The Gambler

Pre Flop

A baseball mitt.

It’s small, made for a child.

Years of opening and closing have created a thousand white lines like veins through the leather.

Rob Williams sits in his rented cargo van in some random parking lot.

He opens and closes the mitt like a mindless drone bee, working off of nothing but routine and muscle memory.

The leather facade looks anew where Rob’s tears have landed.

His phone sits in his lap playing a highlight reel of Kerry Kuroyama’s most recent wins - saving the koala from the cage, braining Harrison with the Kuroyama driver… the list goes on.

Does Kerry Kuroyama worry if he’s worthy of that title?

If so, he hides it well.

It looks so natural to him.

Do you feel pain, Kerry? Does it hurt when you bleed?

If I had to summarize my pain, it would be this mitt.

What was your dad like, Kerry?

When I was a little boy, my dad was a drunk. He’d beat the shit out of mom and me until she finally got the courage up to kick him out. Inevitably, he’d come home two or three days later with some shitty roses for her and a dollar-store toy for me and she’d fold like origami. One time he brought me this mitt and a baseball. I asked him to teach me how to throw, but he was too focused on getting back in mom’s pants to bother, so he told me to go up to the fields and locked me out of the house.

I stood there, cooking in the Georgia sun, right outside the fence line watching a group of boys play a game of pickup.

Throwing the ball up in the air and catching it.

Thinking that if they knew how fucking good I was, they’d be begging me to come play with them.

And absolutely terrified they might come ask me to play and see the fraud that I am.

Have you ever felt that alone, Kerry?

I doubt it.

I’m not going to lie, you scare me. You’re really fucking good. I wouldn't say you're everything I want to be... but you're not far from it. 

The Flop

Life is a lot like poker.

You can understand the concepts, the stats, and sometimes even get handed good cards. But none of that makes the greats.

What’s the difference between every thirty year old white guy who saw Rounders and THE Scotty motherfucking Nyugen?

The intangibles.

“I was sober when I won the 5 Star Title.”

Rob Williams’ hands are shaky, much like his voice. Rattled to the bone. Sobriety will do that to a man.

His gray hair is messy, but it’s too perfect for it not to be intentional. If you keep the outside clean enough…

“I’ll never forget that night, man. I beat Cecilworth fucking Farthington. The unconquerable. The Arm Collector.”

To make it in poker, like in wrestling, is a one in a million shot.

And Rob Williams has probably been given a million.

Yet, here Rob sits, lamenting how unfair it has all been.

“Hmm,” the old man on the other side of the table says contemplatively. He’s eyeing up a younger Amish girl that the word plain wouldn’t begin to describe as she cuts Brussel sprouts inside one of the stands.

His high and tight haircut screams former law enforcement or military and his skin is so tanned from hours at the course that it would make an impeccable pair of cowboy boots.

He takes a deep breath, staring into the distance. You can almost see the thoughts slowly floating along the placid waters of his mind like reflecting clouds above.

“Then I lost the belt to Don. Couple spins of the wheel of fate and it’s resting on Kerry Kuroyama’s waist. Here I am with this shot to regain it and I’m honestly scared shitless of this guy.”

This elicits a snortle from the thoughtful leather man.

One of the things that separates the greats in poker is being able to read another man’s tells.

Everyone has them: little ticks when nervous or excited or mad.

When Rob feels small, he doesn’t flinch. No bark. He just stares at the distorted figure looking back at him from within his coffee cup.

He does it now, same as he did thirty-two days sober in some church basement, right before signing with PRIME.

Unable to get anything more out than, “I’m Rob and I’m an alcoholic.” At least he’s a constant.

“You know, if I’m being honest, I was scared shitless the moment I won that belt. I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Scared I wasn’t good enough to have it, scared I won it on a fluke, and fucking scared I was just gonna lose it and fade into obscurity.”

That word gives him a shudder.

He remembers all of the conventions, sitting at a shitty little table with a bunch of photos of him from twenty or thirty years ago.

Praying each passer-by is coming to get his autograph.

Praying to even be seen.

“I’d rather die than go back to not mattering.”

What made Doyle Brunson arguably the greatest poker player of all time?

He knew when to take a shot, even with a shit hand.

