Love Without Sacrifice is Like Theft

“Failure is not the deterrent for the next try. Rather, it is information that empowers the next step.” - Craig D. Lounsbrough ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dressing room smelled like sweat and liniment, a pungent mix to be expected in a place like this. Scott leaned against the cold concrete, the throb of fresh bruising rising from beneath his skin, and the aftershocks of the battle against Ivan Stanislav echoing in his bones. He stared at a wall-length mirror, his reflection a patchwork of caked-on blood and sweat. Emma burst in, all energy and enthusiasm, her smile brightening the room with infectious positivity. “You did it, Scott! He couldn’t keep you down! That’s like winning in itself!” Scott frowned, but she flung her arms around him, and he felt the warmth of her embrace seep into the chill of his disappointment. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like a win,” he muttered, shrugging her off gently. Kerry Kuroyama followed closely behind, also fresh from the battle, but his eyes were bright with admiration. “You held your own, man! Did you see the crowd? They were on their feet! You survived a numbers game against the Red Army, dude.” Scott turned to face them, arms crossed, his brow furrowed. “It doesn’t matter if they were on their feet. Why are you two acting like I beat him?? I wanted to beat him. I wanted to show everyone that I could take him down.” Emma stepped back, her expression shifting from joy to concern, the excitement dissipating like smoke. “But you showed them you’re getting there. You’re growing, Scott. You survived a match that others would crumble under.” “Survived,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “That’s not enough.”

Kerry leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Hey, come on. You’ve been training hard for this, and Ivan’s a beast. I saw the look in his eyes. You had him beat, man. It took his goons trying to stack the deck in his favor again to keep him from losing. Hell, you didn’t survive, Scotty. Ivan’s the one who survived.” Scott dropped his gaze, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. He recalled the moments in the ring - the adrenaline, the pulse of the crowd, the feeling of Ivan’s weight crashing into him. He had fought back, yes, but the victory still eluded him. Emma tilted her head, studying him. “What’s it gonna take for you to see this as a good thing? You’ve come so far!” “I need to be better,” he replied, frustration in his voice. “I need to be better. I need to win.” Kerry chuckled, breaking the tension. “Well, you can’t just jump up to Universal Champion overnight. It’s a journey, Scott. Ivan’s been the champ twice, and I don’t think anyone saw what you did out there and thinks of it as a failure. You opened their eyes, man. You should be proud.” Scott finally met their eyes, and in that moment, saw the unwavering support that surrounded him. He realized they were his anchor, even when he felt like he was drifting away from his goals. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was a matter of perspective after all. “Okay, how about this?” Emma began, her smile returning. “Let’s celebrate tonight. Kerry won his match, you beat the hell out of Ivan Stanislav. Let’s all go grab some food, and maybe hit a karaoke bar or something.” “A karaoke bar?” Scott raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile creeping in. “You know I can’t sing to save my life.” “Oh, that’s perfect,” Kerry smirked. “Come on, it’ll be hilarious.” Scott snorted. “You mean another chance for failure? I don’t think that’s what I want to showcase right now.” Emma raised her eyebrows, an older sister move that Scott knew meant she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Scott looked between them, his expression slowly thawing. Maybe it was time to put the weight of expectations down, just for one night. “Fine,” he relented, a reluctant smile breaking through. “But if I embarrass myself, I’m blaming both of you.” “Deal!” Emma exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over again. “Now go get cleaned up. You look and smell like you just came back from war.” Scott rubbed at the back of his head. “I did.” He changed quickly, the sting of the hot water in the shower a welcome relief against his battered skin. As he scrubbed away the remnants of the match, he replayed it in his mind - the way Ivan had rushed him, his own defenses, the crowd’s roar. Each replay solidified what Kerry had said. He hadn’t survived. Ivan survived, and that was something to build on. Back in the dressing room, he found Emma rummaging through a bag filled with snacks, while Kerry leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone. “Funyuns or pretzels?” Emma called out, her voice muffled. “Funyuns. Always Funyuns,” Scott replied as he sat down. “Here!” Emma tossed him a bag, and he caught it with an awkward fumble. With the energy in the room having shifted, Scott felt the tension ease. They talked about the match, dissecting the moments, and with each passing analysis, he realized he hadn’t failed. He had endured. The training was working, his efforts were not in vain. He had taken a huge step forward, and he imagined a very tense locker room somewhere else in the building full of Red Army holding a much less cheerful conversation. “Do you think Ivan was surprised?” Scott asked, leaning forward. “Surprised? More like shocked,” Emma said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “You made him work for it. He didn’t expect that from you.” “True,” Kerry agreed, nodding. “Most people don’t even get close. You’re building a reputation, man.” Scott nodded, but with an expression that suggested doubt. Emma leaned in, her voice firm. “You’re building a reputation for resilience. That’s what matters. He gave you everything he had. You took the hits and came back swinging. Ivan Stanislav won’t forget this night, believe me, and neither will anybody else.” “Speaking of a night to never forget,” Kerry said, “let’s get moving. We need to celebrate, and I need to see you embarrass yourself onstage.” Scott groaned playfully. “You’re really pushing this karaoke thing, aren’t you?” As they walked out of the dressing room, Scott felt a strange mix of anticipation and excitement. It was as if each exhaled breath pushed the weight out of him. Maybe tonight, he could just be Scott - the brother, the friend… They stepped out of the arena where fans had gathered, and for the first time in his life, they were chanting his name. The three of them walked out through a pathway created by security guards holding the crowd back. Scott looked up and made eye contact with one of them, and thought he saw a smile. Even the guards were happy for him. Scott inhaled deeply, laughter spilling from his lips, mingling with the cheers in the air. For the first time, maybe ever, he felt like he was on the right path. The winning would come soon, he could feel that now. He had family, friends, everything he wanted right in front of him for the taking. And that was a victory worth celebrating.

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“The right thing to do and the hard thing to do are usually the same.” - Steve Maraboli ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scott wipes the sweat from his brow with a small towel, still working to catch his breath. A good workout always seems to clear his mind. It’s weird, the way everyone is treating him after he stood toe-to-toe with Ivan Stanislav, but it’s weird in a good way. He hasn’t heard directly from Lindsay Troy, but word has come down. ‘Anything you need to help with your training, let us know and we’ll make sure it happens.’ It feels good. There’s no denying that. All he wants right now, though, is a chance to think and to put those thoughts on tape. People used to do it this way: a simple video camera in a small room. No distractions. Before the internet, blogging, and podcasts happened. Things were simple then. Scott liked things to be simple. He looks around the small room he’s in, and smiles. There’s wood-panelling, a hold-over from decades before, and blue shag carpet. It’s quiet. Scott reaches out and hits record, then cracks his neck to each side lightly. “I’m concerned about you, Ben Lynch. I have recently begun trying this new fad called ‘empathy.’ Apparently, what you do is you think about a person, think about why they are who they are, and then try to put yourself in their shoes to help you understand them on a human level. There are a lot of things that I can say about what I’ve discovered, but it all boils down to this… You are like a homeless man’s scat fantasies came to life, and then thought it would be cool to be a wrestler.” Scott holds up a hand. “I need to make it clear that I am talking about scat as in ‘poop’, and not fancy jazz singing, however now when I look at you all I can see is a steaming pile of poop loudly singing ‘be-ba-doop-bop-ba-dop-bop’ over and over, so thank you for that.” He waves the thought away and experiences a small full-body shiver, then looks back at the camera. “I am so sorry that you are old and sad. I will be as old as you one day, and I also know that I will be a lot healthier, less whiny, and more confident. I also hope to have a cool house with a nice pool, a game room, a foosball table, and a Simpsons arcade game, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t