Professional Wrestling: A Prelude
I never worried about the damage—ligaments and lost teeth—but these things did occur. Bone bruises and fractured tailbones, those too. It’s funny what a well-placed kick to the face or a knee forced against the joint can do to the human body. But it didn’t matter, we believed ourselves invincible, bragging a fictional superiority over the fans and craving an actual one over our peers.
To be superior in some way, it was our only hope of getting paid.
We were the wrestlers of a new millennium, trained by those of the old. We all thought ourselves superstars on the rise, undiscovered talent grinding out a debt on the independent scene before earning an owed fame on the main stage; everything bought with a little blood and sweat. But I guess that is the beauty of youth, the folly as well. We did not waver in resolve, not at the sight of shattered bones, not to stories of accidental death, and certainly not to the fear of paralysis. The only thing that scared us was the fragility of our dreams.