Post by Applesauce on Mar 20, 2022 9:32:21 GMT -5
A NOTE TO THE READER
Before I get into the promo, let’s take a moment to talk about why I volunteered to participate in this event. It’s only been six months since I returned to the e-fedding community. Originally, I began e-fedding as a teenager because I needed an outlet. I needed a voice. And it helped me get through a difficult time in my life. I was poor, awkward, and a little bit lonely. 20 years later, I’m an adult. At least, I think myself to be. I’m married. I have kids. A mortgage. A 401k. On the surface, I’m doing well, but underneath, every day is a battle. I need an outlet again. I need a voice again. Many things have changed. But most things are just the same.
When you welcome more responsibility into your life, there’s less time to focus on yourself. E-fedding was therapy for me then. And is therapy for me now. When the opportunity popped up to join an event focused on fighting addiction and recognizing the importance of mental health, I wanted to contribute to it. At first, I wasn’t even sure I’d get a spot on the card. You can imagine how shocked I was when I was assigned a main event spot in a match against a veteran handler like Jason Long. For me, it’s an honor. An invitation to the dance. It means a lot to be in the spotlight at an event that means a lot to many people. It’s a huge responsibility. I owe it to each reader to give 100% of my effort into the match. I hope I haven’t let you down.
To all the e-wrestling fans who read this piece, my message is this. If you’re struggling with addiction or with your mental health in general. Speak up. If you’ve kicked your habit and you continue to fight your demons every day. Reach out. Keep on fighting. Only worry about the things you can control. You aren’t alone. There are other people who are going through the same thing you are. You deserve to be happy and the fact that you’re fighting says that you haven’t given up yet. You aren’t powerless to your vices. You’re just inconsistent. We all are. You’re going to have good days and bad days. Stay the course. Keep pushing through hell. You’ve never been closer to beating this thing than you are right now. And if you feel like you’re losing your way, hit me up and let’s collaborate on something creative instead of doing something destructive. Thank you for reading my piece. I hope it brings a little bit of positivity into your world. And I hope you’re winning your battle with addiction and mental health.
Be well, my friends.
OFF CAM
THE FINGER OF GOD
Over four years in the army Buster Gloves did over five hundred combat missions. Iraq. Afghanistan. Wherever. Every one of those missions should have killed him. But he was one of the lucky ones. He actually served on many less missions than he should have, but he had a gift for unarmed combat. The United State Army allowed him time off for Combatives training and MMA fights. He was able to represent his country inside the cage, as a fighter, while still serving as active military. His record was respectable. And soon he developed a reputation. The truth was, that he wasn’t some hardass with a granite chin and a heavy hand. He was just some guy who couldn't give a shit about dying anymore. And he just so happened not to get shot or blown up in between bouts.
While serving in Iraq In 2008, his unit was ambushed by the enemy while securing a village. He and thirty-nine fellow soldiers fought the enemy for six days before tanks and air support arrived to rescue them. Three soldiers, including his bunkmate were killed during the attack when a wall collapsed on top of them. For his actions, Gloves received a bronze star, awarded for heroism and performance above the call of duty. His body recovered from the injuries, but his head never recovered from the trauma of real war. The Army allowed him to continue to serve, even supporting him in his dream of becoming a pro MMA fighter.
He was a good fighter. Particularly good at forcing his opponents to submit to choke holds. He was successful. And when the US Army had released him from his term of service, it looked like he was bound for bigger things. But quietly, he was struggling. The things he had seen while in combat haunted him. PTSD. Depression. Panic attacks. With the help of his wife and family, he was managing to get by. And most people didn’t even notice his pain.
He was holding his newborn son, his second boy, when his wife told him about her cancer. Things changed then. And nothing changed at the same time. It was just a random day, in the middle of a random week. He went numb after that. There was no room for him to have his own feelings in those days. He had to be strong for her. He had to be strong for his sons. He thought the best thing he could do for them was to provide. So, he began to fight more often. He’d win some and lose some. He didn’t care. He just needed to get paid and get his wife the treatment she needed. Those days were hard. Constant training. Pretending to be ok. Hiding injuries so that promoters would still allow him to fight. Then he’d come home and watch his wife go through chemotherapy. He was holding her hand when she died.
He retired from MMA less than a year later. He just couldn’t put up the fight anymore. He was totally defeated. Widower. Single father of two. Mediocre fighter. His life was being held together by threads. And the ghosts of his past were still there.
“Thank you for your service”, they would say. “Great fight last night”, they would say. “You’re the bestest Daddy in the entire world”, they would say. But none of those things meant anything to him. They were patronizing. He didn’t feel like he’d done anything to go bragging about. His one true accomplishment was not dying-- and he really had nothing to do with that.
So, he moved back home to Virginia, and opened an MMA gym, and started teaching classes. It was a risky venture, but he wasn’t good at doing anything else. It barely covered the bills. He had to spend a lot of time chasing people for money. Running the business got in the way of running the business. And the young guys he spent time around didn’t understand him. They never had to look death in the eye the way he had done. He resented them, but he needed their money. So, he spent his days teaching spoiled kids and out-of-shape adults how to do basic combat techniques and spent his nights chasing cheap women and cheaper alcohol. He had problems.
He didn’t sleep. And when he did, he dreamt of violence. He’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. And his wife wasn’t there anymore to console him. Things continued to get worse. There was a period of 3 or 4 months where he slept in his closet every night. Basically, he was being a sad crazy fuck about the horrors he’d seen. Then he would put on a happy face for his kids and go to work. People noticed. He was making them miserable too. And knowing that he was making them miserable made him more miserable. He wanted so badly to be better than he was.
He started taking Xanax. It helped with the anxiety. He’d have a few weeks of where things were fine. But then something would trigger him. He’d get cut off in traffic, or someone would say something stupid, or God forbid, fireworks were going off. There were times where he’d drop off his kids and waste most of a day just lost in his own thoughts, stoned from the pills and alcohol. One day he put his fist through his bathroom mirror. For no reason at all. And he just left it that way as a reminder of how broken he was. He’d fuck up, feel bad for himself, then take a few more Xanax. Until one day somebody gave him an Oxycontin.
Everything changed then. And nothing had changed. The problem was he really, really liked Oxy. It made him feel like he wasn’t taking shit from anyone. Things were getting seriously bad. His father, who had been more and more involved in his life, learned about the pills, and started pushing him to get clean. Buster promised he would find a better way of dealing with his war shit than taking pills. So, he went to see a VA doctor.
The doctor asked if he had been experiencing suicidal thoughts. It was hard not to. Sometimes, he thought that if he had just died in Iraq, things would have been better for everyone now. Of course his wife would have been sad for a while and the kids would have missed having a father, but maybe she would still be alive. He felt like him being so fucked up in the head was the thing that killed her. Not the cancer. All of their lives would probably have been better.
They asked if he had ever been diagnosed with PTSD. He said no. Not because he had a clean bill of health, but only because the VA is a fucked-up organization that can’t keep their paperwork straight. They asked if he was on medication. He told them it was just Xanax for anxiety. But the Xanax didn’t work anymore. They asked about his pain level. And pain is a funny thing. You can’t see it. You can’t measure it. You just have to take a person’s word for it. He asked them to clarify, mental or physical pain? They said “Both”. So, he said he was at a nine out of ten. Then they asked, “Have you ever heard of Oxycontin. It provides smooth and sustained pain control all day. Studies have shown that it simplifies and improves patients’ lives. And best of all. It’s less addictive than other opioids.” Maybe you’ve heard of it too?
