Post by fdcm on May 20, 2007 14:10:38 GMT -6
Night. A run-down and decidedly unfriendly looking section of Jersey City. The focal point of the shot is a small, decaying two-story building with a sign denoting it as "Shark's Gym." The camera follows a cigarette butt as it falls to the ground, then pans up to its source on the roof.
Standing alone atop the building is FDCM, the cigarette now replaced in his right hand by a small flask from which he takes an occasional swig. However, his eyes are lucid, staring up at the smog of the dark Jersey sky.
FDCM: Nights are dark in Jersey...we ain't the cleanest people, I s'pose. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to paradise...to the birthplace of the Flying Diamond Cutter Man...cheers.
FDCM takes a hearty swig of whatever's in his flask and winces before re-capping it and slipping it into his jacket.
FDCM: In just four short days...I will stand toe-to-toe with one of my greatest rivals, and fight the biggest match of my life for the biggest prize this sport has ever seen.
But before that...before any of this...I was here.
It's coming up on twenty years now in this business...two decades since a scrawny kid from the wrong side of the tracks walked through the door of this shithole and said he wanted to learn how to wrestle.
Twenty years...and the doubt has never stopped coming. Pouring in from every possible direction. Even back then, I was too small, too weak, too slow, and not serious enough. Good enough to get my ass ground into the practice mats, good enough for the "blue chipper" students to toss around like a ragdoll...but not good enough to ever succeed.
But that's not to say I learned nothing here. No...quite the contrary, I learned the most important things here. How to take a beating. How to move forward through adversity. And how to remember that you're the stuff of greatness, even when a veteran spits in your face and tells you you'll never amount to jack shit!
So I moved on from this place. Left behind the dingy little gyms, the bitter old men, the smoggy skies and the selfish promoters.
Moved on to Japan. You all know Japan. That's the place Teddy Davis describes like the Utopia of wrestling, where everything is rainbows and butterflies, the talented guy always gets the nod and petty things like size, looks and background mean nothing in comparison to raw work ethic.
Well I got news for ya. Teddy Davis is full of shit. Because even if it wasn't that I was too small or too weak, in Japan, I still couldn't get the time of day. Why? Because I was an American. And how could a gaijin dog possibly match up to the finest pure-breed Japanese fighter?
What a joke. Can you even imagine how that felt? Spending your life savings, moving to this place that is supposed to be the holy land, the saving grace of our sport...and receiving another sharp slap in the face from God?
FDCM's gaze turns once again towards the sky, with something like bitter anger barely restrained. However, this expression is quickly replaced with a knowing smile.
FDCM: But that's OK. Something else I've learned in my life...God hits because He loves. Spare the cane, spoil the child...or journeyman wrestler, I guess.
Because I never stopped. Like I say, like I've always said...it doesn't matter to me who else knows what I can do. Because I know what I can do. And I've spent the last ten years proving every single motherf**ker who refused to give me a chance wrong!
Where are all those anonymous Japanese dojo boys that wouldn't even speak to me? Those grumpy old has-beens and never-weres from right here in Jersey? They're f**king nowhere! Old and busted in the middle of the slums, just like this gym. And I, on the other hand, am on the threshold of immortality!
FDCM spits emphatically on the building on which he stands.
FDCM: Thank you...your arrogance and refusal to pass the torch inspired me to work harder than I ever thought possible. Launched me to true superstardom. Couldn't have done it without ya...now burn in hell.
But is today any different? No. Still, the fans, the analysts, even my fellow wrestlers look at me and call me a joke. Too old. Too silly. Too unfocused. And that's fine. I no longer care.
The truth is, I could stand here all dramatically on the roof of this piece of crap gym, and I could talk about how I'm gonna beat Tito Capci's ass at SuperMania III. About how I'm the REAL World Champion, and soon everyone will see that. I could talk about all the things I've done and all the things I'm going to do.
But the truth is...I've done all that. I've rattled off my credentials like a mantra to anyone who would listen since the day I set foot in this company. You all know what I can do, you've all seen what I'm capable of, and still you dismiss me as a challenger without a chance. So forgive me for not reviewing it for you. And forgive me for not pitying you when you are proven wrong once again.
But what I will do...is ask you a single question, Capaci. What do you, a "made man," know about struggles? About having to scratch and claw your way up? After all, you're on top. The owner. The boss. In command, in control! And you always have been! Since the day that I met you, you've been the kingpin. The champion, or the owner, or the behind-the-scenes manipulator. A veritable army of goombas, and now legitimate wrestlers, waiting to do your bidding!
Intimidating, to be sure. But the fact is, succeeding when everything is going in your favor is nothing impressive. Nobody is surprised when the born elite, the born winners, float to the top of the pile.
