12-7

A beleaguered sigh escaped Kerry Kuroyama on the seventh morning of December.

On any given day, the morning ritual of sorting through his extensive collection of luxury menswear to find the perfect look was something he enjoyed in earnest. He was, after all, someone who understood the importance of being in control of his personal presentation.

Today, however, it felt like a chore. An obligation. A duty. Something he had to do.

Vexed, he stood in the walk-in closet to the master bedroom of his private mountainside lodge, listlessly looking over the dual rows of designer brand suits that lined the alcoves on either side of the chamber. Nothing popped out at him, and he was running short on time.

Finding his phone, he hit the voice recognition button and gave two brief verbal commands through his synchronized audio system.

“Music. Sinatra.”

A tone of confirmation sounded. Moments later, the sounds of swing filled the air of his mountainside lodge. He began pulling suits from the rack and went to work.

“That's life! That's what all the people say. “You're riding high in April, shot down in May. “But I know I'm gonna change that tune, “When I'm back on top, back on top in June!”

The customary emerald brillo Sebastian Cruz three-piece was his default choice for most events. In his opinion, a perfect presentation that successfully balanced a degree of class with a flair for color. Only neither one of those qualities were warranted for the occasion, and so the suit promptly disappeared back into the racks.

“I said, that's life! And as funny as it may seem, “Some people get their kicks stomping on a dream. “But I don't let it get me down, “Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinnin' around!”

The mint green Gucci was one of the most prized possessions of his wardrobe. Sharp and stunning, the look of a Gosling-level superstar. Guaranteed to make one stand out. Almost too much, though. The loud color was overkill, and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t dressing for the typical dalliance at the club, where the point was to be seen. Best to leave it for a better time and place.

“I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king. “I've been up and down and over and out, and I know one thing… “Each time I find myself, flat on my face, “I pick myself up and get back in the race!”

The dark gray Tom Ford was appropriately more subdued and on point. Standard for a business-casual affair, which was exactly what he needed. But the windowpane pattern would present him with a matching nightmare. There wasn’t a shirt to go with it that wouldn’t beg to be complimented with a tie. That would likewise create a problem with finding the right pair of shoes.

His ire was steadily increasing. One off choice could make the difference between him feeling like an adult or feeling like a clown, and he had neither the time nor patience at his disposal to weigh in on the minutiae of options.

“That's life! I tell you, I can't deny it “I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just ain't gonna buy it! “And if I didn't think it was worth one single try “I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly!”

He was beginning to suspect that he was perhaps overthinking the issue, until he spied the midnight black Brunello Cucinelli packed away in the corner. Cliche, perhaps, until he reminded himself that it didn’t really matter, since he was essentially dressing only for himself.

In the meantime, the Chairman of the Board took it home.

“That's life! That's life, and I can't deny it! “Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart won't buy it! “But if there's nothing shaking, come this here July, “I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die!”

By the time the tune ended, the suit was on. Kerry stood before the mirror and studied his reflection, making the necessary minor adjustments while admiring the fit. Blazer, trousers, shirt, Oxfords, all black and no tie. Simple, subdued, and effective. Couldn’t go wrong with that.

He stepped out into his bedroom and grabbed his chrome-plated TAG Heuer to complete the ensemble. Fully dressed and ready to take on the day, Kuroyama again picked up his phone and pushed the button on the side. A tone sounded to indicate that it was listening.

“Text Mom. Tell her, ‘I’m on my way.’”

* * *

“I was still in college when we first met.”

Her eyes shut, Elena Valentine recounted the memory in a voice that was soft and dreamlike.

“Someone on our floor suggested we check out a wrestling show. Not that I’d ever been to one, but I figured, what the hey? It’s something for someone under the legal drinking age to go out and do on a Saturday night. So I went.”

With an arm supportively drawn around his mother’s shoulders, Kerry kept his silence and allowed her to tell her story. He'd heard it plenty of times by now, but also knew it was her way of hanging onto a memory that faded with every passing year.

“The first I saw of him was in the ring. And, you know, it’s funny, but I couldn’t tell you what it was that made him stand apart from the others. Something about the way he moved caught my eye, I guess.”

She chuckled lightly, covering a sob that she subtly tried to hold back. All these years later, and it was still a struggle for her to keep it together whenever this grim anniversary rolled around for the two of them.

“But when we met later backstage, and I saw that smile for the first time… he had me.”

The paper lining the bouquet of roses held against her chest crinkled slightly in her clutch, breaking the cemetery’s natural silence.

“I still think about those first couple years with him.”

With a longing sigh, Elena opened her eyes and returned to the present. What was left of the man in her memories was now immortalized in the epitaph on the headstone that rested before them: Zensaku “Zack” Kuroyama. Loving husband and devoted father. Lived February 22nd, 1971 to December 7th, 2008.