So, he got more Oxy. One lazy Sunday, his Dad found him passed out with an open pill bottle on the dresser, and his boys playing in the living room. That was the first time his Father took the boys away from the house. Buster didn’t fight it. He stayed there in his bed, not taking shit from the world. He remembered the good times. When he first met his wife. Her smile. How he wished he could go back. He was at peace with everything. Even though his family, his business, and his home were burning to the ground. He was an addict.
For a time, he was hoping to kill himself real slow and feel like a million dollars. Most days, he was a completely functioning addict. He’d get the kids to daycare, go teach a class, and then take a pill to make the pain go away. He’d pick up the kids from daycare, get them fed, swing by the gym, and be back home in time for another pill. There were figurative and literal cracks in the mirror.
Money was running out. When he tried to quit the pills, it made him sick. He’d have a class and vomit outside the building right after. He stabbed his Father in the heart over and over again. Most of the good people in his life stopped coming around. And his new ‘friends’ were all fuckers. He made promises to clients. To friends. To get money. To get pills. Then he’d gaslight them, climbing over every one he knew just for a gasp of air.
He was a shadow of himself, but he wasn’t completely gone. When new clients would venture into the gym, he’d turn on the charm and win them over. He could fake it long enough to convince people he wasn’t on drugs. He was getting really good at pretending he loved teaching other people’s kids. And he never acted like he was on drugs while in front of a client who was about to give him money.
He found creative ways to get more money. Ways to create more time to get drunk and high. He’d let some of his students train for free if they taught a class or did some kind of favor for him. He let people sleep in the gym once in a while if they cleaned the floors and washed the windows. He even let his dealer train for free in-exchange for pills. He knew people from all circles of life. But didn’t really have any friends.
The essential problem of being hooked on anything is that whenever you get flush, you spend it on smack. You ball hard until the money runs out. And then when the dope is gone, you get sick. At which point you need to find more money.
When the pills were gone. He’d get sick. He’d puke. He’d shit his pants. He would go to the gym and pretend to care, but all he wanted to do was just sit at home on the couch, enjoying his high. He was rotting inside his own body. Addiction is a disease of the soul.
Buster felt like a shitty person. He knew he was fucking up his kids. He saw them, being neglected. Turning in to bad people. They weren’t as innocent as they were when his wife was alive. They were becoming unrecognizable. And it wasn’t their fault. They didn’t ask for that life. They didn’t ask to grow up without a mother. Or with a no-good Daddy who had a punch list of problems. They were just sweet little boys that didn’t realize how broken their family was. He was being a bad Father to them, and he felt terrible about it. But he didn’t know where to begin to fix it. He thought about just giving up all together.
Rather than to just walk away, Buster came to another conclusion. In a moment of weakness and clarity, he texted his Father. “Please Dad... please... I need your help. The boys need your help. Is there any way that they can stay with you for a couple months until I get clean?” His father owed him a lifelong debt. And this was a chance to make up for it. Buster never wanted to hurt his kids and when he looked into the pale eyes of the old man in front of him, he knew that his father never meant to hurt him either. A single text message altered the lives of four men that day. They were all brought back to life.
His Father took the kids. It was hard not to cry watching them drive away. The kids didn’t know what they did to deserve this. But this had to happen. It just made sense. His Father was never around when he was young, but he came back into the picture at some point during the MMA fights. His Father was making up for lost time by being the best grandfather he knew how to be. So, Buster sent them away, before he ruined them. Before he ended up killing himself. He was exhausted and suffocated by guilt. He had no choice but to let them go. Buster was sorry. But apologies aren’t good for anything.
He had all this crap floating around in his head. He wanted it gone. And he promised himself that if he just put in the work. If he worked hard enough. It eventually go quiet. It would just stop. He had taken a lot of pills to forget who he was. Without them, he had no identity. He cried sometimes. Not in front of people, and not for any reason at all. He’d just see something that reminded him of the war. And he’d breakdown. But mostly, he just wanted to sleep. He just wanted it to be quiet. It went on like that for about ten days before he stopped feeling sorry for himself.
He woke up early one random day and couldn’t go back to sleep. So, he sat up and said “Fuck it. It’s go time.” He left his house, before the sun was up, resolved to do something positive. Instead of driving to the gym, he walked. Then he jogged. Then he ran. For five miles.
And for the first time in a long time, instead of focusing on the pain INSIDE of him, he soaked in the world AROUND him. The apartments with balconies; the trees-- those beautiful fucking trees. He appreciated their beauty. You don’t see trees like these in the Middle East. The morning was overcast, but bright. Just before summer. He saw beauty in the world. Beauty that he hadn’t appreciated in a long time. He wished he could just lay down on the grass in the sun for a while. But it was a childish thing to wish for.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he just let the sun shine down on his face. Sure, his body hurt, but he had been treating it badly for a long time, and he was used to it. He was out of shape. And his hygiene wasn’t great. But the pain made him feel alive. He was choosing to punish himself and somehow that made him proud of the pain. It was a new high. A runners’ high. And there was a rush of clarity that came with it. He felt peace.
The tornado of addiction had ravaged everything in his life. After the storm, was finally over, he took to rebuilding. Things would never look exactly the way they did before the pills… but there was potential for things to be even better. And things did get a lot better that summer. They got better every day. The craving for dope would hit him like waves. Trying to knock him off balance. But he would let them wash over him. He’d ride them out and eventually they would recede. Buster ran the 5 miles to work almost every day. Sometimes students would give him a ride home. Sometimes he’d jog back. It didn’t matter. He’d run in the morning or at night. It was a penance he needed to pay. It kept him on track.
He lost 30 lbs that summer. Eventually getting back to light heavyweight. And he stopped the booze and the pills for good. He stopped watching TV. He stopped hooking up with desperate women from dating apps. And each morning, he would just run, in silence, with no music, just the quiet of the morning, reflecting on the choices he was making every day.
Students began taking notice and business improved. He began to share his struggles with people who were willing to listen. One student invited him to join a support group. And he started attending regularly. His life wasn’t exciting, but it was real. There was some normalcy to it all. And while others complained about how shitty the world was becoming, he couldn’t help but think it was alright.
Healthy mind and healthy body. He made a commitment to every person in his life that he had wronged, He would be held accountable for his mistakes. He would make things right. And if they chose to forgive him, he would pass their positivity on to another.
The day came where he was ready to get his children back. He knew that the mistakes he had made as a father were serious and that they deserved better than him. But boys need their father. And his job wasn’t done by a longshot. To his credit, Buster had no history of abuse or criminal activity. And he had maintained a healthy lifestyle for months without relapsing. So, the kids came back, and he became an active father again.
As a father, he was acceptable. He met the minimum requirements. And he was taking care of his responsibilities. At first, he asked his father to come stay with them for a while to get adjusted. But things were going really well. Then his father would leave for a couple weeks and come back to check on the family. And by Christmas, there was no need for his father to stick around at all.
Sitting in front of his Christmas tree, watching the boys, now 7 and 8 years old, opening their gifts, he smiled. He didn’t bother to take pictures, he just experienced them. He enjoyed being with them. And felt fortunate for every minute they were still there.
Buster was clean and healthy. And that’s when a friend asked him if he would be interested in professional wrestling.
