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~~~
It had all been going so well up until that point. He'd quite deliberately avoided using that damned move
since last week's complete and utter failure. Luckily no one had landed in the right position at house shows, and he certainly
wasn't going to move them into it. Or Paul had been the one that was in when there was a chance of a move leading to a pin
and a win.
Luck had been with him, every time Paul had asked him whether he wanted to practise the move in the ring
when there were only the two of them, no pressure, something else had come up. But his run of good luck had ended.
He
had thought that not doing it for a week would blow away any ghosts, make him forget what happened two weeks ago, make him
forget the way he froze last week. Once again he was wrong.
It had seemed such an easy thing to do, pull Kenzo into
the corner, judge the distance exactly, pretend you didn't see the look of uncertainty in Paul's eyes. Climb to the top of
the turnbuckle and go! The same way he had hundreds of times before.
But his legs wouldn't jump. They felt heavy. The
turnbuckle seemed so high up. He never wobbled like this normally. His head felt light, his mouth felt dry and there was a
knot in his stomach so large he felt certain he would puke, or possibly pass out.
The ring came up at him, every distance
seemed different from what he knew and expected. In his mind, Kenzo's prone body was replaced by Chavo's. Chavo who he'd known
and wrestled against for years. His mind went back to the image that had haunted him again and again for the past fortnight,
every time he closed his eyes and half the time when they were open. He could still feel the contact his knee made with Chavo's
head, the sound of head hitting canvas far too hard. He never wanted to hear it again. Not with Chavo's head, not with Kenzo's.
But could he face climbing down again. Not just his legs, which seemed to be out of his control, but could his ego face it?
He had heard it all last week, every shout of coward and chicken.
His legs won the argument again. He knew that the
way they felt like jelly meant he wouldn't be able to land the press in a million years. They seemed to find their way down
easily enough though. Maybe once you'd travelled it this road became easier each subsequent time.
He tried to block
out all the chants of coward and quitter, it didn't work, he'd be hearing them ringing around his head for the rest of his
life.
And Paul's look of confusion, his disbelief that his partner was walking out on him in the middle of a title
match. But what did it matter, the title, any of it? He couldn't do his signature move - what was a wrestler without their
signature move? The shooting star press was the only reason anyone took any notice of him. He was nothing without it. And
it had gone; it had left him when his knee made contact with Chavo's head.
He faintly heard the bell ring for the end
of the match as he was walking to the back. Once he'd reached the locker room everyone moved away from him as though whatever
was wrong with him was catching.
He silently packed his gear up trying to ignore the looks everyone was giving him
and the way they avoided his eye line as though he could make them cowards with his evil eye.
Suddenly Paul was there
and he was angry. Angry about the match and angry at him.
"What have you got to say to me?"
What did he have to say
to Paul? How could he possibly explain? "Nothing." That was the only explanation, he had no way of explaining and he had nothing
more to give.
~~~~
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