▶A Proper Perspective
In the morning hours…
My eyes refuse to focus for a moment, and I recall that they work better when they’re both open. Reaching to the other side of the bed, I’m not greeted by my partner, but, instead, my four foot long hammerhead shark stuffie fills my hands, and I sit up with a start.
Wait.
Yeah.
No.
I’m home.
Before Infernalia 8, I weighed my options for what made the most sense.
Savannah was out. Of course I miss my home, my friends, my guy… but if I went back there, I’d fall back into my real life and I wouldn’t be prepared for this match.
The city was out. With Infernalia 9 being held at Hammerstein, I could’ve landed at LaGuardia and been downtown before last call at TC’s, and crashed in the loft at the bar. But, again, I would definitely fall into a non-productive pattern of late night shenanigans and hangover brunches. Revertigo is a real thing and there’s enough people in the city who I’d feel an obligation to see if I was there for more than just a day.
So I made the executive decision to rent a car and drive the five hours from Buffalo to Warwick, NY, and spend the night in my own fortress of solitude.
“MJ, coffee’s on.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
Otherwise known as my old bedroom at my parent’s house.
It will probably never not amaze me that the bedroom I called my own between ages five and nineteen is bigger than my entire current apartment that I share with two other living beings. But, in retrospect at least, I appreciated being relegated to a converted attic as I grew up. With the recording studio in the basement and musicians of all stripes constantly wandering the house, it was important to my parents that I have the option to be as removed from the hubbub as I possibly could.
After sending a good morning text to Kevin, and a thumbs up emoji to Caledonia’s message about safely landing in Florida, I don my old bathrobe and slippers and reenter the controlled chaos of my childhood.
“Hey, MJ!”
“Two fists up!”
“What’s up, girl?”
“Is that Mariella?”
When my parents bought this house, the first thing they did was completely renovate and overhaul the basement to turn it into a recording studio, both for Valerian’s Garden and for anyone who wanted to rent the space. It was a good deal: tiny bands with limited budgets could record for cheap in a safe neighborhood with plenty of living space. As those bands have gotten bigger, a lot of them stuck around because of the positive relationship that had developed.
At this moment, it looked like Dormitory Effect was here, recording what has to be their sixth or seventh album.
“What’s up, Gee?” I asked the drummer, giving her a hug, “Yeah, I’m just here for a few days before my next spot. The other three women in the band offered a handshake or a fist bump as was their custom, and I was cool with it.
Less talking: more coffee-ing. Mommy was staring out the back door at a bird on the fence, and I poured myself a mug and hugged her from behind.
“Hey, small fry,” she says, “How’d you sleep?”
“Ridiculously,” I reply, “What’s been going on?”
She shrugs as I join her, staring out the door. “Your dad is insistent on a cookout this weekend. He’s out at the butcher getting three more racks of ribs since you’re going to be here.”
And she cocks her head towards me a bit. “Did you want to invite any of your local friends?”
“Is that the kid?” bellows a familiar voice from the dining room.
“Yeah, Aunt Ivy, that’s me,” I reply.
“Come here a sec, k?”
“Man, everyone’s here this week, aren’t they?” I ask my mom, not really waiting for an answer. I drink half my mug in a gulp and walk towards the sturdy voice of a tiny blonde woman that intimidates everyone she meets for the first time. Aunt Ivy sits at the table, laptop in front of her, stacks of receipts next to her. She leans back when she sees me, and I sit.
“I know I haven’t come to visit you guys in Orlando in a while, but between work and school–”
I get cut off by her laptop, spun towards me. The words are written in plain black on a white background, but I can’t seem… to comprehend.
Former CWF World Champion Duce Jones Passes Away at 31
“Oh,” I reply, remembering Aunt Ivy had also met him before. I don’t have any other words.
“Oh damn.”
Two hours later…
CUE UP: “Walk” by Pantera.
“EMM JAY!”
I wave to the regulars as I push open the door of Crossfit Intrepid, my home away from home for ten years. They’ve been giving me a ‘Norm–from–Cheers’ welcome since I was nine years old, amused at the sight of this little prepubescent girl trying to exercise with the muscular freaks of nature.
But I earned their respect.
“Hey Tony,” I say to the trainer, fist bumping him, “is it cool if I do a drop-in?”
“You’re always welcome here, kiddo,” he replies, “you know that. How long you in town?”
“Just through next week,” I say. “Doin’ it again and there’s a show booked for Hammerstein.”
Tony nods, and points me to the check-in system, along with the WOD (workout-of-the-day).
30 Clean-and-Jerks (135/95 lb)
30 Muscle-Ups
30 Snatches (135/95 lb)
Time Cap: 12 Minutes
I sign in, drop my bag in the office, and join the rest of the class in their stretching.
