The question that is left is this: Can the “Man of 1000 Holds” do it? Or will he find himself staring back at a loss, the kind of loss that can make a person doubt their entire career trajectory?
But as Nighthawk puts the ice in a cooler in the trunk of his car he feels a slight pull on the bottom of his shirt, causing him to wheel around like a flash. But as he turns around he sees a small child standing in front of him, an innocent look on her face as she hoists an autograph book in his general direction while wearing a vintage Nighthawk shirt that literally is hanging off of her entire body like a sheet. Smiling the “Man of 1000 Holds” visibly relaxes, his smile proof that despite his frustrations he still enjoys being someone that young fans can look up to.
A few hours later…..
As Nighthawk staggers inside the small Chicago townhouse that he keeps in his boyhood neighborhood of Bridgeport, carrying a cooler full of ice packs to place on the small armada of bruises that dot his torso and legs, one can’t help but see in his eyes a desire that is both impressive, and frankly a little off-putting. For while, up to this point, the Chicago native has always been defined by the need to prove himself worthy of the hype that came with his signing in NCW this feels different in a meaningful way.
Because, for maybe the first time since he has arrived in NCW, the “Wrestling Machine” is defined by the need to hear something that he has not heard in weeks: The sound of his own name being called in victory.
But as Nighthawk lies down on the couch, ice packs and bags of ice dotting his entire body from just underneath his throat to his ankles, his wife Sin wanders in and takes one look at her husband before shaking her head and kneeling down next to him.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Spanish.)
Sin: “You and I both know why this happened. And if you ask anyone else, they’ll give you the same answer to this question. Your travel schedule was too ambitious, and Caleb Lockwood gave you far more of a challenge than you thought he was going to. And now, because you needed to pay respect to the man who helped to shape you into the man you are, you find yourself in this position: struggling to get yourself back in working order, knowing that you are going to be facing Caleb Lockwood as soon as you can stand upright. But I also know you. I know the man I married. I know the principles and the honor that got you to this spot in your life are not just going to go away because they hurt you when you follow them. But there is something else, and this we actually do need to talk about. What is happening with you? I have never, not once, known you to brag like you have been. Telling Caleb Lockwood, and the world, how good you are is one thing. But to keep doing it, to keep professing your greatness, is something else. That’s not the man I married. And it’s not you that I see doing that.”
Nighthawk, chastened: “You’re right. And you’re not the first one to tell me that. Everywhere I go now, people keep coming up to me and telling me that they didn’t become fans of me because I bragged about how good I am, like everyone else does and did. They told me that they liked me because I was different, because I was one of them who made good. And they begged me, literally with tears in their eyes, to not be like everyone else. And I made them that promise, that I would. So I'm done bragging. Bragging got me here with ice packs all over my body, wondering why I hurt so much. Bragging got me almost beaten last week. Bragging doesn’t help me.”
Sin, smiling as she sits next to her husband: “That’s the man that I married. Now, then, to the other thing. This has got to stop between you and him. For his sake as much as yours. I don’t care how you do it, what you have to say or promise to make it happen. All that I am concerned about, the only thing, is that it ends. I want to see it end. And I'm not alone. Every week, someone calls here from Japan. They ask it in different ways. Some plead. Some beg. Some demand. But they all want the same thing. They want this to end. They’ve grown tired of this, of the back-and-forth insults. Please tell me that you’re going to find some way to fix this.”
Nighthawk, steel in his voice and a cool promise in his eyes: “I promise you, honey, this ends. Whether it’s a fight, or a negotiation, I'm going to be the one to put a stop to this. This will end. Even if I'm not sure how, I'm going to put a stop to this.”
A few hours later….
As Nighthawk walks back from a supermarket near his home he suddenly feels another pull on his shirt. Turning around again this time he finds himself confronted by a young-looking woman with an almost absurdly large press pass around her neck. Shaking his hand with a kind of world-weariness, as though he knew something like this was going to be coming and had prepared himself for it, the “Wrestling Machine” puts his groceries in the trunk of his car and sits down on the hood of it.
(Author’s Note: This conversation took place in Japanese.)
Reporter: “Yumiko Toyota, Fighting Spirit Magazine. With all of the controversy that has swirled around you and the Black Dragon, I think it’s only fair to ask this question and let you respond in whatever way you feel is appropriate: Do you think it’s past time for you to settle this finally? And even more than that, do you think his criticisms of you are valid?”
