Post by Chris Gardner on Apr 15, 2011 21:18:01 GMT -6
I'm in my academy, and I don't know what time is it. I've been punching the same sandbag for hours by now. I can't feel my hands anymore, I'm just throwing my frustrations out on the innanimate thing. At least the sandbag is not going to yell "ouch"es, "aieee"s and "you're an asshole"s.
Can't get Sunday out of my head. The Sunday when I and Brad Kane are bound to meet one another for the very last time. The thought of having to give up part of what I love in life has been haunting me ever since I made the utterly stupid challenge to that behemoth of a man, Brad, to a Street Fight on where the loser wll be forced out of the business.
"Do you have a f**king death wish, you asshole?!" Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot. I never thought of the consequences when I made the invitation. As a matter of fact, some say I might've just invited myself into hell.
If I lose the match, I'll have more time for myself, my dearest wife, my daughter, my musical endeavours. But in the same token, I might just end up in a wheelchair, paralyzed from my chin below, as Linda feeds me soup with a baby spoon.
... or worse...
My thoughts are interrupted by my cellphone ringing. I wouldn't answer if it was anyone else, but it's my wife, Linda Ragnal. I stop punishing the sandbag and pick up the phone.
Christian: Hi, there, honey. [...] Damn, I think... I think I lost track of time. [...] Really? Okay. I'm coming. [...] Love you big time.
I dismiss the phone and throw it back into my backpack, as I walk back to the sandbag. Only now I notice that I've punched it enough to remove the red painting of the leather, and my boxing gloves are pretty damn worn out by now.
I lean myself against the sandbag. And I cry for some seconds.
I chose to do this crap! So let's go ahead with it! Until the final call!
I force myself away from the sandbag and into the lockers. I need a shower. Get changed. Look pretty for my wife and my little girl. She doesn't need to see me down in my own despair.
This promo comes from inside my car. The camera looks at me fromthe passenger's seat as I drive through the rainy streets of the night livid New York City.
The wait is over, Bradley.
It's not the fight I've prepared myself my entire life for, nor the fight I wanted to be mostly known for, but that's how you're going to make it. By the time we're done with each other, I'll have but two options: be the man that walked into Bradley Allen Kane's hell of a playground and took him out for good... Or the man that wanted to be an icon, felt into the mistake of entering that same playground and got ran over by the massive force that is you.
I've done my research, Brad. Former nCw World Champion, having defeated then champion Angel, one of the biggest of the current hotshots in Steve Awesome, and the King himself, Adam Knite. Former Tag Team Champion with your brother Spyke. The first-ever X-Division Champion. First ever Sunday Night Collision main-eventer. Defeated Johnny Craven in the first ever Saturday Night Suspense. A gladiator at heart. A man that made a history out of putting men out for good with your brutal and, why not, reckless method of torturing and breaking people in and outside the ring.
Me? The lucky kiddo that became Honor Champion within one month in the company. I don't compare to you.
If I'm afraid? I am. I'm scared as s**t. But not of you, Bradley. I'm scared of what'll be of myself after we're done brutalizing ourselves. Because I have the conscience that not only we're going to enter that arena in Memphis come Sovereign to break one another's bodies, but to break one another's souls as well. Winning or losing, there's one reality that both you and me have to face, and it's that neither one of us will be the same man after we're done. We're going to be two broken up men, with our girls crying at home, afraid if we're ever going to be able to walk on two feet again, and our daughters wondering if daddy's gonna come back home with a boo-boo big so big their face is going to get funny.
We do have a lot in common, Brad. We both are married to legendary women of wrestling. Megan Kane in your end, Linda Ragnal in mine. We have children waiting for us at home, and don't you s**t me with this "screw Megan, I'm f***ing your sister" crap, because that's something you're never going to be able to run away from at this point of your life. The both of us have survived stupid managemental decisions in other places. We reconstructed our careers on some point. We broke through the barriers and became men to be watched on.
And now we're bound to do what no other man was capable of thus far: removing one another from the scene.