“Felt like a forbidden romance. A rich college girl with her life laid out in front of her, falling for this scrappy young fighter with a heart of gold. The kind of thing that was never bound to last, if you really think about it.”

Elena pulled away and knelt to gently place the bouquet across the grave. When she arose, her dampened eyes found those of her son’s. Her radiant smile cut through the gloom like a ray of sunshine.

“But then… you came along. And we made it work.”

They did, all things considered. At least until an aggressive onset of leukemia brought Zack Kuroyama’s story to an end on this day, fifteen years ago.

For Kerry, the anniversary brought forth a litany of complicated feelings. He couldn’t deny that since that day, he had been living with a void in his heart. Even so, the passage of time had made it ever more and more difficult through the years to mourn the memory of someone that was only around for half of his lifetime.

And, despite his every attempt to follow in his footsteps when he was younger, there was lately a prevailing feeling that the man his father was was nothing like who he wanted to be.

Yeah, they made it work. His father used what precious few years of life he had in this world to give him a life of opportunity. And yet, every time he was reminded of that sacrifice, it came with the added knife-twist in his soul of knowing he didn’t have a goddamn thing to show for it.

A cold breeze passed through the cemetery, sending a chill down his spine. He suddenly realized he wanted more than anything to be anywhere else.

“We should get going,” was all he could say.

Sniffling once, Elena stared at the stone a few moments longer, until solemnly nodding in agreement.

“Yeah…”

Kerry’s arm went back around her shoulders, and he began turning her back toward the path leading to entrance.

Then the sound of advancing footsteps crunching into the gravel brought him to a halt.

Kuroyama felt his body stiffen. Further up the path, the gaunt and graying man slowly approached. Apparently, they weren’t the only ones there to pay their respects.

And he was hardly a stranger. It had been a good eight years since he’d last seen him, and he was a clear shell of his former self, but Kerry could scarcely forget the face of the man that brought him into wrestling.

“The fuck is he doing here?” he rasped.

Elena sighed. She could scarcely forget the face as well.

“Why wouldn’t he be here?” she countered. “He’s family.”

Kerry could feel his face twist in revulsion. “Mom, that piece of shit is NOT our fam--”

Her hand grasped his arm and gave it a squeeze to cut him off, and she looked pleadingly into her son’s eyes.

“He’s your cousin’s father, Kerry,” she said insistently. “He’s family.”

Kerry pursed his lips. It took everything in him to resist the urge to protest. But he wasn’t ready for this argument. Not with her, and especially not here and now, standing over her dead husband’s grave.

“I’ll get the car started,” she said, then pulled away, and started up the path.

Kerry glared at her in disbelief. It was Momspeak for, “It’s time you dealt with this.”

As she passed by the other man, she gave his shoulder a gentle and affectionate tap.

“It’s good to see you, Rock.”

Rocko Daymon acknowledged the widow of his late friend with a nod. She continued on, and he made the final few steps to the grave.

“Kerry,” he said upon arrival, saluting his protege with a nod before turning his attention to the headstone.

Kuroyama remained on his guard. Despite his mother’s insistence, he had plenty of reason to carry a grudge for these past eight years, and in turn, it gave him plenty of time to think of something to say to the son of a bitch.

For now, though, he could only think of saying the obvious.

“You clean?”

Daymon continued to look at the stone in silent contemplation for another beat before finally nodding.

“Over a year now,” he answered. “Been doing well for myself over in Indiana.”

Kerry hummed skeptically. Given his former mentor’s propensity to relapse, he had little reason to believe this recent attempt at sobriety would last.

“Why come back then?” he probed.

Rocko nodded to the stone.

“Happened to be back in town for business,” he said, moving in to kneel beside the grave. “That, and it’s been a while since I paid my respects.”

A cluster of magnolias and lilies joined the roses, and Daymon rose back up to his feet

Kerry’s interest was piqued by the use of the word “business”. Given who it came from, that could have meant any number of things. Especially given the rumors of just who was putting him up out in Indiana.

But he felt it was better to keep these rumination to himself, lest he give his ex-mentor the impression that he had any fucks to give with what he did with his life.

“I know it changes nothing,” began Daymon. “But for what it’s worth, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For abandoning you down in New Orleans, all those years ago. For being weak.”

He rose back to his feet and looked his student in the eye.

“You have every right to be angry at me, and I don’t intend to insult you by seeking your forgiveness. But for what it’s worth, I live my every waking hour carrying the burden of regret. A constant reminder that it’s not just my life being affected by my actions.”

Kuroyama scoffed.

“Jesus, Rock… you think it’s you I’m angry at?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t get me wrong… what you did seriously pissed me off. But looking at the big picture, you being the piece of shit that you are was the best possible thing that could have happened to me. It forced me to go out on my own and find my own path, before enough of your esoteric bullshit could actually sink in.”