know if it’s because you’re old and sad that you continue to choose substances and excuses over hard work and sacrifice, and empty bravado over personal accountability and reality, but I do know that you are a stunning example for someone like me, who is at the beginning of his career. You are a stunning example of everything a person should not do.” Scott nods his head, then shrugs. “You think I’m dumb, right? It’s okay to say so. Everyone thinks I’m dumb. Fans, other wrestlers, and my dad. I even think I’m dumb sometimes. But the more I work, the more I prepare, the more time I spend on improving myself, the more I’m starting to think I can understand the things I never knew, if only I put my best foot forward and try to understand them. I saw you trying to insult Sebastian Gold. Then I saw him beat you up pretty badly. I know you have said that you have weird fainting dreams after you lose matches. You must have a lot of weird fainting dreams. I don’t know what ‘Jerkass Woobie’ is either, but it sounds like something you made up that is stupid. I have some familiarity with stupid, and I’m pretty sure those two words put together are stupid.” Scott leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and lets his still-wet hair dangle over his eyes a bit. “I’m still pretty young, but like I said, I’ve recently found it very helpful to study wrestling history, and I’m learning a lot. It seems to me like you are what would happen if Joe the Plumber and Rezin went to a wrestling ring and decided to have a contest on who could drop the absolutely most disgusting pile of poop in the ring, and then the winner’s poop was named Ben Lynch. That is the second time I have referred to you as poop. That is called a ‘theme’. You have a lot in common with those guys, except those guys won matches and a bunch of championships, so the similarities only go so far. You actually decided to be disgusting, to defile your body, to do the least amount of work you could possibly do, while choosing a line of work that requires discipline, hard work and dedication to succeed - then you stunningly did not succeed - and now you wear your choices like a badge of honor and say things like ‘it was just never my time’.” Scott sits back upright, rolling his eyes and shaking his head slightly. “You’re right. It never was your time. I guess professional wrestling hasn’t come around to the ‘lazy boring pile of donkey poop’ era where you will finally shine.” His eyes light up suddenly. “That is the third time you are poop today. That is a record!” Scott mouths the word, ‘wow’, then he exhales thoughtfully. “Nobody thought I stood a chance against Ivan Stanislav last week. Let’s be clear. Ivan Stanislav is one of the best professional wrestlers in the entire world. I can remember watching him in that ring, a force to be reckoned with, when I was a young teenager still dreaming of being able to climb into the same ring with him someday. I not only stood in the same ring with him, not only faced him man to man, but I forced him to leave the ring that night, putting respect on my name. I stared him right in the eyes as I wrenched back on the figure four, and I saw shock and fear inside. I am absolutely shocked that you didn’t beat Sebastian Gold and win the Alias title. Shocked. I thought for sure with your substance abuse, dad bod, and love for fighting on trains, but refusal to train, that you were a shoo-in. But what do I know, I guess? I’m a simple boy still in my twenties trying to learn how to be the best I can be by studying, working hard, training, and eating right, all to turn all of those things into a body that can be in tip-top condition and take the pounding that comes with surviving in this sport, with the hopes that I don’t someday end up like you - a washed up nothing who thinks success is just around the river bend. Well, you listen here, Pocahontas, I promise not to call you a Jerkass Woobie, because I don’t know what that means, and because I don’t care. But I also promise to step into the ring this week and disappoint you again. Remember that empathy thing I was talking about? I tried. I really tried. But it turns out I don’t relate to a pathetic shell of a human with no redeeming qualities and narcotic-fueled delusion as his baseline.” Scott stands up and looks down toward the camera like a disappointed father. “So here you go. It seems you had yet another failure. Here’s another chance for you and Kate Bush to go runnin’ up that hill. Since you have changed nothing, and you’re still scratching and clawing while doing nothing to improve yourself, maybe things will be different this time.” Scott shrugs, then throws his hands out to the side. “Hey… Stranger Things have happened.