Red Tide

I put on my mask and entered the building, the remains of my cigarette smoldering on the pavement. The midsummer sun was brutal, and within seconds my face was slick with sweat. Inside wasn't much cooler. The hallway leading to the locker room was short and claustrophobic. Old metal chairs with bent legs and dented seats lined the walls. Sagging cardboard boxes rested on top, a layer of dust testament to their age and neglect.

The locker room itself wasn't much larger than the hallway, but the sense of constriction left me when I sat down on the bench. There was a familiarity about the room, the feeling of coming home. The aroma of sweat and leather permeated everything. It is the scent of passion and determination; a commitment that many try but few can sustain. Much of my adult life has been spent in rooms similar to this one. Some were larger, newer; while others were smaller, lit by a single bulb. But all had the same energy, the same electricity of mounting adrenaline.

My mask slipped briefly as I dug my gear out of the gym bag, briefly obscuring my vision. As I adjusted it, I made a mental note to tighten the strap. It wouldn't do for it to slide over my eyes in the middle of the match.  

The tights went on easily enough, a little snug in spots, but still comfortable. Lacing up the boots was more difficult. My hands ached horribly towards the end, the joints already starting to swell.

I looked at myself in the mirror. All in all, I didn't look too bad. My pecs had lost some of their tone, so I was a little flabby on top. My arms, however, were solid as ever, they were my bread and butter.  

The mask was beginning to fray a little at the seams, and the red wasn't as vibrant as it once was. The mask is as old as my career, it's the one I started this journey with. To replace it would be unthinkable. Satisfied that everything was in place, I headed towards the arena.

The room, though not huge by any means, was still larger than I remembered. The ceiling was high, and large dusty windows circled the room. The sun's rays shone through them like a spotlight, casting a golden hue over the entire room. Large metal ceiling fans turned slowly, circulating the hot stale air.

A row of folding tables stood at the far end of the room, metal chairs spaced behind them. Most of the chairs were already filled with my wrestling brothers. Some were already interacting with the fans, others were talking amongst themselves. Most just sat staring dejectedly ahead.

All of us have been in the business most of our lives. There are many in the business who look to us as mentors, as legends. There are just as many who see us as washed up hasbeens, relics to be tossed and forgotten. All agree we've been in it well past our prime.  

The center of the arena floor was owned by the ring. Rows of folding chairs surrounded it on all sides, maybe five hundred in all. Not quite the crowd size I had known back in the height of my career, but it's what I've become accustomed to these past few years.

I found my place at the table and sat down. Sitting next to me on the left was the Viper. His tights were a vibrant green, the snake emblems popping out. It looked brand new. A baby python lay curled on his neck. He absently stroked the bottom of its head as he talked it up with a fan. The seat to my right was still empty.  

The crowd of fans milling about was still relatively small, but I knew it would change once we got closer to showtime. These few dozen were the diehard fans, the kids who grew up learning all our moves and catchphrases. They idolized us, aspired to be us. For most of them, they still see us how we once were. Eventually, though, reality no longer lives up to the expectations of their memories.

I spent most of my career as the Red Tide. My finishing move was the Undertow, where I would lock them in an arm bar then slam them face first onto the mat. It was simple, but effective, and the fans loved it.

There were a few times when I thought about changing characters, adopting a persona in which I wouldn't have to wear a mask all the time, but none of them ever caught on. They never felt as authentic as Red Tide.

I turned heel only twice during my career. Both times I was at rock bottom, personally and professionally. Nearly every wrestler has tried the turn, whether it was to boost their career or simply to see what it felt like to be booed by the fans. Few ever made the change permanent.

The afternoon wore on slowly. Maybe two dozen fans came up to me for an autograph and picture. They recounted their favorite moves and matches with enthusiasm. They thanked me for the impact I had on their childhood. It was endearing. My eyes welled at their heartfelt gratitude. Thankfully my mask hid the tears.

An hour before showtime the event staff ushered everyone towards the seats at the center of the room while we went back into the locker room to prepare for the show, giving last minute handshakes and high fives .

We all had our pre-show ritual to get into character. For me, it was staring at myself in the mirror as I listened to the growing buzz of excitement from the crowd. That electrified adrenaline of anticipation. It's what brings the Red Tide to life. It's what keeps me coming back for more, even when I shouldn't. It's what defines me. 

 They announce the match before mine and I head for the curtain. I start to loosen up, doing stretches and bends before saying a quick prayer. When they announce my match I push through the curtains, the excitement of the crowd washing over me, energizing me. It's because of this that I keep coming back, night after night. The reason why I can't walk away. It's a feeling I can't get anywhere else. More than anything, it's the feeling of coming home.