I've Got You. You Got Me?

I’m a different man today.

Something has...changed.

I’m not the same fun-loving guy I once was.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey, Tyron? You here?”

The door of my hotel room gently opens as the ever organised Missy pokes her head in, just in time to witness me devouring my raisin toast. She steps inside, shaking her head at the sight before her.

“Mffphhshph!” I respond, my intended words muffled by the food occupying my mouth.

“Swallow your breakfast first…” Missy reminds me with a sigh, as she approaches the tiny table. I send the chewed-up morsels down my gullet, and on their journey to becoming compacted poo.

“Morning, Missy!” Success this time, yes!

“How did you sleep? How’s your nose?” She asks, with a genuine look of concern.

“Better. It’s still very difficult to rest comfortably, especially after that match with Seth Iser.”

Missy pulls out her phone, apparently scrolling through her calendar to research what’s on today’s agenda. Missy becoming our manager has been a godsend. She’s always punctual, organised, professional; most of the things which Heath and I are not. Without her, we’d probably stumble our way to Germany or something. Not that Germany’s a bad place, per se, I was just using that as an example of somewhere we wouldn’t intend to go. Not that Germany’s a place we wouldn’t like to go… I certainly wouldn’t mind taking a trip there someday.

But, I’m trailing from the point here, aren’t I?

“I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you, this morning at 10 o’clock,” Missy announces, much to my dismay. “So, get ready. It’s 9 right now.”

“The doctors…” I complain, slouching in my seat.

“Don’t give me that attitude!” Missy snaps. “Get changed, clean yourself up and let’s get going. Oh, and let’s keep this appointment to ourselves, okay? Heath doesn’t need to know.”

I down the remaining orange juice in my glass before reluctantly forcing myself from my chair and to the bathroom to get ready. It’s no secret that my unofficial brother is no fan of doctors, to the point where he would risk imprisonment for impersonating one, just to avoid them. If he were to discover this appointment… I hate to think what would happen.

Missy had already set up an Uber to take me from the hotel to the doctor’s office. The whole drive there was a nightmare. Not the driver, though, he was pretty cool. His name was Paul, he owns a game shop in downtown Sheffield. We had a nice little chat about games, I told him about the ones I’d made and commercialised, the pros and cons of Magic The Gathering and Yu-Gi-Oh… You know what? That’s not the point. I was enjoying the chat, but I was biting my nails with nerves. I hadn’t been to a doctor in a while, and it’s never been good news.

I thank Paul for the lift, and take a deep breath as I step out of the car, heading into the doctor’s office.

The air conditioning hits me in the face like a refreshing blast of comfort; the kind you get when your head hits the cool, crisp pillow after a hard day. The waiting room is filled with the kind of people you’d expect -- little kids coughing (and not covering their mouths to prevent the spread of their germs), or screaming and crying because they’re impatient. Old people who keep making that snorting sound due to their sinuses being jam-packed with phlegm. So, great stuff.

“Hi, I’m Tyron Bickerton,” I gently whisper to the receptionist, being extra wary not to disturb the already-suffering patients. “I had an appointment for ten.”

“One moment,” she softly responds, clicking and typing a few things before confirming the booking. “Ah, yes. I spoke to your mother on the phone earlier, take a seat.”

My mother. I chuckle to myself as I take a seat in the furthermost corner of the waiting room, away from as many of the unseen clouds of microorganisms as I possibly can. Pulling out my trusty, yet also unreliable iPhone, I check the time -- 9:23. I should’ve asked Paul to stop for a fruit smoothie beforehand, there would’ve been plenty of time to spare. Rather than flip through old People magazines, I decide to do something actually productive with my time and check out some Kincaid matches.

My limited data plan is stretched as I surf YouTube, hunting down as much Kincaid footage as I can. (Yes, I’m aware I’m leaving most of my homework until the last minute. Obviously you never knew me in high school). From his matches in WAR and EMW, right up to the match where he won the right to challenge for my championship, he’s impressive to say the least. As the oldies in the room were scoffing at the sound of his badass theme music blaring from my phone’s speakers, I noticed some key differences in his performances -- his later matches, particularly the ones he’s had since arriving here in VoW, are lacking that sense of aggression he used to have on display. Maybe the guy’s trying to correct his past mistakes?

“Erm… Tyron Bickerton?”

I look up as I hear my name called, and see an old, bespectacled man wearing a collared shirt while holding a clipboard. I raise my arm and get out of my seat, following him down the hall to his room. “Morning, doc!” I say in the most optimistic tone I can possibly muster.

“Morning. Take a seat.”

