Let Him Fly

”Sometimes, even when you start with the last page and you think you know everything, a book finds a way to surprise you.” - Emily Henry ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The sun set over Miami Beach, the warm, golden hues slowly rolling down the horizon in the distance, casting a comforting glow over the beach and the city. Scott sat in the backseat of his father’s old pickup truck, his heart pounding with excitement. He’d been waiting for this day for six months, ever since his sister, Emma, had given him the good news. Two tickets to PRIME’s King of Kings 2008. He could hardly believe it. For every bit of his twelve years of life that he could remember, he had always loved professional wrestling. He spent countless hours watching it on television, practicing moves with Emma on their backyard trampoline, and dreaming of becoming a champion one day. Not just a champion.

THE champion. But his dreams were too often overshadowed by the harsh words of their father, a stern disciplinarian who believed Scott didn’t have the mental capacity to amount to much of anything. “Scott, stop daydreaming and pay attention,” his father barked from the driver’s seat. His voice carried the gravelly edge of a man who’d yelled over engines for twenty years. “I said you need to start thinking about your future. You’re too old to spend your days bouncing around doing these ridiculous ‘moves’ in the backyard all day. Either learn real work or you’ll just get old and useless…” His voice trailed off. Scott’s father had been a mechanic since he was a teenager. He believed in hard work and manual labor. He often tried to bring Scott to the auto shop, hoping to instill the same values in him. But Scott’s heart was elsewhere, and no criticism could change that. Scott thought there had been a sadness in his father’s eyes, but a rugged, masculine insistence on never showing weakness had taken its place sometime ago. Scott knew his mother’s passing had a profound effect on his father. He wondered if something in him had died too. It seemed like he was always on the edge of giving up. “Don’t listen to him, Scott,” Emma whispered, smiling. “You can be anything you wanna be. You’re special, and I believe in you, baby brother.” Scott loved his sister. Her reassuring smile made him smile, too. She was four years older, a sophomore in high school, his confidante and biggest supporter, always encouraging him. Emma shared his love for wrestling, and they bonded over those childhood “matches” on the trampoline in the backyard. Scott nodded, feeling a surge of confidence. Emma’s words meant everything to him. She was the one person who truly understood him and believed in his potential. Scott’s friends all hated their older siblings. They always got picked on or told to go away. Emma had never been unkind. It just wasn’t in her nature. If anything, they were closer now than ever. They only had each other, and they both knew it. They spent endless hours walking and laughing and dreaming. Their father thought it was a complete waste of time. They thought it was the only use of time worth anything at all. When they arrived at the arena, the two siblings hopped out of the truck in excitement and dashed away. Scott thought if he tried hard enough, he could have flown into the arena. He had never experienced pure joy, but in his mind, he wondered if this was it. Stepping inside the building, his excitement grew. The atmosphere was electric, with fans cheering and holding up signs for their favorites. Scott and Emma made their way to their seats, eagerly anticipating the start of the show. “I wish Lindsay Troy was wrestling tonight,” his sister said, her eyes trained on the spectacle in front of them. Lindsay Troy, the Queen of the Ring, was Emma’s favorite, but she had been injured and wouldn’t be competing. Scott didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide, and his jaw was slightly dropped in amazement at the sheer wonder of it all. He watched in awe as his heroes performed incredible moves, each one more impressive than the last. He felt the energy of the crowd, the thrill of the competition… “Trampled Underfoot” erupted over the arena speakers, and Emma came alive. She leaped in the air, almost out of her skin, as her hero Lindsay Troy hobbled out onto the stage, crutch under one arm. It suddenly didn’t matter that she wouldn’t be wrestling. She was here, and that was enough. Scott couldn’t hear himself think over