The Iser Legacy...

The human mind is certainly something that can be molded into damn near anything when we’re a kid. You can debate the metrics of nature and nurturing all you would like but you can’t deny that the brain, especially in its youth, is like a sponge and we soak in everything that’s ever said. Sometimes that creates wonderful things like some of the geniuses that create vaccines or whatever stupid app that’s on one of our damn cellphones. Other times...well you can create a heinous psychopath who is void of any humanity.

But like anything in life...we fall into the habit of glorifying the extremes without wanting to know the details of everything in between. You can’t fault many of them because it’s what’s been indoctrinated into us with the nurture portion...and the nature...well nature has always been tribalistic at its heart above cold hard logic. Even knowing this...and my own upbringing...it scares me that there isn’t a true...formula for dealing with kids because...well even at said birth...even if people can be molded...we’re all born different. It’s a quagmire. And all the different variables scare the living hell out of me as a parent...and just as much as a human being now that I can look at things more so from afar.

The most important thing as a parent regardless of the balance...is to do right by her...above doing right by me. Period.

And when I got to think about things deeper...far deeper than I should...I started thinking about the horrific upbringing I did have with my own…’parents’. Almost from the moment I came out of the womb...maybe even the moment I was just sperm and egg...being born from the sin of lust...my parents were certainly not qualified to be such when they were more or less under the drug of religion. It was revolting how truly abandoned I was in that situation...and if someone tells you to just get over it...it’s impossible to. There’s some things the human mind, once you see it...once it’s...molded to see those things...it’s impossible to rid them. The verbal and physical...abuse that constituted some of the physical scars that were there before I even got into the industry don’t help the healing process either when your own skin reminds you of some of that. I haven’t yet got the...courage to tell Allison about my own parents and their double suicide at the end...when they found out they were living lies in their own end.

I don’t even know where the hell to begin with that whole mess with her but when she gets older...I have to tell her that.

But even now...with the desire to do right by Allison...to eventually open up to tell her those things...it conflicts with another raw human desire that each and every single one of us fight to contain. And it is the desire to do things right for yourself. In regards to material things...I’ve never had this issue with Allison...even if she’s oddly not very materialistic for her age. It’s more in regards to another aspect...the biggest devil in the room in present form...it’s in my own wrestling career where...this desire conflicts with the need...to do absolutely right by my daughter.

And last week was just a perfect example...of how this conflict bit me in the ass.

It is public knowledge that for over a decade...I’ve been one of the more opportunistic wrestlers that’s ever been in the industry. Maybe it’s part of the upbringing and seeing how...inherently selfish and seemingly well off my parents were...I really wasn’t much different in that respect. I took everything I could get...even if said selfishness almost cost me my career...and my life with that damn drug addiction when I was purely hedonistic. But whenever there’s an opening...I’ve always capitalized with my brain. That’s where the desire to do right by me was fostered...for the majority of my own damn life.

But going that way through the rest of your career...unfairly puts a stigma on your own kin. I’ve seen it many times in life. When my mentor had retired...before he had become deceased in a tragic manner...he would often call me and say that his daughter...endured heinous hazing from students and teachers alike when he was known as one of the most hated men in the industry. The people translated the hatred...from the parent...to the child...because of the tribalism aspect that’s often ingrained into our DNA. As much as I get angry at things like that...it’s hard to go against generations of this type of indoctrination. And I can’t help...even now as my physical condition is declining...to try to do something about that...so my daughter doesn’t endure that kind of pain because of my own...stigma. My name...

I look at myself in the ring last week against Judas Dathan and saw those two conflicting desires in my eyes and it cost me. Judas is a man who has become far different than the man that stared across from my years ago and he stared me down with every bit of hatred in his beings...yet in that singles match...I had the advantage. I felt him slither to the outside away. The instinct...the selfishness part was screaming that I should’ve just let him there. Take the countout...the quicker way out. Instead...I overruled my own...wrestling instinct that’s been ingrained for over a decade and tried to drag him into the ring...and win the way that would do my daughter proud...the name proud.