He nodded toward the gravestone.

“You want to know what really makes me angry? It’s all the fucking years I had to put up with people referring to me as ‘Zack’s boy’. Son of one of the friendliest, most well-respected wrestlers on the west coast, and third-generation heir to the great Kuroyama wrestling family legacy. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

“This life was practically chosen for me, and I was too young and stupid to see through the sappy bullshit about ‘family legacy’ that people like you and the other enablers put on me for years. All anyone could tell me was how great I was meant to become, and the legacy I was expected to live up to.

“But the older I get, the more I begin to realize just how much of my potential was squandered. Because instead of having him there to bring me into this sport, I got stuck with you. A habitual fucking junkie, living under the delusion that he’s the Lao Tzu of professional wrestling.”

Kuroyama turned to leave. Any further conversation with this asshole was just going to bring him dangerously closer to completely losing his cool.

“Fuck your ‘burden of guilt’, you fraud,” he seethed. “You want to make it right by me, then piss off back to Indiana, and stay the fuck away from my family.”

He started up the path back to the entrance. Through the gate, he could see the car idling by the curb, waiting for him.

“Kerry…”

Against his better instincts, Kuroyama stopped in his tracks.

“Before he was your father, he was my friend,” said Daymon with insistence. “And I know that if he were standing there before you, he would tell you that there are more important things to your life than what you’re trying to do.”

Kerry deliberated if he wanted to humor this prick any further. A part of him wanted to throw himself upon the bastard and beat him within an inch of his life, but he knew that would risk ruining the Brunello Cucinelli.

Eventually, he turned around to make his stance perfectly clear.

“If that were the case, then I would tell him to take those words and shove them right up his own ass. Because after living half my life without him there when I needed him to be, forgive me for feeling that what I’m doing is the only goddamn thing that fucking matters.”

Daymon said nothing back. Kerry, now incomprehensibly angry, took that as his cue to leave him behind.

Enough time had been wasted weeping over the past.

* * *

I’m no stranger to loss.

It’s one of life’s great constants, and I’d wager that there isn’t a human being on this planet--let alone a single wrestler in PRIME--that doesn’t eventually come to terms with the weight of its inevitability.

I’d be a fool to believe I’m any different, so it’s hardly a surprise to find myself coming to terms with my first official failure here in the blue and white brand. I’m not the first, and I certainly won’t be the last. Or so we tell ourselves.

Why, then, is this one so hard for me to accept?

Could be because I know it has nothing to do with not being good enough.

I know you can relate to that feeling, Colton.

And I know that there’s zero satisfaction in walking away with the knowledge that you were the better wrestler, and that it's of little consolation to be reminded that you’re not the only one to be fucked over. At the same time, there’s no point lamenting over the way things “should be”, when we already know that there’s no amount of words that can ever be expected to change anything in an industry where the average fan can’t remember anything past two weeks ago.

Be as it may, you and I will always know the real reason the two of us are mired within the wrestling limbo that is the Colossus mid-card, instead of either one of us headlining the first night.

We were robbed, because we’re too good at what we do.

Nothing I’m not already used to, after a lifetime of being dealt one bullshit hand after another.

But it taught me something, Colton. Loss alone isn’t what defines us; it’s about how we deal with it. Dealing with my own is what motivated me into becoming the athlete I am. One that can hang with PRIME’s best.

So, despite our mutual circumstances, I happen to see a real opportunity before us at Colossus.

Not everyone has a choice in their opponent for the greatest wrestling event of the year, so I want you to understand that choosing you, Colton, was not a decision that was made lightly.

I agreed to this match because you’re one of few in this company I can say I respect on some level. Because like me, you’re a straight-shooter, regardless of what anyone thinks or says. Because like me, it’s important to you that what you do comes with a degree of legitimacy. Because like me, you don’t feel the need to compromise and become part of the circus just to get noticed. Because like me, you’ve been wronged, and you’re chomping at the bit to do something about it.

And most important of all, like me, you’re someone who was brought up from a place where this sport was considered ‘the family business’. Because only someone like you can understand what it’s like to be a generational talent. To live with that constant, nagging feeling of insignificance.

As though no matter what we accomplish on individual levels, we’ll still always be living in the shadows of our fathers.

Only someone like you could I trust to be a worthy opponent at the show of shows. You’re one of a precious few in this industry I can rely on to bring out the best in me.

Because like I said, Colton… I’m no stranger to loss.

And by the look of things, neither are you. Only unlike you, I don’t intend to stay in this scrum of mediocrity any longer than I have to be.

So be prepared to be handed another at Colossus, when PRIME’s Emerald Apex outshines its Next Diamond.