Body Slammed! (3 page)

Sara was born in New York City, and the rose is the state's flower, which might have explained her fondness for roses. Riley noticed it right away, and he bought her roses every chance he got. He even bought her a bottle of Trudy Carlisle perfume for her birthday called, what else? Scarlet Rose.

Jesse wondered if maybe he had tried to learn more about what interested Sara instead of boring her with his problems, they might still be together. He had told her about what his parents were going through. Sara probably got sick of all his whining. Maybe if his parents hadn't gotten into that huge fight, things might have been different. Maybe if he was the starting quarterback of the Deaf Smith Sidewinders instead of a second-string benchwarmer. Maybe . . . aw, what did it matter? Sara wasn't his girlfriend anymore.

Riley wrapped an arm around Sara, drew her close, and she snuggled up against his chest.

As he watched them, Jesse's throat tightened. He had difficulty swallowing the chunk of cheeseburger in his mouth. Tears welled up in his eyes.

This is stupid. I can't cry in front of the guys!

Wendell looked at him with concern. “You okay, Jesse?”

Finally, he gulped down the piece of burger. “Yeah. Allergies getting to me, I think.” Jesse sniffled a couple of times. “I'll be right back.” He rose from the table and hurried to the bathroom.

Inside a stall, he wiped his eyes with the back of his palm. Then he pulled a strip of toilet tissue and blew his nose. While he waited to compose himself, Jesse thought of a quote he had read from the film director and comedian, Woody Allen, who said:
Most of the time I don't have much fun. The rest of the time I don't have any fun at all.
Jesse didn't find anything humorous about the joke, if that's what it was supposed to be.

Probably because Woody Allen could just as easily have been talking about him.

CHAPTER THREE

S
aturday morning, Jesse woke up, surprised to hear his father's voice coming through the bedroom wall. He wasn't expecting him home until Tuesday. His father sounded tense and angry. Jesse got out of bed and made his way to the dining room, where he found his father, his grandparents and TJ Masters having breakfast.

Tristan “TJ” Masters had recently been hired by American Championship Wrestling. Jesse's father recommended him to Frank Collins, the ACW booker and promoter, after seeing TJ wrestle in an independent federation called Star-Spangled Wrestling. TJ didn't have a middle name. Frank Collins added the J because he thought TJ sounded better than Tristan.

Jesse's father abruptly stopped talking when he saw Jesse. He stood and shook his hand. Not long ago, he would have greeted his son with a hug, but now that Jesse was older, he felt that a handshake was more appropriate. Perhaps it was, but there were times when Jesse missed the hugs.

“Go wash your hands while I fix you a plate,” Jesse's grandmother said.

While he was in the bathroom, Jesse left the door open. He could hear his father talking. Again, he sounded upset. Jesse heard him mention Frank Collins and someone named Elijah Nightshade. However, when he returned to the dining room, his father's demeanor changed.

“How's school?” he asked, pleasantly enough.

“Fine,” Jesse said, but he didn't want to talk about school. He was curious about what his father had been discussing while he was out of the room.

“Your grandpa told us about your game last night,” TJ said. “Congratulations on your win.”

“Thanks, TJ, but I didn't have anything to do with it,” Jesse said. “I play back-up center, and our coach doesn't use me a whole lot.”

Jesse's grandfather removed the pork chop bones from his plate. Then he sat the plate on the floor for Gremlin, their cat, to lick. “I've been up to the school three times to talk to the coach about why he won't let Jesse play,” he said crossly.

“What does he say?” Jesse's father asked.

“Same old crap. Says he'll think about it.”

“Maybe I'll talk to him,” Jesse's father said. “I met Duane Blaylock a couple of years ago at the Cleveland All-Sports Banquet. He seemed pretty decent.”

“Dad, I'm not asking for preferential treatment,” Jesse said. “I'd just like to play a little more.”

