The Day I Stopped Eating Dirt

January 3, 2026 The Best Day in Kris Roswell’s Life

Signing a contract to wrestle in PRIME was the best day of my life.

The emphasis is on was.

Because January 3rd? After what happened? That day is the best day of my life.

But let’s go back to that first day.

___________

October 18, 2025 The Second Best Day in Kris Roswell’s Life

They paired me with the devil horns guy again.

Don’t get me wrong, Satan is a nice guy. Nice enough, I guess, although it’s really weird to just say that. “Satan is a nice guy.” Sounds like I’m setting two decades of Sunday school on fire. Anyway, he’s nice enough, but that hair is crazy. Who just walks around with his hair fashioned in devil horns? Satan Jones does. Every day.

So Satan and I got put into a tag match for the fifth week in a row. And I guess that’s fine. I’m still learning this whole wrestling thing, so it makes sense that I need a partner.

I probably work better as part of a team, anyway. It’s how it’s been my whole life. First it was the peewee football team. Then the middle school football team, then junior varsity. Then varsity, then Duquesne, and then for one beautiful, brief moment, the New Orleans Saints practice squad.

And of course I can’t forget the most important team. The Roswell team. Since birth I’ve been a part of the best team you could ever ask for. Four older brothers who all played football before me. A mother who tirelessly provides for the good of the team. And the head coach, the man with the plan, the one who made all this happen, Harold Roswell. Pops, I call him. Behind his back, of course. To his face I call him sir.

Anyway, I’m a team guy, and I guess this Satan guy is now part of the team. I thought the entire wrestling school would be a team, kinda like my teammates were at Duquesne, but it hasn’t really turned out that way. It feels like my success is their failure, and vice versa. We’re all shooting for the same thing. It feels more like my time in training camp, where no one is friends because we’re all competing for a spot.

We faced off against two of these people. I thought we were going to face off against Foster’s son, Connor, because he was there that morning, but he wasn’t in his ring gear and he left a little before the match. Instead we got Roosevelt Black and Tani Albright, who have been at Gray’s longer than pretty much anyone else. They've even won tag team gold in another country, so they were definitely really good. But I got to say Satan and I are starting to gel. I do a lot of kicking, he does a lot of punching and pushing. All sections of the body accounted for. We did this cool move to finish them off where I slid behind the opponent and kicked out his legs as Satan came in for a flying shoulder block. It felt really good.

What felt even better was meeting up with Coach Rhine after the match. He was smiling as he introduced me to an agent for PRIME named Andrew Neal. Andrew told me that they were impressed with the footage that Jon had sent them – I didn’t even realize he was filming our matches. And he especially liked my story, the former NFL training camp invitee who was trying to make it in a new world. Satan said his story was pretty interesting too, but I tuned it out after he mentioned feet for the fifth time.

After a few more minutes of talking and a quick lunch down the street, the agent produced it – a PRIME contract for us to sign. I don’t even remember thinking about it. My name was already on the dotted line.

So that was that day. The best…well, second best day of my life.

_______

January 3, 2026

So why was this now the best day of my life? Well, in a way, it’s because it made me realize that it was the best day of my life. That sounds confusing, but I promise it makes sense. I’ll explain it later.

It started more or less like every other day. I woke up to a voicemail from my mom, asking me to call and talk to Pops. I missed our last team meeting and he wasn’t happy. But I’ve been so busy with PRIME stuff – interviews, packing for the tour, meeting with Satan about our opponents. I was still getting used to wrestling. These guys we were facing were time travelers, but also Russian, but not really? It didn’t make any sense to me. In football you’ve got people wearing different colors, and they hit each other. No one’s got a gimmick, or a backstory. And if they do, it’s only made up to get people to talk about them.

So I missed the Roswell team meeting, but at this point I’m not sure how many more of those meetings I have to attend. They’re in Pittsburgh, I’m in New Orleans, and the meetings are always about the dealership, which I don’t even work at. My dad runs a series of car dealerships in the suburbs surrounding Pittsburgh called Roswell’s Deals Are Out of This World! Yes, the full name. Every time. I call it Roswell’s Deals, because life is too short, but only when my dad isn’t around.

I mentioned that my father was the man with the plan, and this was his plan, and had been since I was born: raise sons to play football at Duquesne, where he had played football and where he and mom met. Go as far as you can, hopefully making it to the NFL – tough for a FCS school, but it can happen. And if we shot for the moon and missed, we’d land in the stars – the stars, in this case, being a cushy gig at one of the seven locations of Roswell’s Deals.

In fact, the day when I first found out this plan is also one of the best days of my life. If you had asked me in June, I would’ve said it was the single best day. But now, with October, and…well, and January 3rd, I guess it’s the third best day of my life.

_______

May 22, 2025 The Third Best Day in Kris Roswell’s Life

I was kind of confused about the shade of blue in my graduation gown.

