The 7th Inning Stretch

Well.

Look who decided to show up.

Pacific Northwest Wrestling only had one belt. Their roster wasn’t big enough to justify any more. And in that concession, the PNW Championship belt, a humble piece of copper decoration, had become a highly regarded title in the northwest indy circuits.

And in February of 2020, before the world shut down, “Hammerin’ Hanlon” would finally get his shot; against Landon Collier, the psychopath known as “Maelstrom.” At Silverton High School, where it all began four years prior.

The usual crowd of thirty or forty had swelled to around 150 in the home of the Silverton Foxes. “Big Timber,” Luke Knapp had doubled down on his marketing efforts, making the rounds through all the small feds to sell “The Cascade Clash,” named after the region’s Cascade Range; as close to a supershow as the small promotion would ever get.

And Hayes had the pleasure of headlining the spectacle in the main event, and was slated to win that copper belt. It would be his first.

All he had to do was take an absolute beating from an unhinged bowling ball of violence.

Worth every second.

Hayes felt the back of his head whip against the canvas, taking what had to have been the seventh or eighth lariat of the match. He didn’t take that bump very well, and squeezed his eyes shut to hide them from the glare of the gymnasium’s fluorescent lights, all while clutching the back of his head to make sure he continued to sell it well.

It wasn’t very hard to do.

Maelstrom stuck his tongue out with wide, wild eyes, slapping his bald head as he paid some fan service to the crowd like a lunatic. Hayes managed to find a knee and blinked rapidly, trying to ease his vision back.

He’d taken stiff bump after stiff bump for twenty-five minutes. Snot stuck to his dark mustache and stubble. His left shoulder was tight from an awkward powerslam. And he had almost certainly earned a concussion somewhere along the way.

But in a few minutes, just a few more minutes, it would be over.

And until then, he would have to let Landon take a fistful of his hair, and he’d have to sell a good stumble as he stood, and get ready for a forehead made out of brick to slam into the bridge of his nose.

And it almost knocked him out.

The heat from the strike spread through his cheeks and through his neck. He saw spots. Maelstrom at least tried to be a safe partner in the ring, but not for the headbutt. He wouldn’t pull punches for his signature headbutt. That one you had to take.

And Hayes fucking took it.

Blood had shot from his nostrils like webs, staining his facial hair and the cheap canvas of the ring. He had crumpled to the mat, clutching hopelessly to his nose while Collier reveled to the small, rabid crowd. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he swore he heard them chanting “PRIME THAT SHIT!”

Maybe he made that up.

But he had more important things to think about, because Maelstrom was going up top. Gotta stay in it. Gotta stay awake. This was it.

Hayes fought to keep one eye open from flat on his back in the center of the ring as Landon balanced his round, dense body on the top of the ringpost. The Silverton crowd screamed as he signaled a flying headbutt by pressing both thumbs into his eyesockets. He pulled them away, and for a very brief moment, broke character, and looked to the fallen Hammerin’ Hanlon.

Landon lifted his eyebrows. You ready?

Hayes rapped his knuckles against the canvas. I’m ready.

Maelstrom’s twisted, wild visage returned, and he leapt from the ring post head first like an absolute mad man.

Hammerin’ Hanlon watched him float.

And then Hayes rolled away.

And he watched Landon slam his forehead into the canvas with a force that should have put him to sleep. And Silverton bellowed.

STAY IN IT. STAY AWAKE.

THIS IS IT.

Adrenaline allowed him to reach his knees, chest heaving under the fluorescent lights. Pure willpower granted him the strength to grip the ropes. The rumble, and roars, and the spectacle of it all, is what forced him to his feet.

What allowed him to climb to the top of the ring post? That was anyone’s guess.

Through the sweat and blood in his eyes, and the pain pulsing through his limbs, Hammerin’ Hanlon found his balance. He paused as long as he could as the gymnasium crowd lifted and roiled.

And then he leapt.

A broken, bloodied, and bruised young man, powerful and vibrant, running on fumes, soared through the air, and drilled an elbow into the chest of Landon “Maelstrom” Collier.

He swore he heard Landon giggle and laugh as he thrashed from the blow.

And what was that chant? Was it “PRIME THAT SHIT!” again?

Who could know. He had to get back to his feet, and finish the show.

Leaning back against the ropes, he sprayed blood and spit through his facial hair, dark eyes wide and wild.

Landon stirred awkwardly, fighting to stand. Hayes lifted an arm, stretching his fingers to the ceiling. His opponent found his feet, so he lifted the other, his digits spreading.