“I know, champ. I'll see what I can do.” He clamped a giant hand on Jesse's shoulder. “I only wish I could be at your games. But you know it's almost impossible for me to get away.”

“I know, Dad. I understand.”

TJ tore a piece of tortilla, scooped up scrambled eggs with it and gobbled them up. “I wouldn't mind going to one of your games sometime, Jesse,” he said. “I haven't been to a high school football game since . . . well . . . since high school.” He took a sip of coffee. “When do you play again?”

“Next Thursday night,” Jesse said. “Ordinarily, we play on Fridays, but something's going on at the stadium Friday evening, so our game's been moved to Thursday. But if you go, don't expect to see me do a whole lot, TJ. Really, I'm just a benchwarmer.”

“I hear you,” TJ said. “I wish Collins would give me something more to do than job matches.”

As a new and relatively unknown talent on American Championship Wrestling, TJ was going through the process many inexperienced wrestlers undergo when they're first brought into the company—jobbing.

Contrary to what casual wrestling fans might think, jobbing, or pretending to lose, actually requires a great amount of skill, because wrestlers have to sell every punch, kick and body slam to make their matches look as realistic as possible. Jobbers are used primarily to give the mid-card and upper-tier wrestlers more credibility, to make them look stronger. ACW officials politely refer to wrestlers like TJ as “enhancement talent,” but everyone else calls them jobbers.

“I think TJ's trying to break Wally Armstrong's record for the longest losing streak,” Jesse's father joked, but his voice sounded empty. Something was definitely bugging him.

When Jesse's grandmother returned to the dining room with Jesse's food, she saw Gremlin licking the plate. She stooped and snatched it away. “I've told you not to do that, Alfonso!” she scolded her husband. “I don't want the cat's germs all over my dishes.”

Jesse's grandfather laughed. “Gremlin's a clean cat, Ofelia. He ain't got no germs. Besides, you're gonna wash the dishes, ain't you?”

“Don't do it,” Jesse's grandmother replied testily.
“¿Me entiendes?
”

Jesse's grandfather laughed again. He opened the sliding glass door that led to their patio and tossed his pork chop bones to Pollo, their dog.

Jesse's grandmother served Jesse his food and a glass of orange juice. “After you finish eating, I want you to get ready so I can take you driving,” she told him.

“Driving?” Jesse's father said, astonished. “Ma, are you teaching Jesse how to drive?”

“Well, somebody has to, Marcos,” she said. “Jesse's almost seventeen. He needs to learn how to drive. And since you're never home . . . ”

Jesse's father turned a cold eye on her. He flung his napkin on the table and stood up. “Ma, don't you start on me about my work. I heard enough of it from Molly, and I don't need to hear it from you.”

Jesse's grandmother's face reddened. “Marcos, I never said anything about your work. All I said was . . . ” She stopped.

Jesse couldn't understand why his father had snapped at her. She wasn't insinuating anything. Something else was making him mad. But what?

His father sat down again, and for a while, no one said anything. Finally, to break the silence, Jesse asked, “Dad, who's Elijah Nightshade?”

His father glared at him with his piercing, black eyes. Then he turned away without answering. Jesse's stomach knotted up. He knew at once that he had asked the wrong question.

TJ smiled and said, “You're looking at him, Jesse. Elijah Nightshade's gonna be your pops's new ring name.”

“What?” TJ's words gave Jesse such a start of surprise that he dropped his fork. He looked at his father, confused.

His father leaned back in his chair and let out an exasperated sigh. “That's right, champ. Frank thinks that the Angel of Death has become too cartoonish. He says that the fans don't buy into the demonic, mystical stuff anymore, so he wants me to give him up.” His voice was low, and he sounded tired.

Jesse's appetite instantly vanished. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and moved his plate out of the way. “Too cartoonish? Dad, pro wrestling by its very nature
is
cartoonish. Nobody really believes you come from the lower regions of the Netherworld or that you have supernatural powers. But it doesn't matter. The fans love the Angel of Death.”

