The Chance of a Lifetime

Arina Timofeyevna twirled a loose strand of hair in her fingers while she nibbled her lower lip. She fidgeted and glanced down at the envelope she was holding, the source of her current conundrum. She stood in Ivan Stanislav’s office, trying to find the right moment to interrupt him. But every time she opened her mouth, fear gripped her and she found herself unable to speak.

Ivan and Arina had been in Arkhangelsk for months, caring for Ivan’s healing mother. But circumstances beyond their control compelled them back to Moscow. It wasn’t just because Ivan had been shunted down the ReVival 50 card or left off the Tropical Turmoil lineup. Alexei also pressured The Russian Bear with a passionate plea that Stanislav abandon any lingering loyalty to Lindsay Troy. His evidence was compelling, but Arina was skeptical.

She couldn’t believe that Troy would go to such lengths to cause this much insult to Ivan. Yes, Lindsay and Ivan bickered like a married couple, but Arina never saw the Queen as the particularly vindictive type. Well, maybe a little vindictive, but not in this way.

She looked back down at the envelope and winced. She knew this was part of her job as his assistant, but the thought of inconveniencing her superior made her stomach churn. To make matters worse, Alexei was present and darkened the room.

Ivan’s white dress uniform jacket was folded over his chair, revealing the black suspenders and white t-shirt he wore underneath. Ruslan, on the other hand, looked precisely as one would expect. Their backs were to her as they stood side by side and stared out the large window overlooking Moscow.

She looked between them at the windowsill, where a radio played patriotic Soviet music at a moderate volume. This was part of Ivan’s strange request since their return: the radio had to be in that precise location, be on 24/7, playing music at a specific volume.

The two men were completely unaware of Arina’s presence in the office as they stood in silence. She looked down at the letter in her hands again and opened her mouth, only for Alexei to speak and compel her to remain silent.

“Not a bad outcome at Tropical Turmoil, eh?” Alexei said, glancing up at his friend.

Stanislav pondered for a moment before responding. “I suppose so.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it would have been better if you competed. But Youngblood, Farthington, and even Snow lost…”

“Mm-hmm,” Stanislav replied.

“...Max redeemed himself. Our doctors did a fine job on him…”

“Uh-huh,” Stanislav repeated.

“Even those who insist their names be capitalized! STRONK and FLAMBERGE lost!” He chuckled at his joke. “Overall, I think we've positioned ourselves well,” he continued.

Arina wondered if these two men, so far from their beloved utopia and with no hope of returning, simply played out their own Cold War through PRIME. Their conversations frequently revolved around spheres of influence, strengths and weaknesses, momentum and agenda, not to mention positioning. To them, everything, from the roster to the venues to the matches, were just chess pieces to be moved in some great game.

“It’s a shame about Hall though…” Ruslan muttered, breaking Arina’s thoughts. “But Avalon is easier prey.”

She looked at the vaunted wall behind Stanislav’s desk, where Ivan insisted the space where the Universal Title hung remain empty. It was like an open wound that would never heal until he could reclaim what was rightfully his.

“And now Hessian…” Ruslan mused.

“A worthy opponent,” Ivan growled, “His defeat will only continue to put pressure on Troy to make the right decision.”

Ruslan nodded in agreement. “You’ve already defeated Sykes, a former Champion. And Von Kelsig couldn’t lace your boots in PTC. He only made a name for himself in that third-string ReVolution Era.” Ruslan shrugged. “You’re bigger and stronger. He might be…” He trailed off.

Ivan turned to look down at his friend. “Might be what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Alyosha.”

Ruslan shrugged, “...he might be a bit more… dynamic in the ring.”

“Dynamic?” Ivan growled.

“Forget it, Vanya, I misspoke.”

Stanislav looked back out the window and sighed thoughtfully. “I wonder if Troy has another ulterior motive…”

Arina nervously shifted her weight and inched closer to the men. Nearing Ruslan made her heart race with fear, yet for some reason, Ivan’s more measured, even polite demeanor put her slightly more at ease. The words just rushed out of her.

“At least it’s the main event!” Her voice was louder than she intended.

The two men looked over at one another, and then slowly turned to look at Arina. She felt miniscule in front of them and regretted speaking.

Ruslan grunted. “What?”

“This match is in the Main Event. Maybe Lindsay Troy is working to redeem herself?”

Ivan lifted a bushy eyebrow, but Alexei merely rolled his eyes. His voice dripped with condescension.

“Arina, it is probably best you not think about strategic matters,” he chided. “Focus on answering the phone and making appointments, hm?”

