16 October 2011
Terrence won today!
The final race of the season, and Terrence picks up his second victory of the year. And this win was even more satisfying and entertaining than his win back at LucasOil in July. Because not only did he win the race, and clinch the ARCA rookie of the year award, but Wesley Hamilton, through his own foolishness, knocked himself out of the championship.
I know, Schadenfreude is bad, but I honestly can’t help but feel it at this point. After all that Wesley and his insipid little wife did this year, from bullying Terrence on the track, to destroying my Evolution Title, it only felt right that trying to shove Terrence aside one last time cost Wesley the one thing he’d been chasing for the past six months. I met the champion, Matt Bronson in the victory lane celebrations after the race, and he seemed like such a nice, humble young man, with a brilliant career ahead of him.
But the tragic news coming from Las Vegas has cast a huge pall over what was supposed to be a day of celebration at the conclusion of another racing season. It was supposed to be a day of celebration at Vegas as well, the conclusion of IndyCar’s own season, but a horrific crash that claimed the life of driver Dan Wheldon turned it into a day of tragedy- one that will rock the racing world, no matter the series or the kind of car driven.
Even though Wheldon lived nearby in Carmel for a few years, and had an affinity for racing in Indianapolis, I had never met the man, although most I’d talked to who have said that he was a wonderful person. His loss is a loss for all of us, but what hit me the hardest was that he was thirty-three... just a year older than Terrence. And he’s leaving behind a wife and two children.
It’s the greatest nightmare I’ve ever had, being played out on someone elses stage, broadcast via the national sports media. Already the blame game has begun- there were too many cars on the track, Las Vegas is too fast for IndyCar, they wanted a spectacle, and they got one. Or was it just some freak accident? Replays of the crash are being shown time and again, as if showing a vehicle cartwheeling through the air and bursting into flames is going to make things any better.
But all I can think about is the woman who lost her husband, and the children who will grow up never knowing their father. That- god forbid- could be me one day. It could be any of the other thousands of women who watch their husbands put on a helmet and strap themselves into a small, fiberglass and metal casing, simply because it’s what they love to do.
Or maybe it will one day be Terrence, receiving Twitter messages and blogposts from people he’d never met before in his life, an outpouring of public support in his moment of grief. After all, wrestling is a dangerous sport as well, and we’ve have had no shortage of our own tragedies. But unlike auto-racing, there is no push in pro wrestling to make things more safe. If anything its the opposite. Fan’s want more blood, they want more risks. The matches become more and more violent, with us more and more at risk. We saw it at Sin & Sacrifice- the fans were going nuts, encouraging Scarlett to leap from the cage. They cheered, and took pictures, and chanted “FFW” as she fell from the sky, and only after they realized that something had gone wrong, that their favorite high flyer had taken one too many risks, that they fell silent.
And even now, too many won’t even offer that common courtesy. I’ve seen disgusting videos on YouTube, showing Scarlett’s dive as a moment of amusement, with no reguard for the woman who nearly lost everything. Rude and insensitive comments left by heartless people add to the travesty. And I’m sure in a matter of days, the same will apply for today’s crash. Are we becoming that desensitized, that we can’t even look at sporting tragedies in a light that there was a human being, someone who was a father, a mother, a wife, a brother involved?
And yet, we go on, simply because its what we’re supposed to do. I’ll walk to that ring on Thurdsay, and face a woman two and a half times my weight, in a match seemingly designed to hurt and humiliate me. And yet, I’ll be out there. And next spring, Terrence, along with hundreds of other racers, will climb back into their cars again, whether at Daytona, St. Petersburg, or Melbourne, and begin the danger anew, today’s events being a memory, but not a deterrent.
Life goes on. At least until the danger catches up with us as well.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all truly worth the risks.
-WCBT
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Monday October 17, 2011
The Chicken Coop Bar & Grill- Outside
Toledo, Ohio
2:10 AM Local Time
“How are you doing, Theresa?” I asked as I helped my groggy daughter put on her coat. “You okay?”
My little girl nodded, although I could tell that, given the moment, she’d had gladly climbed back into our booth, curled up with her head in my lap, and gone back to sleep. But the restaurant was finally closing, the patrons paying off their final bills and heading outside. I almost couldn’t believe myself- two nights in a row I had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning for a party.