And Judas puts me in the same predicament I put him years ago when he catches me in that small package. When the ref hit the mat for the third time...the shock of being caught like that had worn off...and the weight of disappointment...of losing that main event match started to set in. Like any athlete...I second guessed everything in my brain...but I can look back and see that conflict in my own eyes...making that decision. And...Judas caught me like a good wrestler would. He was the better man that evening. No excuses. Nothing. He pinned me for a three count and the whole world saw it.

And now I’m staring across the ring with another familiar face in Patrick Jones...in this situation because I wanted to do the right thing considering the dubious circumstances of our last match...and it damn sure spooks me that these two conflicting desires are deep inside...rumbling around in my professional career and personal life whenever I think back on everything. I know for a fact PJ can kick my head off if I hesitate like that and I’ll be left in this position...but the questions that I put forth in his brain about legacy...as much as I asked Cera that out loud...that voice shouting the questions would get deafening in my own brain.

But just as much as I’m aware of what he’s bringing with all the years we’ve known eachother since that one promotion in England...I know for a damn fact that everything HE stands for is on the line as well. Everything HE believes in...is just as much on the line in what is the biggest professional match in his career. And he’s more than good enough to launch that kick and pin my shoulders down to the mat for a three count...or even use his technical expertise to put me down in a similar manner as Judas did.

This isn’t the biggest match of my professional career...it might be the biggest one of my personal life. There’s a huge difference...and I’m going to fight Patrick Jones with every bit of ability and knowledge I’ve gained since I was born into that heinous situation as a true bastard in the eyes of my religious parents...and I’m going to have my shoulder raised in victory...

...and do it in a manner that does my surname and my daughter proud.

There isn’t a wrestler that hasn’t had to go to some sort of doctor in their life. Often times when I’m stuck in this position it’s mainly because of a debilitating injury or at least a nagging one and unfortunately this particular visit is no different. I’ve unfortunately dealt with cracked ribs and a couple more bruised for quite a while and wrestling often enough while having to exert the physical energy to both stay in shape and keep up with a daughter that’s got the interest in sports doesn’t leave you much time to properly heal. It’s little things like that in my career that have added up that’s ordered a brief physical rundown to see where I stand. Lost in my recent strand of mental questioning...to a scary extent is my own physical condition sometimes.

“It is impossible...to ever be fully comfortable at a doctor’s place…” I muse lowly.

“Thanks Obama…” Moretti replies, his sarcasm still in full form.

“That’s an opinion that’s relatively popular here,” I offer with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Maybe so but if it weren’t for the other side and the fact that the Democrats have less gumption than any group I’ve ever known...this shit should be free!” he elaborates with a bitter look etched on his face.

Vincent just spits that line with particular disdain because of his own political views and I just merely offer up a shrug. Moretti isn’t entirely dressed appropriately for a doctor’s appointment with his silver hair slinked far back and the black and red suit that is often associated with him. In a complete contrast, I’m wearing a pair of blue jeans, some regular black basketball shoes, and a West Virginia University basketball shirt that’s grey in color rather than the usual blue or gold.

“Before you go off on another potential tangent…” I pause while raising my eyebrow, “What the hell ARE you doing here?”

“Drug test.” Vincent replies steadfastly, “Apparently Bob didn’t like my lip and this hospital also does the proper tests so...here I am.”

“Vincent…” I just shake my head, “I have my own issues to deal with...but why in the hell did you mouth off on twitter...again? Didn’t you have to be warned after the first couple of times you really spouted off and got yourself into some hot water...by everyone?”

“There was some sort of party at the headquarters and…” Moretti starts to speak.

“Oh. A classic misunderstanding…” I just put my head in my hand in embarrassment, “You really need to learn to watch what you say in social media...or you might end up like Stacy Jones.”

In the waiting room of a local hospital office in Morgantown there’s the secretary behind a glass window typing away at a computer that might be as old as I am and the looks of frustration the lass has on the computer is amusing. Just glancing from that across the white walls is the world’s smallest television that’s projecting the lying propaganda of Fox News. There’s even a couple of people, elderly in age, sitting on their chairs and letting out an occasional cough for the mandatory check in at the hospital. And Vincent is sitting beside me glancing at some sort of fashion magazine just to have an excuse to look at attractive young ladies. I just try to slouch back on my chair but I don’t do too much of that before I feel the tug of pain shooting in my mid section.

