From the private journal of Wendy Briese
11-17-14
Most Popular Wrestler of the Year.
I still can’t believe I actually won this award! Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always known the fans have liked me- I hear it every time I walk through the curtain. But to be #1 in their eyes, more beloved beyond anyone else in the company, including the likes of Scarlett, Eileen, and Caroline? That’s unbelievable.
It’s humbling really, because I’ve never really tried to be anything but myself, and I didn’t think I’d ever be considered “cool” enough to win something like this. I don’t wear sexy clothing or listen to the hippest music or hang out in bars and party after shows. I’ve been told that my personal life seems more akin to a librarians than a professional wrestler, but it’s always been who I am. I’ll never be the life of the party. I’ll never be the funniest or the wittiest or the best catchphrase spouter. I’m just someone who loves this sport, is good at this sport, and is willing to stand up and fight for what she believes in. For that to not just be respected, but adored to the point that they were willing to vote me to that award…
But it goes deeper than that. It’s a warm fuzzy feeling to win an award like that, to be sure. And I certainly owe the fans a message of gratitude on Saturday! But beneath the sentimentality of winning such an award, there’s another, darker, more primal feeling. One of triumph and pride and savage victory.
Vindication.
I’ve been told several times over the past few months that I’m taking too hardline a stance when it comes to the likes of Mika and such. Too angry. Too bitter. Too judgmental. The idea that I should have congratulated Mika after beating Scarlett, never mind that she just, and would continue to, spit on everything that I held dear about that title and this company. That I was supposed to just shrug and admit I was ‘outsmarted’ because Mika had grabbed the ropes and Jennifer Stringer failed to notice. That I should just take the punches as they come, shrug, and been the cheerful, peppy Wendy that I’m supposed to be.
The fans message in the voting was loud and clear.
Screw.
That.
The fan’s don’t want me to be nice simply for the sake of being nice. The fans don’t want me to be demure and shrug and say “oh well” every time I’m wronged. The fans want me to FIGHT. They want me to speak out, whether its against Mika, or Isabella, or Valentina, or anyone else who disrespects this business, this company, or my colleagues and friends. They want me to be angry when I get screwed, not shrug it off and say I was “outsmarted”!
The fans want the White Knight. And the White Knight doesn’t sit in a castle drinking spiced wine and listening to minstrels and dallying about in fop. No, she’s in the field, getting dirty, muddy, bloody, bruised, all for the sake of what she feels, no… what she KNOWS is right. And there may be honor and glory and titles to go with it in the end, but when she goes to sleep at night, the first thing on her mind is that she did everything she could to make the world a better place than what it was when she woke up. That’s what the fans want to see.
And, by God, I’m going to give it to them!
-WENDY
===================
Wednesday December 3, 2014
2:17 PM Eastern Standard Time
St. Michael’s Catholic Church- Confessional Booth
Indianapolis, Indiana
“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Father Theodore Flannagan spoke as he crossed himself, knowing that the supplicant on the other side of the partition was doing the same. “Amen.”
“Amen,” came the reverent reply, the voice masculine.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,” Father Theodore intoned, finishing his part in the ritual, and falling silent in waiting for the final response.
“His mercy endures forever.”
“God be with you, James, now and forever,” the priest said as he heard the man rising to leave, his traditional way of saying farewell after finishing the Sacrament of Penance with a confessor.
“You too, Father Theodore,” James replied, his voice muting as the door to the confessional banged shut.
Father Theodore sighed and rubbed his eyes. He knew he was coming down with something- he had spent the entire night coughing and mustered only three hours of sleep. He hadn’t been happy to remember that today had been his turn to hear confessions and thus far, he had twice caught himself dozing off in the middle of someone’s confession. He almost chuckled at the thought of a parishoner’s reaction to pouring out their souls and sins to him, only to hear a snore responding.
“Lord, give me the strength to get through this!” The priest muttered in a quick, earnest prayer, even as the confessional door swung open and the next confessor entered. “Enter, my child, and speak your sins,” the priest bade, clearing his throat. He patiently waited as they prepared themselves, fighting the urge to doze off again.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
Father Theodore’s eyes snapped open at the easily recognizable female voice. The Lord had answered his prayer! There was no way that he would be drowsy through this one, not this week!
“Go on, child.”