Nighthawk: “I'm actually, as odd as this might seem, thankful for this chance to talk to the fine people of Japan in general, and to the Black Dragon in specific. Black Dragon, I want you to hear this because it’s the last time that I am going to say it. We were friends once, and tag team partners. You were the best man at my wedding. I can safely say that there have been few men, if any, whose friendship has been as valuable to me as yours was. You weren’t just my partner in Rising Dawn. You were my friend. We went through the dojos together. And understanding that, because of a mistake that I made, you have started this campaign of deliberate misinformation against me. And it used to hurt me, more deeply than I think you could ever honestly understand. But as you kept going, kept telling the people of Japan that I betrayed you, i can’t help but wonder whether anything that I could have done would have been enough. I don’t know you anymore, Black Dragon. I used to think I understood where the bitterness came from, how it had to make you what you were. But this? I thought all of this was settled. I said I was sorry. loudly and repeatedly. But you keep going. So I make this request to you, and I hope that Fighting Spirit Magazine repeats it and shares it with all of the wrestling magazines throughout Japan: Fight Me. Or meet with me so that we can hash this out like the warriors you realize we both are. Either way, whatever decision you choose, end this. I know you want to see it end. And so do i.”
And with that, Nighthawk gets up and walks away from the reporter, the stress of having to constantly rehash his past slowly fading away from him.
The next morning……
As Nighthawk sits outside an abandoned stockyard in Chicago, his eyes closed as he tries to find his center, he takes one deep breath. Clad in a black Yoshiaki Fujiwara t-shirt, blue leather pants with white and silver pinstriping up and down each leg, and black work boots, the “Wrestling Machine” slowly opens his eyes and stares into the camera.
Nighthawk: “Have you ever seen someone make a sword? It’s a slow, laborious, process. It’s a craft practiced on a level that those who don’t do it as their life can never honestly comprehend. But when you master it, I imagine it is endlessly thrilling in a way that those of us who don’t strive for that level can’t comprehend. Whenever I see swordsmiths make a sword, I can’t help myself. I draw parallels to the work that was done, the work that keeps getting done, by wrestlers all over the world to turn themselves from a ‘good little hand’ into that most elusive and ephemeral of categories, a master. And in that vein, I have a confession to make. It’s something that I should have realized I was doing, but I didn’t.
Caleb Lockwood, I didn’t give you enough credit. You are a master. Admittedly, a master of an entirely different style than mine, but a master nonetheless. And that’s what’s gotten us here. The knowledge that we are both skilled, both worthy of our hype. But, as this has gone on, I have wondered something, Caleb. So forgive me if I ask you this: When was the last time the Ace taught you something? You’d figure that after the 1st match, he’d have seen a fellow master injured and stopped what he was doing to help out a man who would fight for him with the honor and vigor that you have. He hasn’t. Instead, he’s done what I knew he would do, and what you must slowly be coming to realize he’ll always do: look out for his own interests. I'm not here to tell you what you need to do with your life. But I would just like to point this out, because it needs to be said. My trainers have always had my back. Anytime I needed to call on them, for any reason, I never had to doubt that they would always help. If you have to make the same call, will the Ace help you?
But that’s not the point this week. This week, when you and I step into the ring, this stops. I will scrap and claw and fight with my last breath, because I want to win. 2 weeks in a row, Caleb, we’ve stepped in the ring against each other and nothing has been settled. And I hate it as much as you do. So this week, it ends. Come hell or high water, it stops. I'm going to beat you, Caleb. It doesn’t matter how long it’s going to take me, how many times I will feel that familiar burning in my lungs knowing I have no more breath left to give, because I'm not going to stop. I'm going to keep going. This week, Caleb, you’re going to learn why they call me the ‘Wrestling Machine’. Because I won’t stop until my job is done. And this week, Caleb, my job is to beat you. As much respect as I have myself finding for you, as much fun as I am honestly having testing myself against your skills, I am getting tired of doing all of this. I am getting tired of coming to the ring every week and coming out of the match with none of the satisfaction of winning, but all of the bumps and bruises that come from the work that it takes to win. I don’t like this feeling. And I'm going to end it.
Goodnight Caleb. May sleep give you the courage to go on.”