“You want me to carry you?” I asked, taking a quick look back at our table to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything.
But Theresa merely shook her head, stifling a yawn as she did. “I can walk,” she declared. Together we walked to the exit, out into the chilly morning air, waiting for Terrence to finish settling our bill, and call us a cab to take us to the airport.
I felt bad about keeping Theresa up so late, but the invitation to attend Matt Bronson’s victory celebration just wasn’t possible to refuse, especially because Bronson was giving no small amount of credit to my husband for his championship. Many of the other ARCA drivers had attended, and more than a few of them were happy with the way the season had ended.
It had been a fun party, even if I had spent most of the time sitting at our table with Theresa, while the others played darts, shot pool, or sat around trading stories as eagerly as they traded paint on the race track. I had met several other racing wives, a few, I was surprised to learn, who were FFW fans as well. We had a fun time talking about our own experiences of our crazy, travel-ridden lives.
I had even had a glass of champagne- with the toasts being offered, to Matt, to Terrence, in rememberance of those who were no longer with us, it only seemed appropriate that I participated as well. And I couldn’t quite keep the tears from my eyes as we all sang “Oh Danny Boy,” in remembrance of the racing brother who, a thousand miles away, had lost his life.
But now, as the bar reaching its last call, the entire restaurant was closing down, and we were being ushered out by the owner, tired, but likely more than happy with the upkick of business he had gotten, especially on the usually slow Sunday Night.
I was surprised to see quite a few people outside. Several other establishments were on the block, and they were all expelling their patrons as well. Some were heading to their cars, others walking off to their nearby homes. Some were even crossing the street, towards the dark baseball stadium that sat across the street. Fifth-Third Field, home of the Toledo Mud Hens (which gave the Chicken Coop its name).
Theresa yawned again, and I smiled down at her, a bit of guilt on my face. Our flight home left in just a couple of hours, and provided we were on time, we’d planned for her to still attend her Kindergarten class in the morning. It seemed awful to make her go to school on inevitably little sleep, and had it been longer than three hours, I’d probably had kept her home for the day. Maybe she’d get some sleep on the trip home.
I glanced to my side as another figure stepped tipsily to the curb, holding a quarter-full bottle of scotch in her hands. At first, I paid the drunk woman little, heed, but something about her made me take a second glance, and that resulted in a full double-take.
“Andrea?”
The woman was a wreck- she smelled as if she’d been imbibing all night, and judging by the vacant expression on her face as she turned to regard me, she had been. She blinked a couple of times, before a blatantly disgusted expression appeared on her face.
“Oh...God. Not you... AGAIN” she slurred.
I gently swung Theresa behind me- it never hurt to be safe, as I regarded Andrea. She was miserable, there was no doubt about that. But then again, there was no denying that she and her husband had had a really, REALLY bad day.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even see you at the party,” I said politely, although I figured the reason for that was because Andrea had spent the entire night in the bar, while, since I had Theresa, I stayed exclusively in the restaurant section. “Where’s Wes. Did he come to?”
Andrea shook her head, nearly falling over as she did. “He... he went to the... um...one-night apartment thingie.”
“Hotel?”
“Whatever!” she snarled, waving aside my correction. “We had... a fight.”
“Oh,” I said simply. I hadn’t seen much of Wesley since Terrence had punched him, but what little I had, he had looked sullen, save for one time I had saw him in a heated discussion with Andrea. “Well, I hope you two can work it out,” I continued, for lack of anything better to say.
Andrea laughed bitterly, then took another swig of scotch. I grabbed Theresa’s hand, and led her away from the blonde wretch, as she moaned to herself about how unfair none of this was. It wasn’t long after that Terrence came out, walking over to me, giving me a kiss, then picking up Theresa, planting one on her cheek as well.
“Cab should be here any minute,” he announced. “They said it’d be a black SUV with Empire Taxi on the side, so we’d know.”
It was good there was some clarity- nearly every other car seemed to be a taxi as the drivers patrolled the bar areas, looking for patrons in need of a ride. Terrence looked up and down the street, then glowered at the baseball stadium- the Mud Hens were vicious rivals of our own Indianapolis Indians, so Terrence carried little love for them.
