Post by Andrew Jacobsen on May 11, 2013 0:46:06 GMT -6
Let me tell you a story, Mike. Let me tell you a story of a young man who came to a big wrestling company, twenty-two years old, bright-eyed and ready to show the world what his God-given athleticism, dedication to learning his craft, and sense of equity and fair play could do. This man was signed after a big show, in his hometown, to a contract with the big company. He was so excited he could taste it. This was a chance to do something he’d always loved and wanted to do. It was in his veins.
And he started off strong. He beat men who looked like circus freaks, both strongmen and clowns. He smacked around a drunk stereotype. But then came a man who made him question everything. He looked the young man in the eyes, stared him down, and asked him a simple question.
“Who are you?”
And the man spouted off the line that was expected of him. But something was knocked loose inside him that day. Something that couldn’t ever be fixed, not completely. That was the first moment of self-doubt. And when that crack was opened, others piled onto it. The man who was a decade too late, the man who hid behind a mask, the men who thought they had it all, the arrogant playboy, the psychopath…they all dug and chiseled and scratched at that young man, trying to be the one who made him snap.
For years, they tore at him. And though he fought on, and persevered, they would not relent. He wasn’t worthy, and they would make the world recognize that. And then, the unthinkable happened. They had spent years telling him how little he would amount to. How he could never be what he thought he would. And it came down to himself and the psychopath. Center of the ring…all others had been sent packing…and he delivered the kick that should have silenced them all. He delivered the blow that would end it all. Finally prove that he belonged.
But not hours…not MINUTES...likely not even seconds afterwards…there were those seeking to destroy that achievement. They wanted to diminish it, they wanted to make it meaningless. And who was the first to raise their voice in dissent? Who was the first to try to tear that young man down? I’ll tell you, Mike. That was you.
You were the first man to raise your voice and say that you would beat me. You said it with that same arrogance in your voice that you always have. When you were getting your face broken by Roberto Verona, time and time again, you said the same damn thing there as you did with me. You pay lip service to the idea of respect, but the only person you respect is the man that looks you in the mirror every morning, because that’s the only damn person you care about!
Am I disappointed that I’m not on the last Collision? Yes. I’m disappointed. But the fact is, this is the last television broadcast of a company that became my home and my life. I’m on it at all. That means a lot to me. That I get the chance to go out there…to entertain the fans one…last…time. I don’t know if I’ll be at A Night To Remember. I can’t guarantee anything…all I can guarantee you, Mike, is that I am so much more than you think I am. I am so much BETTER than you think I am. And if you can’t, for one night only, for the sake of everyone in that audience, pull your head out of your ass…well, then you can expect the same jaw-splitting treatment that dropped much better men than you.
This match might not have any meaning on the surface. This is so much more than just surface, though. That’s your problem, Mike. You’re all surface, all flash. I’m more than meets the eye. Underneath what you deride as a bland exterior, I’ve got so much more than you’d ever give me credit for. But then, giving credit’s not your style. If you have to acknowledge someone, you sweep it under the rug and declare it irrelevant immediately afterward. Mike, let me introduce myself again. Ending with an introduction. Kind of ironic.
My name is Andrew Jacobsen. I’m a two-time X Division Champion, a former National Champion, a former Tag Team Champion, a former World Champion…I’m a Triple Crown champion, I’m a man of the people...and I’m not just here to kick your ass. Oh, no. This is our curtain call, this is our swan song. And I don’t intend to go gentle into that good night. No, break out the fireworks, crack open a bottle of beer. We’re going out loud, we’re going out proud…and we’re going out in style.
He hasn’t said anything about what’s going to happen. I got the deals with IWF negotiated last week, and he barely acknowledged it. I think it’s eating him…I honestly think that he sees Joe Everyman’s shot on that final Collision as putting the brakes on his dream. The fact that he’s in the main event on Trauma bothers him, because he wanted to main event that last Collision. He keeps holding himself up to this damn measurement that no man could ever reach, and then gets angry when he falls short.