OFF-CAM
RIVER CITY DOJO
RICHMOND, VA
KEEP YOUR ELBOWS IN
“The most important thing to learn in jiu-jitsu is what your body is capable of. You need to know what your limits are. You need to be sure when you’re safe and when you’re in trouble.”
Buster paces the packed room of the dungeon style MMA gym. He hosted a thousand classes in this room over the course of several years, but today was different. This was his final class.
“In jiu-jitsu, you are always working. For a better position. For points. For submissions. But nothing is more important than knowing when you are working from a point of safety. It doesn’t matter if you’re on top, or the bottom, or in somewhere in between. If you’re working dangerously, you’re going to get caught.”
Buster had been working dangerously for a long time. Running his own gym. Struggling to pay bills. Taking whatever side-hustle he had to keep the doors open. This gym meant a lot to him. It was something he had created when there were many destructive forces at work in his life. But it wasn’t an unfortunate event that caused him to sell the business. It wasn’t even the hardships put on the business during covid lockdowns. Buster sold the business to pursue a professional wrestling career.
“If you only remember one thing from this lesson today, make sure it’s this. Keep… your elbows… in. If you’re in a roll, and you get your elbows out like a scarecrow, you’re going to get caught. Someone’s going to get their underhooks. They’re going to pass. They’re going to rip off your arm. KEEP… YOUR ELBOWS… IN. Be a T-Rex, not a Pterodactyl. You know what a Pterodactyl is, right? He’s that bird-looking mother-fucker dinosaur with the wings and beak and shit. Pterodactyls get eaten for dinner. Be the T-Rex. Short arms. Elbows in. Work small. Work strong. Stay safe. Got it?”
Level Up Wrestling had been good for Buster Gloves. He signed with the company on a 6-month deal back in October. He didn’t bring an impressive resume to the table like other signings. He didn’t have a trophy case full of championship belts. He had never even worked for a major wrestling promotion before. His introductory contract was a pay-per-appearance deal that provided the supplemental income he needed to pay off his debts. But things had changed since Level Up’s most recent pay-per-view. Buster participated in a 30-Man Gauntlet match called The Last of Us. He was one of the favorites going into that match. Although he didn’t win, he finished in the top six and was featured in the match. Gloves may have claim to a main event spot. The executives at Level Up recognized the possibility of a future matchup and offered a contract extension to Buster. The deal came with a substantial pay increase. Enough to allow him to retire from teaching. A fellow instructor and good friend of many years, a wrestler by the name of Ursus Bloodf*cker, offered to buy his business. And Buster had to consider it.
“Whenever you work, work from the inside. Control inside the elbow, inside the collar, inside the body. If you aren’t working inside, it’s because they are, and you’re losing. So, let’s look at the most basic escape in jiu-jitsu; the shrimp escape. From the bottom, you keep your elbows in, you turn your hips toward your opponent, you drop your elbow in between, you create space, you scoot your butt out and you push. You escape. Not because you can push so well ,or because you are great at popping your butt out. You escaped because you kept your elbows in. You stayed safe. You worked from the inside.”
Buster couldn’t just give up teaching though. He had learned a lot in thirty-four years. Not because he was a quick learner or because he was so smart. Buster had made so many mistakes in his life. Almost every mistake. And making mistakes is the only way to gain any meaningful amount of wisdom. Think of anyone that is at the top of their trade or craft. Guaranteed, they have screwed up thousands of times and have achieved their level of success because they know what NOT to do. Intelligence is about knowing what you know. Wisdom is about knowing what you DON’T know. When an opportunity arose to teach at a new state-of-the-art facility in Florida, he had to consider it. There were the beaches, and good weather, and tax breaks, but there were also alligators, and old people, and Florida Man. Buster was offered a position as the Head Jiu-Jitsu and Submissions Coach at the Champions Advantage Performance Center in Vero Beach, Florida. So, he sold his business, moved to Florida, and decided to focus on teaching aspiring pro-wrestlers how to improve their submission game.
“Now I want you all to partner up, practice the shrimp escape from side control. Do that until you’ve got it, then switch with your partner. Go ahead and get started. Oss!”
Walking around the room, Buster felt a sense of pride. He had never seen this many students inside the building. Maybe it was because it was his last class and they wanted to come out and show support. Maybe it was because it was free to the public. It didn’t matter either way. Buster found teaching to be a rewarding experience. It helped him process what he was doing in his own life. It gave him hope. Satisfaction that some bit of coaching he gave to a student would some day be used to prevent them from making a mistake of their own. He remembered what it was like as a teenage boy living with a single mother, trying to figure out how to be a man. He made so many mistakes back then. So many regrets. There was so much he wanted to forget. But eventually he did learn. It just had to be done the hard way. If only he had a teacher or a mentor that could have guided him through that time. Could he have achieved more? Would he be a happier person? He wasn’t given that choice. But he can give that choice to his students. He can share his knowledge with them.
The class went on for another hour. Thirty minutes of warm-up. Thirty minutes of instruction. Thirty minutes of sparring. More than thirty minutes of anything will turn your brain to mush. The shrimp escape technique was just the appetizer. They also covered the mechanic slide, the ghost escape, and the anaconda choke. As the final minutes drained away, the feeling was surreal. He was leaving something he knew for the unknown. New gym. New state. New friends. He wasn’t ready to go just yet. So, he rolled with the new owner of the gym. Then he rolled with every other coach that wanted a shot at the black belt. Then he rolled with every other student who was willing to stick around. Three hours after the class started, Buster finished his last roll. He was beaten up and sweaty and happy. He left a piece of himself in that dungeon. And he was finally at peace with leaving.
The road ahead would be challenging for Buster. In addition to taking on teaching duties at his new gym, he would also be training for his pro-wrestling matches. He had broken through the mid-card at Level Up Wrestling and would be contending for a championship match soon. The competition level was getting more difficult. He couldn’t just slide by with a sneaky submission attempt. His next opponents would have game tape on him. They would be prepared to counter his signature moves. They would know his weaknesses. And there would be drama with co-workers.
Buster may have bitten off more than he could chew when he accepted a match at the 'F*ck Addiction' event. His opponent is an extremely accomplished wrestler. His opponent is loud, abrasive, and not afraid to humiliate his enemies. To complicate matters event more, the match will be the final match of the two-day event. A loss on this stage will be a big disappointment for Buster. It would be an indication that he isn’t ready for the big time. However, winning would mean a huge boost to his career. Getting a signature win at an event that addresses something so personal to him will be one of the greatest achievements of his life. And it will put the name, Buster Gloves, on the map. And it will immediately validate the decision to devote his life to pro-wrestling. It’s scary to think about. It’s a lot of pressure. And as soon as Buster left his Dojo, he was no longer a master of MMA, he would just be a student of the game of pro-wrestling.
The first step towards salvation is always the most difficult. So, Buster washed the mats. He cleaned up the leftover water bottles. Kicked on a pair of slides. Turned off the lights. Put his hand on the logo on the concrete wall, said his goodbyes, and stepped out the door for the last time.
ON-CAM PROMO
THE GOLDEN CROWN AND THE IRON ROD
There was a boy. Young, naïve, full of vigor, with stars in his eyes. He watched heroes wrestle on grand stages in the hall of the immortals and dreamed that one day he would battle on the same stage. From the first moment he saw a pro-wrestling match, he was in love with the art. And he knew he would spend the rest of his life pursuing that dream. And he would achieve that dream. He became a professional athlete, and a wrestler, and a champion. But once he achieved that dream, he was still left unsatisfied. Where he thought his heart would feel full, it was empty. He felt incomplete. He still feels incomplete. And he has no vision of the future. That man is adrift in an ocean of uncertainty. Questioning the meaning of life. With no clear direction on where to go next. That man is lost. That man is you, the King of Wrestling, Jason Long.
