PWP 19: McBride vs. Savannah

OOC: All the best to you, Savannah; looking forward to seeing what you come up with!

---

378 days.

Once I get to Philadelphia and battle Savannah in my Pro Wrestling Project debut, that’s how long it will have been since my last match, down in good ol’ Dallas, Texas with Pride and Honor Wrestling.

In regular terms, that’s a long time. In wrestling speak, that makes me rusty and a sitting duck, right? I certainly wouldn’t begrudge or blame anyone for thinking that.

You’d just be wrong, that’s all; it happens all the time, there’s no shame in it.

The last year and change has given me a lot of time to think about my future, whether it’s in this line of work or doing something else. I have always loved and appreciated the professional wrestling business, but it became my escape when I was looking at a point of no return in my early days of adulthood.

After Pride and Honor closed down, it would have been really easy to say I was done with the business altogether after a decent career; after all, having a loving wife and five-year-old daughter really changes the equation from a real-life perspective, particularly for those, like me, who want to be able to remember all the little things that make parenthood great.

But then there’s the other part of my mind; the part that tells me I will forever be in debt to the business because it gave me an out when nothing else did. That part of my brain tells me I need to step through the ropes again and go until I can’t, which is how I’ve always done things.

That’s how I carved out the life I have right now, and that’s the reason I’m coming back to wrestling.

There’s no Rocky montage, no smoke and mirrors, no running up the Museum of Arts steps, none of that.

It’s just me and the ring at this point, and there’s really no other feeling like there in that moment. I’ve missed it, and I’m ready to be a force again.

So Savannah, even though I’ve stayed away from competition, let me assure you that I’m no sitting duck. I am someone to be taken seriously, and I’m about to make up for lost time.

---

February 4, 2016
Caffe Artigiano
Vancouver, B.C.
12:26 p.m.

“You’re what?!?!”

That voice, somewhat incredulous in nature, belongs to my wife, Lindsay Theriault-Robson. Everybody in the cafe knows that voice now, as their eyes turn their attention to our table. I just shake my head, not allowing anyone else to bother me.

“I can’t not think about it, at least,” I protest, sensing the anxiety in her voice.

“I get that,” she says before taking a sip of her coffee. “But wrestling for you has been a real stop-start thing lately.”

“I know, but I have to at least consider it,” I respond. “I trust Frankie implicitly; it wasn’t her fault Pride and Honor closed.”

“Yes, but she was associated with it,” Lindsay retorts; I sense a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Do you really want to go through what happened in Dallas again?”

I take a bite of my Belgian waffles before answering; I can tell she has her doubts.

“I know, and you’re totally right,” I say after washing down the waffles. “But as far as I know, I’m only intended to be in on a one-off basis, so it’s not like I’m going to uproot everything again.”

I reach across the table and put my hand on her wrist.

“It’ll be alright, I swear,” I say reassuringly. “I know how important stability is, and I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought it was going to jeopardize any of that.”

“You know, there isn’t much time before Cece starts going to school,” Lindsay says, referencing our daughter. “You don’t know how much of this time you’ll have with her.”

“That’s actually why I’m thinking about it,” I answer, “I know life changes once she’s in school, and I want to be there to help her when she needs it. Plus, we don’t have to worry about that right now.”

My wife falls silent; I know she’s not super happy with me, but I can see in her eyes that she’s processing what I’m saying. Just as she opens her mouth to respond…

“Hi, Daddy!”

I look to see Cecilia Jade Robson, my daughter and my reason for being, coming back to the table after washing her hands. She grabs her fork and digs into her scrambled eggs, happily munching away on her brunch.

My wife gives me the smirk to suggest our discussion will continue later, but for now, it’s a happy family brunch.

“Daddy,” Cecilia pipes up between bites, “Are you ever going to work again?”

Lindsay and I both freeze; our eyes dart from each other to Cecilia, who continues to eat rather innocently.

“Well, before I answer that, don’t talk with food in your mouth, please,” I say, trying to turn this situation around. “And Daddy might be working again soon.”

Cecilia’s eyes light up when I say that; even though she didn’t really understand what I was doing when she was younger, she could tell it was a place where I had fun, so it was something she enjoyed, too.

“Yay!” she says, pinching my face, “You’ll do good, I know you will!”

I offer a sheepish grin to my wife, who simply rolls her eyes knowing there’s no longer a need to continue our discussion.