“Damn…” I weakly grunt out with the pain shooting through my ribcage, “There is no getting used to this and this has now bothered me for a couple of months.”

“Look at the jugs on this one…” Moretti purrs as a perverse smile creeps across his face.

“You never change…” I just shrug.

I glance up and hear footsteps instinctively. Maybe it’s the years of being paranoid and living a far more dangerous lifestyle than one ever should but I almost have a second instinct for that. The front door ends up swinging open and standing with her arms crossed is a younger nurse that I can immediately sense Moretti’s perverse daze. The young woman in the standard blue uniform that’s often common and her hair tied back in a bun just locks eyes with me immediately.

“Seth!” she just asks for the name.

“Here.” I let out a grunt while standing up and walking over.

“Find a closet,” Vincent smirks with that look that he’s obviously in...a more lustful mindframe.

“After what you did to the other nurse after I was supposed to fulfill a wish...I will decline…” I sigh.

The mere thought of that particular incident makes me shiver in disgust as I walk through the door. The nurse I can tell is eyeballing me as we walk around the long corridor...even briefly going by a man being pushed in a wheelchair. The wheelchair is often a fate that’s befallen many wrestlers...and unfortunately I’ve kind’a delivered some of those...brutal beatings, especially earlier in my career. There’s even those times I’ve been stuck in the hospital because my body couldn’t hold up from some of the heinous wars I’ve endured. Approaching thirty-five and not only enduring years of drug abuse but violent hardcore matches...that could easily be my fate any given week. I just glance over at the nurse as these dark thoughts continue to multiply in my brain and finally notice the clipboard and the pen she’s holding.

“How much do you weigh?” the nurse cautiously asks as we’re still walking...cutting me off from the dark line of thought for the time being.

“Too much.” I dryly reply, “It makes me feel sorry for the women when that question is asked…”

“Thank you but…” she turns her head, “How much do you weigh? Don’t deflect.”

“Two hundred and fifty…” I offer up with a shrug.

“Okay...and how tall?” she quickly fires as she jots down the first bit of information.

“Six foot five.” I answer without any sarcasm.

“Any medication you take?” she raises her eyebrow.

“None.” I dryly reply while cringing at the question...and how easily one can abuse prescription drugs at this point.

The walking stops as we have reached what will be the room I’ll be stuck at for an undisclosed amount of time. I do glance behind me and there is a desk where a couple of the employees are chatting amongst themselves in a casual manner. One of them even gives a courteous wave toward the nurse who had the unfortunate assignment of escorting me to the room. In the white walls in this all white hospital...I glance at the number four, the number of death in Japan, and just enter with a sigh.

The little room is basic in that it has a couple of stools where guests could sit...a chair for the doctor in front of another particularly dated looking computer, and a bed that can hook up to heavy machinery that can monitor my heart, my pulse...everything. But thankfully I’m not entirely here for something that extreme. As I just glance at the white walls, I just calmly take my seat on a stool and just lean back in contemplative thought over everything.

“I wonder how long this’ll be…” I mutter to myself.

I just put my hands over the back of my head and as the mind is prone to do when you’re in a room by yourself...it starts to wander. This time it just thinks back to the younger part of my career and how many different times I’ve come to these damn hospitals just to get stitches, treatment, and in a much more serious scenario...a MRI or X-Ray depending on what the ailment was. But while all of those are a real possibility after every match because you can never predict what happens in the ring...at least they don’t have to pump drugs out of my system. I don’t foresee PJ putting me in a hospital on his own...but when you have a daughter to think about...and you make your own mistake...it could leave you here. Nature of the beast. I’d be just like that guy in the wheelchair and unable to provide for my daughter.

That thought when I’m not in my zone acting instinctively in the ring...makes me shiver in raw fear...even more so than being stuck in a hospital.

“What the HELL!?” I hear Moretti’s familiar shriek in the distance.

“Calm down sir. It’s a routine thing,” I hear a male voice answer Moretti’s yell.

“But...but...I don’t want a man looking AT MY MANHOOD while I’m urinating in a FREAKING CUP! That’s disrespectful AND sexual harassment!”

“Pot meet kettle,” I shake my head.