But what are you gonna do when you stand face-to-face with a man who wasn't supposed to succeed? A born loser, who had shit kicked in his face at every turn and STILL stands tall? A SELF-made man who turned himself from a pauper...into a prince?
When I say I am the REAL World Champion, I don't just mean because I carry some stupid belt that is no longer sanctioned, or because I never got the chance to lay down in a company nobody cares about! I say it because I am the champion HERE...
FDCM now points to his heart.
FDCM: ...and HERE...
He points to his head.
FDCM: ...because like every truly great, truly remembered champion...I am the unlikely hero. The one who started with nothing, and not only got himself a piece of the pie...but left with the entire damn thing!
Bamf!!!
The scene instantly changes to inside the gym. The light is dim and bluish, and a thick layer of dust covers nearly everything.
Bamf!!!
A somewhat shaky-looking ring, presumably for sparring, stands precariously in the center of the room. Beneath the dust on the canvas, blood and sweat stains are still barely visible. The screams of abused "trainees" still echo faintly off the walls.
Ba-bamf!!!
The remainder of the gym is filled with shabby equipment. Weight sets. Treadmills. Practice mats. Speedbags. And in one particular corner...a large heavy punching bag, hanging on a chain. Hopping around it, now adorned in a gray sweat suit is FDCM, the source of the repeated smacking sounds, hands gloved in leather and giving the bag hell, his UWL championship belt hanging on a pullup bar nearby.
Bamf.
A left jab for everyone who said he'd never make it.
Bamf.
A right cross for everyone who still, to this day, will not recognize him for what he is.
Bamf!
An uppercut for everyone who has abandoned him.
Bamff!!
A flurry for every time he's ever failed.
Bababababababababamff!!
A quick one-two for Rich Morrison. Just because.
Ba-bamf!
A big, straight right for Tito Capaci, the man standing in his way...
Bamf!!!
And finally, most importantly of all, one for the only man who ever believed...
...himself.
BAMMMM!!!!
The bag does not break, but swings backwards mightily, stressing the chain on which it hangs. The ceiling creaks perilously. This place fell into disuse long ago.
With a satisfied grunt, FDCM pulls down his belt and slings it to its rightful place on his shoulder. Quickly he walks out of the dusty, dingy hellhole and back out into the night. Without taking a single look back, he slams the door on the dark training hall...and on his past.
Never again will he wallow in darkness and grime.
All that awaits him now...is glory and light.
Standing alone atop the building is FDCM, the cigarette now replaced in his right hand by a small flask from which he takes an occasional swig. However, his eyes are lucid, staring up at the smog of the dark Jersey sky.
FDCM: Nights are dark in Jersey...we ain't the cleanest people, I s'pose. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to paradise...to the birthplace of the Flying Diamond Cutter Man...cheers.
FDCM takes a hearty swig of whatever's in his flask and winces before re-capping it and slipping it into his jacket.
FDCM: In just four short days...I will stand toe-to-toe with one of my greatest rivals, and fight the biggest match of my life for the biggest prize this sport has ever seen.
But before that...before any of this...I was here.
It's coming up on twenty years now in this business...two decades since a scrawny kid from the wrong side of the tracks walked through the door of this shithole and said he wanted to learn how to wrestle.
Twenty years...and the doubt has never stopped coming. Pouring in from every possible direction. Even back then, I was too small, too weak, too slow, and not serious enough. Good enough to get my ass ground into the practice mats, good enough for the "blue chipper" students to toss around like a ragdoll...but not good enough to ever succeed.
But that's not to say I learned nothing here. No...quite the contrary, I learned the most important things here. How to take a beating. How to move forward through adversity. And how to remember that you're the stuff of greatness, even when a veteran spits in your face and tells you you'll never amount to jack shit!
So I moved on from this place. Left behind the dingy little gyms, the bitter old men, the smoggy skies and the selfish promoters.
Moved on to Japan. You all know Japan. That's the place Teddy Davis describes like the Utopia of wrestling, where everything is rainbows and butterflies, the talented guy always gets the nod and petty things like size, looks and background mean nothing in comparison to raw work ethic.
Well I got news for ya. Teddy Davis is full of shit. Because even if it wasn't that I was too small or too weak, in Japan, I still couldn't get the time of day. Why? Because I was an American. And how could a gaijin dog possibly match up to the finest pure-breed Japanese fighter?
What a joke. Can you even imagine how that felt? Spending your life savings, moving to this place that is supposed to be the holy land, the saving grace of our sport...and receiving another sharp slap in the face from God?