“So where are you going for this?” Lindsay asks, still somewhat unsettled in her speech.

“Philadelphia.”

There’s a sudden pause; one look into Lindsay’s eyes tells me she didn’t like hearing that.

“Oh… OK,” she says nervously. “Will you be OK there?”

“I’ve been there plenty of times,” I say without hesitation, “I’m a big boy, I can handle it. I know it can be scary sometimes, but we’re in a nice part of town, so everything will be fine.”

“They appreciate what we do, and there’s really no other place like it.”

I take my wife’s hand again; I know she’s not a fan of any of this, but she allows a faint smile to grace her face.

“I trust you,” she says with a nod. That’s all the reassuring I needed, though I feel my daughter tugging on the sleeve of my shirt.

“Can I come with you?” she asks hopefully. I look at my wife with a smirk; a simple nod from her is all I need.

“We’ll all go,” I tell her, “Then how does Disneyworld sound?”

With an excited squeal from my daughter and a smirk with arched eyebrow from my wife, I think I know the answer.

It’s the kind of memory you cherish as your child grows up, and with Cecilia growing up as fast as she has, it’s the kind of chance I may not have again.

---

February 22, 2016
The Pavilion
Villanova University
Villanova, Pennsylvania
7:52 p.m.

The buzz of the crowd here is palpable, and it’s certainly no coincidence; Philadelphia loves its fighting, no matter what kind of ring it is. Tonight, it’s an American Championship Pro Wrestling show, and given its roots are in the city, it’s easy to understand why the locals take such a shine to it.

However, as the ring announcer is about to indicate an intermission, the locals don’t know what else they’re in for. Clad in a Bobby Clarke Philadelphia Flyers jersey and the trademark beanie and orange ski goggles, I likely wouldn’t have a problem blending in here; it’s certainly not the doom and gloom Bruce Springsteen sang about all those years ago.

As I approach the gorilla position, the showrunner looks up at me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks gruffly, his eyes barely leaving his show plan. I simply nod, which gets his attention.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he says, peering up at me over his glasses, “These are some of the most hostile fans in the world, and they’re not afraid to give it to you.”

“And I’m not afraid to give them exactly what they want,” I retort with a cocked eyebrow, pulling my goggles over my eyes. “Hit it.”

With nothing more than a nod, the showrunner pushes a button, and out of the sound system blares…

‘I KNOW THAT I’M GONNA BE YOUR DANGEROUS SIDE EFFECT!!!’

Josh Homme’s echoing voice fades into the blistering tones of ‘Sideways Attack’ by Priestess, and the fans go nuts as the Pavilion plunges into darkness save for a few pulsing strobe lights. As the breakdown hits, I storm through the curtain, basking in the adoration from a knowledgeable Philadelphia crowd, already chanting ‘D-S-E!’ as I bow my head and go down into my customary crouch with the strobe lights focused in on me.

The drums kick back in, and I race through the tight entrance area and dive into the ring under the bottom rope, doing a barrel roll to get to one knee, where I pause to soak in a completely unexpected ovation; when you’ve wrestled less than 10 matches in five years, it’s easy to be forgotten in this business.

Not here, apparently.

‘Sideways Attack’ fades out, and I get to my feet as the house lights come back to normal, again basking in a moment I wasn’t sure would ever happen again. Knowing my wife and daughter are out there in the crowd makes this moment extra special as I take a microphone from a ringside attendant.

“Surprise?” I say with a wink and a shrug, prompting yet another raucous ‘D-S-E!’ chant from the locals. That’s an amazing feeling, one that nearly brings a tear to my eye. I have to take another deep breath before I start talking again, doing what I can to keep my emotions in check.

“So yes, the word’s out, and I’ll be back in the ring for the first time in over a year, this time in the Pro Wrestling Project with a fellow West Coast wrestler, a woman known simply as Savannah,” I continue, slowly pacing around the ring as I speak. “The Wild Cat, she calls herself. Say, how does that nickname sit with you, Nova?”

There’s a mixed reaction, though I’d call it 60-40 applause; they’re very protective of their monikers here in Philadelphia.

“That’s fair, that’s fair,” I say, raising my hand to my shoulder. “From everything I’ve seen, she’s a hell of a competitor. If my math is right, this will be her 15th Pro Wrestling Project show out of about 25, which would make her one of the most recognizable faces on the roster.”

“Yet she’s saddled with defending what’s basically her home turf against yet another promotion newcomer, and that can’t be fun.”

