The Shape of Things to Come

With his eyes firmly closed, he drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the deliciously fresh air. There were no noises except the wind rustling leaves as it crept through trees, and the occasion sound suggesting unseen wildlife going about their day. His face was a mask of utter serenity.

His nostrils flared as he took in more of the revitalising air, and as he did so, he even allowed a smile to creep across his face. Most people who found themselves outside today would have thought it cold, perhaps even too cold. But he’d been raised on the Emerald Isle, this wasn’t too cold, it was perfect. Everything about this moment was perfect.

Seán O’Neill slowly opened his eyes, and drank in his surroundings. He’d climbed to the top of a small hill; around him as far as the eye could see were tall pines and oaks. This was the Myles Standish State Forest, around an hour or so south of Boston. He felt free here; everything about this place reminded him of home. It was an incredible feeling, as if none of his ghosts could find him here, lost deep in the forest.

When he decided to return to the United States, he’d not given any thought about where to live. It just made sense to go back to Albany - he’d kept the apartment there all these years after all. He’d always been fond of Albany, its mix of modern convenience and beautiful architecture, being right on the Hudson River and with easy access to an airport. But in this moment, Albany might as well have been the horrorscape (to him) of the endless skyscrapers of Dubai in comparison to this paradise.

The thought occurred to him that he could move somewhere closer to this place, and before he realised what he was doing, he’d reached inside his pocket for his phone. As his hand closed around it though, he thought better of it. He wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge the outside world just yet, fearing it would shatter his emersion.

Smiling again he withdrew his hand. There would be time later to consider relocating. He didn’t really know much about Massachusetts outside of passing through ‘on the road’. Boston wouldn’t do of course; he’d need somewhere smaller, hating large cities as he did.

A short chuckle escaped from him as the thought occurred to him, if he moved here he’d need to work on the word ‘Massachusetts’. He spoke it aloud, knowing it sounded odd in his accent and laughed more fully at his butchering of the pronunciation.

His attention was caught by a gathering of birds in one of the trees closest to where he stood. He couldn’t remember having seen this type of bird before, their white and orange breast in contrast to the bright blue of the feathers. He watched them for several long minutes; he thought they must be making a nest.

Considering this, he started to think of them as a team. His thoughts drifted to Culture Shock, to War Games again. It had been on his mind for weeks now. When he thought about it, something Ryan had said to him replayed over and over in his mind; “Well, the truth of it is mate; you’ve never been good on your own.”

Well, he was doing pretty well on his own right now wasn’t he? Just him and the great outdoors! He couldn’t think of the last time he’d felt so good. And yet, no sooner had the thought crossed his mind that he realised he was ‘doing it’ again. He was deflecting, deliberately taking the words out of the context he knew full-well they intended. Worse, he was doing it to himself this time. Had he become so practised at this that he tried to fool himself now too?

No, Ryan had been right, of course he had.

He’d made an effort as far as it had gone so far, he’d gone to ReVival in Providence despite not being on the card. A “Team Bonding” meeting Farthington had called it. Didn’t feel like much of a bonding experience to him, just a lot of angry people... and an ominous vending machine (What was that all about?) venting steam. He shook his head as he pondered what use Sage and Paxton had put his Super Soakers to. Anger seemed to be the only thing connecting these folks, and at this moment in time he couldn’t even contemplate being angry.

In truth, he hadn’t been angry for weeks now. Spending time with his old friend had put some wind in his sails. Getting his first win since returning to the squared circle had been another positive. He was trying to take the feedback on board. He was “too serious” well... to be fair, he’d always known that, but he thought the water guns he’d brought to ReVival had been a decent first step on the road to addressing that particular issue. No point trying to run before he could walk.

Ryan had called him out for living in the rut of his same tried old routine, so he was trying to address that too. Normally by this point, he’d have watched every previous War Games match several times, and spent countless hours researching all potential opposition AND his team-mates. He’d done none of that this time around. He was still far from convinced this was a good idea though, he didn’t even know the format of the match.

He supposed that in time, he’d find a balance between scouting for matches and enjoying life. For now, he figured the best way to avoid falling into his old habits was to just deal with whatever was thrown at him as and when it was. Seán O’Neill... Living in the moment – even thinking that would take some getting used to!

A few of the birds took flight and as he watched them soar he smiled again. He checked his watch for the time, conscious he’d walked for hours. Perhaps it was time to turn back, although he had no desire to leave this place, neither did he fancy his chances of finding his way out of the forest once darkness fell. The decision made, he turned and started back in the direction he’d come. If his pace didn’t match what it’d been coming in to the forest, who could blame him.

Now that wrestling was on his mind, his thoughts turned to this week’s show, to Kenny Freeman. Unbidden, he drifted into analytical mode – what did he know about Kenny? He’s one of Ivan’s goons; does that mean he should expect interference from some of the other members of The Red Army?

He doubted it, thinking he wouldn’t register as important enough to concern themselves with. But come to think of it, that could just as easily go the other way – would they interfere to take no risks of one of their number suffering the embarrassment of losing to him?

