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September 2004
Nathan Kaye sits
the submissive side of a beautiful, polished desk in an office
surrounded by memories. On the walls are the framed autographs of
various wrestling stars of the present and past neatly overlapping
and action shot of the said athlete. Wall to wall these pictures
stand. Some frames are occupied by a replica wrestling title belt,
no doubt belonging to some long gone legend who gave everything he
had to the business and more. Much like Nathan Kaye sat at this
desk.
The Kaye that sits
here is one that is slightly different to the one now familiar to
the eyes and minds of those who follow, wrestle and run the AWE. His
hair is slightly shorter and lacks the shining straightness that
makes him so apparent in large crowds. He is slouched. He lacks the
stereotypical politeness that British gentlemen always present
themselves with. Legs spread like some anarchistic teenage waiting
for his strict, conservative father. His mouth is open, ajar, almost
mesmerised by the dime coin he is fiddling with on the top of the
desk in front of him. He has hair on his face resembling the start
of a five o�clock shadow. It�s apparent to all those who see him in
this state, whether it was back then in 2004 or now watching this
two and a half years later, simply doesn�t suit him.
The other side of
the desk sits a very large and comfortable looking leather chair �
almost epic compared to the normal office hair that Nathan Kaye is
slouching in. As the scene sits silently, the clock on the wall,
drowning in a sea of wrestling prestige, ticks apparently. How many
ticks occur at the start of this scene are uncountable � there�s so
much to look at sitting in that chair making the viewer want to take
in Nathan�s pre-health persona. Suddenly, off screen, a door opens
and an average height gentleman with thick, curly blonde hair
waltzed onto view. He is wearing a rather flamboyant suit �
revealing the gentleman to either be a complete eccentric or someone
who is obviously colourblind. Why someone would want to wear a red
tie with a cream suit will probably never be discovered.
The gentleman
walks around the desk and careless flops into the massive leather
chair, leans back and takes an exaggerated breath in. He then leans
forward, elevated from his seat slightly, and extends a hand across
the desk. He shakes Kaye�s reluctant hand. �Great you see you, Mr.
Kaye�� the man says. He speaks with a stereotypical southern
American accent � some horrible couple in Alabama or where ever
probably taught this child that eccentricity is a virtue.
�Thanks for taking
the time to see me, Mr. Quigley.� Quigley is the worst name I
have ever heard of thinks Nathan. His voice sounds, for want of
a better description, bruised. Tired. The rejuvenated youth and
vigour that the viewers of AWE programming can�t help but notice
that Kaye has nowadays succeeded this � this croaky, embarrassing
tone that resembles someone at the very bottom of a trough.
�You manage to
catch the show tonight?� Asks this Mr. Quigley. The viewer then
realise that this man is a very self-congratulatory promoter based
in the southern United States. How did it not click in your mind
before? Nathan doesn�t react for a second and then grins, nodding
his head gently. Of course I didn�t, why would I want to lay eyes
on the drugged up creatures you call wrestlers? �Yeah, great
show wannit? You see yourself fittin� in, Nathe?� The promoter asks.
He leans forward to snatch a cigar from some retainer on his desk.
Nathan, I hate being called Nathe, only two people called me that
and I beat one of them up outside Claremont Primary School when I
was ten, sighs again and puts on an even bigger grin, although
forgetting who he is dealing with as this one was more than
obviously a false one. The jovial nature of the promoter quickly
fades.
�Is there a
specific reason, Mr Quigley, why you called me into your office as I
was halfway back to Mobile?� Asks Nathan. This tone of voice, etched
with an even gruffer melody than his previous words, causes Mr.
Quigley to glimpse up from the flame he is lighting his cigar with
and look up at the mess sitting on his other table.
�There is, Nathe,
there is.� An awkward wave of the match and a flick into a nearby
waste can. �We�ve pretty much got all the legal stuff sorted out
concerning your arrival here, but we�ve come over a slight problem.�
Nathan�s eyes open noticeably, the dime coin suddenly stops in its
rotating spin on the desk and is allowed to fall onto its side.