What is another win to you? What is another championship? These accomplishments, that would mean so very much to so very many other unproven wrestlers, feel insignificant to you. Another win would just sit in the shadow of countless victories and six World Championships. On one hand, you hold trophies and championships proclaiming that they prove your greatness. On the other hand, you hold trophies and championships proclaiming that they don’t’ mean anything to you at all. Wins hold no value for you. The only thing you value is gold. And once you have it, all you’ll want is more.
You act as if you respect wrestling. You act as if you respect your employers, but we both know that’s not the truth, don’t we? We know that you have lustful eyes for championships and without them, your life has very little meaning. You don’t respect the titles; you are addicted to them. And there is no line you aren’t willing to cross to obtain that which you seek the most. Your next fix.
Look beneath your feet, Jason. You aren’t walking the yellow brick road to Oz. You’re walking a road paved with the blood and bones of your enemies. You call yourself the King of Wrestling, but who will serve a mad king such as yourself? The throne you sit upon isn’t made of gold and leather. It’s made of skulls and souls of the defeated. Can you really be a king, if you have no kingdom left to serve you.
Jason, your kingdom only exists inside your head. Your opponents live there; your loved ones live there; in this fantasy world that revolves around how truly magnificent you are. This image you’ve built up of yourself is unattainable. So, you live in this fantasy world where you’re invincible. What happens when someone causes you a moment of doubt? What happens when you’re met with the slightest hint of criticism? You lash out. You destroy. You bomb them from orbit and leave nothing but scorched earth. Because to admit to any flaw; to even consider that you may be in the wrong at any point; would shatter your world and leave you wondering what was real and what was just in your head. Before this match, you never heard my name. You never even considered the storm that was approaching your kingdom of one. But you will endure the storm and afterwards ghosts of this match will be etched inside your head.
In truth, you are no king, Mr. Long. Wins do not make you an honorable man. Beating a man near death does not make you an honorable man. In fact, it’s to the contrary. Step back for a moment and ask yourself, are you proud of the person you’ve become? A champion who represents only himself. Who ends careers and puts people in wheelchairs? What would 14-year-old you think if he saw you on his TV? Would he think your life is fun? Would he want to be like you?
Let me spare you the pretty lies and dispense the ugly truth. You wouldn’t know honor if it rose up against you, stared daggers into your soul, and spit into your mouth. What you don’t understand is that truth through courage defines honor. You are not a man of truth. You deceive us. You deceive yourself. Allow me to be your harbinger of truth.
While men of lesser public value and greater moral fiber break their backs working thankless jobs to provide for their families, you sit in front of a screen playing video games for children, no doubtedly flexing on those same children, as you murder their avatars and their innocence in one meaningless kill streak.
You have the luxury of being able to eat what you like and work out whenever you want to. You have the ability to be a positive role model, to uplift the community, and to make the world a better place every day, but you do not. And why is that? It’s because the 14-year-old boy inside you is dead. This job is no longer fun for you.
Long live the king you say? Pro wrestling has no need for a king. It’s ruled by the wrestling gods and a king is nothing to a god. Don’t overestimate your worth, Jason. You’re just another man who bleeds and suffers like the rest of us.
Let us not forget what this event is about. It’s about bringing awareness to the dangers of addiction and mental illness. Before you even consider speaking on the topic, you should take a long hard look at yourself, do a personal inventory of your life, and think about your own struggles with addiction and mental health.
You too have an addiction. To gold. It rules your every action. It’s the first thing you think about when you wake up. It’s the most important thing in your life. Winning it alleviates the hunger for a short time, but it’s only temporary. Without championship gold, you are a shadow of a man, with no purpose, no value, and no identity.
A real champion doesn’t just win the big match, accept the adoration that comes with it, and then leave town as soon as he drops the belt. A real champion represents himself as the face of the company. A champion stands on the front lines and defends the city through sacrifices of his own. Becoming a champion isn’t a reward for good behavior, it’s a responsibility. It’s a request for service at the highest level. You haven’t been representing your company, you’ve been satisfying your addiction demons.
So why are you even in this match? It isn’t about gold. There’s no prize for the winner. This match is about giving back. It’s about looking at the 14-year-olds and the 41-year-olds at home and saying that you understand what they’re going through and that it’s ok. That life is about suffering, but it gets better. And there are moments where you hardly feel any pain at all. This match is about doing something that matters. And if you’re in it for yourself, to prove something to 14-year-old Jason, then you’ve already lost. A 3-count won’t change that. But if you’re in this because you want the wrestling world to forget, for 60 minutes, all the pain and suffering in their lives, then you might just have a chance.
We have an ironman match Jason. You may be the man of gold, but I’m the man of iron. And sure, gold has its uses, I’ll give you that. But wars are won with iron. We will go to war. And when it’s over, we will both be left with scars. Your ability is not in question, but what about vigilance? What about resilience? What happens when we are 30 minutes into the crucible and you’re swimming in waters you’ve never been in before? You may be a lion in the opening minutes of our match, but I’ll slowly drag you out to sea. The long game is where technique beats physical ability. And in the twilight ocean of our match, the lion will fall victim to the relentless attacks of the shark.
What you need to understand is that iron weeps, but it does not break. I do this shit for fun. Because it makes me feel better. Voluntarily getting beat up is my therapy. Mutual destruction is part of my healing process. And I’ve learned how to enjoy punishment. I want you to hit me as hard as you can. I want you to play every card in the deck. I want you to bring me to the hottest part of the fire. Because it’s only there where iron is made. You can’t break me; you can only forge me. You can only bring me to be something stronger and better than I’ve ever been before.
I could tell you that I’m going to win this match, because my will is iron, and my word is law, but the truth is that we’re both powerless to destiny. We can only use the tools that we were provided to restore our own sanity. Only by turning over our lives to the care of the wrestling gods, as we understand them to be, can we find true salvation. I’ve done a lot of soul searching in preparation for this match, the biggest and most important of my career, and what I have found is that I am no champion. I’m just a guy, with a lot of flaws, and a weird kink for getting beat up. But I’m also damn good at my job. I hope that the wrestling fans at home, who are struggling with their own demons, can forgive my shortcomings and allow me to make amends, by punishing you for their enjoyment.
I admit, I don’t have a strong resume going into this match. If you beat me, none of your friends are going to be impressed by the result. You have a lot more to lose in this match that I do. And I truly appreciate you agreeing to the contest. But anyone who thinks that a hungry, 34-year-old gym instructor, with a jiu-jitsu black belt, and a history of violence is going to be a cakewalk, is woefully misinformed. I’ve put in weeks of training and mental preparation for this bout. I pray that the heavens grant me the power to carry out my mission.
In closing, I want to say once again, fuck addiction. Fuck mental illness. I’ve been through my own struggles with both. And I still struggle today. But healing is possible. And help is out there. I hope every person who needs a boost to keep things going one more day can hear my message, and see this match, and find inspiration in it. I pray that as a result of this match, this event in totality, that we can carry this message of resilience to those who need it the most.