There was a long, uncomfortable pause, before the woman finally spoke. “I’ve harbored hatred in my heart, Father. I ran into my half-brother over the weekend… again. And… and I once again left wishing that he was dead that I… that I had killed him when I had the chance. I know we’re supposed to forgive those who trespass against us, but… I can’t. Not him, after all he’s done.”
“And… did you bring harm to your half-brother?”
“No… no, I didn’t.” The woman replied. “I was tempted to, though, and isn’t the thought just as bad as the deed?”
Father Theodore chuckled reassuringly. “I doubt it, Wendy. After all, we can always reverse our thoughts. A deed like that wouldn’t be so easily undone.”
There was a pause as the woman mulled it over. “I… suppose you’re right, Father. I never thought of it that way before.”
Father Theodore nodded. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before from the woman. Most of her confessions were for being unwilling to forgive someone else, whether her brother, or her manager, or even her co-workers. Giving up her grudges was likely one of her biggest moral challenges, likely made even more difficult considering her line of work. “Is there anything else you wish to confess, my child?”
There was another long, uncomfortable pause, and Father Theodore could easily sense the woman’s uneasiness and internal debate. Finally, she took a deep breath, and spoke. “I… I don’t think so…”
“Are you SURE?” the priest asked in an almost leading manner, and then cringed. He sounded WAY too eager there, and he knew the astute woman would sense it.
Sure enough, she seemed on the verge of panicking now. “I… I should go…” she stammered, rustling as she hastily rose from a kneeling position to her feet.
Father Theodore fought back a sigh at his error. “Wendy, you know your absolution won’t come unless you freely confess all your sins,” he said, trying to coax the unusually flighty woman back.
She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “You already know, don’t you?”
Of course he knew! The entire archdiocese knew! Although it probably wasn’t a good idea to tell her that. “It doesn’t matter what I know, Wendy. YOU must confess your sins. You know that.”
There was a despairing sigh from the other end of the partition, and a rustling sound as the woman knelt back down, sighing again. A long pause followed, filled with uneasiness, and, strangely expectation.
“Well, Father, I…” she gulped. “I…kind of…” her voice trailed off in a whimper.
========
Saturday November 8, 2014
4:07 PM Eastern Standard Time
The Nest- Living Room
Indianapolis, Indiana
“NO! NONO NO NO NOOOOO!” Wendy howled as the maroon clad player on the television ran down the sideline with the ball, the roar of the adulating crowd urging him on. No one was going to stop him- the interception was going to be returned for a touchdown… “No…”
“Welp, that’ll do it,” her husband remarked casually from sitting beside her, not entirely unsympathetically.
That’ll do it indeed. It had been a horrible game, with her beloved Irish starting the game by going down 34-3 (which hadn’t been made any easier thanks to the mockery of Christian Kincaid and Kelly McGuffin while the meltdown happened). They had spent the entire second half scrambling back, and had pulled to within 34-31 when disaster had again struck. Now they were down by 17 again and there wasn’t anywhere near enough time to catch up.
What had seemed a dream season that could finish with a trip to the National Championship wasn’t going to happen after all.
“Well, at least your team doesn’t suck like Dad’s,” Theresa spoke up from the other end of the sofa. “They lost to Pedo State, for crying out loud.”
“Don’t call them that.” Wendy snapped, shooting her daughter and her husband dark, disapproving looks. She had no doubt in her mind where Theresa had gotten the uncouth colloquialism for Penn State. Terrence, for his part, grunted noncommittally and shrugged. However, before Wendy could take the admonishment any further, the house phone rang.
“No, I’ll get it,” Wendy said irritably, standing up before either her husband or her daughter could. Even though there were about three minutes left in the game, she suddenly had no desire to see the final minutes of the atrocity. Understanding completely, Terrence slunk back in his chair tossing a knowing smirk to Theresa. While he rarely enjoyed seeing his wife so upset, he always found it fairly amusing how she always got so worked up about the Irish, especially when they were sucking.
In the kitchen, Wendy grabbed the phone, looking at the caller ID… a number she didn’t recognize, but from within Indianpolis’ 317 Area Code. She pressed talk. “Hello? Oh, hi Sister Abigail!”
Out in the living room, Theresa had stiffened at the name of her teacher, as if she’d just been shot in the back. It was a motion her father hadn’t failed to notice.
“What did you do this time?” Terrence asked, arching an eyebrow.
“N-nothing!” Theresa exclaimed, looking as innocent as she possibly could. “Nothing at all!”