“So when that fucking hillbilly Harvey Walker brained me in the bathroom, I rolled the dice. I was so scared of becoming a nobody again that I paid some quack to tell the brass I had cancer. Lied to the fans, to Anna, to everyone.”

Rob wonders if Kerry Kuroyama has ever felt so low.

Probably not.

“So I thought I’d stop dragging Anna down and give the singles route another shot. And I land right into… Kerry Kuroyama. He’s basically my foil: a successful drunk, currently on a win streak, and smooth as hell. I’m fucked, man.”

Where did he damn himself? Was it crucifying the preacher or faking a terminal illness?

How do you know when you’ve spat in the face of God one too many times?

“You know,” the man stops to deposit a giant tobacco-filled spit into the empty coffee cup he holds before going on,”you know you’d probably blow one of these Amish girl’s minds if you ate their ass?”

The coffee burns like hell as it comes out of Rob's nose.

“What (coughing) the fuck, Mark?”

Oh, that’s Mark. Wait - who is Mark and why is he talking about eating Amish ass?

“I mean, think about it - if they ever even been in the sack with Brother Eli or John, you know they ain’t ever had their butt ate. They probably don’t even know that’s some shit people do.”

“Jesus Henry Christ, Mark. I’m opening up my chest to you and you’re talking about butt stuff?”

A smile crosses the old timer’s face and he finally turns to his pupil.

“I’ve been telling you to surrender, that’s different. All you do is fuckin’ ‘open up’, buddy. You don’t wanna do nothing ‘bout it.”

There’s a jagged edge to Mark’s smirk. Loving, but firm.

He wants Rob to get better and he isn’t going to love him to death.

“The fuck are you talking about? I’m reading all these goddamn books and I’m trying to make amends to that kid I put the cigar out on. I even stopped myself from telling that Ruskie to suck my d…”

Mark cuts in - not in a rude or authoritative way. He’s cool as a cucumber. He doesn’t care if Rob is buying what he’s selling because he knows it’s the truth.

“You think that means anything, boy? You still don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground, do ya?”

“What the fuck do you even know, man?”

“What do I know? You think I was eating dinner with my family one Tuesday night and said let me go find some fucked up wash up to pal around with? All this remorse is like a bag of dog shit and you’re walking around saying ‘look at how nasty this dog shit is’. Just throw it the fuck out. We're all done sniffing.”

The man who lost the 5 Star Title to Don Winters?

“A bag of shit,” Rob grinds through clenched teeth, his fists visibly clenched.

Rob walked into this conversation feeling like he was holding aces, but it’s feeling a lot more like a two-ten hand now. His eyes scan the room looking for the exits.

Any good cards man knows all his outs.

“Hey, there’s a little emotion. Good. You sit here and talk about all these losses like they been doled out by some ungrateful being, yet you got another shot at getting the title? How many title shots you had since you got into PRIME?”

“A few,” Rob drops his head in admission.

“Right. Rob, you got one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow and you’re pissing all over today. Stop focusing on how you’ve fucked up and being scared of how you will.”

A glob of spit large enough to choke a horse flows into the empty coffee cup Mark holds.

“Be fucking present. You got another shot at your belt.”

“Yeah - but look, Kerry might be a fucking square, but he’s a bad dude. He’s sewn up Daytona, Kael, and Colton in the last few months. In the ring he’s cold and methodical.”

The sound of Mark rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his skin sends shivers up Rob’s spine.

“Was there not a time that you felt like you were a bad dude? Look, man, you’ve done some shit. You abandoned your boy, you broke Charlotte’s heart, you went to prison… on and on I could go. But you got a shot to make a dream a reality. What do we talk about in the program? No matter how far down…”

They finish the sentence in unison.

“The scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.”

It hangs there between them for a minute, both of them tasting it.

The biggest defining quality of the apex players and… everyone else?

They know that being a titan is more than just winning.

It’s losing it all and saying, “I’ll be back.” With blood on your teeth and both eyes black.

“You’re scared of this Kerry guy, but didn’t you beat him before?” Mark asks.

“I’m scared shitless. We beat his partner. Kerry knocked me around like a ragdoll until the dingo almost ate his koala.

“The what?”

“I bought a fucking blackmarket dingo to eat his pet koala. Distracted him long enough for us to lay out his partner.”

“Wow, Rob. That’s actually pretty fucked up.”

They share a laugh.

