Sitting home the last few months and missing so much amazing CHIKARA action has given me lots of time to think. However, I cannot seem to get my mind off of something
that happened decades ago. I remember it as it were yesterday. I was playing in my third professional baseball game. I was just a lad, in fact, my mustache was not
even long enough to tickle my nose. On this beautiful April day in Washington, a fierce pitcher by the name of Walter “Big Train” Johnson was on the mound for the
Washington Senators. I had never faced Walter before, but I had heard tales that he could throw baseballs fast enough to catch fire. Needless to say I was a bit timid
stepping up to the plate that day.
As I walked into the batter’s box I could read the look on Big Train’s face like a book. He was looking at me like I was a warm Coney dog, fresh off the griddle for
him to gobble up. I had a feeling he was going to try and welcome me to the big time with a fast, inside heater in hopes of making me a little weak in the knees. As
the ball came barreling towards me I could see that my assumption was correct. I turned my wrists over while swinging and made great contact right in the sweet spot.
If you know anything about batting, then you know the harder the ball comes in, the faster it goes out. It wasn’t a homerun but I managed to leg out a triple after
the ball ricocheted off of the left field wall. I stood on third base with a childlike grin until I noticed the glare I was receiving from Old Walt. He was giving
me a look as if I had just stolen his prize cow. I scored on a sacrifice fly later that inning, and made my way to the dugout. Still, every time I looked up. The big
train was staring me down with a scowl that grew meaner by the second.
My next trip to the plate I was a bit more nervous than the first time. I knew Walt did not like that I had won our previous battle and he wanted revenge.
The next pitch out of his hand pegged me dead center in my back. To this day I have never been hit harder by any man, or any baseball. The pain was excruciating.
I could not let the pain show through, so I shook it off and made my way down to first base. However, the emotional damage had been done. My last two plate
appearances against Walter were atrocious. I could not get my mind off of the fear of being hit again. Needless to say I struck out both times. His bullying
tactics had worked.
I realize now that I cannot get this memory off of my mind because Delirious is employing similar tactics. His ego took a huge hit after I pinned him
to the mat in Reading, Pennsylvania earlier this year. After the match he delivered his fast ball to the numbers in the form of three Panic Attacks that
connected with my cranium. BUT, unlike Walter Johnson, he is not dealing with a wispy-stached young boy. Today, he is dealing with a MAN. Not just any man,
but a man whose 'stache is bold and plentiful. Your bullying tactics have done nothing but fuel the fire that has been waiting deep inside my gullet, just
begging to be released. Every match you start off by playing mind games with your opponents and by acting like a crazed animal when the bell rings. In Philadelphia
on June the 2nd, you will get no such chance. When that bell sounds, broken ribs or not, I will be that crazed animal.
I may just hit you hard enough to correct your speech impediment,