There's a time for everything in life, I believe. There's time for greatness, there's time for slump, there's time for recovery. I've been working my entire time to be on top, and I'm nowhere close to that, differently from you. You say you don't understand my stubbornness in getting back up every time people like you break my body, lay me on my back and expect me to stay there, looking at the ceiling, as you taste victory. I'm not like the other men you've ever faced. The fact that you haven't seen my breaking point as of yet doesn't mean I don't have one... It just means it takes a whole lot more for me to want to give up. And I don't have any plans on being taken as a hero for that.
I'm nowhere close to a hero. If I was a hero, Bradley, my sister wouldn't be hating on me as the disgusting villain that f***ed up wit her career. I'm but a tough as luck kid that can endure a whole lot of pain... And LOVES what he does more than you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be crying about YOUR time under the spotlights as the top dog of the pack... An honor that I've never had so far. And I may never have. But you'll never see me moping around because of that.
So you can go ahead and claim my sister. You can even try to break my soul, my family, take everything away from me. You'll never see me backing down from a fight, because that's how I built my life: on honor, perseverance and a lot of fighting spirit. Hell, if you couldn't realize it by now, all of these things would only fuel my fury, and you'd make me want to turn your face into a modelling clay mess.
But it's a bit too late for you to go and do that by now. Because this Sunday is "be all, end all" night. This Sunday, one of us will emerge into the glory of having put out one of the toughest guys of the competition, and the other will have to silently walk away. One of us will have nothing but our families and our debts after Sunday; one of us will continue in our wrestling career. This Sunday is the day the nCw audience will be forced to remove one of us from their weekly schedule.
This Sunday, Bradley, one of us will be acknowledged by the world as the true Reckless Jack.
And the other will cease to exist.
This is Christian Maurice Gardner... Rocking out. Probably for the last time ever.
Fade to nothingness.
I enter my own house, now clad in my casual band tee, jacket, jeans and sneakers. All the lights are off, so I'll fancy myself turning them on... And 'lo and behold, there's a pretty good looking Easter egg on the living room's table looking at me. I walk straight to it and I realize there's a pretty big card near it. I pick it up and open it.
It's my daughter's childishly drawn lettering. It reads "Happy Easter daddy. I love you. -- Gladys Ragnal Gardner".
The stream of tears in my eyes are immediately turned on. I can't describe my love for this little girl with words. I hug the card and allow myself, at the top of my thirty years, to cry like a little boy.
Get out of my house, stupid camera guy. You've seen enough.
Can't get Sunday out of my head. The Sunday when I and Brad Kane are bound to meet one another for the very last time. The thought of having to give up part of what I love in life has been haunting me ever since I made the utterly stupid challenge to that behemoth of a man, Brad, to a Street Fight on where the loser wll be forced out of the business.
"Do you have a f**king death wish, you asshole?!" Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot. I never thought of the consequences when I made the invitation. As a matter of fact, some say I might've just invited myself into hell.
If I lose the match, I'll have more time for myself, my dearest wife, my daughter, my musical endeavours. But in the same token, I might just end up in a wheelchair, paralyzed from my chin below, as Linda feeds me soup with a baby spoon.
... or worse...
My thoughts are interrupted by my cellphone ringing. I wouldn't answer if it was anyone else, but it's my wife, Linda Ragnal. I stop punishing the sandbag and pick up the phone.
Christian: Hi, there, honey. [...] Damn, I think... I think I lost track of time. [...] Really? Okay. I'm coming. [...] Love you big time.
I dismiss the phone and throw it back into my backpack, as I walk back to the sandbag. Only now I notice that I've punched it enough to remove the red painting of the leather, and my boxing gloves are pretty damn worn out by now.
I lean myself against the sandbag. And I cry for some seconds.
I chose to do this crap! So let's go ahead with it! Until the final call!
I force myself away from the sandbag and into the lockers. I need a shower. Get changed. Look pretty for my wife and my little girl. She doesn't need to see me down in my own despair.
This promo comes from inside my car. The camera looks at me fromthe passenger's seat as I drive through the rainy streets of the night livid New York City.
The wait is over, Bradley.
It's not the fight I've prepared myself my entire life for, nor the fight I wanted to be mostly known for, but that's how you're going to make it. By the time we're done with each other, I'll have but two options: be the man that walked into Bradley Allen Kane's hell of a playground and took him out for good... Or the man that wanted to be an icon, felt into the mistake of entering that same playground and got ran over by the massive force that is you.