We both looked over at the sound of shattering glass, and saw that Andrea had dropped her Scotch, the bottle shattering on the ground, what little liquid remaining spreading out on the sidewalk. Andrea stood over it, whimpering.
“Andrea?” Terrence’s voice was filled with concern as he realized who it was. “Are you okay?”
“I should have set fire to your RV, instead of breaking your title!” Andrea replied, her voice screeching into the night. She seemed to come out of her stupor, and realized what she said, along with the events of this morning, and she looked at me, beginning to cry. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean to do it,” she whimpered.
At this point, it didn’t even seem worth it. I just shook my head in disgust, and was relieved when a black SUV pulled to the curb less than a minute later.
“We’re heading to the airport, but you want a ride?” Terrence offered amiably. I grimaced at the offer, but didn’t protest. After all, Terry didn’t like the Hamiltons any more than I did, but it still seemed wrong to leave his teammate’s drunk wife standing on a curb in downtown Toledo.
Thankfully, Andrea politely declined. “I don’t need your charity!” she shrieked, glaring at me. “If I never see either of you gain, it will still be too soon!”
I grimaced- we’d cross paths at least once more at the awards banquet. But like reacting to her confession, it didn’t seem worth it to correct her. Terrence, on the other hand, turned towards her.
“Well, ARCA and Nationwide share weekends at least four times next year, including the season opener at Daytona,” he said, trying to inject some sympathy into his otherwise amused voice. “We’ll probably see you then!”
“No!” Andrea protested, shaking her head, and nearly falling over again. “Stay away from me! I’ll call and have the schedule changed if I have to!”
“Um, right. Good luck with that.” I replied uneasily, climbing into the cab. In truth, I’d LOVE to listen in on that conversation, hearing the reactions of the NASCAR officials as Andrea, in my mind her voice filled with hysteria, demands they change their plans. “Take care Andrea,” I said, shutting the door before I could hear her reply.
As the SUV pulled away, Andrea plopped down miserably, sitting in the puddle of the spilled scotch, her head in her hands. “That is a very unhappy woman, ” I remarked, sighing.
“Yup,” Terrence agreed, nodding sympathetically. Then he broke into a grin. “They generally are after the WhirlyBirdz are done with them!”
He raised his arm, pointing his fist at me, hoping for a fistbump. I didn’t oblige, just shook my head, and leaned in, snuggling against my husband and closing my eyes. After a couple of seconds, Terrence put his arm around me, and we rode the rest of the way to the airport in silence, save for the occasional sound of my daughter murmuring in her sleep from the backseat.
Thursday October 20, 2011
Indianapolis Children’s Museum- 2nd Floor balcony
Indianapolis, Indiana
12:51 PM Local Time
The scene opens in another great Indianapolis landmark- the Children’s museum- one of the largest in the world. Wendy is standing just off the main entrance, up on the second floor, leaning against the balcony. Next to her, looking slightly nervous, stands her manager, while Theresa is off to the side even further, watching the goings on in the main area, oblivous that she’s on camera, while Pollaski and Wendy seem to be involved in a small argument.
Pollaski: “I’m just not certain I’m allowed to be here.”
Wendy: “Why? You haven’t been here in years, you said... you haven’t gotten banned, right?”
Pollaski: “Well, no. But, I’m pretty sure that legally...
Pollaski thinks hard for a second, before its hits him, and he shakes his head, laughing in embarassment.
Pollaski: “Wait... that only applies to the state of West Virginia. I’m good!”
A long pause, as Wendy’s mouth is dropped open.
Wendy: “Dare I even ask?”
Pollaski: “Let’s just say she looked a LOT older than fifteen, and leave it at that...”
Wendy looks completely revolted, and a bit on the horrified side, but once again, she manages to avoid the temptation of throwing her perverted associate off the balcony. Pollaski leans back, and whistles casually, looking behind him.
Pollaski: “But why are we here, anyways?”
Wendy: “Because I hadn’t taken Theresa in a while, and since we’re going to be downtown anyways, today, before the show, seemed like a good time to do it. But for the sake of promotional purposes, because of that.”