This guy’s all business. I sit in the chair opposite him as he peruses his notes. I uncomfortably clear my throat, attempting to break the tension, which seems to prompt him to speak. “So, you broke your nose? What do you do again?”

“I’m a pro wrestler,” I respond, warranting a stern look from the doctor as if to say, “No, seriously”. A few moments of awkward silence later, and it becomes quite visible in his expression that he’s realised I’m not pulling his leg. He swivels on his fancy doctor’s office chair to flip through a few more files; it just appears as though he’s wasting my time right now.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a professional athlete. You know, considering your, erm…”

“You can say it,” I assure him, as he tries to dance around the obvious, for some strange reason. Maybe he’s trying to spare my feelings? “I’ve come to grips with it. You can’t tell me anything new.”

“It says here on your file that you’ve got a heart murmur?”

“Yeah, I do,” I admit, thinking back to what doctors had told me in the past after x-rays and ultrasounds to find out what was going on in there. “My heart is a different shape than it should be, and it has an irregular heartbeat or something?”

He pulls out his stethoscope and does that thing where they get you to take ridiculously deep breaths while they move it around, apparently listening for anything abnormal. He confirms what I just said; my heartbeat is irregular. He also starts speaking about the dangers of someone with my condition being overweight, and coupled with the strenuous lifestyle of a professional athlete, I could see a slew of health issues later in life.

I entered that office expecting an update on my nasal fracture -- instead, I got some less-than-desireable news, and an ultimatum of sorts -- lose the excess weight or get out of the wrestling business, or I may not live to see 40. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind with this big title defense coming up.

“You’ve got this, bro! Kincaid doesn’t know what’s coming!” That’s a direct quote from Heath, just last evening as he was heading out the door, probably to check out the local pub. I believed him; hell, I had no reason not to. Kincaid’s impressive, but he’s not unbeatable, as shown in his loss to Ace Watson not so long ago.

But, for the first time since this match was announced, I’m feeling a strong sense of doubt. Doubt in myself and my abilities to retain my beloved championship.

I decide to walk back to the hotel rather than take a taxi. It’s going to take longer, but at least I can clear my head. My phone starts ringing, and I contemplate letting it go to voicemail -- but I’m never the kind to do that, I find it rude. I half-heartedly swipe to answer.

“How’d the doctor go? What’d he say?”

“Everything’s fine, Missy,” I lie to her. I don’t have it in me to explain the situation right now. But whether she’s detecting deceit in my voice, or the doctor’s already passed the news onto her, she immediately calls me out.

“Follow-up question -- are your pants on fire?”

“Can we please discuss this later?”

“Fine. But I want you to message me as soon as you get back to your room.”

“Yep, gotcha.”

The walk doesn’t serve its purpose, it just causes me to think longer and harder about the issues plaguing my career and my life.

Good thing my girlfriend isn’t here to see this.

“Aren’t you going to say hi?” I hear a very familiar voice say. I turn around to see Jos standing there, like something out of a famous movie scene. I resist the urge to pinch myself and just go for it -- after the morning I’ve endured, I need something to turn it around. I rush toward her and lift her into a bear hug, which causes her to giggle slightly at first, then splutter a few moments later when her lungs are deprived of oxygen. I put her down and excitedly ask her what she’s doing here as she catches her breath. We don’t do the whole kissing in public thing, it’s just not really necessary to us -- or, at least it’s not to me, and she respects that enough to save the displays of affection for behind closed doors.

“I thought that since you were kind enough to make the trip to Australia to see my big title match, I’d do the same and come to England to watch your big title defense!” she explains with a smile.

And what a match it was. Rebecca Saint (her stellar wrestling alter ego) had an incredible match with Kelsey Spencer, one of her toughest rivals over the years, at DUW’s previous pay-per-view event, Last Call. I agreed to wrestle on the show, as that’s one of the companies I got my start in many years ago -- but it was mainly just an excuse to go and see her. Those girls put on the kind of match I could only dream of having. In our seven-year relationship, we hadn’t been apart from each other in so long. I had to do what ever I could to see her. Now, around a month later, it’s still almost surreal to see her standing before me.

“Did you want to head out for a smoothie or something?” I offered, motioning towards the door. Her smile soon faded, and she began to speak in a much more serious tone. “Actually, can we go to your room? There’s something I want to talk about, in private…”

A little freaked out, I agree and walk her up to the hotel room. The elevator ride is awkward and silent; I ask if she’s alright, due to her slight claustrophobia, and instead of a verbal answer, I get a slight nod of the head and no eye contact whatsoever.

