You don’t do it for a stupid belt. You don’t do it for the crowds. You don’t even do it for pride. No, when you’re on one knee, and every breathe feels like a razor blade slicing into your lungs, and the blood from your nose, the sweat from your forehead and tears from your swollen eyes combines to matte your hair, stain your face and starts to drips onto the square mat we call a stage – every single thing you do for your survival. Nothing more or less. So you do everything in your power to take the other man down. Which I do. I beat him to my feet, he’s taken more damage than me from that last superplex and there’s nothing else to do but take advantage. He looks up at you and knows what’s coming. He’s almost to his feet now but a well placed kick to the gut paralyses him long enough to make him susceptible to the pain – and I’m bringing it. I spin on my heel and plunge backwards into his chest. With great speed I encircle his neck with my forearm and like a ton of bricks I bring him down hard onto the canvas. His body goes limp. I roll him over and with the last remnants of energy flowing through my veins I pin the fool. Victory means I get to go straight home, no trips to the hospital tonight. Sorry kid, sometimes you’re the one standing over your vanquished foe. And the rest of the time it’s you on your back – the ceiling lights barely piercing through the blanket of drowsiness causing your head to spin. With every bone feeling like it’s crushed, every inch of your skin as though it’s been badly abraded. Tonight it just worked out the way it worked out – tomorrow will be different.
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