Wendy points off the balcony, to one of the main features in the entrance area of the museum. A water clock, standing about forty feet high, interlaced with tubes and baubles, all the while a lime-green pendulum swings back and forth behind it. There’s two main columns, one on either side of the clock. The leftmost being a column of sixty bulbs, stacked atop of the other, with every fifth one bearing a large corresponding number- the second bulb above the fifty mark has just been filled with water, dyed to an even deeper blue, and water is still cascading down at a measured pace, filling the next one. On the other side, are twelve much bigger globes, also stacked vertically. This column is almost filled completely, with just a little room remaining in the top bulb.
Wendy: “Because Rose Jenkins seems to love to talk about the concept of time, and, well, there’s really no better representation of that concept that I can think of than the water clock. It seemed fitting.”
Pollaski: “Ah... if we were going to do a location based shoot because of Rose, I’d figure it’d be an all-you-can-eat bufet or something.”
Wendy’s eyes narrow, and she shoots her manager a warning glare.
Wendy: “You know, its funny, becuase that’s ANOTHER constantly recurring theme whenever Rose talks- her insatiable need for respect, and the idea of being taken seriously. While that’s most people’s goal, especially in a sport like ours, Rose’s emphasis on it practially borderlines on the obsessive.”
A small shrug
Wendy: “I can’t speak for everyone, but as for me, I take Rose, and the prospect of facing her, VERY seriously. Then again, I tend to take all my opponents serioulsy, no matter who they are.
Pollaski: “Right on down to Charity Deas.. which is why your match with her was a bonafide asskicking that lasted about three minutes.”
Even Wendy can’t help but smile about that.
Wendy: “And maybe she’s a bit oversensitive about some stuff. I mean, I’m the butt of a lot of jokes too around here.. no thanks to you sometimes. It’s goes with the territory.. wrestlers tend to be a bit on the cynical side, and insults and verbal barbs seems to be the language of our sport more often than not. And, its human nature to make fun of the things people are afraid of, in an attempt to ease the burden, and perhaps lessen the anxiety. And just by watching the way Rose wrestles, there’s a lot about her to fear.”
A grimace, and Wendy sighs.
Wendy: “But if Rose thinks she’s being viewed as a sideshow attraction... maybe she should take a step back, and realize that’s what she’s allowed herself to become. Her actions haven’t done her any favors.”
Wendy glances at Pollaski, who looks slightly surprised by this comment, but Wendy continues.
Wendy: “It starts with the Ultraviolence title, which Rose so desperately craves. That belt is little more than a sideshow attraction in and of itself, designed to quench the bloodthirst of a small number of our fans. Most people don’t tune in to watch people hitting themselves over the head with god-knows-what.. they tune in for wrestling. And it’s a shame too- people like Rose, and Camilla, have proven themselves awesome wrestlers, more than capable of holding their own without resorting to unnecessary carnival smash acts.”
Pollaski- a ‘garbage wrestler’ himself, looks fairly dispassionate at Wendy’s critique of the Ultraviolence title, but mercifully, she keeps it to just a couple scentences.
Wendy: “But what’s the most damaging thing for Rose is that, for all the pride she has, for all the destruction she wreaks, she’s willingly indentured herself as little more than a servant to Samantha Star. Rose is strong, and Rose is powerful, and Rose can destroy any woman on this roster.. but she’s become a pet. Samantha points her finger, and Rose simply says ‘Yes, master’, and its off to do her bidding. And for what?”
Pollaski shrugs.
Pollaski: “Well, it does get her people to beat up...”
Wendy scoffs.
Wendy: “Who? Every single one of her assigned targets so far has struggled in FFW. What Rose gets is that she can escape the need to think for herself, and make her own career decisions, and get some illusionary status enhancement of being one of the boss’s chosen ones.”
A derisive snort, and Wendy shakes her head.
Wendy: “Temporary status enhancement at that. Look at history... Samantha’s had oodles of allies, she always seems to at least a couple of lackeys hovering around to do her bidding. But hasn’t anyone ever noticed that they tend to not stick around all that long?”
A lopsided shrug.
Wendy: “Amy. Shane Sanders. Isabela Pazzini. How many more that were even before my time? All of them, at one point, Samantha’s favorite, and all of them cast aside like rubbish when their usefulness expired. The longest tenured member of Miss Star’s Sycophant Squad is Starla McCloud, and after that? There’s an alarming turnover rate in that group...”