“Are you scared of Kerry or are you scared of what happens if you actually beat him?”

Everyone remembers the first time they were punched in the stomach.

That indescribable feeling when your lungs purge.

With surgical precision, Mark has cut through all the grandiose bullshit that is “The Legend”.

“Probably both. I’ll tell ya, I’ve watched his tape. Something I don’t normally do. He usually wins in a flash - quick finisher or roll up.”

“Head on a swivel.”

A comfortable silence that feels like a warm sweater.

“You know, man - ain’t one of these Amish girls ready to have their ass ate. And I don’t mean mentally or emotionally. You think all that funk is coming from the brussel sprouts? Ain’t gonna be no pumpkin roll.”

“Go get me a fuckin’ pumpkin roll,” Mark laughs.

The Turn

As Rob stands in line he thinks about Mark’s comment.

One foot in yesterday, one in tomorrow, pissing on today.

Maybe Mark is right. Maybe there’s no buying your way into redemption by flagellation.

“That will be eight-fifty,” the woman repeats.

She’s attractive. He has always had a thing for redheads.

Rob can’t tell how many times she’s repeated herself, but he’s sure more than once.

Tells.

Her eyes are tired, but to Rob, they’re judgmental.

He wants to spit in her face. Pictures himself doing so.

DING DING

Saved by the bell… of Rob’s phone.

The AA Mantras appear like torches to illuminate the crevices' of his mind.

If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always gotten.

He wants something different.

Wants it bad enough to throw a twenty dollar bill on the butcher's block between him and the redhead, scoop up his pumpkin roll, and retrieve his phone.

It’s an unknown number.

“Hello,” Rob speaks into the phone cradled in between his neck and shoulder.

Every step away from the pastry stand cools the engines a bit more.

“Hello - uh, who is this?”

One in a million chance that whoever is on the other end of the phone catches Rob Williams at a moment where he won’t just hang up and never think about this again.

“This is Rob. Rob Williams. Who the fuck is this?”

Rob can’t help himself from popping open the plastic container and breaking a piece of the pumpkin roll off like a caveman.

“Ok, phew, great. Hey, you might not remember me. You came backstage at one of my shows a while back. Here in Mexico. You gave me your number.”

Rob is beet red again, but this time from the pumpkin roll lodged in his throat.

“It’s Finn - Finn Thorne.”

You could fill the Grand Canyon with the silence at that moment.

Fuck.

“Are you there, Rob?”

Every alarm that’s been wired into Rob Williams’ psyche is ringing at full blast.

Every instinct says hang up, run.

Don’t go this far off the mapped course, there be dragons.

If you do what you’ve always done…

“Hey,” Rob manages to crackle. He stops and leans up against a structural pole next to him as if it will somehow make him come off like he’s not choking on a pumpkin roll. “What’s up?”

“Ah, you know. Hey look, I know this is a long shot, but were you serious about scouting for talent?”

A thousand scenarios play out in Rob’s mind.

“Uh, yeah. Why what’s up?”

“Things have kind of gone to shit down here. They quit paying us and it looks like things are folding up. A few of the guys are making a break for the states before everything falls apart. I got some friends in Minneapolis and saw PRIME has a stop there. You’re wrestling Kerry Kuroyama, right?”

Just when he was finding some hope, Rob has been made captain of the Titanic.

“That’s right.”

“Well, I was thinking maybe I could cruise up. If it isn’t too much to ask, maybe you could introduce me to some folks? Bring me backstage?”

Oh, fuck. This is so much worse than I thought.

“I don’t know, man. They’re pretty tight assed about that kind of stuff.”

“Look, man, I’m not looking for a contract or anything.”

A beat passes.

“Are you still there,” Finn asks.

Nodding his head in a willful act of surrender, Rob responds, “Yeah, you know what, kid? Fuck ‘em. Come on up. Call me when you get to Minneapolis and we’ll connect.”

“Aww, man - thank you so much, Rob. I won’t let you down.”

No, kid. I won’t let YOU down. Not this time.

The River

Back in the cargo van, Rob sits holding onto the mitt and watching old tape again.

The haunting drum from the opening of “Black Hell” plays softly in the background.

What the fuck did I just do?