the roar of the crowd, but it didn’t matter. He stared up at his sister and saw the huge smile on her face and felt the butterflies in his belly. This was where he belonged. The show went on, match after match, segment after segment up on the screen, until finally, just before the main event, Scott turned to Emma, his eyes still shining with excitement. “One day, I’m gonna be in that ring,” he said with determination all over his face. “I’m gonna be a champion.” “Maybe you’ll be the one in the main event against Jason Snow one day,” she replied, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Scott scoffed. “Do you know how old he’d be by then?? No way, he’ll definitely be retired. It’ll be someone else. But I’m still gonna do it, and I’m gonna win.” Emma smiled broadly and ruffled his hair. “I know you will, baby brother. Just keep believing in yourself, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” The implied reference to their dad made the smile leave his face briefly. His father’s criticism was always in the back of his mind. Scott knew his father wanted him to follow in his footsteps. It was the only path he could see for Scott, but that wasn’t Scott’s dream. He wanted to prove to his father that he could be successful his way, and he thought, maybe if he could reach out and take hold of his dream, it would remind his dad what dreaming looked like, why it mattered, why hope mattered. Scott was a simple boy, but he loved his family. He wanted them all to be whole again. Two hours later, they walked the deserted South Beach pier to delay going home. Emma had called their dad and let him know they wanted to walk down the beach back home, only about a mile away. Meanwhile, Scott reenacted the top rope Snake Eyes that won Jason Snow the Jewel in the Crown on a piece of seaweed lying on the sand. Emma kicked a small sand crab off her shoe. “You’ve done that six times.” “Because it was epic!” He leapt onto a rusted bike rack, arms raised. Waves crumbled against the shore behind him. “It’s all I wanna do, Em. Traveling. Crowds chanting your name. Not being stuck under some Honda all day.” She yanked him down by his belt loop. “Dad’s not so bad. He just…” “Thinks I’m dumb.” Scott interrupted, then kicked a conch shell. It skittered across sand lit by silvery moonlight. “Like when he made me change mom’s oil and I forgot the crush washer? Three days of ‘useless as a screen door on a submarine.’” His impression was pitch-perfect. Emma gripped his shoulders, her chipped nail polish glinting. “Listen, when mom was…” The word ‘sick’ dissolved in her mouth. “She told me something. ‘Scott’s got something. Let him fly.’ I know it sounds lame. It’s just…” Scott looked at his hands, taking the comment literally. He saw the callouses and scuffs on his hands and arms from botched elbow drops on the trampoline, like he thought they might sprout wings. “Scott, are you listening?” He wasn’t. He was gone again, lost in his head and beating up imaginary people that looked an awful lot like abandoned sand castles, and Emma could only shake her head and smile. That night, after Emma and their dad had gone to sleep, Scott crept to the backyard. The trampoline sagged under his weight as he lay staring at stars obscured by light pollution. He jumped to his feet and started bouncing. The springs squeaked with each successive jump. He practiced more elbow drops until his ribs screamed. Scott’s palms stung as he gripped the trampoline’s edge and pulled himself over to the ground below. The salt air mixed with the metallic bite of blood on his split knuckles. Inside, unbeknownst to him, Emma peered through her bedroom window into the backyard, watching her baby brother. As she watched him merrily throw punches into the air on his way back to the house, she smiled softly to herself. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ”To create, you need talent. To begin, you need passion.” - Michael Bassey Johnson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The air stunk of sweat and grime. Long fluorescent tube lights buzzed like angry insects above a ring with a canvas that looked like it had seen better days. Turnbuckles in each corner were ripped in places from botched corner drills and stitched with duct tape. The structure groaned under the weight of a three-hundred-plus-pound rookie throwing clotheslines at a sweat-slicked tackling dummy. On the walls, frameless mirrors reflected trainees practicing with trainers who barely paid attention. The familiar slap of flesh on flesh sounded from time to time, and a deflated exercise ball sat in the corner like a forgotten spectator. Artie Blumenthal, a grizzled chain-smoking trainer with cauliflower ears, barked orders at a young woman attempting a flying headscissors. “Less flailin’ your arms around! What’re ya doing, try’na land a plane?? You think the crowd wants to see ya floppin’ around like a goddamn whirlin’ dervish? You have to be precise! No wasted movement!” Near the entrance, a young man stood and caught Artie’s eye immediately. “...the hell is that?” Artie looked on with confusion and disgust at the twenty-something-year-old kid in front of him. The kid had brightly colored elbow pads on, brightly colored kneepads on, brightly colored boots and trunks on, and even… “Good Lord,” he thought… tassels hanging from his elbow pads that were, you guessed it, brightly colored. Artie looked up at his face. The kid was happy, a little too happy. “What the hell are you s’posed to be?” “I’m Scott.” Artie’s cheeks puffed out as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Someone tell you this was 1985, kid?” Scott frowned in confusion. “No.” Artie kept staring at him, waiting for an explanation, but none came. “The ad said to show up with a character in mind, and you took it to heart, is that it? You serious with this shit? This is the idea you came up with? Is it some kind of joke? Did you and your goofball friends see my ad and decide to come down here and make a mockery of this place? We train here, kid. We work. This is a serious business, not some goddamn clown show. Fuckin’ tassels? Jesus Christ.” Scott’s shoulders slumped. “What’s funny about tassels?” Artie snorted in response. He looked the kid up and down. He was athletic-looking, at least. Artie thought about telling the kid to kick rocks, but money hadn’t been rolling in so much lately either. He cringed inside a little but resigned himself to the reality of the situation. He needed all the business he could get. “You got money, kid?” Scott perked up immediately. “Yeah, my sister loaned me…” He stopped himself and straightened up. “I mean, yes sir, I have money.” “Fine, get in the ring and show me whatcha got.” Artie watched him as he excitedly dropped a duffle bag right where he stood and darted over to the ring. “Hey, Ricky!” Artie called out to the portly youngster in the ring. “Hit the showers, huh? Leave your payment on my desk.” Ricky nodded and slowly plodded his way out of the ring. Scott turned back to Artie with a smile, then jumped up on the apron and quickly climbed inside. “Use the tacklin’ dummy, kid.” Scott quickly shoved the dummy over onto the mat, then rapidly climbed up the closest turnbuckle. Perching on top, he couldn’t hear Artie across the room muttering under his breath, “One dummy jumping onto another…” Scott stood there, measuring. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Just like in the backyard at home,” he muttered to himself, then launched himself into the air and came down hard on the tackling dummy with an elbow. Wasting no time, he popped back up, jumped into the air, and dropped a leg drop where his opponent’s neck would be. Artie watched and made sure not to show any reaction in his face or body language. He followed Scott with his eyes as the eager youngster threw himself around the ring at a rapid pace, arm tassels waving with the motion and even mock-playing to the ‘crowd.’ After a few minutes of this, Artie turned and started walking toward his office, signified by an old creaky wooden door with a basic ‘office’ name plate dead-center. Scott saw and stopped. “Should I keep going?” “Take five, kid. I gotta make a call real quick.” Scott relaxed against the ropes, his chest heaving in and out with each breath. “I think I nailed it,” he smiled. Inside the office, the air was thick with the smell of cigarettes. Old worn out green shag carpeting surrounded a simple wooden desk near the back wall. Artie grumbled, his entire body protesting his lackadaisical attitude toward his own health. A green portable phone was on the corner of the desk, and there were file folders and paperwork scattered all over. Artie’s filing system consisted of tossing everything into a big pile and figuring it out later. He shuffled through the mass of files, business cards, flyers, and mail until he came across what he was looking for. He picked up a business card upon which eight words were printed.