�What�what
problems?� Nathan nervously replies. Anyone has any inkling of
Nathan�s history will know exactly what this Quigley character is
referring to. Kaye�s voice echoes this realisation � this epiphany
that Nathan has been found for exactly what he is.
�Well, we know you
had that nasty injury two years ago now, but we all thought��
Quigley, rather inappropriately, takes a long drag back on his cigar
and exhales the thick fumes. This silence in the middle of his
sentences seems to last forever for Nathan, freefalling in his
heart. �But, turns out, you�re not�up to the standard, shall we say,
of what we require here.� He flicks the ash from the end of that
cursed cigar into a nearby empty coffee cup. Apt. �We�re truly
sorry, Nathe, my boy, but at the moment you can�t join us.�
Nathan sits up,
leaning on the desk. No grown man should really have to beg like
this, ever. �But, Mr. Quigley, surely by getting me on the payroll,
allowing the finances I�ll earn via matters like merchandising and
publicity, I�ll be able to get the proper, top medical assistance I
need to get me back in top form.� The tone of voice, this pleading,
degraded tone of voice, could almost be synonymous with someone
begging for their last chance at trying to achieve a damned-near
impossible feat. One could be forgiven at this point in time that
Nathan was such a man. He probably believed it himself.
Quigley sighs,
places his cigar down gently on the desk and reaches into his draw.
Nathan watches on, bemused. Quigley removes a brown envelope,
violently opens it and flings the contents, a number of documents on
A4 paper, across the desk at Nathan. He looks at him, some have gone
over the edge of the table and flapped onto Kaye�s lap, others hand
precariously on the edge. Nathan take�s one and reads it. It�s a
local county hospital � corrupt as one can imagine � informing a
certain Mr. James W. Quigley that Nathan Kaye was not cleared,
medically and thus legally, to wrestle in the �great state of��.
Kaye stopped reading and placed the document back on the table. He
grasped another one, maybe some hope�, no, even worse � �Mr.
Kaye�s lower back is still in incredible danger of being damaged�be
financially and morally UNWISE to allow such an individual to
be cleared to wrestle within the next eighteen to twenty four
months��
�All in the mail
this morning, Nathe.� Mr. Quigley informs the completely demoralised
and emotional Kaye, who is reading the word �unwise� over and over
again, hoping the sentence around it magically changes. �Believe me,
son, I�m as devastated as you are about this. Hell, I was lookin�
forward to you completin���
�Please don�t say
that.� Nathan says. The ingredients that make up his croaky, worn
out voice have been mixed in with complete and utter rejection.
�Please do not patronise me by assuming you have any idea how I feel
right now��
Mr. Quigley looks
away. I really need to clean that signed picture of Butch Reed.
Although Kaye is staring at the document in front of him, eyes
failing to move away from that damned word. Quigley sighs again. He
knows he really isn�t the best person to deliver bad news, he never
has been.
�Look, I know this
ain�t easy. That I do know Nathe.� He says, carefully. He
really doesn�t want to cause Nathan to do something silly in this
precious china shop that is his office. We all know Nathan really
isn�t the type of character who would act so aggressively towards
someone who didn�t deserve it, but this really is a unique situation
for Kaye to be in. �You�re young, you�ve got time on your side.�
Quigley reaches back into the drawer � God, what else is that
arsehole going to pull out of that bloody thing? He yanks out a
smaller envelope and, this time, carefully flings it on top of the
scrambled documents.
�Go on, surprise
me�� Kaye says. Still has an ounce of British wit about him, even at
his darkest moment.
�It�s a plane
ticket, son. Orlando to Manchester, in the UK.� Quigley promptly
replies. I know where Manchester is, you complete tool.