I walk over toward the corner furthest from the entrance area, and I take a seat atop the turnbuckle as the fans try to make sense of what I’m saying.

“Savannah… Trust me, I get it,” I say knowingly. “I, or anybody else like me, would probably be the last person you’d want to see across the ring. I’m sure you’d love another shot at the likes of Ian Rothburn right now, especially since he’s the one holding the PWP Championship.”

There’s a nice cheer for Rothburn; a lot of people weren’t sure what to think of him in Texas, but anyone who’s been around him knows he’s good, so it’s nice to hear that reaction for him.

“I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on Tala Multo, too,” I continue, maintaining the crowd’s interest. “Even though Mister Grey will piss me off until the end of time, Tala’s one of the best female competitors I’ve ever competed against, not to mention one of today’s female standard-bearers, so that would be a hell of a litmus test, too.”

That yields a mixed reaction; boos for Multo, but a split verdict at the thought of a potentially great match.

“Instead, you’re left with me,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “I know you’ll probably put on the brave face and say you’ll fight any and all comers, but you know deep down you can do better than me, right?”

The audience is slightly confused by what I’m getting at, though they’re still buzzing with anticipation.

“Tell me, do you feel overlooked, as if another match with a newcomer is yet another sweet nothing, for lack of a better term?” I ask methodically, staring pointedly into the distance. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to antagonize you; that’s not my style. In fact, I wouldn’t blame you for feeling that way, as I probably would feel the same in your position.”

All I can do is nod once more, and the audience continues to be foggy on what I’m trying to say. I get down off the turnbuckle and move back to the middle of the ring, an intense look on my face.

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not one for sentimentality when the bell rings, so I WILL BE DAMNED IF I ROLL OVER FOR YOU,” I bellow, getting the audience’s attention. “That’s not in my DNA; I am a FIGHTER through and through, and the world’s most passionate fight fans know it.”

Yeah, it might be a cheap pop at the mention of the city, but it certainly got a confused audience engaged once again, as I hear alternating chants of ‘ROBB! ROBB! ROBB!’ and ‘D-S-E! D-S-E!’ reverberating through the building.

“After all, THIS IS PHILADELPHIA!” I exclaim, again getting a rise out of the audience. “This is the place where tragedy meets triumph, agony meets ecstasy, and A WHITE FLAG IS MET WITH A MIDDLE FINGER AND A LIGHTER!”

If the fans were out of it before, they’re not now; the alternating chants continue, and I scratch my head and smirk, trying to figure out what to say next.

“From Will Smith’s playgrounds to the Liberty Bell and everywhere in between, Philadelphia is the poster child for uncompromising pride,” I say calmly. “I can’t think of a better place to make my in-ring comeback, I really can’t.”

There’s a nice round of applause for that line, as these fans understand when someone’s speaking from the heart.

“Take Christopher Falcone, for example,” I begin, getting a few cheers from some of the locals. “Not many people know his name, but that guy embodies Philly. Sure, he came out a little worse for wear after some time in the penalty box with Tie Domi...”

That name draws some boos from the audience, and I can't help but laugh.

“...But that's not what makes him authentically Philly,” I explain, trying to save my bacon. “That guy was persistent, loyal, and proud to call himself a Flyers fan, and it's that uncompromising belief that makes me appreciate this city through thick and thin.”

That gets the crowd back on my side with a nice round of applause. I run my other hand through my hair before raising the microphone to my mouth once again.

“For every Roxanne Chalifoux, there’s a Rocky Balboa,” I continue, my pacing now getting quicker as I get increasingly amped up along with the audience. “For every Mitch Williams in 1993...”

Not surprisingly, that name nearly gets me booed out of the building. It probably has something to do with me being Canadian, but that's a wound nobody would want to re-open.

“For every Mitch Williams in 1993, I'll give you Cole Hamels in 2008,” I say, once again trying to save myself before yelling “AND FOR EVERY 2010 STANLEY CUP FINAL, I’LL SHOW YOU THE BROAD STREET GODDAMN BULLIES!”

I tug on my jersey as I speak, eliciting a solid roar from the crowd; some of them even start singing 'God Bless America,' for some reason. The crowd dies down a few seconds later, and I bow my head to talk.

