Post by Frequent Flyer Miles on Sept 5, 2019 15:45:05 GMT -5
I
DAD
Bowery, New York City
Saturday, August 31, 2019 11:45pm
'Screw it! I ain't doing this anymore!'
It's midnight, we're in some dingy basement club on Skid Row, and my son is throwing a tantrum. In other words, it's Saturday night at Casa Falcone. Good thing I know how to deal with this kind of situation.
'...here's your earnings, Jordan.'
'I don't want it!' Okay, THAT I did not expect. Usually, the sight of a wad of green is enough to get my boy over this sort of moral hang-up. Not so tonight, apparently.
'You don't, huh? Are you sure? This is a lot of money, y'know...'
'I don't care how much there is, Dad. I don't freakin' want it.'
Well, well. I know tonight's beating was particularly embarrassing, but still...Jordan's taken a couple just as bad, and he's never been like this afterwards. I wonder what's got my boy in this state.
'OK, forget the money. Talk to your Pop. What's going on?'
Jordan doesn't say anything for a long moment, and I start to fear it may be too late to get through to him. After all, talking to your son when he's feeling upset should usually come BEFORE trying to bribe him. If that's the kind of father I'm going to be, I don't blame him for being angry with me.
Just as I'm becoming convinced it actually is too late, however, my son finally speaks up.
'I've just had it, Dad. Had it with losing. Every single freakin' week I go out there, and it don't matter if it's the State Champion or some weaksauce high school geek...I gotta take the fall. Every. Single. Freakin'. Time!'
I try to cut in, offer some reassurance, but Jordan's stream of anger and frustration makes it difficult to get a word in edgewise.
'Like, this dude tonight? Dude was a chump! A freakin' joke! You let me go at that dude legit, I got him on the floor inside of a minute. So how come I can't? How come the better dude can't get to win?'
I try my luck a second time, but once again, my words get washed away with the flood.
'Don't even answer that, Dad. I know why. 'Cause if the better dude wins, we don't make no money. If we wanna make money, the better dude gotta take the fall. Well...I've had it. I want out.'
This time, I wait a few seconds to make sure no more of the torrent of words is about to come hurtling my way, before venturing a response:
'Are you sure, Jordan? Think about it. It's easy money...'
I tense, ready for another explosion, but it never comes. Instead, Jordan's tone as he replies is surprisingly even:
'Yeah. I know. But there's OTHER ways to make easy money, right?'
I hold up the wad of bills in my hand. 'Not THIS much every week, there isn't!'
Jordan considers the bills for a moment, then shrugs.
'OK, maybe not THAT much. But SOME. Right?'
OK, what IS this kid playing at?
'Your point being?'
A grin steals across Jordan's features.
'Point being, what if we could still make money every week, but I didn't have to keep takin' falls to dudes I could punk out with one hand in the middle of a Fortnite sesh?'
OK...now I'm intrigued. Why is my son suddenly having ideas, and most importantly, why is he using his ideas to counter MY ideas?
'...what exactly are you saying, Jordan?'
My son's eyes light up as he replies:
'What I'm sayin', Dad, is I found us a new side hustle. A LEGIT one. It don't pay as well as this one, but I don't gotta chump out to half a' New York, neither! I get to have some actual FUN, yo!'
This is where most other fathers would give their kid a lecture about not being stupid, going out and learning about the real world before they assume they've got all the answers, how fun isn't everything in life, and so on, Not me, though. One thing I learned from my years living with Jordan is that my boy is smarter than he looks – ESPECIALLY when it comes to getting an advantage for himself. In a situation like this, if my kid says he's got an idea, I'm all ears.
'OK. I'm listening.'
Jordan's grin grows even wider as he shoves his cellphone under my nose, its browser open to a blindingly purple page.
'Read that, Dad,' he urges. 'Just read that!'
So I do.
And then I get it.
'Jordan, are you sure...?!'
One look at my son's posture and expression and I have my answer. Jordan could not be more sure.
'It's just...it's been what, three years...?!'
My son, however, will not be deterred:
'Yeah, so? Shizz like riding a bike, Dad – you learn it once, you don't never forget it!'
I'm compelled to argue, make a case for ring rust, lack of practice, loss of fundamentals...but then it hits me. Just because Jordan's been throwing fights, doesn't mean he's out of shape, or out of practice. If nothing else, he needs to LOOK credible out there against the New York Hicks. Besides, my boy's too proud to let himself go to seed anyway. And as for losing the fundamentals...the last time this kid was in a ring, he was a record-breaking rookie going for the top title in his company. And sure, he didn't win, but if it wasn't for the concussion, I'm sure we would have seen a lot more of him.
In other words, I'm being a fussy old worry-wart, and I should really trust my son.
Just as I'm about to give Jordan the big old Dad Seal of Approval, however, I look at the screen again, trying to glean some more particulars about this new venture that has my boy so excited.
And that's when I notice it.
'REAL clever, Jordan Falcone!'
'What?!' The tone of genuine surprise in Jordan's voice takes me aback for a second, but I don't let my guard down. Kid's a hell of an actor.
'I see what you did there. You almost had your old Dad going for a minute! Vegas, huh?!'