I've done my research, Brad. Former nCw World Champion, having defeated then champion Angel, one of the biggest of the current hotshots in Steve Awesome, and the King himself, Adam Knite. Former Tag Team Champion with your brother Spyke. The first-ever X-Division Champion. First ever Sunday Night Collision main-eventer. Defeated Johnny Craven in the first ever Saturday Night Suspense. A gladiator at heart. A man that made a history out of putting men out for good with your brutal and, why not, reckless method of torturing and breaking people in and outside the ring.
Me? The lucky kiddo that became Honor Champion within one month in the company. I don't compare to you.
If I'm afraid? I am. I'm scared as s**t. But not of you, Bradley. I'm scared of what'll be of myself after we're done brutalizing ourselves. Because I have the conscience that not only we're going to enter that arena in Memphis come Sovereign to break one another's bodies, but to break one another's souls as well. Winning or losing, there's one reality that both you and me have to face, and it's that neither one of us will be the same man after we're done. We're going to be two broken up men, with our girls crying at home, afraid if we're ever going to be able to walk on two feet again, and our daughters wondering if daddy's gonna come back home with a boo-boo big so big their face is going to get funny.
We do have a lot in common, Brad. We both are married to legendary women of wrestling. Megan Kane in your end, Linda Ragnal in mine. We have children waiting for us at home, and don't you s**t me with this "screw Megan, I'm f***ing your sister" crap, because that's something you're never going to be able to run away from at this point of your life. The both of us have survived stupid managemental decisions in other places. We reconstructed our careers on some point. We broke through the barriers and became men to be watched on.
And now we're bound to do what no other man was capable of thus far: removing one another from the scene.
There's a time for everything in life, I believe. There's time for greatness, there's time for slump, there's time for recovery. I've been working my entire time to be on top, and I'm nowhere close to that, differently from you. You say you don't understand my stubbornness in getting back up every time people like you break my body, lay me on my back and expect me to stay there, looking at the ceiling, as you taste victory. I'm not like the other men you've ever faced. The fact that you haven't seen my breaking point as of yet doesn't mean I don't have one... It just means it takes a whole lot more for me to want to give up. And I don't have any plans on being taken as a hero for that.
I'm nowhere close to a hero. If I was a hero, Bradley, my sister wouldn't be hating on me as the disgusting villain that f***ed up wit her career. I'm but a tough as luck kid that can endure a whole lot of pain... And LOVES what he does more than you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be crying about YOUR time under the spotlights as the top dog of the pack... An honor that I've never had so far. And I may never have. But you'll never see me moping around because of that.
So you can go ahead and claim my sister. You can even try to break my soul, my family, take everything away from me. You'll never see me backing down from a fight, because that's how I built my life: on honor, perseverance and a lot of fighting spirit. Hell, if you couldn't realize it by now, all of these things would only fuel my fury, and you'd make me want to turn your face into a modelling clay mess.
But it's a bit too late for you to go and do that by now. Because this Sunday is "be all, end all" night. This Sunday, one of us will emerge into the glory of having put out one of the toughest guys of the competition, and the other will have to silently walk away. One of us will have nothing but our families and our debts after Sunday; one of us will continue in our wrestling career. This Sunday is the day the nCw audience will be forced to remove one of us from their weekly schedule.
This Sunday, Bradley, one of us will be acknowledged by the world as the true Reckless Jack.
And the other will cease to exist.
This is Christian Maurice Gardner... Rocking out. Probably for the last time ever.
Fade to nothingness.
I enter my own house, now clad in my casual band tee, jacket, jeans and sneakers. All the lights are off, so I'll fancy myself turning them on... And 'lo and behold, there's a pretty good looking Easter egg on the living room's table looking at me. I walk straight to it and I realize there's a pretty big card near it. I pick it up and open it.
It's my daughter's childishly drawn lettering. It reads "Happy Easter daddy. I love you. -- Gladys Ragnal Gardner".
The stream of tears in my eyes are immediately turned on. I can't describe my love for this little girl with words. I hug the card and allow myself, at the top of my thirty years, to cry like a little boy.
Get out of my house, stupid camera guy. You've seen enough.