Swiping the card to gain access to the room, I waste no time trying to get to the bottom of this mystery. “What’s going on?”

She takes a few steps into the room, pauses and turns back to me. “I saw the photos of your nose online. I read the reports, I know you’re hurt.”

“It comes with the territory,” I sigh. “As a wrestler yourself, you should know this already.”

“I know, I know… But you know I worry about you.”

I’m a little offended. She doesn’t think I can take care of myself? I’ve been doing this just as long as she has, maybe even a little longer. Does she have no faith in me or something?

I can see that she’s hurting inside, so I try and sugarcoat it and say something comforting, all in one mouthful. “I appreciate that, but I’m alright, see?” I tap my nose a few times to try and demonstrate that it’s almost fully-healed (even though secretly, that hurts like a bitch!). She looks at me concerned, then tilts her head to the side, still not convinced.

“I know it was your nose, but what if it’s not next time? What if it’s your neck?”

I remain silent, until she raises her eyebrows in anticipation of a response. When she doesn’t get one, she walks by me in a b-line for the door. “I’ll see you at the show…”

“Wait…” I say, automatically regretting my decision. I can’t let her leave without telling her what the doctor told me. We share everything with each other, the guilt would tear me to shreds. I turn to face her, take a deep breath, and just let rip on everything. I wanted it to be as quick and painless as possible for both of us, like ripping a band-aid off a scab. As I’m telling her my story, I can see her eyes and mouth widen with shock and disbelief.

“...And that’s pretty much it,” I conclude. She stands idle for a minute, stunned. She gives a slight shake of her head as she’s coming to grips with it, she finally speaks up -- and she says something I thought I’d never hear pass her lips.

“I think it might be time to come home…”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The one person on this planet who has always had my back and supported me through everything, no matter how crazy my ideas may have been, was now suggesting I hang up the boots and head home. I don’t respond at first, mainly because I can’t fathom how she’d turn on me like this. Okay, maybe that’s not fair. She’s concerned for my health, my well-being. But this is my dream.

“This is what I’ve always wanted to do,” I inform her. But, she’s not having it.

“How do you feel when you get out of bed in the morning? Huh? Are you in pain?”

“That’s not important…”

“It is! How can you be so stubborn?!”

Jos and I don’t have fights very often, but when we do, they get heated. A storm’s brewing right here, and I have a feeling in my gut telling me this is shaping up to be a Category 5.

“In the 12 years I’ve known you, you’ve doubled in size!” she points out.

“So that’s what this is about?” I snap back, in a way that’s sure to disturb the rest of the hotel goers. “You don’t find me attractive any more, is that it?!”

“Oh, please!” she shouts back. “I’d rather have you fat than dead!”

The most awkward, heated silence I’ve ever experience follows. We’re standing three feet apart, but I’ve never felt more distant from her. I actually feel kind of betrayed, like she’d washed my back just so she could plunge the knife into it cleanly. Don’t you dare judge me, or tell me how I should react -- I know it’s not her fault, but I’m far too headstrong to acknowledge my shortcomings.

“You’ve never experienced the feeling of that crowd being captivated by what you do,” I announce to her as my defense, valuing the fans’ entertainment over the agonising pain I’ve got to deal with every morning.

“I’ve been cheered, and I’ve been booed,” she responds. “I know what it’s like to feed off the energy of a crowd, whether they’re for or against what ever you’re doing.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never made it to this level, have you?”

She takes a step back, like she can’t believe I would say something so offensive to her. I didn’t mean to, the words just sort of slipped out; almost like subconsciously, I wanted to wound her in the way she’d wounded me.

She doesn’t speak another word, she just heads straight for the door. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that…” I plead with her to stay. But it’s no use. She slams the door as she leaves, and I rest my forehead against it, defeated. How could I have let my life get to this point? What does it take to make the stress end, to make everything return to the way it was before? I turn my back to the door, and slide down it until I reach the carpet, where I remain for the rest of the day.

Later that night…

Knock knock knock.

“Hey, Tyron? You here?”

What is this, Groundhog Day? Please, if I look anything like Bill Murray, I give up.

Guess it could be worse. I could wake up as Jim Carrey.

Knock knock knock.

“Tyron, it’s Missy. Please tell me you’re in there.”

I thrust myself to my feet and open the door for her. She marches in with a purpose, prattling on about stuff I’m too demoralised to feign interest in. “You listening to me?” she questions, snapping her fingers.

“Huh?”