“And yet, there’s one triumph… One Shining Moment, if you will…” I pause, as some of the fans understand where I’m going, and they cheer accordingly. “One Philadelphia sports moment where the story will not only endure for generations to come, but it also encapsulates everything I am as a professional wrestler, and oddly enough, it made my birth only the second greatest thing to happen on that particular date.”

There’s a laugh from the crowd about that last remark, and I can’t stop a sheepish grin from crossing my face, knowing I’ve just dated myself.

“It’s about a little team… You might know them, the Villanova men’s basketball Wildcats…” I pause for a moment to embrace the building excitement before bellowing, “...And the date is APRIL FIRST, NINETEEN EIGHTY-FIVE!”

I point to the banner hanging in the rafters as the fans go berserk; there’s a certain reverence for a historical team, and I can’t help but smirk as I see this happening in living colour with a ‘LET’S GO WILDCATS!’ chant mixed in with a loud ovation.

“You know where I’m going with this one,” I say with a knowing smile, “Villanova was the team nobody gave ANY SHOT at the NCAA Tournament, yet they fought… They persevered… They got to the title game against the Georgetown Hoyas, armed with the biggest dog in the yard in Patrick Ewing.”

The mere mention of that name draws a boisterous catcall from the locals, as they tend not to forget these kinds of things.

“I mean, nobody gave them a chance,” I muse, much to the audience’s dismay. “There were Georgetown National Champions t-shirts floating around, I’m sure some of you remember that.”

The boos continue to rain down; I have to hold my hands up to stop the locals from getting too angry with me.

“And yet, YOUR Wildcats proved the old adage true: It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog,” I continue, amidst a strong ‘GO CATS GO!’ chant from the Villanova contingent. “They seized their moment, cut down the nets, and forever immortalized themselves with one of the GREATEST TRIUMPHS OF ALL-TIME.”

There’s a certain mania that hits the crowd at this point; some are cheering, while others have burst out into various Villanova songs. Though I’m loving what I’m seeing, I lower my hand to try and quiet the fans down at least a little bit so I can get back on track.

“To tie this back to next week,” I say as the fans finally start to calm down. “Savannah, you’re a strong competitor from everything I’ve seen, and with a couple of Hardcore Championships in your past, I know you’re not afraid to get down and dirty.”

There’s a cheer for that, followed by a brief ‘DOWN AND DIRTY’ chant; only in Philadelphia, I guess.

“Here’s the thing about me, though: I am the personification of sacrifice in the name of success, in and out of the ring,” I say, earning another strong cheer for my efforts. “In fact, it’s pretty easy to sum me up in one phrase, and you guys might be able to help me out with this one.”

I shake my head laugh to myself briefly, realizing the magnitude of what I’m about to do as the crowd’s energy continues to build. I bring the microphone to my mouth, my eyes darting from one side of the crowd to the other.

“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIT’S A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH AND AN EYE FOR AN EYE AND A V FOR A…”

The crowd sings along with me, finishing the line with “V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!” before launching into the final verse of ‘V for Villanova.’ I look out into the crowd leaning over the ropes, holding my microphone high in one hand and conducting with the other as I watch the fans proudly belt out their fight song.

They finish and offer another loud ovation; I simply return it with some clapping of my own before taking a deep breath and bringing the microphone to my mouth and bowing my head.

“Savannah, you might just dismiss me as yet another Pride and Honor retread, and you can, if you want,” I say calmly as the audience starts to buzz once more. “I wouldn’t advise it, though. Anyone who’s wrestled against me no matter where I’ve been, win or lose, understands that I TEAR THE HOUSE DOWN EVERY SINGLE TIME… And that overlooking me will ALWAYS come with VERY…”

The knowledgeable Philadelphia crowd takes it from here...

“Dangerous…”

With a smirk on my face, I bow my head toward the microphone, looking out at the crowd through piercing eyes.

“Side Effects.”

‘Sideways Attack’ kicks in again, and I drop the mic in the ring to thunderous applause. Instead of heading for backstage right away, I pause for a few minutes to soak in the admiration. In that moment, I'm somehow able to pick out my wife and daughter applauding in the crowd. It’s hard to believe I’m back in this environment again, and I’m not about to let this moment go to waste.

I finally roll out of the ring, where I see a young boy amongst the fans behind the barricade who can’t be any more than 11 years old wearing a Flyers shirsey. I take off my Clarke jersey and give it to him, messing his hair up for good measure. I want to be a positive role model for kids, much the same way I’d love for my daughter to see me as a positive influence.

After all, that’s why I’m doing this.