The chair folds in on itself as Williams’ head smashes through it and the rest of his body crashes into the ramp. Winters rolls to his feet and grabs the champion around the waist. He lifts the man up, and places him on the pedestal. He stands on it facing the bleeding Williams and hooks his right arm, and then his left arm into place. Winters steps off the pedestal and collapses as the bell rings.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: NEW CHAMPION! NEW CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: God dammit… Finn is coming to fucking ReVival.

What if his kid watches him lose to Kerry Kuroyama and blow his shot at redemption?

DING DING DING

Kuroyama collapses at the bell. Harrison lets go of the rope. Scott Hunter dives into the ring to check on Kuroyama as Vince Howard makes his way into the ring with the championship. He hands the belt down to Kuroyama, and Hunter helps him to his feet.

Vince Howard: Your winner and NEEEEEEEEW FIVE STAR CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAMPION! THE EMERALD APEX! KEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY KUROYAAAAAAAAMMMAAAAAA!!!! The glove is moving faster now.

He snaps the glove shut.

No, I'm looking at this all wrong.

Maybe redemption is just this: giving his kid this shot. Maybe that’s even bigger than whether he wins or loses.

What if his kid watches him destroy Kerry Kuroyama and win the title back?

Rob closes his eyes and pictures it.

Nick Stuart: And Kuroyama has Williams in the pump handle now - it’s looking dire for Williams. With ease Kuroyama lifts the older man up above him - WAIT! NO! Williams used his momentum to keep going.

Richard Parker: Yes!

Nick Stuart: Old Time Rock and Roll! Williams is going for the cover.

ONE

TWO

THREE! Fuck it. I’m done being sad. Through all of this “Who Am I”, Zoolander bullshit. .

I know who I am. I’m Rob Goddamn Fucking Williams. One of the greatest to ever do this.

And I am a lot of shit, but most of all, I'm a goddamn professional wrestler. Ain't no fraud about that. 

The leather cries out a soft creak under the increased pressure from Rob's hand.

I asked Cooley if I was the bear or the pot.

I’m not either.

I am the goddamn fire, indiscriminate to who I fucking hurt.

You didn’t stumble into that title, Kerry. You’re every bit the Emerald Apex that they say you are. A hell of a fighter. But so was Gold. And RIA. And we all know Cecilworth. You may be a Dragon Slayer, but I ain’t no mythical beast.

There won’t be no flash pinfalls at ReVial or surprise Kuromobombs or whatever the fuck you call it, Kerry. I want you to understand that when you step into the ring at ReVival 71, you’re not getting the Rob Williams you've faced before. You're getting the fucking Legend.

No more Pagliacci.

I’m not here to earn redemption: I’m here to fucking take it.

And it starts with you and that belt you’re carrying around.

You’re a bad man, Kerry. I’ll give you that. You’re technical, precise. Every move is calculated. And that's exactly why I can beat you. 

You're a surgeon, for sure. But what happens when the scalpel slips? I don't play the game right, Kerry. I don't respect it like you do.

You might know all the odds, Kerry, but you can’t prepare for a nuclear bomb.

The door creaks as Rob climbs out, the little mitt still clutched in his hilariously oversized palm.

Across the parking lot he walks, back towards the building.

He’s got work to do.

There’s more tape to watch. He needs to get a few runs in. Mark still needs his pumpkin roll.

This ain’t just about the Almasy, Kerry. It’s about my name. My legacy. All a man has is what he leaves to his child. What am I leaving if I stop here, huh? I lost that belt once and it damn near broke me. You’re holding the only thing I’ve ever earned that mattered - and if I don’t take it back now, I might not get another shot

This might be another defense for you, but this is everything for me.

My son will be there. He will be there to watch, fucking cheering me on to win - to rip your head off your shoulders and shit down your throat. Screaming for your blood. I’ve let this kid down, Kerry, but I ain’t gonna anymore. And it starts with you - with that title. With the fucking Almasy as a whole. Bring your technical masterclass, I don’t give a fuck. I will lie, cheat, steal, and fucking bite you to win.

I ain’t holding on to any of that shit anymore. Not my dad, not Don Winters, and not this stupid fucking mitt.

The mitt thuds as it smacks the inside of the dumpster.

If Kerry wants to walk out of ReVival 71 as the 5 Star Champ you’re going to have to fucking kill me.

No more scared kid outside the gates. The stakes just completely changed.

I’m playing for keeps and I’m all fucking in.