013 [WWH]

"My inspiration?" Max sat back in the chair, chuckling softly, "I don't know if that's really much of a story. I should backtrack a little bit. See, when I was eighteen everyone else was obsessed with the SATs, with getting good grades and getting into college and mapping out these educational futures like any of us really know who we are before high school vomits us out into the real world. We think we understand because of that hierarchy – like we're all kids at Hogwarts, waiting to be sorted. Most fall naturally into a group by the end."

The woman sitting on the couch opposite him nodded, jotting a few notes.

"Trial and error. That's why they recommend you don't home-school your kids. They don't get that important shuffling. And for some of us, those years are the worst. They're traumatic. Not that I'm saying mine were. They weren't horrible. I had a group of friends that I haven't spoken to in about thirteen years. The other misfits. I still remember when I told my dad I wanted to go out for sports in junior year. Made the mistake of telling him during one of his Friday night poker games when he cornered me in the living room, watching this bootleg tape of some wrestling show from England. I told him I wanted to save up for some weights. He dragged me into the kitchen, turned it into this big joke… 'hey, Earl, you believe this scrawny little spaz thinks he can be an athlete'? I remember standing there with my face burning in shame, feeling like an idiot."

He sighed, shaking his head.

"Fifteen years old and I was barely over five feet tall, this nearsighted kid with cerebral palsy. I guess it was natural for him to discourage me, make me see the error of my ways. Tough love, isn't that what they call it? My body was changing. I wanted to take back some control over that and maybe bodybuilding would be something for me. Living with cerebral palsy and only one functioning arm, I knew it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. I was never dumb enough to take things for granted like that. It wasn't as though I expected to get a weight bench and end up like another Schwarzenegger in his prime, I was still small. I knew that wasn't going to magically change and I did hit a little growth spurt when I turned seventeen. Shot up five inches. My dad still laughed."

"You could have given in," the woman said. "Why didn't you?"

"That day in the kitchen, all those guys around the table laughing at the thought of me trying to look like the guys I was watching on TV, that stuck with me. Always. In the back of my head, in my ears with that echo – it drove me. I wanted to thumb my nose at him, to show him that circumstances aren't a reality you just have to swallow and accept. Sure, I've had to adapt every thing along the way, but that's true for a lot of folks. The best humans succeed despite the odds stacked against them. I started on this path because I wanted control. My right arm is still weaker, still smaller than the left. It's never going to be the same. I'll always be a spaz. I'll always technically be considered a 'disabled person', but I don't have to handicap myself. Does that make sense?"

She nodded. "It does."

"Does that give you enough backstory?" Max leaned forward, his bad hand dangling between his knees, out in the open because he knew better than to try and hide it now. He lifted his good hand to push his glasses back up his nose, smiling hopefully.

"I think so. If we need to know anything else, someone from our offices will be in touch. Likely either myself or Mr. Sinclair – I believe you already spoke with him on the phone."

"I did." He nodded, moving to his feet as he sensed the shift in her body language: the meeting was over now. "When will you know?"

She considered his question for a moment, looking as though she was going to say something more before she shook her head. "By the weekend, I'm sure. We'd like to have it ironed out before the new year, of course."

"Right. I figured that." Max waited for her to join him and then turned towards the door. "I really appreciate the time you've taken to see me, even if I'm not successful. It means a lot."

"It was a pleasure getting to know you better, Mr. Ironside."

He turned back to her, frowning. "Please, just call me Max. Mr. Ironside was – is – my father."

She inclined her head, filing that away before ushering him into the hall. He passed the receptionist a few seconds later, letting the smile drop from his face once he was in the hall, knowing they wouldn't seriously consider his application unless they had a quota to fill. The last thing he wanted to do was fill that void.


There's always time. It's a constant. People tell you there's lots of it to go around. I just turned thirty-four a few weeks ago and I'm definitely not feeling like that's true anymore. There might be time for everyone, a season for every person out there but I think you can only make good on it if you're truly diligent – you have to steal away. You have to kidnap yourself from the time sinks and when I think about the seconds, the minutes, the hours – lifetimes – they took from me, I hate them. I hate myself, too. Even with all my motivation, with all my hard work, I'm not immune to the futility of the human condition. We all covet, we all aspire to be more.

I've been conditioned my whole life. I've been lied to. I've been held back. I've been told what to think, how to feel. I've been laughed at. I've been told I can't ever achieve my dream – I'll never be a champion of any company. I'll never be namedropped as a legend in the wrestling business. I was ridiculed and told to give up before I even got started. I was told to accept that people like me can't do that.

People like me.

I've had a lot of useless hot air pushed in my direction. When I think of myself, the thing that bothers me isn't that useless hand, my obvious 'handicap'. It's my stupidity for letting that earworm get in my head – for letting them foster insecurity.

I tortured myself more than they ever did.

They laughed. Sometimes with me rather than at me – always clowning.

I'm serious now. I want this and everything that goes with it. I want a shot at Brian Boru. I want a shot at whoever wins the vacant Hellsgate Championship. Sure, it's not on the same level as what I was chasing in Defiant and it's not finally besting Aidan Carlisle but if you don't constantly push yourself, you will never improve.

I'm not crazy. I'm not bucking against conventions, trying to be a sideshow curiosity because I know it'll get my foot in the door. I am a wrestler as much as you are and while I can't say I have allies or a history in tag team wrestling like Lady Black, I can claim determination that you can't even begin to understand. I look like my idols now. I have definition.

You have to break the mold to be something special. You have to steal your time away from the would-be thieves and guard it like the most precious jewel. See, there's time for everyone. Making time for the right reasons isn't enough. You have to trick them, you have to rip it off.

You have to flip the script they want to write for you. Master you own destiny like Lady Black and The Order have. Chase glory because you will get there eventually. That's evident after watching last night's Pay-Per-View event even though I was on my way to Florida already. I've been watching a lot of old WWH programming lately, studying faces, making lists. You need to suss out the lay of the land early on. Learn who you can and can't trust and make the choice to find allies in that locker room or be a lone wolf. My choice will be apparent soon enough, when the time is right. Until then, I try to silence the echoes in my ears, even now. 

Who's laughing now, dad? I never was. I hope you feel like an asshole for that day you made me feel more useless than having to do things with one arm ever did. Revenge is pointless, pathetic and unfulfilling.

Live for yourself. Not them. Never them.