Leaves tomorrow morning, and with that is a coach ticket that will
take you there.� Kaye takes out the plane ticket and notices with it
that there�s a coach ticket. �Go home Nathe. Be with the people who
really care about you, not the ring rats and hangers on that infest
this part of the world.� Wow, I didn�t know old Quiggers could be
so profound and poetic. Kaye forces a smile � this one isn�t too
shy nor to overly dramatic, it�s the first correct smile we have
seen on Kaye�s face over the course of this piece.
�Thanks Jim��
Nathan says. He rises to his feet � all the documents have now been
placed back on the table � and pockets the envelope that now really
matters. Mr. Quigley stands up too and the two shake hands, much
more warmly and respectfully than the previous occasion. �I know
it�s going to happen, someday�� Kaye says, but he is stopped by the
man still attached to him.
�I know Nathe. I
know.� Quigley replies, smiling even more now. How touching.
Kaye turns and heads to the door, in the door frame he suddenly
stops and turns suddenly.
�Jim�� he says.
His tone of voice has recklessly turned back to that strong
Mancunian accent we as AWE fans have heard him speak with on so many
occasions now.
�Yeah, Nathe?�
�I friggin� hate
being called Nathe.� He says. �It�s Nathan. It was good
enough for my mother, it�s good enough for you.� He laughs and waves
politely as he leaves.
�Sure thing Nathe�-un.
Nathan. I can get used to that. Ha.� Mr. Quigley laughs to
himself, smiling, examining the circle in his hand holding, like one
would hold a chocolate bar to read the wrapper. �Good luck, boy.� He
says.
The camera pans
out to reveal the now desolate office as this Mr. James Quigley is
left in his personal wrestling museum, surrounded by memories of
legends that have come and gone around him, while thinking about the
chance he wanted to give one man to earn a spot on such an
illustrious wall. That time will come, he was sure, but just not
yet� |
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Forgive me. I simply had to indulge myself in giving you all
a much warranted history lesson concerning the man that is Nathan
Kaye. While it may not seem too incredibly relevant given my rather
lacklustre start to life in the AWE, especially given my recent
debut defeat in the triple threat match at Spectacle, I feel that a
number of you have enough interest in the man behind this bruised
persona that attempts to bring you much joy for a few moments every
week.
I felt this particular occasion , when my dreams of
returning to the wrestling ring that I was born and destined to star
in were shattered for, what I thought, an eternity, was relevant
due to the person who sent me packing across the Atlantic ocean.
That �arsehole� that I affectionately refer to, Mr. James Wilson
Quigley, sadly passed away just before I signed my contact here with
the AWE. While I am in debt, no doubt, to the good people who run
this organisation � especially Sebastian Rutherford � I cannot help
but feel an ounce of regret at not leaping back into that worn out
chair at his desk and grabbing that fat, badly dressed racist by the
scruff of the neck. Upon doing such a drastic act, I would demand,
yes, demand, to be given the chance to make it up to him. To
thank him for sending me home when I thought I was at peak physical
fitness. When I thought this wonderfully cursed back of mine was in
the best shape it had been in for years. Obviously, I will allow
you, the viewers to look at the shot of me as I was a mere thirty
six months ago and deduce for yourselves how fit I was to grace a
wrestling ring. Whether it be the main event at a sold out
Madison
Square
Garden
or a ring in a Kentuckian�s back yard � that man slouching on that
chair in September 2004 was not fit to wrestle and Jim did the best
thing anyone had done for me in a long time by sending me home.
That epiphany is the realisation that I judge all �do
I-don�t I� decisions that occur in my life on. When that AWE
contract was on my kitchen table back in that wonderful yet homely
terraced house in Manchester a month ago, I thought about the
recently passed Jim � I paid for, electronically, a wreath at his
wake but sadly couldn�t get the pennies together to be there in
person � and I imagine him, stood over my shoulder, watching me
about to make any decision I make in my life now. Sure, I had Dad,
but Jim was more of a walking encyclopaedia of wrestling, while Dad
was more knowledgeable about matters relating to football or
Manchester's public transport system.