It was supposed to be the jumping jawbreaker to put a bow on the evening. He didn’t have a name for it yet. It didn’t feel right

Instead, Hammerin’ Hanlon propelled forward, shoving Maelstrom into the ropes. Landon, stiff as he was, hid his confusion and threw himself against the ropes.

And allowed Hayes to put his hands around his neck. And jumped, to assist the young star in lifting him into the air.

And threw his legs forward, as Hayes delivered a sit-out choke bomb. There wasn’t a name yet for that one, either.

“Now,” Landon mumbled, hidden from the screeches of the PNW faithful. Hayes, barely able to comprehend the last few minutes, hooked a meaty leg, and draped his back across Landon’s chest.

Three slaps, and three rings later, and that copper belt was draped across his own.

Do you think you’ve “figured me out” or something? 

Like, you’ve unpacked everything about Hayes Hanlon? Exposed him? Dressed him down? Am I supposed to be intimidated by this random, out of left field, pseudo-intellectual mask you decided to pull over your head?

You think I’m patronizing? I know I’m patronizing. I didn’t tell Kenny that everyone thinks he’s a joke just to get in his head, I told him that because it’s true. 

You’re not very observant, man.

But hey, keep reading all those books.

Dozens of emails, texts, and phone calls, and Paul was no closer to making contact with his parents than the day the house had burned.

Being honest with himself, he was glad for it.

The attempts to make contact were born of cooperation with the West Linn Police Department. While he wasn’t in a rush to see his mother and father, the idea of a known addict possibly hiding information was probably…questionable.

So he wrote the emails. Sent the texts. And made the calls. All of them resulting in crickets, to no surprise.

This was his part. While Hayes and Olivia traveled on from ReVival to ReVival, Paul remained in West Linn to clean up this mess, or at least try. It was the least he could do; he had left so many of his own.

So when the West Linn Fire Department called requesting his presence, Paul felt uneasy to say the least. Still, he drove his silver sedan to the station, and forced himself to walk inside.

“Hi,” he said, holding up a hand as his lanky legs crossed a hardwood floor to a desk. A short, stout woman, maybe mid-thirties, blonde hair pulled back tight in a ponytail with a nametag reading “Morgan” multi-tasked behind a computer; typing away with one hand, and collecting a stack of papers in a folder with the other.

“What can we do for you,” she asked without making eye contact, her blue eyes darting across the computer screen.

“My name’s Paul Hanlon,” he replied, tapping his thumb against the counter. “Someone called me asking to come down…”

“Oh! Yes!” she brightened, lifting her hands from the keyboard. “We have something for you!”

Somewhat startled and very confused, Paul stood frozen behind the desk as “Morgan” hustled through a doorless entry. She returned quickly, with a long rectangle box in her arms, placing it on the counter in front of him.

“So,” she said, suddenly animated and pushing the box toward him gently. “It’s allll still under investigation. But, a few things were recovered. They’re in…decent condition, and they were deemed unimportant to the case.”

Paul cracked a cautious smile behind his dark beard, and “Morgan” smiled back, lacing her fingers together. He pulled the tabs from the cardboard’s slots, and lifted the lid to peer inside.

A “Hanlon Construction” mug, darkened, but intact. A few gold and silver rings, charred and stained. A couple dinner plates, a pile of sooty silverware.

And all of it sitting on top of…that.

Of course it did.

Of course it survived the fire. Of course it did.

Paul smiled wide before securing the cardboard shut.

“Thank you,” he said, a since rare, hopeful glimmer finding his dark eyes.

“We needed this.”

Hayes hated flying. He hated the delays, the redirections. The overall lack of control. But he loved a long layover.

The break in the ReVival schedule had afforded some time to bounce around. Olivia took the opportunity to get out of dodge. Where she was, Hayes didn’t even know. She could be in Hawaii manipulating some poor rich kid to pick up her bar tab, or kicking him out of her hotel room at two in the morning when she had used him up. He hadn’t called, and she hadn’t either. Who could know.

Hayes might have joined her under normal circumstances, but not this stretch. It was Almasy season, and for the first time in a while, Hayes was the closest he’d been to being focused. “Locked in,” as the kids say.

A week in Las Vegas had done him well. Not to snort coke and drag strippers back to his hotel room, but instead to commit to the gym. Take it easy on the bottle. Leave the white cap on the orange cylinder shut.

Get ready for round two.

But in truth, he was getting ready for round three.