I don’t know what to do with him. Sometimes I think he’s just going through a slump at the end…but then I think about everything that’s wrapped up in this company for him. I think about all the bad memories that are inextricably linked with NCW…and maybe he’s not slumping. Maybe he’s anticipating.
Maybe the idea of going somewhere that’s at least on the surface new, starting over, erasing the slate…maybe that’s what appeals to him about this new beginning. Getting to reforge his reputation in a new company…getting in on the ground floor. It looks good to be called a founding father, and that’s exactly what he’s going to be.
I…I’m not sure. I can’t get ahold of him right now, but I know exactly where he is. He’s in the hotel’s gym, training for his match with Mike Laszlo. That’s where he always is when he’s not working. He doesn’t seem to know what downtime is anymore…he just works and pushes and pushes himself farther than he was ever meant to go. Because he thinks he needs to be better.
I want to take him aside, smack him across the face, and remind him of just how damn good he is. But he won’t listen. All those words, after all those years…I can see them weighing him down. How he puts on the face for the fans that he does, I’ll never know. Once those cameras are off and the doors close, it’s like he gains fifteen years. He looks so tired…he looks so human.
I guess that’s my problem. I’m so used to seeing the marketing machine make him out to be either a superhero or a pathetic worm, that seeing him for who and what he really is…it’s just shocking. He needs to give himself a break. If he keeps pushing himself like this, he’s going to hurt something. I hear him complain about knee and back pain all the time, but he refuses to take the shortcuts with pain others do. Damn Boy Scout. Do yourself a favor…
If he doesn’t stop himself, he’s going to break himself. He’s going to hurt something, and he won’t be able to get back up. Three and a half years, no breaks. Forty-two months, a match almost every week, and he’s never stepped back. When he says he puts his body on the line for the fans…he really means it. They mean that much to him. I just wish he meant that much to himself.
*sigh*
Maybe someday he’ll understand…but today’s not that day. I’m not that lucky. Right now, all I can do is watch…and pray that he’ll see what I see, and maybe, just maybe…he’ll stop and listen.
A girl can dream, right?
And he started off strong. He beat men who looked like circus freaks, both strongmen and clowns. He smacked around a drunk stereotype. But then came a man who made him question everything. He looked the young man in the eyes, stared him down, and asked him a simple question.
“Who are you?”
And the man spouted off the line that was expected of him. But something was knocked loose inside him that day. Something that couldn’t ever be fixed, not completely. That was the first moment of self-doubt. And when that crack was opened, others piled onto it. The man who was a decade too late, the man who hid behind a mask, the men who thought they had it all, the arrogant playboy, the psychopath…they all dug and chiseled and scratched at that young man, trying to be the one who made him snap.
For years, they tore at him. And though he fought on, and persevered, they would not relent. He wasn’t worthy, and they would make the world recognize that. And then, the unthinkable happened. They had spent years telling him how little he would amount to. How he could never be what he thought he would. And it came down to himself and the psychopath. Center of the ring…all others had been sent packing…and he delivered the kick that should have silenced them all. He delivered the blow that would end it all. Finally prove that he belonged.
But not hours…not MINUTES...likely not even seconds afterwards…there were those seeking to destroy that achievement. They wanted to diminish it, they wanted to make it meaningless. And who was the first to raise their voice in dissent? Who was the first to try to tear that young man down? I’ll tell you, Mike. That was you.
You were the first man to raise your voice and say that you would beat me. You said it with that same arrogance in your voice that you always have. When you were getting your face broken by Roberto Verona, time and time again, you said the same damn thing there as you did with me. You pay lip service to the idea of respect, but the only person you respect is the man that looks you in the mirror every morning, because that’s the only damn person you care about!