I mention all this now because I
am again at a moment in my career where I have to take stock and
truly assess what I have done, good and bad, right and wrong, and
deduce for myself how to go about making things better for myself
again. On Monday night, at the ACRO Arena, I put up a valiant
display against AWE's Rising Star Champion, Sean Ryken, and came up
short. In the build up to this contest, I like to feel that I gave
Sean something to think about when it came to the 'trash talk', as
you Colonials like to call it. However, talking does not win you
wrestling matches - something that everyone in this industry knows
and lives by. Inside those ropes, after removing the anonymous
Johnny Vain from the contest, me and Sean slugged it out.
I would like to address my faults
in this match and evaluate them before moving on, both mentally and
metaphorically, to what I am currently travelling to Houston, Texas
for. I was the recipient of not one, but two superkicks from
Ryken - enough to take down any wrestler, big or small, novice or
champion, in this line of work. The stun I felt when I landed on the
mat following the second move was particularly spiritual as it
brought back memories of a short-lived stint working in Japan as a
younger, greener athlete. Eyes, then head, going up. The long, long
fall onto my back. Coming round to his bloody awful theme
music. And the sudden rush, knowing that I'd lost my return
television match in professional wrestling.
If I were in my younger days,
stropping around the arenas of Canada like I was the hottest thing
around, I would have probably took a leave of absence following a
debut defeat in a young federation in the hope of catching a
similarly financially lucrative deal somewhere else nearby. Such a
fool I was when captivated by the folly of youth. However, as I
showered after the contest and dressed myself, ready for the
overnight haul across the United States, I realised that I had
indeed been beaten by the better man. Ryken, while I had watched you
in action numerous times before our contest and I felt I knew the
methods in which to gain victory over you, I realised then that I
forgot, of all things when in that ring with you, how to respect
you. While I do not comprehend your methods in terms of language,
persona or appearance, all that melts into irrelevance when looking
at the basic fact that on the night, inside that ring, you managed
to beat me with some wonderfully crafted moves and tactics that I,
in my ring rusty state, was simply chasing shadows for much of the
night.
However, on the other side of the
story, I do like to think that while you, in your respective
dressing room and method of travelling to Houston, managed to spare
me fifteen seconds of your mind's eye and replayed the moments in
the match when that three count was close. Not close enough, as we
both evidently discovered, but close enough to warrant a serious
scare in the arena. A returning wrestler, still not at peak physical
condition after years out, was very nearly able to defeat one of
this company's shining stars, it's crown jewels. It has all the
signs of wrestling Romanticism doesn't it? But alas, my friend, it
was not to be.
While I do not expect you to
warrant me much time in that mind of yours, especially given your
other appearances at ringside that evening, I do like to think that
the words you so viciously through at me in the build up to our
match have been shot down by a competitive gentleman who came up
short, but was close, mighty close, to causing an upset on
his comeback.
Now, as I have mention, this train
heaves on to Houston as the AWE tour continues across this wonderful
continent. Ryken moves on to bigger and better things, while I
languish at the start. At the bottom of the ladder, foot resting on
the tough but beatable bottom rung ready to climb up. I like to
think that my match with such an illustrious talent, one so keenly
thought of by the management (especially considering he had just
returned from a profile-enhancing trip to Europe), means those who
run matters see something in this English gentleman. I like to think
these gentlemen understand that while defeat has annoyed me, in
relation to my performance and inability to truly shake off the ring
rust, it has helped me on the road to full recovery and peak,
physical fitness. For this, I thank them. I graciously thank them.
However, now begins the journey to truly show the world who Nathan
Kaye is. Now begins an epic trek. The first port of call is a
gentleman who goes by the name of Eric Sin.