I’m not exactly a Crayola color expert, but if I had to guess the exact shade, I’d say it was aquamarine. But our colors are navy blue. I liked the navy, and had worn it proudly for four years. But these gowns were gaudier, more showy, and I didn’t like it.

But it was the only part of the day I didn’t like. Graduation was amazing, and I enjoyed hearing cheers as my name was called. I’m used to a mixed reaction when my name is on a loud speaker. I went 22-28 this year, which isn’t bad, honestly. I’d like to see everyone do their job at 78% optimacy. But in my job, you’re not allowed to miss, so my name got met with a few boos here and there, especially after those six misses.

But not on graduation day.

I had also gotten some great news the day before, news I was excited to share with my family as soon as the ceremony was over. I was a little nervous, because it went against one of my father’s many rules (Rule #33: surprises are unwelcome because they give you no time to plan), but I was positive that the quality of my news would make up for it.

But before I could give mine, my father had some of his own news to share. “Congratulations,” he said, slapping my arm with a meaty fist. Every man of the Roswell clan had played football, but I was the only one whose body shape didn’t match the typical football frame. "The runt of the litter," my dad would say with a laugh when introducing me to anyone. Yeah, that's me, a 6'2 runt. But they were all bigger, and every time any of them touched me, it almost made me fall, and so I braced myself against his slap.

“Here,” he said, handing me a small keyring with a single key attached. I smiled, thinking he had given me a car, before I realized it was a door key and not a keyfob. He saw the confusion on my face and laughed. “I’m looking at the associate general manager of the McCandless brand of Roswell’s Deals Are Out of This World!”

Don’t laugh at me, but I turned around, looking for the person he was talking about. As soon as I turned and saw no one, I knew my mistake, so I blushed as I looked back at him. “You mean me?” I know I was at my graduation, but let’s just say I needed a bit of help from tutors to get across that stage.

“Who else would I mean? Hercules here will be the general manager, and you can learn from him until you’re ready to take the store on your own. You’ll…” Pops kept talking, but I wasn’t listening because he had said my brother’s name.

Hercules Roswell, third of the five Roswell boys. Former quarterback of the Duquesne Dukes, and the only brother who genuinely hates my guts. Yes, brothers fight, but the rest of my brothers and I had an agreement that there was something beneath the fighting, a sliver of love and understanding for our shared bond. But with Hercules there was nothing beneath the surface; just hate. I have no idea why, and I probably never will. I asked once, and I can still feel the punch he gave me in response. Even as my dad explained whatever he was talking about, I looked over his shoulder to see Hercules glowering over me.

I had already known what my answer would be, as I still had my plan to reveal, but seeing that face gave me the motivation to do something I was never supposed to do (Rule #2): “No thanks, Dad.”

No, Rule 2 isn’t saying no to my dad (though that rule is absolutely an unwritten rule). “Did you just interrupt me?”

“Sorry, dad, I just…I have a plan too. And I was really excited to tell you about it.” And then I told them about how my agent said I got a call from the Saints and they wanted me to go down there and get to voluntary workouts, and that if everything went all right I’d be on the practice squad with a chance to make the main roster if the current kicker had a bad year.

I was beaming by the end of it, but I was the only one. “What about the plan?” my dad asked.

“What about mine?” I countered.

We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the day, and my graduation lunch at my favorite pizza place was sullen and silent. And then Hercules punched me that night for breaking Rule 2 and called me a loser.

So why is it my third favorite day? Because I started my plan, and revealed part of it to my family.

The practice squad was not the full plan. I always knew that the NFL wouldn't work out. But one of my friends at Duquesne knew about a wrestling school down in New Orleans that would take pretty much anyone, and then I could pursue my actual dream. Not playing football. Not running my own car dealership. Hell, not even becoming a professional wrestler.

My actual dream is to leave the team I had always been a part of, and make my own team. And because that dream is happening, and it started that day, graduation day is my third favorite day.

I know, I like to jump around a lot. It’s one of the things I’m trying to work on.

Anyway, back to my first favorite day.

_______

January 3, 2025

Right, so I ignored the voicemail, didn’t FaceTime my dad, and then went directly to Gray’s. Foster told me there was a surprise waiting for us, and when I got to the locker room he asked, “So, what were you thinking about for your ring gear?”

I smiled, because I had been thinking about it. “Well, I’m from Pittsburgh, so I was hoping for my tights to be kind of a nod to that. Not the exact Steelers logo – I know that would be infringement and I almost played for the Saints so that would be weird – but maybe the stars from the steel logo up and down the side?”

“I just want red trunks,” Satan said. “And on the butt I want–”

“Let me guess, feet?” Foster said dryly.

“I was going to say devil horns, but sure, feet are good.”

“Well, I’m not really sure why I asked for your opinions, because I already got the outfits here.” And he opened a locker and pulled out two disgusting purple jumpsuits.