Am I disappointed that I’m not on the last Collision? Yes. I’m disappointed. But the fact is, this is the last television broadcast of a company that became my home and my life. I’m on it at all. That means a lot to me. That I get the chance to go out there…to entertain the fans one…last…time. I don’t know if I’ll be at A Night To Remember. I can’t guarantee anything…all I can guarantee you, Mike, is that I am so much more than you think I am. I am so much BETTER than you think I am. And if you can’t, for one night only, for the sake of everyone in that audience, pull your head out of your ass…well, then you can expect the same jaw-splitting treatment that dropped much better men than you.
This match might not have any meaning on the surface. This is so much more than just surface, though. That’s your problem, Mike. You’re all surface, all flash. I’m more than meets the eye. Underneath what you deride as a bland exterior, I’ve got so much more than you’d ever give me credit for. But then, giving credit’s not your style. If you have to acknowledge someone, you sweep it under the rug and declare it irrelevant immediately afterward. Mike, let me introduce myself again. Ending with an introduction. Kind of ironic.
My name is Andrew Jacobsen. I’m a two-time X Division Champion, a former National Champion, a former Tag Team Champion, a former World Champion…I’m a Triple Crown champion, I’m a man of the people...and I’m not just here to kick your ass. Oh, no. This is our curtain call, this is our swan song. And I don’t intend to go gentle into that good night. No, break out the fireworks, crack open a bottle of beer. We’re going out loud, we’re going out proud…and we’re going out in style.
He hasn’t said anything about what’s going to happen. I got the deals with IWF negotiated last week, and he barely acknowledged it. I think it’s eating him…I honestly think that he sees Joe Everyman’s shot on that final Collision as putting the brakes on his dream. The fact that he’s in the main event on Trauma bothers him, because he wanted to main event that last Collision. He keeps holding himself up to this damn measurement that no man could ever reach, and then gets angry when he falls short.
I don’t know what to do with him. Sometimes I think he’s just going through a slump at the end…but then I think about everything that’s wrapped up in this company for him. I think about all the bad memories that are inextricably linked with NCW…and maybe he’s not slumping. Maybe he’s anticipating.
Maybe the idea of going somewhere that’s at least on the surface new, starting over, erasing the slate…maybe that’s what appeals to him about this new beginning. Getting to reforge his reputation in a new company…getting in on the ground floor. It looks good to be called a founding father, and that’s exactly what he’s going to be.
I…I’m not sure. I can’t get ahold of him right now, but I know exactly where he is. He’s in the hotel’s gym, training for his match with Mike Laszlo. That’s where he always is when he’s not working. He doesn’t seem to know what downtime is anymore…he just works and pushes and pushes himself farther than he was ever meant to go. Because he thinks he needs to be better.
I want to take him aside, smack him across the face, and remind him of just how damn good he is. But he won’t listen. All those words, after all those years…I can see them weighing him down. How he puts on the face for the fans that he does, I’ll never know. Once those cameras are off and the doors close, it’s like he gains fifteen years. He looks so tired…he looks so human.
I guess that’s my problem. I’m so used to seeing the marketing machine make him out to be either a superhero or a pathetic worm, that seeing him for who and what he really is…it’s just shocking. He needs to give himself a break. If he keeps pushing himself like this, he’s going to hurt something. I hear him complain about knee and back pain all the time, but he refuses to take the shortcuts with pain others do. Damn Boy Scout. Do yourself a favor…
If he doesn’t stop himself, he’s going to break himself. He’s going to hurt something, and he won’t be able to get back up. Three and a half years, no breaks. Forty-two months, a match almost every week, and he’s never stepped back. When he says he puts his body on the line for the fans…he really means it. They mean that much to him. I just wish he meant that much to himself.
*sigh*
Maybe someday he’ll understand…but today’s not that day. I’m not that lucky. Right now, all I can do is watch…and pray that he’ll see what I see, and maybe, just maybe…he’ll stop and listen.
A girl can dream, right?