Thank you for being a friend. And I’ll see you all down the road.
Before I get into the promo, let’s take a moment to talk about why I volunteered to participate in this event. It’s only been six months since I returned to the e-fedding community. Originally, I began e-fedding as a teenager because I needed an outlet. I needed a voice. And it helped me get through a difficult time in my life. I was poor, awkward, and a little bit lonely. 20 years later, I’m an adult. At least, I think myself to be. I’m married. I have kids. A mortgage. A 401k. On the surface, I’m doing well, but underneath, every day is a battle. I need an outlet again. I need a voice again. Many things have changed. But most things are just the same.
When you welcome more responsibility into your life, there’s less time to focus on yourself. E-fedding was therapy for me then. And is therapy for me now. When the opportunity popped up to join an event focused on fighting addiction and recognizing the importance of mental health, I wanted to contribute to it. At first, I wasn’t even sure I’d get a spot on the card. You can imagine how shocked I was when I was assigned a main event spot in a match against a veteran handler like Jason Long. For me, it’s an honor. An invitation to the dance. It means a lot to be in the spotlight at an event that means a lot to many people. It’s a huge responsibility. I owe it to each reader to give 100% of my effort into the match. I hope I haven’t let you down.
To all the e-wrestling fans who read this piece, my message is this. If you’re struggling with addiction or with your mental health in general. Speak up. If you’ve kicked your habit and you continue to fight your demons every day. Reach out. Keep on fighting. Only worry about the things you can control. You aren’t alone. There are other people who are going through the same thing you are. You deserve to be happy and the fact that you’re fighting says that you haven’t given up yet. You aren’t powerless to your vices. You’re just inconsistent. We all are. You’re going to have good days and bad days. Stay the course. Keep pushing through hell. You’ve never been closer to beating this thing than you are right now. And if you feel like you’re losing your way, hit me up and let’s collaborate on something creative instead of doing something destructive. Thank you for reading my piece. I hope it brings a little bit of positivity into your world. And I hope you’re winning your battle with addiction and mental health.
Be well, my friends.
OFF CAM
THE FINGER OF GOD
Over four years in the army Buster Gloves did over five hundred combat missions. Iraq. Afghanistan. Wherever. Every one of those missions should have killed him. But he was one of the lucky ones. He actually served on many less missions than he should have, but he had a gift for unarmed combat. The United State Army allowed him time off for Combatives training and MMA fights. He was able to represent his country inside the cage, as a fighter, while still serving as active military. His record was respectable. And soon he developed a reputation. The truth was, that he wasn’t some hardass with a granite chin and a heavy hand. He was just some guy who couldn't give a shit about dying anymore. And he just so happened not to get shot or blown up in between bouts.
While serving in Iraq In 2008, his unit was ambushed by the enemy while securing a village. He and thirty-nine fellow soldiers fought the enemy for six days before tanks and air support arrived to rescue them. Three soldiers, including his bunkmate were killed during the attack when a wall collapsed on top of them. For his actions, Gloves received a bronze star, awarded for heroism and performance above the call of duty. His body recovered from the injuries, but his head never recovered from the trauma of real war. The Army allowed him to continue to serve, even supporting him in his dream of becoming a pro MMA fighter.
He was a good fighter. Particularly good at forcing his opponents to submit to choke holds. He was successful. And when the US Army had released him from his term of service, it looked like he was bound for bigger things. But quietly, he was struggling. The things he had seen while in combat haunted him. PTSD. Depression. Panic attacks. With the help of his wife and family, he was managing to get by. And most people didn’t even notice his pain.
He was holding his newborn son, his second boy, when his wife told him about her cancer. Things changed then. And nothing changed at the same time. It was just a random day, in the middle of a random week. He went numb after that. There was no room for him to have his own feelings in those days. He had to be strong for her. He had to be strong for his sons. He thought the best thing he could do for them was to provide. So, he began to fight more often. He’d win some and lose some. He didn’t care. He just needed to get paid and get his wife the treatment she needed. Those days were hard. Constant training. Pretending to be ok. Hiding injuries so that promoters would still allow him to fight. Then he’d come home and watch his wife go through chemotherapy. He was holding her hand when she died.
He retired from MMA less than a year later. He just couldn’t put up the fight anymore. He was totally defeated. Widower. Single father of two. Mediocre fighter. His life was being held together by threads. And the ghosts of his past were still there.
“Thank you for your service”, they would say. “Great fight last night”, they would say. “You’re the bestest Daddy in the entire world”, they would say. But none of those things meant anything to him. They were patronizing. He didn’t feel like he’d done anything to go bragging about. His one true accomplishment was not dying-- and he really had nothing to do with that.
So, he moved back home to Virginia, and opened an MMA gym, and started teaching classes. It was a risky venture, but he wasn’t good at doing anything else. It barely covered the bills. He had to spend a lot of time chasing people for money. Running the business got in the way of running the business. And the young guys he spent time around didn’t understand him. They never had to look death in the eye the way he had done. He resented them, but he needed their money. So, he spent his days teaching spoiled kids and out-of-shape adults how to do basic combat techniques and spent his nights chasing cheap women and cheaper alcohol. He had problems.
He didn’t sleep. And when he did, he dreamt of violence. He’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. And his wife wasn’t there anymore to console him. Things continued to get worse. There was a period of 3 or 4 months where he slept in his closet every night. Basically, he was being a sad crazy fuck about the horrors he’d seen. Then he would put on a happy face for his kids and go to work. People noticed. He was making them miserable too. And knowing that he was making them miserable made him more miserable. He wanted so badly to be better than he was.
He started taking Xanax. It helped with the anxiety. He’d have a few weeks of where things were fine. But then something would trigger him. He’d get cut off in traffic, or someone would say something stupid, or God forbid, fireworks were going off. There were times where he’d drop off his kids and waste most of a day just lost in his own thoughts, stoned from the pills and alcohol. One day he put his fist through his bathroom mirror. For no reason at all. And he just left it that way as a reminder of how broken he was. He’d fuck up, feel bad for himself, then take a few more Xanax. Until one day somebody gave him an Oxycontin.
Everything changed then. And nothing had changed. The problem was he really, really liked Oxy. It made him feel like he wasn’t taking shit from anyone. Things were getting seriously bad. His father, who had been more and more involved in his life, learned about the pills, and started pushing him to get clean. Buster promised he would find a better way of dealing with his war shit than taking pills. So, he went to see a VA doctor.
The doctor asked if he had been experiencing suicidal thoughts. It was hard not to. Sometimes, he thought that if he had just died in Iraq, things would have been better for everyone now. Of course his wife would have been sad for a while and the kids would have missed having a father, but maybe she would still be alive. He felt like him being so fucked up in the head was the thing that killed her. Not the cancer. All of their lives would probably have been better.
They asked if he had ever been diagnosed with PTSD. He said no. Not because he had a clean bill of health, but only because the VA is a fucked-up organization that can’t keep their paperwork straight. They asked if he was on medication. He told them it was just Xanax for anxiety. But the Xanax didn’t work anymore. They asked about his pain level. And pain is a funny thing. You can’t see it. You can’t measure it. You just have to take a person’s word for it. He asked them to clarify, mental or physical pain? They said “Both”. So, he said he was at a nine out of ten. Then they asked, “Have you ever heard of Oxycontin. It provides smooth and sustained pain control all day. Studies have shown that it simplifies and improves patients’ lives. And best of all. It’s less addictive than other opioids.” Maybe you’ve heard of it too?