FDCM's gaze turns once again towards the sky, with something like bitter anger barely restrained. However, this expression is quickly replaced with a knowing smile.
FDCM: But that's OK. Something else I've learned in my life...God hits because He loves. Spare the cane, spoil the child...or journeyman wrestler, I guess.
Because I never stopped. Like I say, like I've always said...it doesn't matter to me who else knows what I can do. Because I know what I can do. And I've spent the last ten years proving every single motherf**ker who refused to give me a chance wrong!
Where are all those anonymous Japanese dojo boys that wouldn't even speak to me? Those grumpy old has-beens and never-weres from right here in Jersey? They're f**king nowhere! Old and busted in the middle of the slums, just like this gym. And I, on the other hand, am on the threshold of immortality!
FDCM spits emphatically on the building on which he stands.
FDCM: Thank you...your arrogance and refusal to pass the torch inspired me to work harder than I ever thought possible. Launched me to true superstardom. Couldn't have done it without ya...now burn in hell.
But is today any different? No. Still, the fans, the analysts, even my fellow wrestlers look at me and call me a joke. Too old. Too silly. Too unfocused. And that's fine. I no longer care.
The truth is, I could stand here all dramatically on the roof of this piece of crap gym, and I could talk about how I'm gonna beat Tito Capci's ass at SuperMania III. About how I'm the REAL World Champion, and soon everyone will see that. I could talk about all the things I've done and all the things I'm going to do.
But the truth is...I've done all that. I've rattled off my credentials like a mantra to anyone who would listen since the day I set foot in this company. You all know what I can do, you've all seen what I'm capable of, and still you dismiss me as a challenger without a chance. So forgive me for not reviewing it for you. And forgive me for not pitying you when you are proven wrong once again.
But what I will do...is ask you a single question, Capaci. What do you, a "made man," know about struggles? About having to scratch and claw your way up? After all, you're on top. The owner. The boss. In command, in control! And you always have been! Since the day that I met you, you've been the kingpin. The champion, or the owner, or the behind-the-scenes manipulator. A veritable army of goombas, and now legitimate wrestlers, waiting to do your bidding!
Intimidating, to be sure. But the fact is, succeeding when everything is going in your favor is nothing impressive. Nobody is surprised when the born elite, the born winners, float to the top of the pile.
But what are you gonna do when you stand face-to-face with a man who wasn't supposed to succeed? A born loser, who had shit kicked in his face at every turn and STILL stands tall? A SELF-made man who turned himself from a pauper...into a prince?
When I say I am the REAL World Champion, I don't just mean because I carry some stupid belt that is no longer sanctioned, or because I never got the chance to lay down in a company nobody cares about! I say it because I am the champion HERE...
FDCM now points to his heart.
FDCM: ...and HERE...
He points to his head.
FDCM: ...because like every truly great, truly remembered champion...I am the unlikely hero. The one who started with nothing, and not only got himself a piece of the pie...but left with the entire damn thing!
Bamf!!!
The scene instantly changes to inside the gym. The light is dim and bluish, and a thick layer of dust covers nearly everything.
Bamf!!!
A somewhat shaky-looking ring, presumably for sparring, stands precariously in the center of the room. Beneath the dust on the canvas, blood and sweat stains are still barely visible. The screams of abused "trainees" still echo faintly off the walls.
Ba-bamf!!!
The remainder of the gym is filled with shabby equipment. Weight sets. Treadmills. Practice mats. Speedbags. And in one particular corner...a large heavy punching bag, hanging on a chain. Hopping around it, now adorned in a gray sweat suit is FDCM, the source of the repeated smacking sounds, hands gloved in leather and giving the bag hell, his UWL championship belt hanging on a pullup bar nearby.
Bamf.
A left jab for everyone who said he'd never make it.
Bamf.
A right cross for everyone who still, to this day, will not recognize him for what he is.
Bamf!
An uppercut for everyone who has abandoned him.
Bamff!!
A flurry for every time he's ever failed.
Bababababababababamff!!
A quick one-two for Rich Morrison. Just because.
Ba-bamf!
A big, straight right for Tito Capaci, the man standing in his way...
Bamf!!!
And finally, most importantly of all, one for the only man who ever believed...
...himself.
BAMMMM!!!!
The bag does not break, but swings backwards mightily, stressing the chain on which it hangs. The ceiling creaks perilously. This place fell into disuse long ago.
With a satisfied grunt, FDCM pulls down his belt and slings it to its rightful place on his shoulder. Quickly he walks out of the dusty, dingy hellhole and back out into the night. Without taking a single look back, he slams the door on the dark training hall...and on his past.
Never again will he wallow in darkness and grime.
All that awaits him now...is glory and light.