“Six. FIVE!” Said the announcer, who I saw standing for the first time, looking at me wide-eyed and pursed-lipped, shaking his head.
The referee was looking at the announcer with his arms in I don’t know position in the air
F*** it. I thought and dropped down to cover Dan.
“THREE!one.” Said the announcer and referee simultaneously.
The bell rang.
The crowd looked at the ring announcer, who looked at the referee, who looked at Dan and me in disgust. Taking his eyes off us he looked at the ring announcer for help, who looked at the crowd for help, who looked at me for help.
I guess I get to decide if I won or not
F*** it. I thought and raised my hands victoriously.
The referee shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and grabbed my wrist to signal his agreement with my decision that I was a winner. The sad sound of the few unsynchronized sympathy claps I got seemed to taunt me with being the opposite of a winner, though.
As I left the ring a heckler yelled, “Thank f***ing God! It’s over! Never-Come-Back!” Then he gave three enthusiastic claps.
I hope I never do. I thought as I hurried myself out of my own nightmare, back to the safe-bed of the locker room.
Once I was in my safe space, I started to think about Dan’s mistakes in the ring and started to get really agitated. My ego started to tell me all about how the whole experience, from bringing me to Tennessee, to how the match turned out, was all Dan’s fault.
Dan came back through the curtain and down the stairs into the basement-locker-room, where I met him with aggression.
“Thank you.” He said meekly, offering a hand.
“F*** you!” I yelled so loudly that the entire locker room of made-for-TV, beefcake wrestlers around us stopped what they were doing to watch a 150 pound teenager scream at a six foot, five inch tall grown-ass man.
“W-wha-” Dan tried to ask.
“That was the worst f***ing experience of my whole f***ing life that has been a series of sh**y-as-f*** events, Dan! The worst! What the f*** were you thinking bringing me all the way down here to have that steaming pile of mule sh** match?” I asked.
“I’m sorr-” Dan tried to say.
But instead I said, “You’re god***n right you’re sorry! You’re a sorry wrestler and a sorry friend and-”
And here’s where I have to cut the younger version of myself off and address him.
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