Postcards from the Past

February 28, 2026 – Coliseo Rubén Zayas Montañez, Trujillo Alto

The smell of sweat and iron permeated throughout the arena. The summers were always hot down in the Caribbean, but this year, even in February the heat was stifling. Screams and shouts rang throughout the place as the sound of flesh connecting on flesh drove the people there to a fever pitch. Like a great symphony, the reactions of the crowd had rhythm as the two people in the ring ebbed and flowed. It was a hot crowd in a hot arena in a hot country.

Too hot, he thought as he fiddled once more with the pictures of himself on the table in front of him. Behind him, there was a small poster with his recognizable mask and the name “El Profesor”.  He sat far away from the action. Hidden away with all the other outcasts. Shunned. His seat was one of those plastic ones that they have at parties and way too small for his frame. He shifted once more. Looked at his watch once more.

“Puñeta. I should have known coming here would have been a waste of gasoline.” He grumbled to himself as the chair also seemed to groan. These were definitely not made for wrestlers to sit in.

It was getting late and while some people went past the table he was in, nobody was biting. Who could blame them. Nostalgia could only get you so far. There was a certain charisma you needed to have to be able to work these kinds of events. El Profesor had to rummage inside of himself to find it. After his retirement, everything seemed to have less life to it. It wasn’t that food tasted bad, but it just never tasted as good as he knew it could be.

He looked at one of the first promotional pictures on his table. This one was an old one, but still one of his favorites and a good seller. It was the first professional picture that was taken of him with his first title belt.

--*--

March 15th, 2004 – Coliseo Rubén Rodríguez, Bayamón

It was his 20th birthday. His mind was racing, and he couldn’t stop pacing around the locker room. It was finally his time to shine. He started training early on in life with his uncle, Eduardo, but people called him Waldo. Waldo had a great mind for pro wrestling, and he was a great first teacher. There was never a moment where he felt unprepared in a match.

The promoter came in the back right before his match and gave him a thumbs up. El Profesor knew what it meant. “Go out there and kill it.” The promoter was putting his faith on a rising star in pro wrestling in the island and all that fell on El Profesor’s shoulders. Of course, he wasn’t known by that moniker back then. He was still young and wet behind the ears.

It was almost time.

El Profesor finished his pre-match ritual. He taped up his hands slowly and methodically. Even though his mind was racing, this always worked to calm down his nerves. He could hear the crowd in the background. It sounded like waves crashing against the shore. Moments of deep silence followed by a crash. That sound. That was everything he had always wanted.

“I’m ready.” He told himself.

His opponent, a great wrestler who had been champion for the last year and a half was similarly intent and attuned to what was happening in and around the ring. They locked eyes for a moment and nodded towards each other.

The music began playing and a young Profesor stepped into the blinding lights of the stadium into an uncertain, but exciting future. The boys in the back watched in awe as a young El Profesor gave a master class. They all remembered what the commentator remarked with vehemence after his arm was raised and the belt had been draped over his shoulder.

“Este joven acaba de dar una clase magistral de lucha libre. Definitivamente nadie se acerca al Profesor de la Lucha Libre”. (This young man just gave a master class in wrestling. No one comes close to the Wrestling Professor.)

--*--

February 28, 2026 – Coliseo Rubén Zayas Montañez, Trujillo Alto

It had stuck and here he was. Twenty-one years later, he was still El Profesor de la Lucha Libre. The moniker had given him a life in this business, and he intended to protect it at all costs. His legacy was essential to him.

“Profe!” somebody screamed as they pointed at him with his fingers. The man walked alongside his young teenage son. The young man looked at El Profesor with indifference.

“Who is that, Dad? He looks lame… and old.”

There was no way to defeat Father Time. He will remain forever unbeaten, and he had to recognize that he was old. It still hurt, you know. When did the gray invade his beard and hair and the muscles ache and bones crack so easily? He knew he still had it, but what did he have to prove anymore in this business. In Puerto Rico, El Profesor was well known. Maybe not so much to the new generation, but a lot of people still knew him. Maybe he was no longer in his prime, but he knew he had the nous to take on most of the younger generation of wrestlers in PR. Sadly, he wasn’t getting that chance.

“Don’t say that son, that guy right there was the epitome of wrestling in PR. I would say in the Mount Rushmore, along with people like Carlitos Colón.”

“Then why didn’t he make it in the US? Isn’t wrestling in the US where the biggest and best wrestling companies are?”

Mind you, El Profesor could hear all that they were saying.

“Injuries, son. This sport is rough. I think he got a few too many concussions. Doctors wouldn’t clear him to wrestle in the bigger companies, so he had to rely on the indies.”

Well, at least some people were well informed. El Profesor looked at the father and son and smirked. Injuries had taken their toll.

“Can I get a picture, Profe? I’m a huge fan.”

“Sure thing.”

They both stood awkwardly for a picture. El Profesor wasn’t the best at these kinds of things with fans. He could think of spots in the blink of an eye that would leave the fans standing up and cheering louder than ever, but in one on one interactions, he was a little awkward. Never quite knew what to say exactly.

“Can I get a signed photo?”

“Sure, man. Which one do you want?”

