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Down ... But Not Out

You'll have to forgive me.

I was desperate.

There I was six minutes into scrolling through the thread on my phone, just hoping no one peeked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse.  But I couldn't stop.  Not now.  Not before I found out whether he was going to make it out of this one.  

Keep in mind things were not looking good.  Everything was stacked against him.  Foes on every side.  Physical pain.  And somewhere out there a grave that was going to get filled with something or somebody.  So, I just kept on scrolling.

Like everything else, I blame it on the pandemic right now.  I can't remember the last time I succumbed to this weakness.  Late high school?  Maybe.  I know it was really bad in junior high, enticed as I was by all the grit and glamour, all the spandex and sweat and grunting and flying bodies.  Blame it on Hulkamania for sure.  Blame it on the marketing geniuses who figured out a way to turn Rowdy Rowdy Piper and Mean Jean and Tattoo Lou into a Saturday morning cartoon.  That's how I got hooked - watching the Junkyard Dog barking out his taunts.  By the time the Ultimate Warrior came around, I was a goner.  Nothing gave me more pleasure than watching that great spiritual force of the ring - unleashing his psychotic fury on those ropes and on his opponents.  

For those of you who don't know, the Ultimate Warrior (or just Warrior if you prefer) was just as jacked up on steroids as the rest of the title-contenders.  He had all the bravado.  All the latent, unhealthy animus and testosterone pouring out of his pores.  But, unlike the rest of them, the Warrior didn't need to yell and scream and badger his opponents with his "Whatcha-gonna-do's?"  Nope.  He just channeled every bit of his life-force into straight action - sprinting across the mat, high-diving elbow-drops from the turn-buckle and clothes-lining his poor victims.  He'd kinetic energy rarely was subdued, but in the off chance his nemesis landed a blow, all Warrior needed to do was find his way to the ropes.  Reeling or hurting, bleeding or near death, so long as he got there, he was good.  He would grab the top rope with both hands and commence to shaking himself back to life.  You might have gotten him down, but you knew you'd rarely get him out.

Yeah, so I blame the pandemic and the lack of EVERY OTHER FORM OF SPORT.  And Vince McMahon's marketing genius.  It's their fault I was knee-deep into it.  It's their fault I was verociously reading about Wrestlemania 36 on an early April day.  It's their fault I was feeling tempted to look up highlights on YouTube (okay, confession.  I did)  All my other avenues have been taken away.  No NBA.  No Masters.  No Tour of Flanders or Paris-Roubaix?  I mean, what was I to do?  The Undertaker flashed across my news feed and it's not like I could turn away.

The Undertaker, mind you, has been around forever, which you can tell by the fact that he can't bend his knees or neck.  Or really walk.  In regards to wrestling personalities, he comes from the same branch as the Ultimate Warrior - stoical, even maniacal with a strong twinge of the occult somewhere underneath it all.  And like the Warrior, the Undertaker wins most of the time by mere intimidation alone.  The python-grip of his herculian arms is nothing compared to the death-stare of his black-lined eyes.  Oh yeah.  That's the other thing they shared, of course, in this hyper-masculine world:  make-up.  Freud would have a field day with these guys, what with their flowing hair and big muscle complexes.

But at this particular moment, the Undertaker had bigger problems than his underlying, unresolved sexuality issues.  Six fiendish looking druids were standing around him.  Soon, two other competitors would emerge seeking to do him harm, chains in hand and belts to be won.  

Punches were thrown; suplexes were delivered.  Moves with names I didn't even know how to pronounce or imagine were dropped, one after another on the poor Undertaker.  The poor guy found himself running ... er, hobbling like Frankenstein ... away from his pursuers, dodging into an old barn, climbing to the top with his wooden gait.  Up there on the top, the Undertaker seemed like a goner what with the grave awaiting his arrival down below.

But, that's the thing about pro-wrestling ... and while we're at it ... spiritual battles.

Just when you think the hero is done for, just when it looks like things are really going south, there's one more twist and turn to be made.

The Undertaker may have looked down, but he was never out.  It was just a matter of time before he slipped the clutches of that dastardly AJ Styles, turned the tables on him and vanquished the foe.  Just a matter of time before he turned a would-be tragedy into a triumph, raising a hand in victory in that smokey air with a boot firmly entrenched on the grave that was meant to bury him.

But, I leave it up to you to see any connections with any of this stuff between another story that's been getting told around this time of year.

About a grave.  And a battle.  And a struggle for a title.  

If you believe in that sort of thing.

If you get caught up in it.

If you find yourself rooting for an upheaval, a turning of the tide, a conquest over the grave. 

Yeah.  If you're into that sort of thing.


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