CLASSIC WRESTLING 80s STYLE REBORN JIMMY DALE, PROPRIETOR

Artie picked up the phone, punched in some numbers, and let the card fall back onto the table with the rest. After a few moments, someone on the other end picked up and spoke too faintly to hear. “Yeah, it’s me, Blumenthal. Speak up, would’ja?” Artie smiled. “Yeah… got good news. Your Christmas present just walked into my place… that’s right… I got just the kid you’re lookin’ for.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ”Life is a valuable and unique opportunity to discover who you are. But it seems as soon as you near answering that age-old question, something unexpected always happens to alter your course. And who you thought you were suddenly changes.” - Richelle E. Goodrich ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ January 31, 2025 PRIME ReViVal 62 Scott slumped on a steel bench bolted to cinder block walls next to a row of old metal lockers. He reached up and felt the knot starting to form on his forehead and the smattering of blood in his hair. Rough night. First Anna Daniels, then Rob Williams. They lined him up like practice and dropped him like he was a first-year rookie. There was a knock on the door, and he cringed. His sister, Emma, had flown all the way out to Australia to see him, which was great. But she wasn’t alone. Their dad tagged along, happy for a free trip and supportive as always. “Come in!” He barely looked up as the door opened and his sister walked in, her arms overflowing with a stolen medkit and two room-temperature Gatorades. She pushed the duffle bag on the bench to the side and sat down next to him. “It’s okay. We’ll watch the replay, study the tape, and figure out where things went wrong. Next time…” “Next time, what?” Scott’s voice cracked, uncharacteristically. “I’ll lose again? That’s all I ever seem to do around here. I keep saying I haven’t lost a singles match in a year, all because the only thing I ever seem to do is lose tag matches unless Kerry bails me out.” Emma snapped a smelling salt pouch under his nose, and he recoiled slightly. His older sister was undeterred. “You’ve been there for him more times than I can count. Best I can tell, you’ve managed to get to a point where you’re loved and trusted by some of the best wrestlers in the world. Don’t you think that counts for something? You get to hang out with Lindsay Troy, for crying out loud. I’m jealous.” She opened up one of the Gatorade bottles, but he pushed it away in frustration. “Yeah, it counts for something, and I thought I was happy. I really did. I know people like me. I know I’m part of a wrestling family here, and maybe that should be enough, but it just isn’t. Remember when we were kids? I said I’d be champion someday. Don’t you think that still means something to me? Don’t you think I still wanna be great and not just the punchline of the week? No one even thinks I can win. I’m more than this, Emma. It’s not enough.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “So what’re you gonna do about it?” It was his dad’s voice. He was leaning against the closed door, his arms crossed. The siblings looked up at him. “Don’t wanna be a joke? Fine. Dreams are all well and good, boy, but you made this bed for yourself. This is the moment where you decide to be who you want to be. No one else can do that for you. I know I was hard on you, Scottie. It took me a long time to understand all of this. But if you step back in that ring, you don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You make ‘em hate how badly you want it. Or quit crying and help me fix transmissions. It’s up to you. The time ‘fer action is now. Dreams die here.” The words hung in the air. Scott listened and ran it through his head a few times. “Up to me…” Their dad, never one for deep conversation, uncrossed his arms uncomfortably. “I’ll leave you two alone.” They watched as he opened the door and walked out into the busy hallway. Scott stared down at the tiled floor, saying nothing. Emma lay her head on one of his shoulders. “Dad’s right. It’s on me. I have to do something…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One month later… The sound of fists hitting a heavy bag echoed throughout the room. It was dim inside the metal structure and empty save for some steel plates, bars, and some bags hanging from the ceiling. Scott Hunter delivered punch after punch with precision and power. He’d practically locked himself away in this place, determined and more intense than he’d ever been. His muscles burned, but the pain had become a familiar companion, a sign of progress. He adjusted his stance, focusing on technique. Lindsay registered sincere surprise when he made clear his intention to enter Manhunt at Culture Shock. He hadn’t spoken to Kerry about it, but he would eventually. This felt like the sort of surprise his friend would appreciate. His every move remained deliberate, every breath controlled. Sweat dripped down his face, but he retained his focus. He spun and delivered a precision elbow strike to where he imagined his opponent’s head would be. He’d been spending every hour of every day for the past three weeks throwing weights around, running until he couldn’t feel his legs, drilling until he was throwing strikes in his sleep, with still three more weeks of training to go. There was a poster for Culture Shock beyond the bag on the wall. He focused on it for only a moment. A large stylized “MANHUNT!” was dead center. He felt pain in his knuckles, shooting like lightning, and every kick thrown at the bag sent waves through his entire body from the exerted force. The punches came faster and faster, with kick after kick mixed in at a rapid pace until, finally, Scott unleashed a clubbing right hook that nearly tore the bag from its bearing. A few more kicks and the material gave way under the force of the impact and broke open, spilling its insides all over the floor. Scott stared at the bag’s remains, looked through it as if nothing else in the world existed. His eyes narrowed, and he slowly tilted his head, cracking his neck. His phone buzzed on a stool nearby. He picked it up. It was Emma. “How’s it going, baby brother? Ready to fly?” Scott looked down. Only one possible reply. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ”Life gives you what you fight for.” - Sotero M Lopez II