She shrunk under their gazes, feeling small and powerless. “Yes Sir…”

“And,” Alexei said as the condescension in his voice grew, “let us not forget she forbade you from writing Think Red.”

That stung. It was also patently false. The Russians might spin that Troy was the reason Arina couldn’t write, but the circumstances hardly supported the claim. Of course, Arina was hardly in a position to know the truth, nor argue against it.

Ivan remained composed and steady, “What do you have there, Ms. Timofeyevna?” Ivan studied the girl who so boldly confronted him about Jared Sykes and insisted she continue to help his beloved mother, even in the wake of a horrific injury. She wore a bit of makeup today, no doubt trying to cover the scar on her face. It wasn’t a Gamble-level scar (Thank Lenin!) but still, it was noticeable.

With downcast eyes, she finally spoke up again, “Um… this came for you, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.” She held the envelope out to him.

Ruslan let out an exasperated sigh and checked his watch. “I should get going, Vanya.” He tightened his tie, straightened his hat, and left without acknowledging Arina’s presence.

Ivan took the letter from Arina, his curiosity piqued. First of all, it was addressed simply to “Praporshchik Stanislav,” and secondly, it was from Lefortovo Prison in Moscow.

Arina watched Ivan closely as he opened the envelope and read the handwritten letter inside. She didn’t know it, but it was from a young wrestler who meant a great deal to him. Yet, the thoughts of Hessian, coupled with the letter from a youthful wrestler, instead compelled Ivan to reflect upon himself...

—

The gymnasium of Arkhangelsk Secondary School No. 5 reverberated with the sounds of bodies hitting the mat and harsh grunts of exertion. This exhibition, held in August long after wrestling season had ended, was a test of strength and skill for the young athletes.

The walls were plastered with Soviet posters, the watchful eye of General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev looming over the small crowd that had gathered. All attention was fixed on the central wrestling mat, where two young competitors prepared to face off.

On one side stood Ivan Stanislav, then a towering figure in his early teens. His growth spurt had hit with full force, leaving him awkwardly lanky but powerful. Despite his size, there was a hint of uncertainty in his determined gaze.

Opposite him stood Lev Lyadov, a fellow classmate. Lean and muscular, he exuded agility and finesse with every bounce on his toes. A smirk played on his lips as he sized up the taller Ivan.

The aging referee, who was also the local mailman, blew the whistle and the boys sprang into action. Ivan moved forward, but his once quick reflexes were now sluggish and imprecise. Lev easily slipped past him and grappled him from behind.

“Come on, Vanya!” Sergei Stanislav called to his son, while Ivan’s younger brother Kliment watched nervously at his father’s side.

In a desperate attempt to gain control, Ivan grabbed at Lev’s arm and shoved it away, using his strength to overpower his opponent. But as he went for a single-leg takedown, a move he’d executed with ease months before, his grip and balance faltered. Lev twisted Ivan’s arm into a wristlock and took him down to the mat.

Ivan tried to roll out, but his equilibrium was awkward. Lev slipped higher up Ivan’s body and cinched in a crossface, yanking back. Stanislav cried out, flailing on the mat, but his body would not react as it had in the past. Lev was not only too quick, but too small for the larger boy.

The referee blew the whistle and declared Lev the winner and with a triumphant grin, Lev rose and raised his arms. Ivan lay on his side, staring over at his father with a mix of exhaustion and disappointment in his weepy eyes.

He’d been outclassed and outwrestled.

—

It had been a long day for Sergei Stanislav. Managing a factory in Arkhangelsk was mentally and physically taxing. Walking the two kilometers to the exhibition, cheering on Ivan, and then walking the three kilometers back to their apartment only made a typically long day even longer.

The gray skies didn’t help as the three Stanislav’s trekked back home. The gentle rain pattered against their backs while twelve-year-old Kliment skipped ahead, carefree and playing with a stone while thirteen-year-old Ivan trudged behind, eyes downcast. He hauled his wrestling bag over his shoulder.

“Come on, Vanya,” Sergei called out to his eldest son.

“Yes, Sir…” Ivan replied softly, quickening his pace.

Sergei watched him with concern in his eyes. The People’s Wrestling Exhibition had been a major event for Vanya to showcase his skills and make his father proud. All Ivan did was embarrass himself.

Ivan approached his father, and Sergei gazed up at the boy. Just a few months ago, they were the same height. Sergei held onto Ivan’s thick wrist tightly.

“You did well, son,” he said quietly and smiled.