Eric, I hope you forgive me when I
announce to you and all the watching AWE fans that I really haven't
got the faintest of ideas who you are. I know so little about you,
your past, your potential, anything. Because of this, it's
incredibly difficult for me to sit here right now and tell you that
you, too, will soon warrant respect from that Ryken warranted when I
was booked to face him this past week. I really do hope you forgive
me this one indiscretion, and I am honestly looking forward to both
what you have to say to me over these upcoming days and also to our
match at this upcoming Spectacle.
The thing about our match, Eric,
is that we both have something to prove. You are, to the very best
of my limited knowledge, making your debut here in the AWE -
although I am sure that some child with far too much time on his
hands and internet access would be more than able to sit me down and
give me a history concerning your progress in the AWE. Thing is,
Eric, I would much rather you did this. I would much rather sit in
some dank Houston hotel room and listen, listen so carefully, to
what you may possibly have to say to me concerning your thoughts and
feelings for me ahead of our match on Monday night.
What I want you to tell me,
though, is probably very different to what you may want to say. I
want you to tell me, as eloquently as your mother tongue will allow,
what exactly are you aiming to achieve here in the AWE? Are you
returning from some previous nadir like I am, hoping to illuminate
the watching world with your reappearance in the centre of the
wrestling ring? Are you a green, young, strapping lad hoping to turn
heads and cause jaws to wax lyrically about what you could very well
achieve as you march to the top of the food chain here in the AWE?
I say these words, Eric, for I
simply have no real clue over what to think when I have a moment to
myself in this hectic world after I found out about our upcoming
encounter. As the iPod in my pocket blares wonderful British tunes
from eras gone by, I like to think of holds, counter-holds and
counter-counter-holds over and over again. While it may not have
seemed to successful when one looks at my encounter on Monday night,
the controls are only just coming back to me, Eric, and I do fear
that it may take a few matches before I am truly self aware when it
comes to my actions and reactions in a wrestling ring.
This, my good sir, you have to
fear. In my many years of professional wrestling, a number that far
too large to admit without feeling embarrassed at how long I have
been in this industry, one quickly develops a game plan that can
easily be put into play when facing someone making their debut, like
yourself. The sequences and various mind games that can, and most
probably will, be attempted. When dealing with someone desperate to
impress, to leave that mark that makes the watching fans applaud and
turn to their friend in exasperation, you leave yourself open for
the simplest of mistake. The little, irreversible errors that
immediately put you on a back foot and under your opponent's
control.
However, to turn this discussion
around completely, how do you hope Eric? When you come up against
me, a true technical wrestler in every sense of that word, how do
you deal when you know, at the forefront and at the back of your
mind at every moment, that you are in the ring with someone so
pumped up on adrenaline and basic desire to succeed following
a failed debut? Do you think that I will be making those basic,
petty mistakes that cost me my chance to make a full impact in my
match against Sean Ryken? Do you really think I will repeat the
magnitude of errors such as my decision to try and concentrate on a
completely lacklustre Johnny Vain rather than the more imminent
threat that was the AWE Rising Champion? You can come on television
in your own time, Eric, and tell me otherwise but deep down I know
the real psyche of those attempting to impress on their debuts, and
I know, yes, I KNOW, that you will fall victim to those very
same mistakes.
While I will be nagging the media
staff at AWE for some video footage of you in previous incarnations
and federations in order to truly establish a game plan for our
Monday contest, I would honestly appreciate something from the
horse's mouth, Eric. Some kind words, some harsh words. Either way I
am truly not going to lose sleep over what you have to say to me
because I am a people person, Eric. From whatever you tell me and
the manner in which you tell it, I will be able to decipher a
weakness, a pressure point, something that I will no doubt be able
to use against you when it comes to Monday night.
I am truly waiting with baited
breath, Eric Sin. You cannot describe how excited I am to be back
amongst 'the boys' again, wrestling, trash talking, just the
all-round experience. And I do truly trust that you will be at hand
sooner rather than later to aid me in establishing the true
realisation that I am back in the industry by giving me a wonderful
sequence of words to emit from your mouth. Make it happen Eric. Make
it happen soon. |