Stay in there and keep pitchin’ son.

When we told mom our idea for the entrance at Culture Shock for the War Games she was so excited. She was so excited I thought she was about to brain like Tsonda or someone and take their place, she was that excited. Honestly our mom versus the likes of Ivan and Cancer Jiles? I’d take those odds. Gale is a force of nature. So mom was coming on our adventure to Wales. Between my posts on social media and Dabney’s now infamous Twitch streams a lot more eyes are on the Doubleday family… Gale has become the runaway hit by far. If she was a good hand in the ring I’d tell Dabney to start a tag team. Her Etsy store has exploded since she started making little yarn versions of PRIME talent.

The little Brandon Youngblood and Lindsay Troy ones are her best sellers… heh, she should sell them in a two pack.

-=-

Cardiff, Wales

Hard cut to airport baggage claim.

An enormous pink suitcase clatters down to the carousel.

“There it is, boys!”

Dabney Doubleday smiles as he hoists his mom’s suitcase down for her. Big wad of ribbons tied to the handle, giant sticker that reads “I yearn for yarn!” slapped dead center. His mom walks up with a big smile and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you sweetie.” They both pick up their things and make their way through the crowd where Douglas is already arguing with the poor pimple-faced kid at the rent-a-car desk…

“What I goddamn NEED is a 1998 Pontiac Trans Sport minivan in white… “

The kid is sweating at this point, furiously typing on his computer.

“A Ponti-what, sir… I… I’m sorry, but I… “

Douglas looks like he’s about to spring a gasket when his mom walks up behind him and puts a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Dougie, come on son. Cut the poor fellow some slack. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Come on, grab your things.”

Gale smiles the warm smile of a mother and gives Douglas’ shoulder a little squeeze.

-=-

She always knows how to calm me down. Nobody on earth has the ability to both infuriate and calm like a mom, am I right? We left the airport and she was ON it… she apparently has fans slash customers all over the planet thanks to her yarn-based plushie empire. It wasn’t three hours later we were at the home of what in my estimation must be the singularly most Welsh human being to ever exist… not that my sample size is all that large but considering I couldn't understand a single word the man said speaks to that fact.

And we talked for a LONG time, too…

-=-

The indecipherable string of language poured from the portly, bald man’s mouth like water ejected from a long dormant damn. Gale, Douglas and Dabney Doubleday all stand in a row in front of the gentleman with similar lost expressions on their face. Behind the gentleman, parked in his driveway in front of his little row house is a cherry 1998 Pontiac Trans Sport minivan in white just like the one parked in front of the Doubleday homestead in Mayo thousands of miles away.

“Bu fy mrawd yn byw yn y taleithiau am flynyddoedd, prynodd y peth fel ugain mlynedd yn ôl. Pe bai wedi'i gludo'n ôl a marw'n briodol. Mae'n daith ddigon gweddus. Dim ond eisiau ei fenthyg ti'n ddweud?”

Douglas and Dabney blink several times, completely at a loss. Gale however presses a button on her phone…

“My brother lived in the states for years, bought the thing like twenty years ago. Had it shipped back and promptly died. It's a decent enough ride. You just want to borrow it, you say?” the computerized voice of Siri repeats the man's words in clear English to which the boys both look a little embarrassed. Gale smiles the smile of an older lady that just schooled her children in the use of modern technology. She shoots back a reply to the affirmative, letting the man know her boys want to use his van in their entrance for the big show. He laughs out loud and begins vigorously shaking Dabney and Douglas’ hands.

The man shoots back with another word wall of the Welsh language.

Gale’s phone makes a little tink sounds, and “Me brother and I loved the graps our whole lives, it'd be an honor, lads.” Gale smiles a big warm smile at her boys as they all walk over to check out the van.

“This entrance is going to be the tits.” Dougie mutters to his brother

Gale scolds him. “Don’t be vulgar, Douglas… but yes, yes it is.”

She smiles back coyly.

-=-

Mayo, Florida

Back home.

It’s been a few days since the trip, since Culture Shock. The exterior of the Doubleday homestead is quiet and still, the night sky is clear, not a cloud in the sky. The moon shines down on the home like a dim spotlight focused on the lone occupant of the roof, one Dabney Doubleday. Dressed for bed in socks and a pair of boxer shorts, the muggy Florida weather calls for nothing more than that. Fresh bruises and scrapes litter Dabs’ body… leftovers from the hell he went through in the War Games match.