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish.” - Euripides ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scott’s head was pounding. There were flashes of the night before - lots of people, a dingy karaoke bar, and a slightly salty Laura Branigan impression. He remembered singing ‘Gloria’ at the top of his lungs, and he remembered Kerry's confused expression, because Kerry had never even heard of that song. He remembered Emma trying to convince him to climb down off the bar and the irritated bartender who hadn’t been able to convince Scott that any of this was a bad idea. As his brain thumped and pinged the inside of his skull like an unwelcome steel drum band, he looked up. Standing there in the doorway of his bedroom was his dad, arms crossed, his grizzled face showing an uncharacteristically amused expression. “I heard you tore the house down last night.” Scott squeezed his eyes closed tightly and grunted. “At least that’s what your sister told me.” Scott managed to slowly crack his eyelids open, and he thought he could audibly hear it, like a creaky old door in a shuttered mansion somewhere. “To be fair,” Scott said, looking up with some effort, “I don’t remember most of it.” His dad chuckled slightly, surprisingly upbeat to Scott’s ears. It wasn’t a sound he was used to. His dad was a serious man, and hearing lightness in his voice was unusual, to say the least. “It’s okay, kid.” His dad’s smile faded slightly, but remained softer than usual. “Look, I just wanted to say…” Scott gave him his full attention. His dad’s eyes met his, but then dropped uncomfortably. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Scotty. It’s just… I saw you out there last night and um…” Scott blinked, waiting, not sure what was about to happen. It looked like his dad was about to say something, but then he noticeably pulled back. “Anyway, your friend and the little koala are in the other room if you wanna go say hello. Your sister and I are gonna go get some dinner later. You’re welcome to join us if you want. I’ve gotta get back home tomorrow. Gotta get back to work.” Scott smiled. “Yeah… yeah, sounds like a good idea. I’ll give you guys a call later this afternoon, and we can plan something.” His dad gave a quick, small smile and a nod, then turned and disappeared through the doorway. A few moments and some much-needed arm stretches later, Scott lurched forward and followed. Stepping out into the main living space of the hotel suite, he saw his dad give one last little wave as he left, and he heard the familiar ‘crunch crunch’ of Kerry Koalayama chowing down on his eucalyptus stalk. The little koala looked up at him and held a tiny paw out, as if offering up some of his snack. Scott shook his head, then looked at his best friend. “I told you I’d blame you if things went bad tonight, so here you go, I fully blame you. And also, this is why I don’t drink. It was a dumb thing to do.” Kerry held up a hand. “I know, I know. You were wound tight, though, man. We just wanted you to loosen up a bit. And let’s be honest. It wasn’t the dumbest thing I’ve seen you do. You’ll be fine, promise. Drink some water, then sweat it all out. It’ll be alright.” Scott groaned, but thought water was a very good idea. He walked over to the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and pulled out a big sixty-four-ounce jug of cold water, then started to chug it. The cool liquid felt good on the back of his throat, washing away the lingering taste of alcohol and the images of his karaoke-night abomination along with it. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, opening his eyes to see Kerry standing to his feet. Scott set the jug down on the kitchen counter and crossed the room, snatching a duffle bag from a velvet-covered chair as he did so. “Well,” he said, heading toward the door. “Let’s get moving.” Kerry frowned, a bit confused. “Where are we headed?” “It’s like you said,” Scott replied. “Drink some water, then sweat it out. Time to go sweat it out.” Kerry smirked, then moved to the door, gave Scott a friendly clap on the shoulder, walked out, and Scott followed right behind him. Scott pulled the door closed, and for a moment, Kerry Koalayama sat alone, momentarily aware of his solitude, then forgetting completely and going back to work on his eucalyptus. A few moments passed, and then suddenly, the door reopened and Scott’s face appeared peeking around the frame. “Come on, fur ball.” Kerry Koalayama took one last chomp, then stoically leapt from his perch and scurried across the floor, ambling up Scott’s leg and onto his shoulder as Scott smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” - William Faulkner