His father shook his head. “I'm afraid Frank doesn't agree with you, champ. He wants to take the ACW in a different direction, one with an edgier, more realistic feel to it.”

As concerned as Jesse's father looked, TJ, by contrast, had a grin on his face. “Guess what Collins wants your pops to do, Jesse.” His grin widened. “He wants Mark to play an evil televangelist!” TJ cracked up and slapped his hands. “Can you believe it? An evil televangelist named Elijah Nightshade!”

Jesse's father shot him a searing look.

TJ put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. But you've gotta admit, Mark, that the evil televangelist idea is hilarious.”

“Easy for you to say, TJ,” Jesse's father grumbled. “You're not the one being saddled with that idiotic gimmick.”

TJ turned to Jesse. “Remember that story that was in the news a few weeks ago about the phony preacher who got arrested for income tax evasion?”

“You mean Brother Clyde Vincent?”

Clyde Vincent was a nationally televised preacher with big, puffy hair, who dressed in expensive suits and wore lots of flashy jewelry. His specialty was “miracle cures.” He claimed to be able to heal the deaf, the blind and the crippled. He “cured” people of cancer, diabetes and tumors, simply by laying his hands on them. In return, he asked his followers to send him money—lots of it—so that his healing ministry could continue.
ABC News
finally exposed him for the fraud he was.

“Yeah, that's him,” TJ said. “Well, Collins wants your pops to play a Clyde Vincent-type character. You know, 'cause that's what's current. It's something the fans can relate to.” TJ tried to keep a straight face, but there was laughter in his voice. “He wants Mark to cut his hair and appear without the skeleton-face make-up. Your pops will be paired up with a stable of heel wrestlers—disciples, if you will—and they'll be known as Elijah Nightshade and the Assembly.” A guffaw exploded from TJ's mouth. He put his hands up again. “Sorry, Mark. I can't help it.”

Unamused, Jesse's father said, “Frank's out to bury me, champ. After all I've done for him and the ACW, he does this to me.”

“Marcos, I don't think Mr. Collins is trying to ruin your career,” Jesse's grandmother said gently. “He's just doing what he thinks is best for his company. Besides, you've had worse gimmicks.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Remember how you felt about being the Annihilator? You hated wearing that mask. After your matches, you'd take it off, and your face would be covered with sweat. And don't forget, you thought that the Angel of Death gimmick was silly when they first gave it to you. But you did these things, Marcos, because that was what you were told to do. It was your job.”

“Job,” Jesse's father muttered. He pulled away from her. “That's what Frank wants me to do, Ma—job. He wants to make sure the fans forget about the Angel of Death, so he's planning to job me out until no one cares about him anymore. I jobbed to Luke Mauldin last night. Monday, I'll be jobbing to John Henry Sykes on TV.” He spun around and aimed an angry finger at TJ. “Next, Collins will be telling me to job to you!”

TJ reeled back and his eyebrows shot up.

“Face it, Ma. The Angel of Death is dead. Dead, dead and gone.” Jesse's father rose from the table and made his way to the connecting living room, where he slumped in an overstuffed chair.

TJ joined him in the living room and sat on the piano bench. With one finger, he picked out a simple tune on the piano. “Don't take it so hard, Mark. The Angel of Death might be dead, but your career isn't. It's just going in a new direction.”

Jesse's father didn't reply. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The silence that followed was thick and awkward. Being told that he would have to get rid of his Angel of Death persona had hit Jesse's father as hard as being told that his best friend had just died. He had worked hard to develop his gimmick and had hoped to retire from wrestling as the Angel of Death.

“Who plays the piano?” TJ asked.

“Marcos,” Jesse's grandmother said. “When he wants to.”

“No kidding.” TJ looked at Jesse's father and started to ask him about it but decided not to. He picked up the guitar sitting next to the piano. “And the guitar?”