However, Vanya simply grunted and brushed past his father, unwilling to listen to his words. Sergei's expression grew more serious as he recognized the extent of his son's struggles, knowing that they would never fully abate.

—

“Good evening, comrades! This is Radio Moscow, bringing you the latest news from our glorious Soviet Union!

Today, the Helsinki Accords, involving thirty-five nations including our great Soviet Union, were ratified with General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev…”

Fanya Stanislav turned down the radio. Helsinki may have been world changing, but it mattered little to a concerned mother. She stood at the kitchen window, peering out at the grassy common area several floors below. Vanya was sitting on a bench next to the tennis court, still dressed in his sweaty, rain-soiled clothes from earlier. He stared at the ground, his posture defeated. Kliment ran around him, jumping and dancing with carefree energy.

Sergei stood next to his wife and gazed through the window at the boys.

“I worry about him, Seryozha,” Fanya said softly.

“I know, Faina.” Sergei nodded, his eyes fixed on their eldest son.

Fanya’s grip tightened on the dish in her hand and scrubbed harder. “What if he doesn’t stop growing?”

Sergei didn’t have an answer for her. He shifted uncomfortably before finally saying, “He took the loss hard.”

“What happened?” Fanya asked.

Sergei’s expression turned serious. “He can’t wrestle like he used to. He’s too tall, those limbs are too long, and he’s putting on more weight than he knows how to use.” Sergei sighed. “Our boy is growing up… faster than any boy ever has.”

Fanya let out a heavy sigh and let the clean dish simply dip into the dirty water. She rinsed her hands and dried them. “I tried to talk to him. He told me he isn’t able to wrestle anymore.”

Sergei blinked in surprise. “He didn’t say that to me.”

Fanya turned Sergei slowly and smiled a sad smile all the same. “He’s always been closer to his Mama.” She said and squeezed her love’s arm.

Sergei sighed. “Why don’t you go talk to him, he needs you.”

Fanya gazed into her husband’s eyes, her hand tenderly brushing his cheek. She trailed her fingers down his strong shoulder and arm before entwining their hands together, both sharing a solemn look out the window at their sorrowful son. “I have a better idea,” Fanya whispered softly, her voice carrying both love and compassion.

—

The returning rain had sent Kliment running back to the apartment building, but big brother Ivan remained, sitting in the downpour with a melancholy look on his face. The rain fell in sheets, soaking through his “Arkhangelsk Secondary School No. 5” sweatshirt and pants, but he didn’t care.

When the rain miraculously stopped only about his person, he looked over and saw father holding aloft an umbrella. Despite the long day, Sergei let the rain soak his body while he shielded his son.

Ivan moved and gave enough room for Sergei and his father obliged. They sat in silence and listened to the rain.

Finally, Ivan spoke. “I want to quit, Papa.”

Sergei knew his son was a fighter, but even fighters have moments of doubt. “Why, Vanya?”

“I made a fool out of myself today. I couldn’t keep hold of Lyadov.” He frowned. “I wish I was normal.”

“You’re not normal, Ivan. You never will be,” Sergei said firmly yet lovingly.

Ivan looked at his father in surprise.

“You’re beyond normal,” Sergei continued. “Some might call it abnormal… but to me you are special and I would never have you any other way. There will never be anyone like you, Ivan.”

A stubborn, obstinate smile spread across Ivan’s face.

“We will make adjustments, Vanya, and I will help you,” Sergei promised. “You may not be able to cinch on a hold like before, but you will always be bigger and stronger. You will always strike fear into those who stand across from you.”

Ivan nodded thoughtfully.

“It is not that you’re too big, Ivan Stanislav. It is because they are too small. Unstoppable, right?”

Ivan nodded.

“Unbeatable?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And?” Sergei prompted, raising his eyebrows.

“Indefatigable,” Ivan said with growing pride.

Sergei’s heart ached as he watched his son, knowing that every day would be a struggle for him, not just in the wrestling ring but in life. But to Sergei Stanislav, Vanya was a flawless, fierce athlete with an awesome spirit. He embraced his son, and held him tight.

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, son.”

As they made their way back to their apartment with Fanya’s watchful gaze above them, Sergei drew closer to his son.

“Someday, Ivan,” he whispered, “if you ever come across someone who thinks they might be your physical equal… do not ever forget your roots.” Sergei’s eyes burned with a fierce determination, willing his son to never give up on his dreams.

—

Arina saw through Ivan’s stoic facade when he received the letter. Throughout the week, it sat, opened, on his desk. It was neither filed, nor discarded, nor removed. It just rested there, ominously.