Terrence snorted. He recalled making the same statement several times before many years ago to his guardian Uncle Steve- denials that generally ended with his backside getting a few whaps. Not that he was about to spank his daughter, but he knew a trapped miscreant when he saw one. “So your teacher just called to tell us about nothing, is that it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she likes Notre Dame and she and mom are in some kind of support group together.”
Terrence burst out laughing at his daughter’s sarcasm-doused response. Even if he ever had any reason to ever doubt Wendy’s faithfulness (and he strongly doubted he ever would), there was no denying that this was his daughter right here!
Theresa seemed to think the laughter was some form of absolution. “Can I go upstairs, now?”
Terrence stopped laughing, but remained smiling. “Why don’t we wait to see what your mom and Sister Abigail talked about?”
Theresa scowled, but plopped back on the sofa, folding her arms and looking up at the television. Fortunately, the phone conversation didn’t last too much longer, and Wendy was soon walking back into the room, a queer expression on her face.
“Arizona State just scored again,” Theresa quickly said, pointing to the television where the exclamation point had just been placed on a 55-31 score. Terrence quietly snorted in amusement at the last-ditch attempt at a diversion.
It worked- for a second, as Wendy turned her head towards the television to give another sigh, but quickly regained her focus. “That was Sister Abigail on the phone…”
“We heard,” Terrence said, stretching his arms. “What’s up?”
Wendy looked as if she was unsure of what to make of the phone call. “You know that potluck and white elephant auction the Catholic Women’s League puts on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving? She’s on the planning committee, and she wanted me to be one of the speakers…”
“Well, that’s great, right?” Theresa exclaimed, relief seemingly pouring out of every facet of her small frame (Terrence hid a smirk). “You’re a great public speaker, mom. You do it all the time!”
“Yeah, but those are wrestling promos, not Catholic speeches,” Wendy said, plopping down on the sofa as if she couldn’t even bear to stand for another second. “It’s one thing to play to a crowd and hype up a match. It’s another thing to do… this.”
“Do you know what they want you to talk about?” Terrence asked.
“About maintaining Catholic values while being a pop culture figure…” Wendy said, exhaling at the difficult subject. “I guess… you know… I’m probably the biggest… well, celebrity… that attends the church, but I never really considered myself pop culture…” she sighed. “She also wanted me to say a few words of welcome to the new Archbishop of Central Indiana. Apparently he’ll be arriving just the day before.”
“There’s a new Archbishop? What happened to the old one?”
“Moved to the Vatican,” Wendy explained. “Got promoted to something, I forget what it was. An honor to be sure, but such a long relocation.”
“So you could probably say it was more of a diagonal promotion?” Terrence asked innocently.
Wendy’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I guess you could say-“ she cut herself off as it hit her, and she gave a glare at her husband, who simply grinned back.
But her thoughts were racing. A speech! In front of some of the biggest dignitaries in the Indianapolis Catholic Community! What on earth was she going to say? A nervous feeling that generally only reserved itself these days for the biggest of matches was welling up in her. In truth, she was flattered. She’d wanted to spend more time with the Women’s League, to be sure, but her busy schedule generally prevented it. That and she knew that there was a not insignificant number of women in the group who thought her line of work distasteful, and looked down on her for it. It bothered her, of course, but if she didn’t get on well with most of the women in the church, she’d have found a different one.
Still, she screwed this up, she’d HAVE to find a new church.
Or even a new religion.
Still, Sister Abigail had faith in her enough to invite her to be a speaker. Despite Theresa’s early proclamation that the woman was the Spanish Inquisition reborn, Wendy found the nun a very pleasant woman, a bit stern, but enthusiastic with her work, and always eager to praise Theresa’s schoolwork whenever they ran into each other at various church and school functions.
That thought snapped her head back up, to where Theresa was quickly walking across the room towards the stairs. Another aspect of the phone call had just jumped back into her head. “Oh, Theresa?” The girl froze in her tracks. “What was this about you putting glue in Billy De Santa’s mashed potatoes?”
Off to her right, in his easy chair, Terrence chuckled. “Nothing, hunh?”
And both parents watched as Theresa slowly turned around and trudged, head down, back to the couch to plop on it once again, doing her best to put on an expression of overwhelming shame. She was a smart girl after all.
Smart enough to know when she was doomed.
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