First in for his team, the last man eliminated at the matches end.

A hell of a performance by any metric. But this is sensitive soul Dabney Doubleday we're talking about here.

Ms. Doubleday’s sweet boy breathes a deep sigh… his peaceful solitude broken by the sound of his little brother clamoring out his bedroom window to join him out on the rooftop. The sight of Douglas Doubleday’s pale, skeletal body clad in just tighty whities and a wrinkled Lindsay Troy t-shirt is enough to call this presentation done, but alas we soldier on.

Dougie gives it a little stretch and a bend before joining his big brother near the roof's edge.

“Nothing like a classic Dabney Doubleday roof pout, I swear to God you’re like a character in a John Hughes movie sometimes. What’s on your mind, broseph?” Dougie leans back on his hands and crosses his pale little legs in front of him and waggles his eyebrows at Dabney “Spill it.”

Dabney rubs his tired eyes, carefully, as one is still quite swollen and blackened.

“You know exactly what’s on my mind… “

Douglas immediately replies “Goddamn Frenchman.”

Dabney purses his lips, nodding his head weakly. "Something close to that, yeah."

Douglas shakes his head, somewhat exasperated. “Dabs… you lost. Yes. That happened. You’d given it everything you had but FLAMBERGE nicked your neck like he's done to essentially everybody on this roster at one point or another… hey, lookie here. Listen to me.” Douglas makes sure his brother is really looking at him, leaning forward again and uncrossing his legs.

“After like an hour in the ring, dippin’ duckin’ and dodgin’ the biggest and baddest sons of bitches PRIME has to offer. The very successful, very bitter former CHAMP of this place took you down. Yes sir. Him doin’ that dosen’t take away from the fact you’ve only been here a MINUTE and in that one wild opportunity showed everyone watchin’ you’re not some scrub. You feel me? You showed you can do more than hang, you can steal the damn show if you wanna.”

Dabney smiles weakly at his brothers peptalk. “I know man. But… that match was, like you just said, the wildest thing I’ve ever been a part of. And not just the match itself, the lead up, Jesus Dougie, the hoops and bullcrud and the politics… heck, Doug. What it… what if I’m just not cut out for this?”

Douglas scoffs. “What, you want to go moves stiffs around with dad now? Come on.”

Dabney shakes his head “No no, goodness, nothing like that. No, just… what if my comfort zone is back on the indies? What if that’s just where I’m supposed to be? Grandpa and Masher… well, Gramps anyway, seem content with their careers. Right? They went without the so called big time, they defined their own success. I can do that too, right? I can take or leave the fame, you know that.”

“Can you? Dabney, look me in the eyes right now and tell me after the crowd reaction you experienced in Wales that you’d rather go back to a bunch of drunk hootin’ locals at some super-indie in Tampa? If you can do that? Hell, I’ll book your next gig… so come on. Shoot. You’re so convinced, right?”

Douglas is stone cold serious.

Dabney sighs. Very real frustration is clear from his expression.

His silence is all Douglas needs to hear. He again makes sure he can see his brothers eyes.

“Being THAT GUY? The kind of guy that can espouse the teachings and the morals of our Gramps whilst simultaneously making it to the tippy top in a place like PRIME? It’s never friggin’ easy for that guy. Ever. But Dabney I PROMISE you if you can knuckle down, shoulder through and keep at this at the end of it all… no, hell, DURING it all it’ll at some point all start to feel worth it. Worth all this struggle. You sat at the feet of our two grumpy-assed old Yoda’s since we were little hopeless padawans. You know better than I do that getting somewhere in wrestling is goddamn hard, especially at this level… but I know better than anyone how much this means to you, Dabs.”

Dougie laughs to himself.

“Can you really not see the doors that performance cracked open for you?”

-=-

I’d be more worried if my brother didn’t have doubts.

Fear, trepidation, being just a little unsure? That’s healthy. Only douche bags are 100% sure of themselves.

And Dabney's no douche bag.

I have zero fear my big brother is on the precipice of something great.

Even if I have to move heaven and earth to make sure that happens.

