Post by Calvin Constantine on Jun 5, 2008 20:41:55 GMT -6
Thursday, June 5th.
Facing the unknown presents unique challenges and unique opportunities. How does a competitor prepare for an opponent he knows nothing about? The unknown can not be strategized for. The unknown can not be overestimated nor underestimated. The unknown can not be rationalized nor understood. We can stare long into it-and gain nothing in return.
How telling is it that we fear the most what we understand the least? Asked to pick between a mediocre certainty and a series of possibilities, most people will surely choose the former. However, uncertainty is not the only reason to fear the unknown.
Simply put, the unknown gives us nothing to examine or analyze. Assessing the faceless is like dividing by zero-futile from every angle.
Humans, unique amongst the creatures walking this Earth, are analytical in nature. Without an adversary to examine, where does our gaze turn? In a vacuum, who can you reference but yourself?
That is the true terror of the unknown. With no one to focus your attention on, the cold, analytical eye of the human mind must turn in on itself.
Calvin Constantine is unique in ICW. He is the only participant in the Triple Terror Tournament without an opponent. He went into Thursday, Insane Thursday expecting to discover his opponent’s identity. He did not. He expected to team with this mystery individual against The Gladiator and Lightning Bolt. Instead, he was thrust into singles competition against The Gladiator. When all seemed to be in hand, the lights went out, and Calvin was left knocked unconscious, easy pickings for the Gladiator.
Expecting to learn the identity of his opponent and make a successful debut in the new ICW, Calvin was doubly disappointed.
The spectre of the unknown still hangs over him. Calvin Constantine is a wrestler-brash and unreserved. But Calvin Watts, the person, is something entirely different. To Calvin Watts, wrestling has been an outlet for forgetting about his personal faults. And one of those faults has always been the constant creep of self doubt.
Without an opponent to focus on, Calvin has turned his critical focus on himself. His loss to the Gladiator has redoubled his self doubt. Am I strong enough? Am I fast enough? Am I fit enough? Do I have the talent?
Duality is part of man’s nature. How he acts and how he feels are quite different. This dichotomy is even more evident in professional wrestlers, who combine muscle-bound physiques and impetuous behavior with addiction, ailments, and depression.
Calvin’s actions immediately following his match put this fantastic contrast on display.
Mere minutes after the finish of Thursday, Insane Thursday, Calvin paces back and forth in his locker room, his face contorted with frustration. He is still in his wrestling attire, and his forehead has been sloppily bandaged. Suddenly, he reaches into the small gym bag sitting on the bench, and pulls out a cheap cell phone.
Hastily punching in numbers, Calvin misdials once and has to start over before reaching the other party. The other voice can’t be understood, but Calvin is quite audible during the conversation.
Calvin: Dangerously? Yeah, this is Calvin. WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Dangerously’s response is inaudible.
Calvin: No, no NO! Don’t give me that nonsense-I don’t give a shit. You need to get your ass down here so we can discuss this. NOW.
Another muted response.
Calvin: Good. Good. You know where to find me.
Calvin ends the call, and the delicious dichotomy is on display. The phone slowly slips from his hand to the hard tiled lockerroom floor, popping the battery casing loose. The life in Calvin’s eyes drains away, and his knees buckle. Calvin slowly sinks to the bench. His head goes into his hands. His breaths come in harsh, uneven rasps, and his body begins to shake. Minutes pass without Calvin moving from this position. His bravado from moments ago is belied by his current countenance-totally fragile, totally broken, totally out of control.
A knock at the lockerroom door snaps Calvin out of his trance.
Calvin: Come in.
A short, wiry man in glasses and an ICW polo (yes, they exist) and carrying a clipboard enters, and his arrival obviously disappoints Calvin. However, Calvin has snapped back into “competitive” mode, and betrays none of his earlier weakness.
Calvin: Who the hell are you? Where’s Dangerously?
ICW Representative: Mr. Dangerously is temporarily unavailable. I’m Scott McCullough, and I’m authorized to speak for him. I understand that you have concerns that you would like addressed.
Calvin: What the hell, I asked to speak to Dangerously, not some lapdog, where is he?
McCullough is obviously accustomed to being a professional hatchet man: he stiffens and his demeanor obviously changes from accommodating to rigid.
McCullough: Sir, I’m not at liberty to disclose Mr. Dangerously’s whereabouts or activities. What I can tell you is that I am authorized to speak on his behalf. Now, if you have a question for me, I suggest you ask it now, because I can’t allow you to continue to waste my time.
Calvin, still in his “competitive” mindset, is unaffected by the stiff response.
Calvin: Where the hell is my opponent for the Tournament? He was supposed to be here tonight as my partner!
McCullough: We were caught just as off guard as you were by that. ICW is currently unaware of your opponent’s whereabouts. However, Mr. Dangerously assures me that your opponent will be present at Triple Tournament Terror.