So, he got more Oxy. One lazy Sunday, his Dad found him passed out with an open pill bottle on the dresser, and his boys playing in the living room. That was the first time his Father took the boys away from the house. Buster didn’t fight it. He stayed there in his bed, not taking shit from the world. He remembered the good times. When he first met his wife. Her smile. How he wished he could go back. He was at peace with everything. Even though his family, his business, and his home were burning to the ground. He was an addict.
For a time, he was hoping to kill himself real slow and feel like a million dollars. Most days, he was a completely functioning addict. He’d get the kids to daycare, go teach a class, and then take a pill to make the pain go away. He’d pick up the kids from daycare, get them fed, swing by the gym, and be back home in time for another pill. There were figurative and literal cracks in the mirror.
Money was running out. When he tried to quit the pills, it made him sick. He’d have a class and vomit outside the building right after. He stabbed his Father in the heart over and over again. Most of the good people in his life stopped coming around. And his new ‘friends’ were all fuckers. He made promises to clients. To friends. To get money. To get pills. Then he’d gaslight them, climbing over every one he knew just for a gasp of air.
He was a shadow of himself, but he wasn’t completely gone. When new clients would venture into the gym, he’d turn on the charm and win them over. He could fake it long enough to convince people he wasn’t on drugs. He was getting really good at pretending he loved teaching other people’s kids. And he never acted like he was on drugs while in front of a client who was about to give him money.
He found creative ways to get more money. Ways to create more time to get drunk and high. He’d let some of his students train for free if they taught a class or did some kind of favor for him. He let people sleep in the gym once in a while if they cleaned the floors and washed the windows. He even let his dealer train for free in-exchange for pills. He knew people from all circles of life. But didn’t really have any friends.
The essential problem of being hooked on anything is that whenever you get flush, you spend it on smack. You ball hard until the money runs out. And then when the dope is gone, you get sick. At which point you need to find more money.
When the pills were gone. He’d get sick. He’d puke. He’d shit his pants. He would go to the gym and pretend to care, but all he wanted to do was just sit at home on the couch, enjoying his high. He was rotting inside his own body. Addiction is a disease of the soul.
Buster felt like a shitty person. He knew he was fucking up his kids. He saw them, being neglected. Turning in to bad people. They weren’t as innocent as they were when his wife was alive. They were becoming unrecognizable. And it wasn’t their fault. They didn’t ask for that life. They didn’t ask to grow up without a mother. Or with a no-good Daddy who had a punch list of problems. They were just sweet little boys that didn’t realize how broken their family was. He was being a bad Father to them, and he felt terrible about it. But he didn’t know where to begin to fix it. He thought about just giving up all together.
Rather than to just walk away, Buster came to another conclusion. In a moment of weakness and clarity, he texted his Father. “Please Dad... please... I need your help. The boys need your help. Is there any way that they can stay with you for a couple months until I get clean?” His father owed him a lifelong debt. And this was a chance to make up for it. Buster never wanted to hurt his kids and when he looked into the pale eyes of the old man in front of him, he knew that his father never meant to hurt him either. A single text message altered the lives of four men that day. They were all brought back to life.
His Father took the kids. It was hard not to cry watching them drive away. The kids didn’t know what they did to deserve this. But this had to happen. It just made sense. His Father was never around when he was young, but he came back into the picture at some point during the MMA fights. His Father was making up for lost time by being the best grandfather he knew how to be. So, Buster sent them away, before he ruined them. Before he ended up killing himself. He was exhausted and suffocated by guilt. He had no choice but to let them go. Buster was sorry. But apologies aren’t good for anything.
He had all this crap floating around in his head. He wanted it gone. And he promised himself that if he just put in the work. If he worked hard enough. It eventually go quiet. It would just stop. He had taken a lot of pills to forget who he was. Without them, he had no identity. He cried sometimes. Not in front of people, and not for any reason at all. He’d just see something that reminded him of the war. And he’d breakdown. But mostly, he just wanted to sleep. He just wanted it to be quiet. It went on like that for about ten days before he stopped feeling sorry for himself.
He woke up early one random day and couldn’t go back to sleep. So, he sat up and said “Fuck it. It’s go time.” He left his house, before the sun was up, resolved to do something positive. Instead of driving to the gym, he walked. Then he jogged. Then he ran. For five miles.
And for the first time in a long time, instead of focusing on the pain INSIDE of him, he soaked in the world AROUND him. The apartments with balconies; the trees-- those beautiful fucking trees. He appreciated their beauty. You don’t see trees like these in the Middle East. The morning was overcast, but bright. Just before summer. He saw beauty in the world. Beauty that he hadn’t appreciated in a long time. He wished he could just lay down on the grass in the sun for a while. But it was a childish thing to wish for.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he just let the sun shine down on his face. Sure, his body hurt, but he had been treating it badly for a long time, and he was used to it. He was out of shape. And his hygiene wasn’t great. But the pain made him feel alive. He was choosing to punish himself and somehow that made him proud of the pain. It was a new high. A runners’ high. And there was a rush of clarity that came with it. He felt peace.
The tornado of addiction had ravaged everything in his life. After the storm, was finally over, he took to rebuilding. Things would never look exactly the way they did before the pills… but there was potential for things to be even better. And things did get a lot better that summer. They got better every day. The craving for dope would hit him like waves. Trying to knock him off balance. But he would let them wash over him. He’d ride them out and eventually they would recede. Buster ran the 5 miles to work almost every day. Sometimes students would give him a ride home. Sometimes he’d jog back. It didn’t matter. He’d run in the morning or at night. It was a penance he needed to pay. It kept him on track.
He lost 30 lbs that summer. Eventually getting back to light heavyweight. And he stopped the booze and the pills for good. He stopped watching TV. He stopped hooking up with desperate women from dating apps. And each morning, he would just run, in silence, with no music, just the quiet of the morning, reflecting on the choices he was making every day.
Students began taking notice and business improved. He began to share his struggles with people who were willing to listen. One student invited him to join a support group. And he started attending regularly. His life wasn’t exciting, but it was real. There was some normalcy to it all. And while others complained about how shitty the world was becoming, he couldn’t help but think it was alright.
Healthy mind and healthy body. He made a commitment to every person in his life that he had wronged, He would be held accountable for his mistakes. He would make things right. And if they chose to forgive him, he would pass their positivity on to another.
The day came where he was ready to get his children back. He knew that the mistakes he had made as a father were serious and that they deserved better than him. But boys need their father. And his job wasn’t done by a longshot. To his credit, Buster had no history of abuse or criminal activity. And he had maintained a healthy lifestyle for months without relapsing. So, the kids came back, and he became an active father again.
As a father, he was acceptable. He met the minimum requirements. And he was taking care of his responsibilities. At first, he asked his father to come stay with them for a while to get adjusted. But things were going really well. Then his father would leave for a couple weeks and come back to check on the family. And by Christmas, there was no need for his father to stick around at all.
Sitting in front of his Christmas tree, watching the boys, now 7 and 8 years old, opening their gifts, he smiled. He didn’t bother to take pictures, he just experienced them. He enjoyed being with them. And felt fortunate for every minute they were still there.
Buster was clean and healthy. And that’s when a friend asked him if he would be interested in professional wrestling.
