(If you don't know what this is about, I'm too loopy to explain. Go here
to get the scoop.)
Saturday nights are like this for me.
Right now I can't straighten my left knee - it's too bruised and swollen, my jaw is swollen, I have a lump on the side of my head, and my neck is
too stiff to allow more than just enough movement to lean my head back.
That's what happens when you get the sh*t beat out of you, I suppose.
And on the drive home I thought about it, just like I always do.
It was probably about 8pm when we sat down to talk about what we were gonna do. Three on three, and the two meanest, hardest-hitting guys are on the
other side tonight. I know when I see I'm going up against either Driver
that I'm gonna walk outta there a helluva lot worse for the wear -- but both in the same
asked if I'd take the heat tonight.
Taking the heat his just a nice way of saying "get the everlovin' crap beat outta you." But it makes sense. I take a lot of heat, it's part of
the whole persona. I'm the girl, of course
those big mean men are going to hit me. But they can rarely beat me, cuz despite how many times
they punch me in the head or throw me around or whatever, I keep getting back up.
Ahhh, but, Jesus -- taking the heat against those two? In the same match? They're the only two in the whole lot of
who hits harder than I do. And I hit hard.
And so the time comes and my music starts playing, and the three of us come out and are momentarily taken aback at the amount of cheering the crowd's
doing. But it's the first time they've seen me with the belt around my waist, and I know that's why they're screaming because I can hear them.
She's got the title!
shrieked one old lady, who has yet to miss a show in 4 years. (didja miss that bit 3 weeks ago when I dislocated my
shoulder in that ladder match to win it? WTF?)
Oooh, that looks good on you!
hollered one guy suggestively. But I know him, he's another regular, so I grin at him and strike a little pose.
(You can hoot all ya want, buddy, I'm still not gonna go out with you.)
And so on and so on, as we stride around the ring to shake hands and hug the kids. They're all beside themselves, cuz, let's face it -- girls just
win the guys' titles. It's a rarity anywhere in this world of ours, and 99% of the time it's a joke-type thing where she'll lose it
a week later.
But I digress.
So I'm to take the heat tonight.
Scott (my tag partner) starts off against Driver. Scott tags in Brandon
after a minute, and
comes in for the other team. Another minute or two, and Brandon tags me in, and I know
the fun's just about to start.
Hayes tags Sayne in before I could get to him, and I start going to town on Sayne. I don't care who's in there with me, just let me hit people, ya
(well, I dunno, maybe you don't know. This *is* kind of bizarre.)
Doesn't take too long before Sayne grabs me by the throat and flings me back into the ropes by my neck, and I know I've gotta hang in there for the
next 7 minutes or so.
Unfortunately Driver's a little too into things, cuz when he's tagged in, he makes a beelilne for me and throws a sick uppercut that catches me
directly on my left cheekbone & temple.
I fall like a ton of bricks and lay there for a second, trying to remember where I am. Driver gets down and grabs me by the hair.
"F***," he mutters. "Y'okay?" He puts one knee in my back, both hands under my chin, and stretches my head backwards. I'm grateful for the
"Sec," I mutter back. "I'm buzzin'"
In English, he apologized for hitting me so hard and asked if I could keep fighting. I told him to keep the hold on me for a few seconds so I could
get my wits back about me.
After a moment, I tell him to work up (keep going). I still have this odd buzzing in my ears and I'm seeing double, but I know I'm okay. So he
sends me flying across the ring and meets me halfway back with his forearm across my throat.
And I float in midair for a second; it seems to take a very long time to hit the mat. When I do land, it's on the tops of my shoulders with the
momentum carrying my legs up and over my head. In technical terms, I "folded like an accordian."
And the three take turns. Sayne's punches are catching me right in the forehead, making that buzzing turn into a loud *THUD* every time he connects.
Hayes seems to delight in dragging me about by the hair and distracting the ref so he can throw me into his corner to be choked.
And at one point, in the corner, Sayne gets his arm so tight around my throat that I start to see stars. All I can do is wheeze and flail my arms
madly, dimly aware that Driver's whisper-shouting "Ease up, man, ease up!"
But every time they try to pin me, I kick out.
And the buzzing in my ears is so loud that the crowd scream-chanting my name seems very, very far away.
And I know it's almost time to finish things up here.
I'm in the ring with Sayne.
He punches me once and I go down hard. He's saying something, but it's so hard to hear over this buzzing!