After I brush some of the black locks of hair off of my face, I notice other sounds going on in front of my door other than Vincent’s now incoherent yelling in his high pitched voice. Soon the door swings open and a female doctor walks in with the usual white coat but more casual attire underneath the unbuttoned white coat rather than the ridiculous blue uniforms in that she’s wearing a more regular red t-shirt and female dress pants that are appropriate for the part. She looks at me without giving away any particular facial expression.

“Seth?” she raises her eyebrow, “Doctor Allison Wood. I think we were just going to look through a physical and see how you were doing. I promise that we won’t be here too awful long.”

“Allison?” I repeat, “You share the same name as my daughter.

“Oh.” she blinks not expecting that, “How old is she?”

“Nine.” I nod my head with pride, “Smarter than all hell too.”

“May we begin things?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sure…” I nod completely unenthused.

“I have to start with a couple of the usual questions here...it’s routine at this point. Just let me pull things up here.” she shrugs as she heads over to the ancient computer and begins to operate it.

“It really wouldn’t be a doctor’s appointment if I didn’t have to answer some sort of unusual question that you wouldn’t otherwise have to answer in any other visit.” I lean forward as I start to stand up and move over toward the bed that’s more common, “But alright. Let’s get that part over with.”

I can glance over toward her and see her looking a little stunned at what I would assume would be my medical history. There’s probably even a thought in her brain wondering how in the hell I’m still alive after some of that abuse but...I can’t completely look back on things like that anymore. There’s other priorities...one of them being cleared through this just so I can do my job and wrestle Patrick Jones to resolve a long standing issue.

“Okay...I’d have to ask this first. Drugs? You use any in the last year?” she raises her eyebrow.

“Been clean for years now,” I answer honestly.

“Have you had any surgeries in the last year?” she asks, “I know you’ve had an x-ray in the last year because we have you on file for an x-ray on your ribs not too long ago.”

“Surprisingly enough...no surgery in the last year. Considering I’m a professional wrestler north of thirty, it’s a little surprising. I shrug.

“Oh...that explains some of your medical file considering some of the abuse I know wrestlers take.” Doctor Allison replies as she looks at me for a second, steadfastly typing every answer I have said, “Did you go through the school here in Morgantown?”

“I did. Now I’ve even bought a piece of that school just to have somewhat of a hand in teaching wrestlers. I’m aware that you can’t wrestle forever.” I nod my head, “But you do have to give back to the industry that’s given me quite a bit. It is the right thing to do. Especially in that there aren’t enough good places that teach people how harsh the wrestling industry is.”

“Any flights to Africa in the last year?” she asks with a hint of hesitation in her voice, “It’s a more...legitimate question for you than most people I’d have to ask considering your occupation.”

“Surprisingly I’ve never wrestled in Africa in years. I did one show in Egypt if you count that as part of Africa. Depends on your geographical perspective I guess…” I blink before I just think on that fact out loud, “I’ve been to too many countries. But at least I’m wrestling in Canada here shortly.”

“Who are you wrestling?” she curiously asks instead of one of the stock questions.

“Patrick Jones.” I reply, “I’ve known him for years...yet we’ve rarely met in a singles environment.”

After getting the answer to her question she just turns back to the computer for a second but with how fast she’s typing, it doesn’t take long. She punches that last little bit in...and I’d assume a mass exodus of the word ‘no’ to questions that would otherwise be very obvious to ask before she stands from the seat in front of the computer and begins walking toward me. It’s at this point where I notice the woman’s actually six feet tall...a taller female in the grand scheme of things. She glances down at my knees and just looks at them.

“Can you raise your right knee and rotate it around a little first?” she asks.

“The left knee is after this. I know.” I cut in, “It isn’t my first...rodeo. It’s mandatory with me here before we even get to the most recent ailment.”

“Maybe you can give doctors in Morgantown a crash course in knee anatomy then if that is the case,” she offers up with a dry laugh.

I just do what the doctor asks and rotate the knee around as she has her hands on the kneecap to see where there is potential discomfort there. The talking seems to stop after her joke that really didn’t make me laugh. Didn’t help alleviate the anxiety. I do feel some in my good knee but it’s nothing I can’t get by on. I study her expression and there isn’t any worry there. She starts putting a little bit of tug on the knee by pulling the leg a little as I lay there just to study my facial expression and nothing really changes even if again...I feel the usual discomfort.

