Post by -U- on Oct 9, 2017 14:53:13 GMT -5
Unidentified
Unknown
Unclassified
Unwanted
Unloved
Unpredictable
The doorway provides little protection against the driving rain.
Only the very back of the doorway is sheltered. The man curls up in a seated position as best he can – huddled deep into the corner. At least his head is dry.
The irregular drip-drop-----drip---drip-drop runs off the lintel above and onto the polyester below. Holes in the withered well-used sleeping bag leak water. Underneath, his two layers of trousers and sock are all sodden. He tries to get some sleep but he knows he will be moved on soon. He is always moved on from this spot as the fans start to leave.
This, however, is his favourite place to be. Sure, it wasn’t warm, dry or comfortable. As a homeless he can go wherever he wants. They are numerous hostels nearby where he could take a room for the night. But on fight night, there is still nowhere else he would want to be.
The cheers, the boos, the songs and the chants – he remembers when they used to be directed at him. He reminisces about the time when he used to walk onto the stage and stand in the ring. Now the closest he can get is leaning against the Backstage door with his ear pressed against the wood, listening to the pops and imagining he is inside. The final bell rings – he remembers when he was the last man standing in the ring after main eventing a huge show.
The wrestling fans pour out of the arena. As the walk past, they dump their litter by the man. Sweet wrappers sticky, sandwich packaging still covered in mayonnaise and plastic cups with dregs of beers all thrown around him. It is not out of hate or disgust. It was purely out of ignorance. People are just not aware of his presence.
Wrestling has moved on and left him behind.
Wrestlers nowadays are a new breed. He is an extinct one.
He remembers when promoters used to call him to book him for an event. He remembers when wrestlers did not converse with fans other than a brief autograph signing between the backstage door and the car.
Now, without an email address, a wrestler would never secure any work. Now, with smartphones in their pockets, wrestlers communicate with fans directly via social media – building personalities and angles; selling merch and brands - 24 hours a day.
The homeless man doesn’t have a physical address, email address, twitter, snapchat or even a phone number. The only thing he can do to cling onto his wrestling life is to sit outside an arena, trying to relive those moments.
An hour after the final bell had rung and the fans have dispersed back into the city, the backstage door opens and out walk the performers, one after another. Each one, transfixed to their phones, completely ignore the homeless man slumped outside the arena. They are too concerned with posting selfies of themselves modelling their latest t-shirts, or liking GIFs of them hitting finishers earlier in the night. They do not have the time or desire to worry about, never mind help, one of their own who has hit the hardest of hard times.
As the last few wrestlers and staff exit the arena, the homeless man finds the energy and plucks up the courage to shuffle over to them. His intention is not to ask for money or food. He does not even want to introduce himself and ask if they remember him from days gone by. All he wants is to ask about how the show went.
But as he opens his mouth to ask, he is shut down immediately by the 20-something slick-haired track suited performer. “Sorry mate, I gotta go” he says without even raising his eyes to look at him. One more time, the homeless man had been ignored and disregarded. Where once he belonged, he now means nothing.
Worthless. Purposeless. Broken.
The man staggers away from the arena. The night had just become even darker. His mind, goes blank. No reminiscing of his wrestling past. No frustration or anger. No hope.
He wanders aimlessly along the streets of London – reaching Blackfriars bridge crossing the River Thames. He stops halfway across before lifting his head and looking out over the water.
As traffic zooms past and pedestrians stroll by, the man begins to climb onto the stone wall. No one notices as he mounts the wall and drapes his legs over the edge. Peering over the edge, he stares into the dark cold abyss of the river below. On a night like this, the temperature of the water would be close to freezing. If he were to fall in, he would only be able to survive for about 15 minutes; less if he didn’t struggle. A couple of mouthfuls of ice cold water would surely quicken the process. Jumping in whilst enveloped in his sleeping bag would surely help him sink.
He has his own deadly intentions.
He considers ending it all. He contemplates taking his own life.
No one was around to help. No one would realise if he left this world. No one would care.
Gripping the metal handrail, he begins to pull himself up onto the stone wall. One leg and then the other, he climbs up and sits on the edge – his legs dangling over the edge. He remains seated, wrapped in his sleeping bag, looking down between his legs. When he had thought about what suicide might look like in the past, he always felt like there must only be two scenarios. He imagined that this moment was either full of terror and regret – thousands of conflicting messages shooting through his consciousness; or complete emptiness and peace; a contented coming to terms with the end.
However, it was not like that at all. No confusion. No fear. He has just one vivid thought – a thought of such extraordinary clarity that he had never experienced before. Perhaps this is what others refer to as a revelation. As he stares down the River Thames across London; the city lights shimmering of the calm waters; he realises there is a world of potential around him. Looking back towards the arena, he glances once again through the Backstage door - still a few inches ajar. A divine glow penetrates from within. The light at the end of the tunnel.
Drawn to the light, the man lifts his legs back over the wall and drops down back onto the bridge. He begins to stumble back towards the building, his sleeping bag getting caught under his feet as he shuffles forward. As the trailing sleeping bag limits his progress, he throws it off his shoulders, ditching it on the pavement. With his stride no longer impaired, his limp eases and a fuller stride is formed. The autumn air suddenly doesn’t seem so bitter.
He leans against the wall, peering through the door. The lights in the venue are gradually turned off one by one leaving only the ring illuminated – a beacon of hope in a dark world.
An optimistic thought entered his head for the first time in a long time.
Perhaps there was a way out of this. Maybe he could get his life back.
One last effort. One last run.
One more rumble.
He turns his dark thoughts from himself to others.