'No, no, Dad...this is SERIOUS!' The earnest tone is still there, but old Dad is keeping his heckles up anyway. Better safe than sorry.
'Serious, huh? So after three years away from...THIS, all of a sudden you want back...and you just HAPPEN to find a company...that just HAPPENS to be based in Vegas? C'mon now, boy. I wasn't born yesterday.'
'No, Dad, LISTEN!' Judging by his tone, Jordan is either really serious about gambling his life away, or he genuinely does want to go back to his glory days. 'It's not about going to Vegas! Heck, only thing about that place is they got this one match coming up that you can just sign up for? No strings attached? And I thought maybe it was worth a shot. But you find me a place right here in New York, I'm there. Long as I get to do my thing, it makes no difference WHERE it's at!''
...OK, I guess it was option B...
'All right, son. Tell you what. We'll start with these guys, and then we can look into what else is out there. Deal?'
The smile on Jordan's face is all the answer I need - that, and the big old hug he gives me.
'Deal. Thanks, Dad.'
'All right, all right.' It's my turn to put my hand on my son's shoulder and look him in the eye. 'Enough standing 'round being mushy. We ought'a be heading home. Go get dressed. I'll tell the boys to bring the car round.'
A few minutes later, as Jordan and I make our way to the town car idling a few feet away, I hear a voice from behind me that I haven't heard in a long time – about three years, to be precise.
'Yo, Dad...!'
I turn around and my son is smiling ear to ear. Well - ONE of my sons, anyway. The one I have also not seen in about three years.
'They ain't gonna know what hit 'em, are they?'
'No, Ryder,' I tell him. 'They're not going to know what hit them.'
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II
MIKE
Somewhere in New York City
Saturday, August 31, 2019 11:45pm
'FAM! For real?'
'For real, bruh! We're getting the band back together!'
'Band?' As usual, Kyrill ain't got a clue. 'We play in band? Kyrill is wanting to play balalaika!'
Man, this mu'fucka DUMB!
'Ain't no band, fool! He means we goin' back to wrestlin'!'
'Resslin? Like Excellence Champion times?' Now Kyrill smiling that big, dumb grin of his.
'Damn straight, yo!' I lean back to give my main man J a high-five. 'So J-Dogg..when we startin', dawg?'
'Dunno yet, bruh. But the Blade's back here thinking we ought'a INTRODUCE ourselves to those guys out there in Vegas. You feel me?'
'I feel ya, brother.' I stop the car on the nearest kerb, and turn to my partner. 'Hey yo K-Dogg...you drive this thing for a while. I gotta help my dude J-Man!'
Kyrill takes the keys, gets behind the wheel and gets us moving again, and all the while J-Man stays pulling on my sleeve and pushing his phone into my hand.
'Bruh, hurry up! The Blade got hish to say!'
I take his phone, boot up the camera, press Record, and just like that it feels like old times again.
''Grats, Trinity Wrestling. You suckas just hit the jackpot. You got the Blade to come out of retirement.'
Damn! Homeboy startin' strong!
'And the Blade knows what you're thinking. Who the heck's this dude, and why do we care, right? It's a'ight, bruh. That's what happened in the last place, too. The Blade slid in on the DL, stealth mode, no hype...and he BLEW EVERYONE'S MUTHA-FLIPPIN' MINDS! Just like he 'bout to blow yours.'
Whoa! Boy still got it, yo!
'13-0. Undefeated in singles matches for FORTY-EIGHT WEEKS. The Blade smashed every freakin' record in the place, made some new ones, and then smashed those too. He had every other dude in the place wishing they could get on his level, and one dude crapping his jocks hoping the Blade wouldn't come for his belt. And you know what? It took a freakin' CONCUSSION to keep the Blade from punkin' that one dude out and breaking the last record he had left to break!'
...homeboy enjoying this...
'Eleven months, bruh. For ELEVEN FREAKIN' MONTHS, every time the Blade's next match got announced, all those suckas crossed their fingers and closed their eyes and wished really, really hard for the Blade to lose...
...and every time, the Blade just kept raising the bar higher.
Just as he 'bout to do for YOU.'
Homeboy grinning now. He enjoyin' the shit outta this!
'But yo – this place ain't that place, right? In this place, you start from the bottom, earn your spots, whatever. Screw that noise, fam. The Blade ain't starting from no bottom. The Blade's already better than half the workaday suckers finna show up to this thing. And he ain't just after no paycheck, neither. The Blade's in this to go all the way. Anything less just ain't up to his standard.'
Oh shit. Here comes the money shot!
'So get ready, Trinity Wrestling. Get ready to make more money in half an hour than you ever seen before. 'Cause come next week...FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY...you finna have The Blade in your ring.
And with the Blade in your ring...your bankroll goes cha-ching!'
J-Dogg don't even give nobody time to react. Minute that camera's off, he's punchin' the air, whoopin' and hollerin':
'The Blade's BACK, suckaaaaaaas!'
And all I be thinking is: damn straight!
Mu'fuckas next week better be ready.
'Cause Ryder Blade back in business.
And homeboy ain't playin'.
Final Word Count: 1991
Final Word Count: 1991