Eventually, she found herself sitting in front of Ivan’s formidable desk, her eyes darting between Ivan and that very same letter. The radio on the windowsill continued to play patriotic music, but neither of them paid it any attention.

With a heavy sigh, Ivan finally spoke. “I need your help, Arina.” His usually stern expression softened with concern.

Frowning, she straightened her posture and waited for him to continue.

“I want you to read this and track down the author. Then, schedule a private meeting between him and me.” He glanced at the radio for a thoughtful moment, before returning his gaze to her. “This must be done while Alexei is away at a PRIME show. This match against Hessian will have him thoroughly distracted.”

The gravity of the request hit Arina like an avalanche as she took the letter from Ivan’s desk. It wasn’t just about Ruslan, but also about a clear distrust between two lifelong friends. She swallowed hard.

Arina didn’t consider herself particularly courageous or strong-willed, but she was loyal. Morseo after spending more time with Ivan and his family.

“Of course, Starshy Praporshchik,” she said firmly, fighting to hide the waver in her voice. “Who is the author?”

Ivan exhaled slowly. “His name is Stefan Kulikov.”

Arina recalled the name. He was the young Russian wrestler who Ivan had horribly injured last year, and was later found to be smuggling pro-Ukrainian propaganda into Russia along with his pregnant wife. He and his wife were immediately incarcerated.

Something about all of this made her stomach twist.

“One more thing,” Ivan grumbled as she rose to leave. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

She exited quickly and rested her back against his office door.

What had she gotten herself into?

—

We all knew this time would come, Hessian. It was destined. The moment you strutted into Colossus with your arrogant smirk, everyone could see the inevitable clash between The Murder Show and The Russian Bear.

Our trajectories have always been so close to one another. In PCW and then OSW, we nearly intersected at different times, yet you were always spared. Some might say it was because we had no reason to quarrel. You were not politically minded and I wasn’t interested in those fools who hid behind the so-called “dark gimmick.”

It was simpler than that. Alexei was right.

You couldn’t even lace my boots.

You were a listless waste of talent, Hessian. Prancing around with a dwarf in a costume. No more than some overgrown sideshow to shake your head at. You were a joke. Most certainly not worthy to stand in the ring with a legitimate threat like Ivan Stanislav.

But things have changed.

You’ve earned your place. Not just through your successes in PRIME in the past, but for your longevity and athleticism. Alexei may wish to dismiss you, but I see you for what you finally are: a worthy competitor.

I am old now, Hessian. I am slower than those golden days in PTC. Yes my dynamics have lessened. Without a doubt, your flashy moves and intensity in the ring are something to behold, and you do have my respect.

I have nothing to prove to you. The wrestling world knows that I am the biggest, strongest, most dominant force in their ranks. But you? You still have plenty to prove to them. That you have come so far from the joke of yesteryear. That you can stand toe to toe with the greatest in this sport. That you could possibly survive The Russian Bear.

But I do have something that I can finally prove to the world. You, Hessian, are simply the piece I’ve always needed for the opportunity.

It was many years ago I realized I could no longer wrestle in the style that I loved. My father told me to wait for the perfect opponent. He always believed in me, and a few years later I went to war and he died. He never saw my accomplishments. He never witnessed the man I became.

The Coltons, Ellis’, and Farthingtons may believe they are technically superior wrestlers, and perhaps they are, but I still have something to show them. They believe I am incapable of fundamental wrestling. The core of what this great sport is. They think I am a bully, who uses his weight and strength to subsidize his lack of ability. They are wrong.

At ReVival 51, I have the opportunity to finally show them all that Ivan Stanislav is not just an overpowering force.

Ivan Stanislav is a wrestler.

As my father said all those years ago, it simply took the right opponent. Someone big and strong enough to let me do what I have loved, and missed, for so long. Here you are, on a silver platter. I will destroy you as a wrestler would, and notch another former Universal Champion to my prolific resume. You will join the ranks of Jiles, Youngblood, Hanlon, and Sykes. It will make my ascendency impossible to ignore.

Take heart, Hessian, for PRIME will undoubtedly justify your absolute destruction at my hands and allow you to save face. But deep down, you and I will know the true pecking order from here on out.

At Colossus, the Hess Express left the station and started to fall apart.

Now, I’ll help put that locomotive out of commission for good.

Papa, I miss you more than ever. But I will make you proud, and show the world that Ivan Stanislav is not just a force to be reckoned with, but a true wrestler at heart.