Calvin: What, is there no accountability in this company?
McCullough: Discipline issues are handled internally, and I’m not at liberty to reveal our procedures.
Calvin: Yeah, okay, whatever. But what the hell was that bullshit during my match? First, it’s a tag team match, then it’s a triple threat. Then, it’s a singles match. How the hell am I supposed to prepare for that?
McCullough: We’ve addressed that. I told you what I can about your tag team partner and opponent for the Tournament. Lightning Bolt was injured earlier and not cleared to participate in the match-his interference in the match was his decision and not sanctioned by ICW in anyway.
Calvin: Well, that’s the least of the bullshit that went on tonight. I know those Gladiator chants were piped in. And who the hell authorized the blackout? AND, WHO THE FUCK HIT ME?
Again, McCullough receives Calvin’s outburst coolly.
McCullough: Mr. Dangerously disavows knowledge of any “canned heat”. It looked to me like the crowd was chanting that. And we definitely know nothing about the blackout-it may have been a power failure, we’re awaiting the report from our technicians. Finally, are you positive that you were hit during the blackout? You took some heavy blows from the Gladiator. Isn’t it possible that you were feeling the effects of those?
Calvin: What the hell are you talking about? I know I was hit, I know when I was hit. Is the Gladiator’s someone fair haired boy? Who the fuck is running this company, anyway?
McCullough: As you know. Mr. Lou E. Dangerously is ICW General Manager. And the Gladiator is just another competitor, just like yourself.
Calvin: Don’t give me that horseshit-I want to know who’s really in charge here! Is it really Dangerously? Dudley’s out of his fucking mind, anybody who’s watching can see that. Who’s really calling the shots?
McCullough hesitates.
McCullough: That’s all the time I have. Good luck at Triple Tournament Terror.
McCullough quickly exits. Calvin jumps up and follows him into the hallway, but McCullough has already disappeared. Calvin is left staring at a white cinderblock wall, bare except for one decoration.
A poster of the Gladiator, Centurius Maximus, holding the ICW World Title.
Calvin growls in frustration, and then tears the poster from the wall. Then, with no adversary to confront, his adrenaline slows, his anger dissipates, and he begins to transform again from masculine to meek, from angry to average.
Calvin still does not know his opponent for next week’s pay per view. His doubts persist-who will I face? Am I good enough? And most of all:
Just who the hell is really in charge around here?
Facing the unknown presents unique challenges and unique opportunities. How does a competitor prepare for an opponent he knows nothing about? The unknown can not be strategized for. The unknown can not be overestimated nor underestimated. The unknown can not be rationalized nor understood. We can stare long into it-and gain nothing in return.
How telling is it that we fear the most what we understand the least? Asked to pick between a mediocre certainty and a series of possibilities, most people will surely choose the former. However, uncertainty is not the only reason to fear the unknown.
Simply put, the unknown gives us nothing to examine or analyze. Assessing the faceless is like dividing by zero-futile from every angle.
Humans, unique amongst the creatures walking this Earth, are analytical in nature. Without an adversary to examine, where does our gaze turn? In a vacuum, who can you reference but yourself?
That is the true terror of the unknown. With no one to focus your attention on, the cold, analytical eye of the human mind must turn in on itself.
Calvin Constantine is unique in ICW. He is the only participant in the Triple Terror Tournament without an opponent. He went into Thursday, Insane Thursday expecting to discover his opponent’s identity. He did not. He expected to team with this mystery individual against The Gladiator and Lightning Bolt. Instead, he was thrust into singles competition against The Gladiator. When all seemed to be in hand, the lights went out, and Calvin was left knocked unconscious, easy pickings for the Gladiator.
Expecting to learn the identity of his opponent and make a successful debut in the new ICW, Calvin was doubly disappointed.
The spectre of the unknown still hangs over him. Calvin Constantine is a wrestler-brash and unreserved. But Calvin Watts, the person, is something entirely different. To Calvin Watts, wrestling has been an outlet for forgetting about his personal faults. And one of those faults has always been the constant creep of self doubt.
Without an opponent to focus on, Calvin has turned his critical focus on himself. His loss to the Gladiator has redoubled his self doubt. Am I strong enough? Am I fast enough? Am I fit enough? Do I have the talent?
Duality is part of man’s nature. How he acts and how he feels are quite different. This dichotomy is even more evident in professional wrestlers, who combine muscle-bound physiques and impetuous behavior with addiction, ailments, and depression.
Calvin’s actions immediately following his match put this fantastic contrast on display.
Mere minutes after the finish of Thursday, Insane Thursday, Calvin paces back and forth in his locker room, his face contorted with frustration. He is still in his wrestling attire, and his forehead has been sloppily bandaged. Suddenly, he reaches into the small gym bag sitting on the bench, and pulls out a cheap cell phone.