“Oh, for the love of--” she removes her glasses and rubs her eyes with her thumb and index finger, apparently trying to suppress an oncoming headache. She then puts her glasses back on, slaps the Zero Gravity Championship onto my shoulder and sets a camcorder up on a tripod. Confused, I extend my hand, motioning to the situation before me. “The office wants a shot of you talking about your title defense.”

“Look, I don’t feel--”

“I would’ve arranged for a better set, but someone didn’t message me as soon as he got back!”

“Oops…”

To be frank, that was the absolute last thing on my mind. Well, apart from filming this promotional video. But this is what I fought to do, and it would be unprofessional and a little hypocritical of me if I didn’t go through with it, so I bite my tongue and let Missy finish preparing the makeshift set. She closes the dark curtains, situating me in front of them as she tips the bedside lamp onto its side, using it as a spotlight. I catch a glimpse of what the scene looks like on the camcorder’s screen, and it actually looks quite cool -- it’s got an old-school appeal to it.

Missy stands behind the camera, with the record button at the ready. I clear my throat, roll my shoulders and get into the right frame of mind. As she visually counts me in from three, a rush comes over me. The same rush I get when I’m about to bust through the curtain and perform for a live audience.

The moment Missy’s index finger drops,  I stop being Tyron Bickerton: The Person, and become Tyron Bickerton: The Wrestler. The Champion.

“It’s been a long journey, hasn’t it?” I rhetorically address the viewers. “It wasn’t easy reaching this point, claiming this championship over my shoulder. Hell, I wasn’t even supposed to be in a title match the night I won it! But fate works in mysterious ways.”

I’ve got my game face on. But even though I’m all business, I still glance over once in awhile to see how this is turning out. The light from the bedside lamp is catching the gold on the championship beautifully; not so much as to be irritating to the eyes, but just enough to highlight the belt’s importance.

“I might as well have painted a target on my back the night I won this title, because it seems as though anyone who’s anyone has come out of the woodwork to try and take this away from me. But you, Kincaid, are so far the only one who has worked hard enough to actually earn a championship match. And I can respect that.”

It’s not my typical scathing speech here -- these words are genuine. Kincaid is the first opponent I’ve come up against in a long time that I have an authentic deal of respect for, and I think that’s partially due to the fact that he’s earned his shot, rather than complained on social media that he hasn’t gotten one.

“I went back and watched several of your matches, Kincaid, and I noticed a pattern. That pattern was...kind of an alarming one. Since arriving here in VoW, you’ve tried to adjust your style. Now, I don’t know if you’re trying to start with a clean slate, or if you’re trying to make amends for something in the past, but what ever it is, you need to leave that kind of attitude at the curtain.”

And here it is; the change in demeanour. We saw it in my interview leading up to my title match, and we’re about to see it again. Something about a big-match situation lights a fire under me, gets me worked up.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me, over the course of the four months I’ve been here, that I need to slim down. I need to lose weight in order to fit in as your prototypical wrestler. But, what I’ve come to realise is my greatest hindrance is also my greatest asset. When you’ve got 255 pounds of humanity crashing down on you, that’s going to hurt far more than a slimmer man performing the very same maneuver.”

I gaze deep into the camera, pointing into it as if I were a teacher giving a misbehaving child a stern talking to.

“Listen to me… I don’t want the Kincaid that’s trying to fix his past mistakes! I want the Kincaid who’s willing to do anything he needs in order to win! Because you should know, if I get the former and not the latter, I will chew you up and spit you back out again!”

I ball my hand into a fist, clutching the leather strap over my shoulder ever tighter.

“You and I are going to set the tone for the remainder of the show, regardless of whether you bring it or you don’t. If I get my ass kicked in this match, and lose my championship, I won’t be disappointed. In fact, I’d be happy, because I’d know that I lost to a better man. I’d know the future of this title’s rich history would be in the hands of my worthy successor.”

I tone it down just a tad for the final part of my monologue.

“But you should already know that’s not going to be an easy task. I’m going to be coming at you with the force of a military tank. You’d better hope Newton’s Third Law smiles upon you.”

“And cut!” Missy calls out, with a slow clap following. “That was really good, nice work.”

I nod with a slight smirk, placing the title down on the hard hotel mattress as I walk over to review the shot, which we both deem usable. I open the curtains back up to let some natural light in as Missy collects her things and heads off on her way. “I’m going to go speak to Heath, you just take it easy.”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll be at ringside to make sure that little wife of his doesn’t do anything to get involved.” As she juggles her equipment, she says, “See you at the show.”

See me at the show. Had to be her choice of words, didn’t it? All I can see is the image of my girlfriend saying the exact same thing as she walked out the door earlier.