OFF-CAM
RIVER CITY DOJO
RICHMOND, VA
KEEP YOUR ELBOWS IN
“The most important thing to learn in jiu-jitsu is what your body is capable of. You need to know what your limits are. You need to be sure when you’re safe and when you’re in trouble.”
Buster paces the packed room of the dungeon style MMA gym. He hosted a thousand classes in this room over the course of several years, but today was different. This was his final class.
“In jiu-jitsu, you are always working. For a better position. For points. For submissions. But nothing is more important than knowing when you are working from a point of safety. It doesn’t matter if you’re on top, or the bottom, or in somewhere in between. If you’re working dangerously, you’re going to get caught.”
Buster had been working dangerously for a long time. Running his own gym. Struggling to pay bills. Taking whatever side-hustle he had to keep the doors open. This gym meant a lot to him. It was something he had created when there were many destructive forces at work in his life. But it wasn’t an unfortunate event that caused him to sell the business. It wasn’t even the hardships put on the business during covid lockdowns. Buster sold the business to pursue a professional wrestling career.
“If you only remember one thing from this lesson today, make sure it’s this. Keep… your elbows… in. If you’re in a roll, and you get your elbows out like a scarecrow, you’re going to get caught. Someone’s going to get their underhooks. They’re going to pass. They’re going to rip off your arm. KEEP… YOUR ELBOWS… IN. Be a T-Rex, not a Pterodactyl. You know what a Pterodactyl is, right? He’s that bird-looking mother-fucker dinosaur with the wings and beak and shit. Pterodactyls get eaten for dinner. Be the T-Rex. Short arms. Elbows in. Work small. Work strong. Stay safe. Got it?”
Level Up Wrestling had been good for Buster Gloves. He signed with the company on a 6-month deal back in October. He didn’t bring an impressive resume to the table like other signings. He didn’t have a trophy case full of championship belts. He had never even worked for a major wrestling promotion before. His introductory contract was a pay-per-appearance deal that provided the supplemental income he needed to pay off his debts. But things had changed since Level Up’s most recent pay-per-view. Buster participated in a 30-Man Gauntlet match called The Last of Us. He was one of the favorites going into that match. Although he didn’t win, he finished in the top six and was featured in the match. Gloves may have claim to a main event spot. The executives at Level Up recognized the possibility of a future matchup and offered a contract extension to Buster. The deal came with a substantial pay increase. Enough to allow him to retire from teaching. A fellow instructor and good friend of many years, a wrestler by the name of Ursus Bloodf*cker, offered to buy his business. And Buster had to consider it.
“Whenever you work, work from the inside. Control inside the elbow, inside the collar, inside the body. If you aren’t working inside, it’s because they are, and you’re losing. So, let’s look at the most basic escape in jiu-jitsu; the shrimp escape. From the bottom, you keep your elbows in, you turn your hips toward your opponent, you drop your elbow in between, you create space, you scoot your butt out and you push. You escape. Not because you can push so well ,or because you are great at popping your butt out. You escaped because you kept your elbows in. You stayed safe. You worked from the inside.”
Buster couldn’t just give up teaching though. He had learned a lot in thirty-four years. Not because he was a quick learner or because he was so smart. Buster had made so many mistakes in his life. Almost every mistake. And making mistakes is the only way to gain any meaningful amount of wisdom. Think of anyone that is at the top of their trade or craft. Guaranteed, they have screwed up thousands of times and have achieved their level of success because they know what NOT to do. Intelligence is about knowing what you know. Wisdom is about knowing what you DON’T know. When an opportunity arose to teach at a new state-of-the-art facility in Florida, he had to consider it. There were the beaches, and good weather, and tax breaks, but there were also alligators, and old people, and Florida Man. Buster was offered a position as the Head Jiu-Jitsu and Submissions Coach at the Champions Advantage Performance Center in Vero Beach, Florida. So, he sold his business, moved to Florida, and decided to focus on teaching aspiring pro-wrestlers how to improve their submission game.
“Now I want you all to partner up, practice the shrimp escape from side control. Do that until you’ve got it, then switch with your partner. Go ahead and get started. Oss!”
Walking around the room, Buster felt a sense of pride. He had never seen this many students inside the building. Maybe it was because it was his last class and they wanted to come out and show support. Maybe it was because it was free to the public. It didn’t matter either way. Buster found teaching to be a rewarding experience. It helped him process what he was doing in his own life. It gave him hope. Satisfaction that some bit of coaching he gave to a student would some day be used to prevent them from making a mistake of their own. He remembered what it was like as a teenage boy living with a single mother, trying to figure out how to be a man. He made so many mistakes back then. So many regrets. There was so much he wanted to forget. But eventually he did learn. It just had to be done the hard way. If only he had a teacher or a mentor that could have guided him through that time. Could he have achieved more? Would he be a happier person? He wasn’t given that choice. But he can give that choice to his students. He can share his knowledge with them.
The class went on for another hour. Thirty minutes of warm-up. Thirty minutes of instruction. Thirty minutes of sparring. More than thirty minutes of anything will turn your brain to mush. The shrimp escape technique was just the appetizer. They also covered the mechanic slide, the ghost escape, and the anaconda choke. As the final minutes drained away, the feeling was surreal. He was leaving something he knew for the unknown. New gym. New state. New friends. He wasn’t ready to go just yet. So, he rolled with the new owner of the gym. Then he rolled with every other coach that wanted a shot at the black belt. Then he rolled with every other student who was willing to stick around. Three hours after the class started, Buster finished his last roll. He was beaten up and sweaty and happy. He left a piece of himself in that dungeon. And he was finally at peace with leaving.
The road ahead would be challenging for Buster. In addition to taking on teaching duties at his new gym, he would also be training for his pro-wrestling matches. He had broken through the mid-card at Level Up Wrestling and would be contending for a championship match soon. The competition level was getting more difficult. He couldn’t just slide by with a sneaky submission attempt. His next opponents would have game tape on him. They would be prepared to counter his signature moves. They would know his weaknesses. And there would be drama with co-workers.
Buster may have bitten off more than he could chew when he accepted a match at the 'F*ck Addiction' event. His opponent is an extremely accomplished wrestler. His opponent is loud, abrasive, and not afraid to humiliate his enemies. To complicate matters event more, the match will be the final match of the two-day event. A loss on this stage will be a big disappointment for Buster. It would be an indication that he isn’t ready for the big time. However, winning would mean a huge boost to his career. Getting a signature win at an event that addresses something so personal to him will be one of the greatest achievements of his life. And it will put the name, Buster Gloves, on the map. And it will immediately validate the decision to devote his life to pro-wrestling. It’s scary to think about. It’s a lot of pressure. And as soon as Buster left his Dojo, he was no longer a master of MMA, he would just be a student of the game of pro-wrestling.
The first step towards salvation is always the most difficult. So, Buster washed the mats. He cleaned up the leftover water bottles. Kicked on a pair of slides. Turned off the lights. Put his hand on the logo on the concrete wall, said his goodbyes, and stepped out the door for the last time.
ON-CAM PROMO
THE GOLDEN CROWN AND THE IRON ROD
There was a boy. Young, naïve, full of vigor, with stars in his eyes. He watched heroes wrestle on grand stages in the hall of the immortals and dreamed that one day he would battle on the same stage. From the first moment he saw a pro-wrestling match, he was in love with the art. And he knew he would spend the rest of his life pursuing that dream. And he would achieve that dream. He became a professional athlete, and a wrestler, and a champion. But once he achieved that dream, he was still left unsatisfied. Where he thought his heart would feel full, it was empty. He felt incomplete. He still feels incomplete. And he has no vision of the future. That man is adrift in an ocean of uncertainty. Questioning the meaning of life. With no clear direction on where to go next. That man is lost. That man is you, the King of Wrestling, Jason Long.