Nine minutes and fifteen seconds later…
Sweat pours out my body from places I didn’t know I had places. It’s really my own fault, this was a last minute decision on my part to get up after too little sleep, but I needed to get out and do something strenuous that I wouldn’t have to think about.
Workout completed, we’re cheering on the last few stragglers while I chug water to the point that I’m bloated. I pat myself down with a towel and step away.
Camaraderie is the best thing about crossfit, but I’m really not feeling it today.
“You okay?” asks Tony, seeing me walk away and gesturing me into the office. He closes the door as I take a seat, and untangle my hair from the tie holding it in place.
“Yeah,” I say, distantly, “Just reevaluating some things.”
“Is it Duce?” he asks. I pause.
Why didn’t I think of that in the first place? Tony knew Duce, too.
I nod.
“I had this grand plan,” I explain, “Come back for Golden Intentions, maybe win, maybe not. But somehow, get myself a match at Wrestlefest against Caledonia and see how I fare against the absolute best wrestler still in this company. I got part 1, I got part 2, I got a warm up match at Infernalia… and now one of my old friends, like… literally my first ally in this company… he’s just not here anymore?”
I shake my head. “It’s hard to accept, is all.”
Tony smiles at me. “You know, your dad and the Elder Jones came back here a few times?”
That stops me in my tracks.
“Yeah,” continues Tony, “your dad told me that he and Allen Jones had crossed paths before, and they had a few sparring matches on the mat out in the gym.”
“He never told me,” I say to the world, not necessarily aimed at Tony.
“I tried to take a few pictures to send you, but your dad told me no,” continued Tony, “Said that he and Jones were just two old men reliving the past, and that you and Duce needed to face the future.”
I feel a firm pat on the back between my shoulder blades: a reassuring gesture from an old friend. “He’s not wrong, either,” says Tony, as he leaves me sitting in the office alone.
Face the future…
With a start, I bolt out of my seat and power walk to the locker room, picking up my phone and scrolling my contacts.
“Hey, Cali?” I ask, listening to her response.
…
“Yeah. Yeah, I heard about Duce.”
…
“No, not really. Kind of in shock, actually. Listen, I had a thought, can you get to Warwick in the next couple of days?”
…
“My parent’s house.”
…
“No. Yeah, there’s room for you, Dan, and Eris.”
I smile.
“Sure. I’m at the gym right now, but I’ll ask my parents, and then call you back.”
Tag matches are a strange beast. Either you know your partner, or you don’t. Sounds simple, right? But it never is. Ever. Nobody in this sport has ever stepped into it as part of an established tag team. That’s just the way things go.
If you’re lucky, when you start your career, you make a friend. You’re friendly, you believe you can trust ‘em, you’ve got an ally. Things progress, you know each other’s moves and tendencies, and you’ve got yourself a partner.
And when you’ve got a good enough partner, you might become Champions.
I’m reminded, on the cusp of this most recent tag team match, that my partner was the first friend I made in this company. Caledonia and I just hit it off from the start; I think it had a lot to do with the fact that, at the time, we were the only two women in the locker room who were serious about our craft. Every other woman was working an angle: either they were playing a defined role to maintain their paycheck.
See: Zora Knight. See: Autumn Raven.
Or they were using professional wrestling as a stepping stone to something else. What, I don’t know. They stopped being relevant to me the second they stopped showing up.
See: Amber Ryan.
Not me, and not Caledonia. We both wanted to wrestle. If we won a Championship, all the better. But we wanted to be taken seriously as athletes in a sport that still had a long way to go.
Still does.
But my first tag team match in this company… against Jacehole Valentine and Freddie Styles… teamed up with Duce Jones.
My ally.
We had a lot to talk about back then. Both second generation wrestlers. Both outsiders, showing up for Modern Warfare to see where this crazy ride would end. Both screwed over by Jace Valentine’s arrogance during the course of that tournament.
Duce didn’t see an 18 year old rookie who originally forged her documents, he saw a fighter who refused to quit. He saw a fighter that earned his respect.
And he earned mine.
We teamed once or twice more after that, most significantly a three-on-three with Freddie Styles, against Dorian Hawkhurst, and the very much missed Ataxia and The Shadow. History tells the tale from there, I would go on to be a two-time CWF World Champion, while Duce and Freddie would be the best damn tag team in the company as the Smokin’ Aces, before finding singles successes of their own.
The same Freddie Styles who used to own one of those CWF World Tag Team Title belts. Shit happens, and life goes on… but it’s incredible to me how the future and the past are folding in on themselves.
And I think that spells trouble for the Peacock King.
Think about it. What do male peacocks do? They compete. They spread their feathers and strut like drag queens and do everything they can to be the one that gets the girlies to pay attention to them. If we’re being honest, that describes Jared Holmes to a T. Everything about him can be summed up by the words LOOK AT ME. PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
All of us are guilty of that to some degree; we’re all out here beating each other up in front of an audience, and that requires a certain amount.