I already told you how I felt about aquamarine graduation robes, and this was like that to the max. And what’s worse – they had masks! No one could see my face, and they’d totally destroy Satan’s horn-hair.

Satan clearly agreed. “Fuck off with that.”

“Come on. You called yourselves the Foot Soldiers, what do you think you were going to wear?” This didn’t click with me, which was clear on my face. “Do you not…know who the Foot Soldiers are?”

“Us. We’re the Foot Soldiers.”

Foster sighed. “Yes, but I mean the real Foot Soldiers. From the Ninja Turtles?”

“You mean that show from a decade before I was born?”

This pissed Foster off, because no one likes being reminded of their age. But if that’s the case Foster should be angry at every mirror that he passes. “Listen, fuckers, you’re going to wear the purple jumpsuits, and you’re gonna fight against these idiots from the Red Army, and you’re going to lose, and you’re going to get your paycheck, eat some weird fish that might give you diseases, and you’re going to move on!”

Something stirred in my mind at this point, and it was the formation of this day becoming the best day of my life. But at the time I was just mad. “How do you know we’re going to lose?”

He looked at me the same way my father did the day I turned down his plan. “Are you serious? Come on, Kris. You know y’all aren’t good enough.”

“What? We’ve been working hard, and we got signed to the best promotion in the world. Lindsay Troy sees something in us.”

“Quinn is also signed to PRIME.”

“Valid point,” Satan answered, but I wasn’t convinced.

“I’m just not sure how you can be so sure that we’ll lose when–”

“Because you’re enhancement talent, Kris!” Foster shouted at me. “You’re signed to lose. You’re there to make other tag teams look good. The reason you’re in PRIME is because my son turned them down to go back to college. So you’re PRIME’s consolation prize, and you’re going to kick your way into an entertaining match that leads to you or Devil here flat on your back.”

So that’s why Connor didn’t wrestle that day, and why he hadn’t been around as much since. That feeling began to stir again, and after looking over at my tag partner and seeing acceptance in his eyes, it finally clicked. This is what I mean when I said I’d explain later.

Let’s imagine a situation. The very first thing you ever ate was a handful of dirt. And then the second thing. Third, fourth, fifth, eighty-ninth meal. Every single meal of every single day you ate dirt. And some days you might have something extra with it. Maybe a piece of grass that lands on the dirt and sort of looks like parsley. Maybe a chewy stick, maybe you got something else mixed in that you’ve never seen or tasted before. Those meals, because of the variety, become your favorite meals ever. You now know what it is to taste more than just dirt. But you still like the dirt, because it was what you were raised on.

I had been eating dirt all my life.

Yes, I was always part of a team. But teams have roles, and my role was to always be at the bottom, propping everyone up. The moment my body stopped developing muscle like my brothers had, I was a kicker. And I thought back to all of the team meetings, all of the team parties, and all of the meetings with my family.

Back to the day of my graduation. Back to the day we got our PRIME contracts, which I now know was not intended for us.

I was a kicker. I was the youngest Roswell boy, the runt of the litter.

I was a loser.

And I always accepted it. It was part of the team’s gameplan. It was part of my dad’s plan. These costumes were part of Foster’s plan. And as long as I never made my own plan, I would be following someone else’s rules for the rest of my life.

“No,” I said, throwing the jumpsuit at Foster’s feet.

“I guess confidence is good for something,” Foster grumbled as he bent down to grab the costume. He was saying something else, but I stopped listening because something caught my eye.

I looked at the side of his head. Foster was balding, but he still had a patch of red hair on the side of his head. In the middle of that red patch was a small tuft of graying hair.

It looked like a target.

Running forward, I thought of every time I had been called just a kicker, or a loser. I thought of the times I followed my dad’s plans without complaining. I thought about Hercules punching me. I thought of the word enhancement. I thought of the opponents we would be facing in Puerto Rico, and the implicit understanding that we only existed to make them look good. And I put every single one of those into my left foot, which smashed into Foster’s head like it was the ugliest football in the world.

He clattered to the ground and didn’t move.

“Let’s go,” I told Satan. “We’ve got to make our own costumes.” He didn't hesitate to follow me. This was my new team. No more Team Roswell. Now it was Satan and Kris. The Foot Soldiers. The team who would make PRIME take notice.

“I can just buy a Speedo,” Satan said as we left the locker room.

And that’s why January 3, 2026, the day I stopped eating dirt, is the best day in my life. For now, I mean. I’m sure there will be plenty more on the way.

_______

Unknown Date in the Future Two Weeks After the Worst Day in Kris Roswell’s Life

“So wait. This all ended in you kicking your trainer in the head? I thought we were here to talk about the real incident. The reason you’re here talking to me.”

Kris Roswell looked up at the appointed psychiatrist. “I told you I jump around a lot. We’ll get there.”