"*mumble mumble* ...back. *mumble* ...watch dropkick."
To me, this seems to mean that he'd like to dropkick me, and it would be awful nice if I got myself situated where he had enough room to do so. He
punches me again and I stagger backwards towards one corner.
No dropkick. He punches me again. "*mumble" back! *mumble* dropkick!"
Dubya-tee-eff, mate? That's, like, perfect position for a dropkick! I try again, moving closer to the middle of the ring.
Nothin'. He comes in and grabs my hair. "Gonna dropkick me?" I mutter. He mumbles something back, and I'm getting frustrated at not being able
to figure out what he wants me to do here. "F***, do it!" I say louder, but the crowd's screaming so loud they can't possibly hear me.
So he does, finally, sending me running and catching me off the ropes - then leaps up and plants both feet high on my chest.
I leave my feet, but he's hit that a little harder than I initially judged.
Rather than falling neatly backwards and taking the brunt of the impact on my back, I rotate approximately 175 degrees backwards in midair. This puts
the soles of my boots squarely facing the ceiling and all 180lbs of me landing on the back of my head.
What transpired as the rest of my body followed gravity was, after the match, described as something no human body should be able to do. I somehow
wound up on my neck and the back of my head, folded clean in half, with my legs splayed out on the mat to where I was looking at my knees.
I think they thought I was dead at that point. The crowd, too, because they fell utterly and completely silent.
"Okay?" mutters Sayne close to my ear (or my knee, too, cuz I'm still all folded up.) "Yeah," I grunt back, and I can see him pause to study me
for a moment from the corner of my eye. Apparently satisfied that I hadn't died, he tags Hayes in so we can finish things up.
He wastes no time. "Bailjumper, let's go home," he says quietly. Translated, he's going to lift me onto his shoulders, spin around and throw my
legs out in front of him, dropping me onto my face -- and then we're gonna finish the match.
And he does just that, but I kick out of the pin and he picks me up and back me to the ropes. I yelp as Scott slaps me violently on the back, tagging
himself in, and baseball slide out the other side of the ring onto the floor.
Scott lays out Hayes with a nasty kick, and Brandon comes in and does his twisting neckbreaker for the pin and YAY WE WIN!
I'm totally dead on the floor outside the ring. I peer up through my hair and see a young boy, probably about seven, staring at me with these huge
eyes and his mouth hanging open. This worries me for a bit, because I never like the kids to think I'm actually *hurt*-hurt, and this one sure looks
like that's what he's thinking.
But Scott's kneeling over me a second later. "F***ing christ are you okay?" he yelps in my ear, panic making his voice go up 3 octaves.
Brandon's patting my shoulder like he wants to help me up but is afraid I might die on the spot.
"Yup," I answer cheerfully.
"Can you stand?" Brandon finally finds his voice.
"'Course I can," I tell him.
But to watch it you wouldn't think we'd just had this chipper exchange. They drag me to my feet and I lean heavily on them both, legs periodically
half-giving out under me. The ref hands us all our title belts back and I let them "help" me back to the locker room.
I know it's just adrenaline keeping me from feeling any pain. Oh man, do I know it's gonna start hurting in an hour or so.
And sure enough, by 11 my eyes are squinted with pain. It's mostly my neck and my knee; if I could've managed to tweak a shoulder I would've had
all three of my usual suspects screaming at once.
The drive home sucks, as usual. All you can do when forced to sit still in a car for 45 minutes when you're in that much pain is turn up the music
Why the hell do I do this?
I'm 28 and I'm already getting arthritis.
I've dislocated both shoulders so many times that I can pop them out of joint -- it's kinda like a party trick.
My neck won't crack but my sternum does.
There isn't a moment of any day that goes by that I don't hurt.
And so I came home tonight and poured a beverage,
(vodka, straight, on the rocks -- about 4 shots' worth. It helps to dull the pain a little.)
and realized I never really have to think about why I keep doing this.
I mean, I wonder philosophically sometimes, but maybe it's just to remind myself.
That little kid who stared at me with wide eyes, looking like he might cry?
As long as someone gives a damn about what I'm doing out there, I can't stop any more than I can stop breathing.
So with the vodka drank and me able to move my neck a bit more, I'll plug in my heating pad and try to sleep.
Cuz I already know that no matter how much I hurt right now, tomorrow it's gonna be a lot worse.
But that's okay.