The man pointed to a picture he took during his prime years. He had three belts, two on his shoulders and one on his waist. He had really taken PR by storm. Sadly, he lost them all in one night.

--*--

 6 Years ago – January 18th, 2020 – El Profe’s House

It was 2:00 p.m. and the blinds in the room were closed. El Profesor was still in bed, but he wasn’t sleeping. The pain was unbearable. The room felt like a bog. Everything moved as in slow motion. He didn’t understand why he felt this way. Sure, he had felt pain before. That is the way when you are a professional wrestler, but this was something else. It was as if his mind was covered in early morning fog and he couldn’t move. He had an appointment with the company’s doctor today, so that would hopefully help. He had no idea how he was going to get up for it, but his wife had taken the day off to help him.

He did everything his body could in order to get to the doctor’s office. Mariana, his wife, had been able to help him walk. It had not been easy. El Profesor’s head was throbbing like never before and he had a match tomorrow he had to be ready for. The doctor examined him and he knew exactly what he had. He had seen some footage of the incident the previous show.

El Profesor had been wrestling The Mammoth, a giant of a man who wasn’t afraid of throwing his weight around, had gotten El Profesor into a powerbomb position and when he went for the buckle bomb, El Profesor’s head hit harshly on a buckle that was not well padded. He remembered the pain and the wobbly legs, but he didn’t remember much about what happened in the match.

“This doesn’t look great. I’m looking at your medical history and the fact that you have sustained three concussion’s in the past year is highly concerning.” The doctor knew El Profesor very well. The agony in his voice as he told el Profesor that he wouldn’t be cleared to wrestle until they could ascertain the extent of the damage was clear. “I can’t in good conscience clear you to wrestle.”

El Profesor’s face was stoic. Almost as if what he was hearing wasn’t really computing. It wasn’t. The fog in his brain was too much. He felt Mariana’s hand slide into his and squeeze.

--*--

February 28, 2026 – Coliseo Rubén Zayas Montañez, Trujillo Alto

It had been a rough year, after he got that third concussion. The picture on his table was the highest moment in his career and it was all gone in one doctor’s visit. First, it was his belts. Then, his career. The pandemic, his mind, his wife, even his will to live. Here he was though. Even after all of that, he was still pushing through. He knew he was healthy again, but he wasn’t sure how healthy. He did promise himself one thing. If he ever got into that ring once more, he would never again lose anything.

“Hey Profe, how has your night been?” A tall balding man approached his table, hand extended. “Glad to see you back here. Who has been helping you with all the banners and all that?”

“Hey Manuel. Thanks for giving the space in so short notice. My daughter convinced me to do it.”

“She did a great job with it. Are you gonna keep going with the signings and conventions?”

“No, actually. I was thinking of getting back in there. I feel a lot better now and I would like to have a final run. I was wondering if you could help me with that.” El Profesor said hopefully. He had rehearsed many times. He knew that he needed Manuel to be able to get back in the company and get back in the ring.

“Oh. I’m not sure that’s a good idea Profe. You know very well that this is a young man’s game and with your concussion history, it would be too much of a liability for us. Maybe you can work as a trainer or a manager?”

I know Manuel worried and that it wasn’t personal. I know it, but the anger I’d been feeling because of all the shit that had gone down was too much to suppress. “Que clase de cabrón eres, Manuel. Suddenly you forgot all I did for this damn company and all I sacrificed? My blood is embedded on that ring and neither you nor none of your new toys will be able to remove it.”

El Profesor stood up and threw the table down. He got up to the Manuel’s face, almost nose to nose. His voice had lowered. “Here I was, thinking you were my friend. Vete pa’l carajo.” El Profesor left all of his things and left the building.

El Profesor arrived home and his daughter was there texting someone while watching some dating show on some streaming service.

“How did the signing go, dad? Were you able to put the banner aside and take the stand apart?”

El Profesor grunted.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Why do you assume that I did anything wrong?”

Her face contorted saying everything that she had to say with an expression of, ‘are you serious? You really think I believe your bullshit?'.

“Fine. I asked to be put back in the ring. The response was not what I wanted and my reaction… let’s just say… it wasn’t great.”

“Did you fill out the application I printed out for you?”

“No. I told you I’m not interested in wrestling in some strange place in the US where they don’t appreciate great wrestling.”

She shook her head. They’ve had this conversation before many times, and it always ends the same way. “You need to get back in that ring. It is no longer a what if, but a ‘must’. You are pushing everyone away, like you did with Mom and with all your friends from the business. Soon, if things keep going as they are going, you will push me away and then you will die alone.”

“Maybe that is exactly what I deserve.”

--*--

It was a grim morning. The usually blue sky and bright sun should have been making the day feel bright and refreshing, like normal day in Puerto Rico. The sand from the Sahara had arrived though and it blocked the sky. Everything looked like a volcano had erupted and the sky was filled with ash. It also felt like that on the eyes and throat.

He sat in his living room looking over at the stack of papers his daughter had prepared for him. The application was there, as well as his medical papers and the clearance from three independent doctors. He finally signed it.

Would it be his redemption or had he just signed his soul away?