And then she starts working on the left knee. The rotating of it in place makes me cringe much more noticeably. I’m again focusing as best I can on her facial expression and she can’t mask that there’s at least a little bit of concern for my often ailing left knee...the last pull she does just to see how it would react just stretching it around since those reflexors don’t always do the trick on my legs...puts a jolt of pain that even makes me let out a grunt. After she’s done working my knees around a little to see how they move. She just turns to me.

“I’d wager that arthritis has begun working into your left knee after all the different problems with it, Seth.” she pauses, “I’m not a knee specialist obviously but I guarantee you that’s what they’ll say if you go to one. It’s faint on the right knee probably...if it is there...but after you have that to keep tabs on...I have to ask. How is the pain on the ribcage. On a scale of one to ten...not including the pain in your knees.”

“A good day it’s about a three. A bad day it’s a seven.” I reply, “Maybe an eight…”

“How often are you able to rest?” she raises her eyebrow.

“Little to none.” I answer.

“Come on Seth...you’re an intelligent guy by how you articulate yourself even if you look raw across the shoulders.” the doctor begins to scold me, “You should know better in terms of taking care of your own body if you quit all of those substances from overrunning your life.”

“Doc. There’s no damn way you can rest when you have to do the grinder of maintaining what needs to be done as a professional wrestler AND be a single parent father to a little girl. You CAN’T rest.” I answer calmly, “And to be perfectly honest, I’ve wrestled in worse condition than this. That damned chamber last pay per view being the biggest example of that. Besides...when you are a human being...regardless of how you feel...there are things you MUST do in order to make things better regardless of what it puts YOU through.”

“There’s nothing as an athlete that can really do that.” The doctor answers.

“As an athlete no...but as a father for the kid, absolutely.” I fire back, a little bit of emotion starting to seep out.

“...May I just look at your ribs?” she changes the topic slightly.

I offer up a brief nod and pull off my t-shirt just so she can look at the different tones of color that aren’t my usual pale complexion on my ribs from the cracks and the deep bruising. They are far less...extreme than they were from before the incident but wrestling a full time schedule and being a father to a child doesn’t exactly give much room to properly treat yourself to rest. She does move her hand across the ribs a little and I’m wincing in pure discomfort before she steps back and I quickly put my shirt back on.

“They are at least a little...better than they were…” she replies, “I can let your employer know that you are able to perform...barely. But it’s going to end up worse for you if you don’t properly rest.”

I can tell that this conversation is deeply agitating her. There is sweat dripping down her face from suppressing her anger...and I don’t blame her at all for feeling that way. I probably deserve a tongue lashing too...but when my mind is made up about something...there isn’t a damn thing that can be done to change it. Too much is on the line for me...and it’s something people outside the wrestling world don’t get. And I don’t even think some of the people in the wrestling world get this particular feeling unless they are a parent.

“Doc...I’ll gladly keep the physical pain if it means atoning for some of the heinous things I’ve done in my own life. It’s a steep price...but it’s one that has to be paid.” I coldly reply, “It isn’t just wrestling Patrick Jones on a huge stage where many things for both of us are on the line. It’s about redeeming my own damn name.”

“I think we’re mostly done here. Just may have to check up on your...friend as well…” she pauses before a look of horror spreads across her face.

“Good luck. I’ve dealt with him for years,” I manage a brief laugh.

She gives me a nod despite our tense conversation and she exits the room to leave me back to my own thoughts. There’s no doubt that I’m feeling the pressure of taking some time off again from wrestling because my body’s far from up to par at the moment. Especially after wrestling some world class athletes and continuing to go into combat with them...but there’s something that overrides that by a large amount...and it’s thanks to my own daughter that it is this way.

It’s the desire to do right by the name.

...and through all these injuries...through all these questions...and even through the physical scars...and the seeds of doubt that have sprouted in my mind from the Judas defeat and to a lesser extent being robbed of the World Heavyweight Title a couple of months ago...there’s one thing I need to do right now. And all of this starts with gaining a victory over a man who needs a win for his legacy just as much as I need it. But I will defeat Patrick Jones at Armed and Dangerous...for myself...for my own legacy. But most importantly of all...

...For the daughter...and the name of the family.