How could it have happened?
"Butterfly" may be too kind...even they clean themselves.
Your boy finds himself back at the same crossroad he was at about this time last year. Confused, defeated, and
wondering what happened to his season. When the Throwbacks trounced the Roughnecks in front of a ROCKING crowd in New
York, I felt unstoppable. WE, THE THROWBACKS, toughest team in CHIKARA. We were gonna ride that wave of good
vibrations to the Campeonatos de Parejas we swore we'd claim by year's end...
Then the Batiri happened.
First it was King of Trios during the Tag Gauntlet. Those angry munchkins were directly responsible for landing us
back at 0. Then we roll into our homecourt of Easton, PA and yet again; they break us when it really counted.
As mad as I wanna be about the sudden meeting of this silky smoove cocoa butter face to the mat via Obariyon's Flying
DDT - I can't.
The problem was us.
I suppose we figured there was no more need to be the rough, tough, and mean souls that the Roughnecks brought
out in us. We were back to showing out and clowning in North Carolina like it never happened. Loss after loss
makes you think though. Mean got us results. Intense netted victories. Points are points, boys and girls.
Even in my match with Marchie Archie and his breezy Veronica, I shouldn't have played with him. I should have went
hard in the paint and crushed him.
But I pranced, I danced. I lost. I sense a pattern.
He went the distance I wouldn't; which in that case was the distance between Veronica's baton upside my head.
Tainted win or not, HE WON. He did what it took to net the victory. I went home that weekend in shambles, defeated.
I couldn't talk to Dasher. Couldn't look to the fans. I could barely look at myself.
Am I a lost cause? Is this team a lost cause? I was ready to say yes. Then I hit the court. Not the air-conditioned
gyms with the hardwood we know and love.
Concrete. Chain nets. Wire fences. I think you feel me on this.
I went out and played with some of the heaviest cats this side of The Expendables. Mean headhunters that were ruthless
to rock the rim. It reminded me how redeeming it felt to throw a closed fist and not an open one. That seductively
groovy state when the anger takes over and the limitations all but disappear. I remembered them so fondly because
when I felt that...the feeling of victory followed. And believe me, victory tastes sho' nuff good with a steady
diet of defeat.
Rolling around in the grit and grime of those games with the trash-talkin', hard elbows, and harsh tempers made me
decide one thing. I want to feel that way again. I want my points back and then some. I NEED this losing to stop.
Even Visine couldn't make this any clearer.
Stop with the smiling and ball up your fist. There's work to be done. We both know it Dasher. Let's show 'em what we got.