What is another win to you? What is another championship? These accomplishments, that would mean so very much to so very many other unproven wrestlers, feel insignificant to you. Another win would just sit in the shadow of countless victories and six World Championships. On one hand, you hold trophies and championships proclaiming that they prove your greatness. On the other hand, you hold trophies and championships proclaiming that they don’t’ mean anything to you at all. Wins hold no value for you. The only thing you value is gold. And once you have it, all you’ll want is more.
You act as if you respect wrestling. You act as if you respect your employers, but we both know that’s not the truth, don’t we? We know that you have lustful eyes for championships and without them, your life has very little meaning. You don’t respect the titles; you are addicted to them. And there is no line you aren’t willing to cross to obtain that which you seek the most. Your next fix.
Look beneath your feet, Jason. You aren’t walking the yellow brick road to Oz. You’re walking a road paved with the blood and bones of your enemies. You call yourself the King of Wrestling, but who will serve a mad king such as yourself? The throne you sit upon isn’t made of gold and leather. It’s made of skulls and souls of the defeated. Can you really be a king, if you have no kingdom left to serve you.
Jason, your kingdom only exists inside your head. Your opponents live there; your loved ones live there; in this fantasy world that revolves around how truly magnificent you are. This image you’ve built up of yourself is unattainable. So, you live in this fantasy world where you’re invincible. What happens when someone causes you a moment of doubt? What happens when you’re met with the slightest hint of criticism? You lash out. You destroy. You bomb them from orbit and leave nothing but scorched earth. Because to admit to any flaw; to even consider that you may be in the wrong at any point; would shatter your world and leave you wondering what was real and what was just in your head. Before this match, you never heard my name. You never even considered the storm that was approaching your kingdom of one. But you will endure the storm and afterwards ghosts of this match will be etched inside your head.
In truth, you are no king, Mr. Long. Wins do not make you an honorable man. Beating a man near death does not make you an honorable man. In fact, it’s to the contrary. Step back for a moment and ask yourself, are you proud of the person you’ve become? A champion who represents only himself. Who ends careers and puts people in wheelchairs? What would 14-year-old you think if he saw you on his TV? Would he think your life is fun? Would he want to be like you?
Let me spare you the pretty lies and dispense the ugly truth. You wouldn’t know honor if it rose up against you, stared daggers into your soul, and spit into your mouth. What you don’t understand is that truth through courage defines honor. You are not a man of truth. You deceive us. You deceive yourself. Allow me to be your harbinger of truth.
While men of lesser public value and greater moral fiber break their backs working thankless jobs to provide for their families, you sit in front of a screen playing video games for children, no doubtedly flexing on those same children, as you murder their avatars and their innocence in one meaningless kill streak.
You have the luxury of being able to eat what you like and work out whenever you want to. You have the ability to be a positive role model, to uplift the community, and to make the world a better place every day, but you do not. And why is that? It’s because the 14-year-old boy inside you is dead. This job is no longer fun for you.
Long live the king you say? Pro wrestling has no need for a king. It’s ruled by the wrestling gods and a king is nothing to a god. Don’t overestimate your worth, Jason. You’re just another man who bleeds and suffers like the rest of us.
Let us not forget what this event is about. It’s about bringing awareness to the dangers of addiction and mental illness. Before you even consider speaking on the topic, you should take a long hard look at yourself, do a personal inventory of your life, and think about your own struggles with addiction and mental health.
You too have an addiction. To gold. It rules your every action. It’s the first thing you think about when you wake up. It’s the most important thing in your life. Winning it alleviates the hunger for a short time, but it’s only temporary. Without championship gold, you are a shadow of a man, with no purpose, no value, and no identity.
A real champion doesn’t just win the big match, accept the adoration that comes with it, and then leave town as soon as he drops the belt. A real champion represents himself as the face of the company. A champion stands on the front lines and defends the city through sacrifices of his own. Becoming a champion isn’t a reward for good behavior, it’s a responsibility. It’s a request for service at the highest level. You haven’t been representing your company, you’ve been satisfying your addiction demons.
So why are you even in this match? It isn’t about gold. There’s no prize for the winner. This match is about giving back. It’s about looking at the 14-year-olds and the 41-year-olds at home and saying that you understand what they’re going through and that it’s ok. That life is about suffering, but it gets better. And there are moments where you hardly feel any pain at all. This match is about doing something that matters. And if you’re in it for yourself, to prove something to 14-year-old Jason, then you’ve already lost. A 3-count won’t change that. But if you’re in this because you want the wrestling world to forget, for 60 minutes, all the pain and suffering in their lives, then you might just have a chance.
We have an ironman match Jason. You may be the man of gold, but I’m the man of iron. And sure, gold has its uses, I’ll give you that. But wars are won with iron. We will go to war. And when it’s over, we will both be left with scars. Your ability is not in question, but what about vigilance? What about resilience? What happens when we are 30 minutes into the crucible and you’re swimming in waters you’ve never been in before? You may be a lion in the opening minutes of our match, but I’ll slowly drag you out to sea. The long game is where technique beats physical ability. And in the twilight ocean of our match, the lion will fall victim to the relentless attacks of the shark.
What you need to understand is that iron weeps, but it does not break. I do this shit for fun. Because it makes me feel better. Voluntarily getting beat up is my therapy. Mutual destruction is part of my healing process. And I’ve learned how to enjoy punishment. I want you to hit me as hard as you can. I want you to play every card in the deck. I want you to bring me to the hottest part of the fire. Because it’s only there where iron is made. You can’t break me; you can only forge me. You can only bring me to be something stronger and better than I’ve ever been before.
I could tell you that I’m going to win this match, because my will is iron, and my word is law, but the truth is that we’re both powerless to destiny. We can only use the tools that we were provided to restore our own sanity. Only by turning over our lives to the care of the wrestling gods, as we understand them to be, can we find true salvation. I’ve done a lot of soul searching in preparation for this match, the biggest and most important of my career, and what I have found is that I am no champion. I’m just a guy, with a lot of flaws, and a weird kink for getting beat up. But I’m also damn good at my job. I hope that the wrestling fans at home, who are struggling with their own demons, can forgive my shortcomings and allow me to make amends, by punishing you for their enjoyment.
I admit, I don’t have a strong resume going into this match. If you beat me, none of your friends are going to be impressed by the result. You have a lot more to lose in this match that I do. And I truly appreciate you agreeing to the contest. But anyone who thinks that a hungry, 34-year-old gym instructor, with a jiu-jitsu black belt, and a history of violence is going to be a cakewalk, is woefully misinformed. I’ve put in weeks of training and mental preparation for this bout. I pray that the heavens grant me the power to carry out my mission.
In closing, I want to say once again, fuck addiction. Fuck mental illness. I’ve been through my own struggles with both. And I still struggle today. But healing is possible. And help is out there. I hope every person who needs a boost to keep things going one more day can hear my message, and see this match, and find inspiration in it. I pray that as a result of this match, this event in totality, that we can carry this message of resilience to those who need it the most.
Thank you for being a friend. And I’ll see you all down the road.