He needs to stay humble. There’s so few left like him in this game, man. Next to none.

He needs to stay that kind, helpful guy with his head screwed on straight no matter WHAT.

Me on the other hand?

Lil’ Dougie does what Lil’ Dougie needs to do to keep this train rollin’...

You'd all do best to remember that.

-=-

Tampa, Florida

A few short raps at the door.

“Gramps, you up and at ‘em this morning?”

The Amazing Cecil Doubleday sits up straight in his easy chair with a big smile. “Hey boy! Come on in and take a seat, I was about to pop in some wrestling. You can tell me all about your trip! You ironman you, come here… ” Cecil is always about to pop in some wrestling. If there ever was a more dedicated student of the game than Cecil Doubleday, this humble narrator has never laid eyes.

Middling success in his prime, far to many years past that as an active competitor… but none of that mattered to Cecil. All he wanted was to be in a wrestling ring, twisting limbs and cartwheeling his way out of danger as the fans oooh and aaah at every snap suplex and wonderfully over-complicated submission maneuver he’d perform.

Cecil loved the doing of the thing. Even in his eighties, wrestling was, is and always will be his life.

Dabney shoots his Gramps a warm, sincere smile as he walks over for a big warm embrace.

“How ya’ doin’ old man?”

“Feh… same old same old. What about you! How you feelin’ after a little break, eh? Back in fightin’ shape? I saw you have a match with that verkakte turncoat commie squirrel, Freeman.”

Since the boys signed with PRIME Gramps has kept up with all the players, big and small.

A veritable PRIME expert, over here.

Dabs nods to the affirmative. “After War Games I have to go out there and win this one, I have to get some momentum back.” He looks genuinely concerned at that.

Gramps looks back at his grandson full of pride. “Son, remind your old grandpa what it is you love about wrestling? Is it rackin’ up wins, cashin’ in at the ol’ pay window? Is that why Dabney Doubleday is dedicatin’ his every day to climbin’ in that ol’ wrestling ring and clobberin’ out a livin' for, huh? Humor me, kiddo… ”

Dabney takes his time answering, not that he doesn't know the sincere answer right away mind you. Even when he gets his grandpa’s point right away he answers anyway because he knows he probably needs to hear the words out loud in his own voice.

“The fans. People at work roll their eyes at that for the most part, but it’s true. Dougie and I were raised to not want for much. I’m not a big watches and bigger cars kind of guy. People matter more than stuff, more than anything… and that’s what this business is about, the folks filling those seats and paying their hard earned dollar to lose a few hours at a wrestling show. There’s a lot of places to go and pick a fight in this world. Plenty of places to prove you’re a tough guy… or that you’re more cunning or more clever than the next guy in line. Wrestling is unique… it’s a relationship with the fans. With people.”

Gramps gives Dabs a little punch on the shoulder.

“And the Dabney Doubleday I know loves people. Loves being around people. And, bud, the people love him back. The sound of all those fans in Wales told me that, loud and clear.”

“I know that, I do. It’s just a lot of pressure you know? It’s clear in PRIME you can do all the right things and still get left in the dust. Kenny Freeman… he’s that. A relatively talented guy that felt himself getting subsumed and left behind and globbed onto the nearest easy ride. Gramps, I don’t want to just collect a paycheck. That’s all a guy like Kenny does… carry bags. Carry bags and visit the pay window. It’s… it's sad to watch. Goof. Loser. Joke. That’s not me, that’s the fans. That's he and I's peers in the locker room. To them, that’s all he’ll ever be. A sad underachiever, clinging onto the career of lesser men. Men like that reprobate Ivan Stanislav. Like some sort of remora suctioned onto the belly of a tired, toothless old shark. “

Grandpa sits quietly and listens to his grandson tie himself into knots over nothing.

Dabney’s word vomit finally ceases. Gramps smiles a clearly loving and supportive smile.

“You done there, champ?”

Dabney laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. Sorry about that."

Cecil puts a supportive hand on his grandsons shoulder.

“Keep your eyes on them. On the fans. Remember why your doin’ this in the first place.”

“Stay in there and keep pitchin’ Dabney.”

“I will Gramps. I promise.”

“Love you, boy.”

“Love you too.”