He was doing it again; he’d give anything to be rid of this constant anxiety around being ‘good enough’. Lindsay Troy had thought he was good enough to give him a contract despite the time that’d passed since he’d last been in the public eye. Why was he giving more credence to the opinions of nasty little online dirt-sheet trolls like Jackson Stevens, than a legend of the sport?

He’d given Williams a run for his money on their debut, and Rob already had gold around his waist. Alright, things hadn’t gone to plan against Hessian, he thought perhaps he’d let the Murder Show’s reputation get to him. He’d gone into the match expecting to be beaten within an inch of his life, if he’d just prepared normally perhaps he’d have given himself half a chance. He’d redeemed himself against Mr Bubbles, despite the record books showing he beat ‘Kennade Starr’. He still couldn’t figure out how that whole thing worked.

Coming to a small pond, he couldn’t resist searching for some reasonably flat pebbles. Gathering up half a dozen or so, he began skimming them, disturbing the peaceful surface of the pond as the sun started its long descent.

So back to what did he know about Kenny then, his associates aside? He knew the man was slightly shorter, and surely a fair bit lighter – for whatever that was worth. He felt that he could probably take him in a fair fight, not that there was any reason to suspect it would look anything like a fair fight.

The truth was, he didn’t really know much about Kenny at all. With no disrespect to the man, he rarely paid much attention to the other matches on the card whilst he was at the arena - that just wasn’t how he’d operated. The day of the show he was always focusing his mind back over all the intensive research he’d done in preparation for his own match. It really hit home at this moment just how big of a change he was making by not sticking to his scouting regime. Not doing any scouting at all was so far out of his comfort zone, the idea seemed to feel worse by the minute.

It just felt so unnatural – he was firmly aware he was a part of what could be the best roster of talent ever assembled, and rather than relying on what had brought him to the dance in the first place, he was now expected to just ‘go with it’?

Part of him thought “Well, it’s only one match. If things go badly we can just go back to what we know.” But that felt like falling at the first huddle, was he really considering jacking in these changes before he’d given it a chance to play out? He knew he was over-thinking things, as usual; the show was days away and already he was planning his excuse. Was there any further proof needed that he had to make changes? He’d never string together any sort of momentum together if he spent his time looking for excuses.

As his last pebble sunk below the water, he started back towards the path. He decided that despite his misgivings, he needed to let this play out. If he got home and spent the next few days watching everything he could find of Kenny in action, he may well be better placed to deal with what the other was capable of. But he needed to remember why he was making these changes in the first place – he needed to get out of this rut, he needed to get out of his own head and rediscover the joy in life.

This isn’t a battle, it’s a war. There were going to be many battles within it, but the campaign to ‘fix himself’ was going to be a long, arduous one. Of course it wasn’t going to be easy, some wise old soul had once uttered the line “nothing worth doing is ever easy”.

Nope, he wasn’t going to cave-in, he’d meet Kenny Freeman in the ring at ReVival and what would be, would be. A strange thought came to him then, it might even be fun to face an un-scouted opponent! Had he been taking the wrong approach all these years? The Vulcan in him reminded him it was ‘only logical’ to prepare as thoroughly as possible. But surely no-one had ever been as meticulous in their scouting as Seán O’Neill had. And where had that got him? The Vulcan had no answer for that.

What he wanted, more than anything, was to be appreciated. He wanted to be somebody that others looked at and thought “Yeah, that guy earned everything he’s got.” He wanted to be someone that when pricks like Stevens put their negative rants online, people would rally to his defence “What are you talking about Stevens? O’Neill has busted his ass for decades and you know what, it’s all paid off - he’s one of the best in the world.”

He wanted the wrestling fans to love him, odd as that may seem, given the distain he shows towards them. But that was all part of it; he didn’t want them to like him because he pandered to them. He wanted them to love him for who he is - If they did, he’d show them what it meant to him. There was no doubt in his mind about that, but until that day came; they’d get nothing back from him.

As he continued the long walk back, he decided to put wrestling out of his mind. He’d committed himself to trying this new way of working, and he was going to walk that road to the very end now. That thought made him think of one of his favourite passages of literature ever written, it’d been penned by the Master of Middle-Earth – Professor John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept...”

His grin came dangerously close to splitting his face in two. He realised now he’d been thinking of things back to front, as he so often did. The reason he was changing how he’d always operated was to get him out of his comfort zone, and that sounded awfully like an adventure to him. With that in mind, his resolve was fully restored. He was going to roll the dice and see where they fell.

The soft glow of twilight had crept across the sky by the time he got back to his car, an hour or so later. He did a little feel sad, but it wasn’t that all-encompassing sadness that he’d become far too used to, as he battled his demons. This was just mere disappointment that such an excellent day was drawing to a close. Today had been a victory; one he was hoping would become more of a regular fixture in his life. He nodded to himself as he turned the key in the ignition, shaking away the sadness. Yes, today had been a very good day indeed.