Hastily punching in numbers, Calvin misdials once and has to start over before reaching the other party. The other voice can’t be understood, but Calvin is quite audible during the conversation.
Calvin: Dangerously? Yeah, this is Calvin. WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Dangerously’s response is inaudible.
Calvin: No, no NO! Don’t give me that nonsense-I don’t give a shit. You need to get your ass down here so we can discuss this. NOW.
Another muted response.
Calvin: Good. Good. You know where to find me.
Calvin ends the call, and the delicious dichotomy is on display. The phone slowly slips from his hand to the hard tiled lockerroom floor, popping the battery casing loose. The life in Calvin’s eyes drains away, and his knees buckle. Calvin slowly sinks to the bench. His head goes into his hands. His breaths come in harsh, uneven rasps, and his body begins to shake. Minutes pass without Calvin moving from this position. His bravado from moments ago is belied by his current countenance-totally fragile, totally broken, totally out of control.
A knock at the lockerroom door snaps Calvin out of his trance.
Calvin: Come in.
A short, wiry man in glasses and an ICW polo (yes, they exist) and carrying a clipboard enters, and his arrival obviously disappoints Calvin. However, Calvin has snapped back into “competitive” mode, and betrays none of his earlier weakness.
Calvin: Who the hell are you? Where’s Dangerously?
ICW Representative: Mr. Dangerously is temporarily unavailable. I’m Scott McCullough, and I’m authorized to speak for him. I understand that you have concerns that you would like addressed.
Calvin: What the hell, I asked to speak to Dangerously, not some lapdog, where is he?
McCullough is obviously accustomed to being a professional hatchet man: he stiffens and his demeanor obviously changes from accommodating to rigid.
McCullough: Sir, I’m not at liberty to disclose Mr. Dangerously’s whereabouts or activities. What I can tell you is that I am authorized to speak on his behalf. Now, if you have a question for me, I suggest you ask it now, because I can’t allow you to continue to waste my time.
Calvin, still in his “competitive” mindset, is unaffected by the stiff response.
Calvin: Where the hell is my opponent for the Tournament? He was supposed to be here tonight as my partner!
McCullough: We were caught just as off guard as you were by that. ICW is currently unaware of your opponent’s whereabouts. However, Mr. Dangerously assures me that your opponent will be present at Triple Tournament Terror.
Calvin: What, is there no accountability in this company?
McCullough: Discipline issues are handled internally, and I’m not at liberty to reveal our procedures.
Calvin: Yeah, okay, whatever. But what the hell was that bullshit during my match? First, it’s a tag team match, then it’s a triple threat. Then, it’s a singles match. How the hell am I supposed to prepare for that?
McCullough: We’ve addressed that. I told you what I can about your tag team partner and opponent for the Tournament. Lightning Bolt was injured earlier and not cleared to participate in the match-his interference in the match was his decision and not sanctioned by ICW in anyway.
Calvin: Well, that’s the least of the bullshit that went on tonight. I know those Gladiator chants were piped in. And who the hell authorized the blackout? AND, WHO THE FUCK HIT ME?
Again, McCullough receives Calvin’s outburst coolly.
McCullough: Mr. Dangerously disavows knowledge of any “canned heat”. It looked to me like the crowd was chanting that. And we definitely know nothing about the blackout-it may have been a power failure, we’re awaiting the report from our technicians. Finally, are you positive that you were hit during the blackout? You took some heavy blows from the Gladiator. Isn’t it possible that you were feeling the effects of those?
Calvin: What the hell are you talking about? I know I was hit, I know when I was hit. Is the Gladiator’s someone fair haired boy? Who the fuck is running this company, anyway?
McCullough: As you know. Mr. Lou E. Dangerously is ICW General Manager. And the Gladiator is just another competitor, just like yourself.
Calvin: Don’t give me that horseshit-I want to know who’s really in charge here! Is it really Dangerously? Dudley’s out of his fucking mind, anybody who’s watching can see that. Who’s really calling the shots?
McCullough hesitates.
McCullough: That’s all the time I have. Good luck at Triple Tournament Terror.
McCullough quickly exits. Calvin jumps up and follows him into the hallway, but McCullough has already disappeared. Calvin is left staring at a white cinderblock wall, bare except for one decoration.
A poster of the Gladiator, Centurius Maximus, holding the ICW World Title.
Calvin growls in frustration, and then tears the poster from the wall. Then, with no adversary to confront, his adrenaline slows, his anger dissipates, and he begins to transform again from masculine to meek, from angry to average.
Calvin still does not know his opponent for next week’s pay per view. His doubts persist-who will I face? Am I good enough? And most of all:
Just who the hell is really in charge around here?