Post by Rick Majors on Feb 12, 2017 23:07:50 GMT -5
There’s a moment after a loss where you think about whether or not you actually want to do this again. Sometimes it’s fleeting – just a fraction of a second – and then it’s gone. But there are also times when it lasts much longer than that.
The older he gets, the longer those moments seem to last.
When he leaves the ring with his neck aching, or when he has trouble walking back to the locker room, the moment lasts a while. Is it all worth it? At that time, it's basically impossible to say it is. Every fibre of his being, every part of his heart, soul, and body says to hang 'em up. “You’re old. You’re tired. You don’t need to do this anymore. You never really have. Go get a consulting job or something.”
The moment is also a lot longer in losses that mean more. Of course, it’s not polite or politically correct to say that some matches mean more than others, but this is undeniably true. Some matches are more personal. No one ever wants to lose against a hated rival. No one ever wants to come up short against someone who has wronged them. He’s been there. He’s been there often. He’s lost matches to former friends who had stabbed him in the back. He’s been pinned by people who had injured him seriously in the past. He’s been defeated by rivals who have stalked his then-wife. He's failed at getting revenge. He's missed chances to prove a point. It's hurt. And it's made him question everything about himself and why he does this.
Then there are the losses that mean more because of what’s at stake. Coming up short in a title match always stings. Whether it’s missing out on a chance to hold gold or having to say goodbye to it, the moment lasts longer when a title is on the line.
For Rick Majors, his match against Seromine was basically a title match. No, the International Title wasn’t on the line, but it might as well have been. Defeating Seromine would have given Majors a legitimate claim at a title shot. Kelli Starr had won her match against the twisted preacher on the prior show, certainly setting herself up for a chance at the gold. Rick Majors wanted that chance as well.
And now he wasn’t going to get it.
Rick Majors has never won a title in Pure Class Wrestling. He’s had opportunities and he’s always come up short. At 45 years of age, he knew he wasn’t going to get many more chances to wear gold.
So why was he doing this? Why has he sacrificed everything in life for this sport? Friends, family, health... all gone. And why? He hasn’t held a championship in over seven years. There are kids who weren’t even wrestlers then who have wrestled their first matches, worked their way through the indies, and won titles in that time period. And he's been moving backwards.
Everyone knows that you slow down when you get older. Maybe he’s gotten so slow that it’s time to stop.
This particular moment of doubt lasted longer because of what had come before it. Rick Majors had been on a run like it was 2007, not 2017. He won the Deadly Rumble. He outlasted some of the biggest stars in PCW history to be the last man standing at Trauma 200. This was his opportunity. This was going to be a his breakthrough. He would no longer be denied. He was going to ride this wave of momentum to glory. Then he lost to Dan Fierce. Then he lost to Seromine.
Rick Majors can’t beat champions.
Rick Majors can’t be a champion.
His fleeting success was already so far behind him. The world was moving forward, as it always does, and he was being forgotten. Again he was floundering in the pack, failing to distance himself from the group. He had his chances. And he didn't capitalize on them. Again. This could very likely have been his last gasp. It was his final brush with success. And it crashed and burned. It was gone now.
It’s very easy to lose hope in situations like this. It’s easy to sulk and cry and retreat into yourself. Every part of you tells you that you should give up. It’s too hard. You’re tired. You’ll probably fail anyway. He’s had those feelings for years. He’s been filled with doubt for most of his adult life.
But he’s never once listened.
There have been countless moments where it would have been easier to quit, to stay down, to give up. But, for whatever reason, he keeps getting up. Time and time again, through heartbreak and sorrow and pain, he continues to trudge forward. It never gets any easier. In fact, these days, it’s becoming increasingly difficult. But he persists. There really isn’t any other option.
He’s not ready to lay down and die. Not yet. He’s not about to surrender. Not now. He will endure. And, one day, he will triumph.
The older he gets, the longer those moments seem to last.
When he leaves the ring with his neck aching, or when he has trouble walking back to the locker room, the moment lasts a while. Is it all worth it? At that time, it's basically impossible to say it is. Every fibre of his being, every part of his heart, soul, and body says to hang 'em up. “You’re old. You’re tired. You don’t need to do this anymore. You never really have. Go get a consulting job or something.”
The moment is also a lot longer in losses that mean more. Of course, it’s not polite or politically correct to say that some matches mean more than others, but this is undeniably true. Some matches are more personal. No one ever wants to lose against a hated rival. No one ever wants to come up short against someone who has wronged them. He’s been there. He’s been there often. He’s lost matches to former friends who had stabbed him in the back. He’s been pinned by people who had injured him seriously in the past. He’s been defeated by rivals who have stalked his then-wife. He's failed at getting revenge. He's missed chances to prove a point. It's hurt. And it's made him question everything about himself and why he does this.
Then there are the losses that mean more because of what’s at stake. Coming up short in a title match always stings. Whether it’s missing out on a chance to hold gold or having to say goodbye to it, the moment lasts longer when a title is on the line.
For Rick Majors, his match against Seromine was basically a title match. No, the International Title wasn’t on the line, but it might as well have been. Defeating Seromine would have given Majors a legitimate claim at a title shot. Kelli Starr had won her match against the twisted preacher on the prior show, certainly setting herself up for a chance at the gold. Rick Majors wanted that chance as well.
And now he wasn’t going to get it.
Rick Majors has never won a title in Pure Class Wrestling. He’s had opportunities and he’s always come up short. At 45 years of age, he knew he wasn’t going to get many more chances to wear gold.
So why was he doing this? Why has he sacrificed everything in life for this sport? Friends, family, health... all gone. And why? He hasn’t held a championship in over seven years. There are kids who weren’t even wrestlers then who have wrestled their first matches, worked their way through the indies, and won titles in that time period. And he's been moving backwards.
Everyone knows that you slow down when you get older. Maybe he’s gotten so slow that it’s time to stop.
This particular moment of doubt lasted longer because of what had come before it. Rick Majors had been on a run like it was 2007, not 2017. He won the Deadly Rumble. He outlasted some of the biggest stars in PCW history to be the last man standing at Trauma 200. This was his opportunity. This was going to be a his breakthrough. He would no longer be denied. He was going to ride this wave of momentum to glory. Then he lost to Dan Fierce. Then he lost to Seromine.
Rick Majors can’t beat champions.
Rick Majors can’t be a champion.
His fleeting success was already so far behind him. The world was moving forward, as it always does, and he was being forgotten. Again he was floundering in the pack, failing to distance himself from the group. He had his chances. And he didn't capitalize on them. Again. This could very likely have been his last gasp. It was his final brush with success. And it crashed and burned. It was gone now.
It’s very easy to lose hope in situations like this. It’s easy to sulk and cry and retreat into yourself. Every part of you tells you that you should give up. It’s too hard. You’re tired. You’ll probably fail anyway. He’s had those feelings for years. He’s been filled with doubt for most of his adult life.
But he’s never once listened.
There have been countless moments where it would have been easier to quit, to stay down, to give up. But, for whatever reason, he keeps getting up. Time and time again, through heartbreak and sorrow and pain, he continues to trudge forward. It never gets any easier. In fact, these days, it’s becoming increasingly difficult. But he persists. There really isn’t any other option.
He’s not ready to lay down and die. Not yet. He’s not about to surrender. Not now. He will endure. And, one day, he will triumph.