A grimace, and a pointed look at Pollaski.
Wendy: “So I hope Rose enjoys it while it lasts. But in the meantime, the next time she’s out, trying to beat on Isabella Pazzini, she might want to take a closer look. Because that’s going to very well be her, once Samantha Star grows tired. And I doubt that there’s only going to be one member of the A-List who’s eventually going to face that fate.”
A deep sigh, and Wendy shakes her head sadly.
Wendy: “And THAT’S why I’m opposing the A-List. It’s not for publicity... there’s other, FAR less painful stunts I could pull if I was about that. It’s not even about sticking it to the man... throughout my career, I’ve had generally positive interactions with my bosses.”
Well, there was that one promoter in Louisiana who routinely called her “Kitten”, but let’s not get into that...
Wendy: “Heck, I even respect Samantha Star as an owner, and a visionary. She’s gone and, in just the span of over a year, built one of the largest, most successful wrestling companies the world has ever seen. There aren’t any all-female promotions that come even close. And she did that through smart decisions, and even smarter hires, such as Cody Kincaid and Mark Horton into administrative positions to help her run the company.”
A slight pause, as Wendy realizes that she’s treading on dangerous ground here. But what the hell... she’s already in trouble with the boss, right?
Wendy: “But the fact is, it seems that sometimes those people have to protect Samantha from herself- whether it be her temper, or her tendency to show favoritism. What’s made this company so great is the opportunity that it presents to female wrestlers. Anyone who wants to challenge themselves has a home here, and the companie’s grown because of things like the Chase for the Crown,and the upcoming No Surrender Championship, and the opportunities it offers to anyone on the roster. Not just a cadre of a select few who enjoy ‘elite status’ because they happen to be in the owner’s good graces. This company needs the other forty wrestlers on its roster just as much as it needs the six A-Listers.”
Pollaski: “Even Charity Deas?”
Wendy paused, and looks over at her manager, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
Wendy: “I was making a generalized statement there. Obviously there’s going to be a few... people who fall below the line.
Poor Charity.
Wendy: “As for why I truly ‘stuck my nose’ in the A-Lists business, well, two reasons. The first, is because Isabella asked me for help, and I promised her. And I’m not the type who goes back on my word. People may not agree with me on everything, but I will NEVER abandon a friend.”
Wendy finishes that statement on a note of defiant pride.
Wendy: “Second? Ask yourself this... had I not stopped it, who would have? Jo could have seriously hurt Isabella, and that wouldn’t have been the first. The first few victims of Rose, and the beginnings of the A-List, were left out to dry by the roster because they were even more maligned than the A-List is. People like Nina Astral, and Lumina Ferrari, and Michelle Taylor. And neither me or Isabella are the most popular backstage as well... but there comes a point where you have to start noticing trends.”
Wendy looks directly in the camera, a bit of pleading, but mostly determination in her features.
Wendy: “It wasn’t going to stop with Isabella, and it’s not going to stop with me. How many women on the FFW roster are on the bad side of Samantha Star, or at least one member of the A-List? You don’t think they’ll be next, one after another?”
Wendy snorts, and shakes her head
Wendy: “The great Irish statesman Edmund Burke once said ‘When bad men combine, the good must associate, else they will fall one by one; an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle’. And maybe I’m not the best person to do it, but by God, someone needs to take a stand. And I’m going to tonight, in my own backyard. And even though I’ll be alone, I’ve already said that I know I can win. And I’m going to go in ring, and I’m going to lay everything I’ve got into Rose Jenkins, and I’m going to beat her. And by the time Velocity ends tonight, EVERYONE is going to understand just how ultimately fragile, and vulnerable these thugs are.”
Wendy looks down quickly at her watch, and a smile crosses her face.
Wendy: “Because I think the A-List is full of it. They’re full of talent, and full of brutality. But they’re also full of arrogance, and bluster, and hubris, and contempt for anyone not in their clique. But like Rose said, the clocks ticking, and when time’s up?”
One O’ Clock hits, and the water clock begins to empty, the water level in both columns quickly lowering, emptying into the large reservoir located at the bottom of the structure. Wendy smirks.
Wendy: “All that is just going to drain away.”
Fade
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