Post by Andrea Cross on Jan 15, 2022 11:56:50 GMT -5
Cracking her knuckles ever so slightly, Andrea would get in a loose yet controlled stance before letting her fists find the bag in front of her. A steady cadence of punches cracked through the air and into the leather, eventually the pace quickened with the addition of hooks, uppercuts, and crosses all being mixed into various combos.Until it ultimately reached a crescendo, the young wrestler taking a short step back before stepping in with a hard stiff left kick to the bag that caused it to deform where shin met leather.
For the trained eye, a small gingerly movement could’ve been discerned as she planted her leg again.
When I was a young girl, I must’ve been maybe eight years old. We went on holiday to America, all the way from our little town in New Zealand across the pacific we’d end up in the land of opportunity. Andrea would reminisce, soft spoken her accent still bleeding through despite half a decade of living in the USA. I remember that I wanted to experience everything, from Disneyworld to real American hamburgers and everything in between. My young mind just wanted to see all the things that a kid would hear and learn about America, soak up every single impression that I could get my tiny eyes and ears on.
Taking a few humble bounces on the balls of her feet, she’d go from punching to merely shadowing herself in the mirror, her eyes trained on every aspect of her motions and making it as fluid as she could.
But from all the things I heard, all the things I seen. It was the one I had never heard about that was the memory that lasted for me, when we all but stumbled on a wrestling show in some tiny arena with at best a hundred people present… I saw things I barely could imagine, and wonder grew inside of me at the excitement of such a thing. she’d say, a smile creeping up on her face as memories returned to her mind. The first thing I wanted when I was back, was to become a wrestler. And the first memory of coming back was realizing that for a kid in a distant town in New Zealand, that dream was just that, a dream…
Pausing for a second, she’d throw a few kicks in the air, making sure to step in perfectly with every stride, finding the rhythm in not throwing them too slow and unwieldy, but also not too fast and chaotic.
So what does a kid do, when they realize their dream is impossible? Do they place it in a small locker at the back of their mind, to wistfully think about in a decade’s time when they have moved on from that silly little phase and have gone onto more realistic ventures? Stepping forward with a hard stride, she’d throw a right kick that turned her on her heels. Or are you like me, and ten years later you celebrate graduation by booking a one way ticket to San Francisco and chase that dream you had to postpone for so long that every passing year felt like unthinkable suffering for someone who had their entire life ahead of them?
Cracking a smile, it would slowly fade into a pained expression, past doubts washing over her as if they were relived once more.
So here’s a girl from across the pond, in a strange land, with the dream of becoming a wrestler, a business where there’s no money unless you’re one in a million who somehow can put it all together, who has the natural talent to pull it all off… And the first day, the first weeks, even the first months of wrestling school I quickly gained the realization that I wasn’t a natural, and that learning wrestling wasn’t just going to be something you’d pick up with a good attitude and a fair bit of Kiwi Tenacity. she bit her cheek, before looking straight at the camera. But I did it anyways, and the first match I ever had was… A loss, completely hopeless and outmatched, I never stood a chance the moment I walked in.
Stepping forward, she’d give a fistbump to another who was in the process of perfecting their game. The gym they were in had seen better days, but for Andrea it had been her home for the past five years, every good and bad memory she had in this business had been felt there, and it was her place of worship.
Of the sport she had given her soul.
Two years into my career, I was flying high, literally and figuratively. I was winning, I was doing it with style, every move felt good and every win felt better. Every loss only made me fight harder to get back even better. I was on top of the world, at least until… silencing herself, she’d look down at her left knee, the brace on it neither a badge of honour nor a foolishly painted target, merely a harsh reminder of life’s arbitrary cruelties.
She still felt the pain she felt, but the injury had been nothing compared to what came after.
They said I shouldn’t or couldn’t wrestle anymore, and I ignored them. Do I regret it, maybe sometimes, because only an idiot doesn’t listen to the people that know better and have been there before. But I ignored them anyways, and for two years the only things I could feel was pain as I pushed myself out of bed, forced myself through drills, for a chance that might not even be there. she explained, putting a finger behind her ear and scratching it. I mean, there was no guarantee I’d even make it back into a ring, that I’d not have a limp for the rest of my life, that even if I did get back into the ring my leg wouldn’t just immediately give up on the first sight of danger, and decide that I didn’t deserve to be there… she added, laughing a little bit inside at how stupid it all sounded.
But here I am, like the first, I lost my return. Like the first, I was hopeless… But soon, I wasn’t, I was better, I knew better, I moved better and I fought better. And unlike the first, I wouldn’t make the mistakes I made the first time around. I found a way to win, my way, a new way, a better way, and still did it with style.
Shrugging, she’d take a seat on a bench, taking a few seconds to collect her thoughts and look at the others in the gym doing the same she had done so many times. The same drills, the same movements, the same repetition over and over again to hopefully turn it all into something tangible, something attainable, something useful to attain success that was never guaranteed, and always painfully fleeting.
And now, I finally got that call, the one chance to show that I’m the one in a million. Project Underground might not be the rung on the ladder I want to start on, but it’s the one I will step on all the same. Because after my second chance at this, this is the only chance I will get to see how far I can climb. How high the ladder will go, and if I will ever reach high enough to look down and see the world below me.
Cracking her neck, her attitude would change from wonderous to serious, almost like an animal expecting their impending fight to the death.
But, this is not a finish or a middle, this is the start. And this is a new world that will break me to beat me, that will see this brace on my knee and gleefully accept it as an offering to their cruel desires… My first challenge might be my hardest, because how do I prepare for a maniac like Kurtis Slayne, the type that outside of the confines of Project Underground would not be in a ring but rather be in an asylum to be kept away from the rest of the world.
Loosening the straps on her knee brace, she’d for a second tease removing it before tightening them further and more securely. She wasn’t jeopardizing a false safety for real danger, even if it meant attracting danger all the same.
Slayne’s here to succeed in his own way, with his own plan of attack that I cannot for the life of me understand or try to figure out. I’m here because it’s my dream, following something an 8 year old ‘Andy’ first laid her eyes on by complete accident. …But Slayne, he’s not dreaming of childhood dreams, he’s dreaming of hurting me, hurting others, chasing down his own family for the explicit desire to hurt them more than he’d hurt the people ahead of him. He’s a maniac unleashed, and who will not stop inflicting suffering on others until they have gotten what they wanted.
A smile would slowly reappear on her face, almost as if the threat of her opponent only fired her up even further. The danger that she would stand toe to toe with was only lighting a spark in her.
But I was stupid enough to step into a ring on an 8 year old’s whim, I was stupid enough to grind two years to try it again after the world and my own body told me to stop, and I’m stupid enough to step into the ring next week against Kurt Slayne. And I’m going to step in looking to make it my sweetest memory yet, my first win on the world stage, my first step towards fulfilling the dream that formed inside of me thirteen years ago.
I fought my way to get here, and now I’m going to fight my way to stay here. And if that means me derailing Slayne’s hunger for destruction, that’s just what a girl’s gotta do to get noticed.
Getting back up, she’d nod as her trainer beckoned her for her turn in the ring. And with a final smile, she’d wink to the camera.
It’s time for the world to meet their Kiwi Krush.
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