With one leg crossed over the other, waiting for his flight to Chicago from Harry Reid International from a semi-comfortable pseudo-leather seat, Hayes thought more about Ivan Stanislav than he did Scott Hunter. But in that same vein, he couldn’t help but think back to ReVival 66, where Scott shocked the world with a No Contest against the Russian Bear. He might as well have won the Universal Title.

Scott Hunter had, indeed, shown up. He would be wise not to sweep that under the rug.

That said, beyond Scott, and beyond Ivan, the Almasy bracket brought further concerns, as his Brothers in Glue had also moved on to round two.

Julien’s unblinking lizard-stare sat across on the bracket’s right.

And Joe’s appreciative grin was uncomfortably close to Hanlon’s mustache-lined smirk.

He couldn’t shake the “what if.” He’d been there before. Two years ago.

Hayes swiped up on his phone, and started to type.

GLUE CHAT (THE GLAT)

can I ask you boys something?

Joe was quick to reply.

Joe: fire away big guy

Three small bubbles appeared next to Julien’s name. They disappeared quickly. Hayes exhaled through his nose, dark eyes searching into the back of his mind before his thumb tapped away on the screen.

what do we do if we end up facing each other in the tournament?

No bubbles popped up immediately. Joe’s were the first.

Joe: if it goes that way then we know we dun gud

Hayes smiled. He loved that about Joe. Unshakeable, no matter the situation.

And then, three more bubbles.

FLAMBO: it better be one of you two

Somehow, Hayes appreciated that.

For all the months feeling somehow removed from the Glue Factory, he had grown to love those loveable, dangerous weirdos. Even after Cecilworth knocked him out of the second Almasy tournament. For all his trepidations and questions about joining them, especially after a failure of a year in 2024,  it was starting to all make sense. It felt like genuine kinship. Like real, actual friendship. Like any one of them would have his back without a second thought.

What still didn’t feel right, however, was Phil Atken.

He couldn’t shake their conversation in Canada. And one of the last things he said:

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t trust me. 

You’re the only one who doesn’t give a damn about my approval. 

So, among my crew of “dangerous weirdos”…

you understand what that makes you–”

“–The Thresher of Hooves.”

Why did it take so long for Phil to seek Hayes out?

And why was that so important?

Hayes bounced his foot, and closed the group chat, and then, opened a new one. Just for Julien.

Hey man, i gotta ask, what is it about phil atken that you’re so

A buzz of the phone. A text. From Big Brother.

Hayes deleted the message to Julien, and opened the text from Paul.

Paul: hey bro, hit up the UPS store in Chicago. I’ll send the pin, i mailed you something

Hayes smiled behind his mustache just seeing his brother’s name on the phone.

All the other stuff tumbling about his brain, about Scott, Ivan, and Phil, could wait.

will do

You and I have nothing in common. I’d rather swallow a bottle of Xanax first. 

You wanna know why?

Because I grew up watching PRIME, and took it fucking seriously when I got my shot.

You grew up watching PRIME, and acted like a clown when you got yours.

THAT’S why we don’t have a fucking THING in common. I stepped in and swung for the god-damn fences, and I wouldn’t accept anything less. You stepped in, and put on the mascot outfit. I’m the home run hitter. 

You’re the entertainment in the 7th inning stretch.

Hayes didn’t wait to get back to his hotel to open the package. He broke the packing tape open right in the front seat of his rental car.

Within one shipping box lay another; longer, and rectangular. Curiously, he lifted it free, and pulled the tabs to open its top.

His jaw nearly fell to his lap, and his eyes grew like a child’s on Christmas morning.

The leather had shrunk and twisted a bit, and cracked and split at the ends. There was char on the buckles, soot covering the loops, and the copper faceplate had bent and singed.

But the words embedded in the metal read clear as day.

Pacific Northwest Championship

Hayes Hanlon

He lifted the belt from its box, staring at it in his hands; a symbol of days more simple, days with story, and heart. A relic, and reminder, of where he had been.

And with any luck, where he was going.

Unfortunately for you, Scott, I punched my ticket to the third round like, eight months ago. You're just the teaser before Hanlon vs. Stanislav III.

And I gotta tell ya, it falls flat, Scott. Your whole deal. You don't get to hang around suddenly decide to take this shit seriously. It's too little, too late. You already pissed all over it. You didn't give this place the respect it deserved. Instead of a contender, you decided to be a clown.

And once a clown, always a clown.

But hey, it's a steady paycheck at least. And you can always go back to being a "funny guy."

But that said, you don’t have to apologize, Scott.

You’ve never made me laugh.