But.
Babycakes.
Yellow Dog.
Tuck it back a bit.
Maybe not so far as Wade, who’s got it tucked back so far we can’t tell if he’s showing up to the arena drunk or dead. But that’s Florida Man for you.
Welcome back to the sport, by the way, Wade. Veterans should always be given the opportunity to step back in, make a little money, and see whether or not they can still go. But I have to be honest with you, and I hope you take this how it’s intended and not as a stereotypical slight from a youngster whose arrogance is overshadowing her ability.
I’ve never heard of you.
Please note, I don’t speak from arrogance. My first trip to a professional wrestling event happened when I was twelve days old. I was there for the mysterious bomb threat of Countdown to Oblivion 2003. I was there for CSWA’s Gold Rush. I was there when New Frontier Wrestling ended their second Ultratitle season with the most stacked event that’s ever happened in my lifetime. I got myself a fake ID and a forged letter of recommendation to start my career, because I needed to find out for myself if I could do it.
I say that to say this: I speak from experience. And to say that if you show up with your cargo shorts and laid back attitude of entitlement as a twenty year veteran… you’re going to be beaten, humiliated, and second guessing of your entire career.
I’m a two-time former CWF World Champion. Caledonia is a two-time former CWF World Champion. And I say that to say this: you do have something to prove in this match.
Prove that your current ego validates your past accomplishments.
Prove that a Hall of Famer of Yesterday, can step up and keep up with two of Today’s Best.
Prove that you’re here to be recognized as a legitimate competitor, and not a side piece in the Continuing Drama of Peacock Jerry against The Danger Boiz.
I had something to prove, Wade: I wrestled for the first time in over four years, lasted thirty minutes in Golden Intentions, eliminated five people, and came within minutes of being The Final Girl.
You have something to prove, Wade. Because if I can see through you, you’d best believe the fans can, as well.
And you showed your ass already.
If you can accurately remember that Caledonia won her first World Title by taking it from me, and then reduce me to a kid that you’re not here to give a test to, just so the locker room can tell me I’ve got heart, then whoever’s doing your research is making it clear you’ll just read whatever they put in front of you. If your preparation for this match involves reading the cliff notes of my Official CWF Biography, you’re just phoning it in.
Don’t do that. Laziness destroys reputations faster than one finger pins.
But I’ll be happy to be a test for you, Wade. See what the old man’s got. See if he can actually deliver instead of telling us shaggy dog stories about how he would’ve been a bigger name if he’d just gotten the opportunity.
You’ve got that opportunity now, baby bird. Make the most of it.
Because Caledonia and I, unlike yourself… have nothing to prove. We combine for four CWF World Championship reigns, and, if we lose to the CWF World Tag Team Champions, we’re still co-headlining Wrestlefest on the strength of our names alone - meaning I have headlined 100% of the Wrestlefest shows on which I’ve appeared.
But if you and Peacock Jerry lose to Cali and I?
You can clock how long it’ll take the CWF to forget your name with an egg timer.
Put that on your Hall of Fame plaque.
Three days later…
“I’ll get it,” I call to the rest of the house as the doorbell rings. It’s not like anyone else is going to move, Mom and Uncle TJ are deep in war strategy planning their fall tour, the basement is closed with the light on, and Daddy is puttering in the kitchen like he does.
“Hey!” I say to Caledonia, Eris, and Dan as the three enter, looking almost intimidated. It’s become clear to me that we do live in an unreasonably large house for a family of three; the extras are what make it necessary.
“Hello,” booms a voice from behind me as my dad approaches, “I’m MJ’s father Eli. Caledonia, we’ve met before but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”
He extends a hand to Eris and shakes theirs, before doing the same with Dan. It’s funny, everyone here is a professional wrestler but my dad’s size can still intimidate, no matter how hard he tries to be Just A Dad.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, we’ve got plenty of room upstairs and anything in the kitchen is fair game unless labeled. Just stay out of the basement.”
“That doesn’t sound too ominous,” jokes Caledonia, as I lead the trio to the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Nothing scary down there except a soundproof room,” replies my dad, as he heads up the stairs.
“You’re not helping,” calls Mom from the dining room.
I laugh. “So this is my life,” I explain, with an exaggerated shrug, “Maybe that explains why I am the way I am?”
“It… helps?” says Eris, and their deadpan delivery doesn’t help me figure out if they’re joking.
“Regardless, we have strategy to discuss,” I reply, “and I want to do something to pay tribute to Duce, I just haven’t thought of it yet.”
Cali claps me on the back as we walk. “All good, we’ll get there.”
And I know we will. We always do.