He turns his Deadly Intentions back towards Pure Class Wrestling.
Unknown
Unclassified
Unwanted
Unloved
Unpredictable
The doorway provides little protection against the driving rain.
Only the very back of the doorway is sheltered. The man curls up in a seated position as best he can – huddled deep into the corner. At least his head is dry.
The irregular drip-drop-----drip---drip-drop runs off the lintel above and onto the polyester below. Holes in the withered well-used sleeping bag leak water. Underneath, his two layers of trousers and sock are all sodden. He tries to get some sleep but he knows he will be moved on soon. He is always moved on from this spot as the fans start to leave.
This, however, is his favourite place to be. Sure, it wasn’t warm, dry or comfortable. As a homeless he can go wherever he wants. They are numerous hostels nearby where he could take a room for the night. But on fight night, there is still nowhere else he would want to be.
The cheers, the boos, the songs and the chants – he remembers when they used to be directed at him. He reminisces about the time when he used to walk onto the stage and stand in the ring. Now the closest he can get is leaning against the Backstage door with his ear pressed against the wood, listening to the pops and imagining he is inside. The final bell rings – he remembers when he was the last man standing in the ring after main eventing a huge show.
The wrestling fans pour out of the arena. As the walk past, they dump their litter by the man. Sweet wrappers sticky, sandwich packaging still covered in mayonnaise and plastic cups with dregs of beers all thrown around him. It is not out of hate or disgust. It was purely out of ignorance. People are just not aware of his presence.
Wrestling has moved on and left him behind.
Wrestlers nowadays are a new breed. He is an extinct one.
He remembers when promoters used to call him to book him for an event. He remembers when wrestlers did not converse with fans other than a brief autograph signing between the backstage door and the car.
Now, without an email address, a wrestler would never secure any work. Now, with smartphones in their pockets, wrestlers communicate with fans directly via social media – building personalities and angles; selling merch and brands - 24 hours a day.
The homeless man doesn’t have a physical address, email address, twitter, snapchat or even a phone number. The only thing he can do to cling onto his wrestling life is to sit outside an arena, trying to relive those moments.
An hour after the final bell had rung and the fans have dispersed back into the city, the backstage door opens and out walk the performers, one after another. Each one, transfixed to their phones, completely ignore the homeless man slumped outside the arena. They are too concerned with posting selfies of themselves modelling their latest t-shirts, or liking GIFs of them hitting finishers earlier in the night. They do not have the time or desire to worry about, never mind help, one of their own who has hit the hardest of hard times.
As the last few wrestlers and staff exit the arena, the homeless man finds the energy and plucks up the courage to shuffle over to them. His intention is not to ask for money or food. He does not even want to introduce himself and ask if they remember him from days gone by. All he wants is to ask about how the show went.
But as he opens his mouth to ask, he is shut down immediately by the 20-something slick-haired track suited performer. “Sorry mate, I gotta go” he says without even raising his eyes to look at him. One more time, the homeless man had been ignored and disregarded. Where once he belonged, he now means nothing.
Worthless. Purposeless. Broken.
The man staggers away from the arena. The night had just become even darker. His mind, goes blank. No reminiscing of his wrestling past. No frustration or anger. No hope.
He wanders aimlessly along the streets of London – reaching Blackfriars bridge crossing the River Thames. He stops halfway across before lifting his head and looking out over the water.
As traffic zooms past and pedestrians stroll by, the man begins to climb onto the stone wall. No one notices as he mounts the wall and drapes his legs over the edge. Peering over the edge, he stares into the dark cold abyss of the river below. On a night like this, the temperature of the water would be close to freezing. If he were to fall in, he would only be able to survive for about 15 minutes; less if he didn’t struggle. A couple of mouthfuls of ice cold water would surely quicken the process. Jumping in whilst enveloped in his sleeping bag would surely help him sink.
He has his own deadly intentions.
He considers ending it all. He contemplates taking his own life.
No one was around to help. No one would realise if he left this world. No one would care.
Gripping the metal handrail, he begins to pull himself up onto the stone wall. One leg and then the other, he climbs up and sits on the edge – his legs dangling over the edge. He remains seated, wrapped in his sleeping bag, looking down between his legs. When he had thought about what suicide might look like in the past, he always felt like there must only be two scenarios. He imagined that this moment was either full of terror and regret – thousands of conflicting messages shooting through his consciousness; or complete emptiness and peace; a contented coming to terms with the end.
However, it was not like that at all. No confusion. No fear. He has just one vivid thought – a thought of such extraordinary clarity that he had never experienced before. Perhaps this is what others refer to as a revelation. As he stares down the River Thames across London; the city lights shimmering of the calm waters; he realises there is a world of potential around him. Looking back towards the arena, he glances once again through the Backstage door - still a few inches ajar. A divine glow penetrates from within. The light at the end of the tunnel.
Drawn to the light, the man lifts his legs back over the wall and drops down back onto the bridge. He begins to stumble back towards the building, his sleeping bag getting caught under his feet as he shuffles forward. As the trailing sleeping bag limits his progress, he throws it off his shoulders, ditching it on the pavement. With his stride no longer impaired, his limp eases and a fuller stride is formed. The autumn air suddenly doesn’t seem so bitter.
He leans against the wall, peering through the door. The lights in the venue are gradually turned off one by one leaving only the ring illuminated – a beacon of hope in a dark world.
An optimistic thought entered his head for the first time in a long time.
Perhaps there was a way out of this. Maybe he could get his life back.
One last effort. One last run.
One more rumble.
He turns his dark thoughts from himself to others.
He turns his Deadly Intentions back towards Pure Class Wrestling.