Cash In

My name is Bryan Danielson, and all of my life, I wanted to be WWE champion. At Summerslam of this year, I had my opportunity. I did everything right, and yet, I left empty-handed. All because this company never believed in me. They made me a promise so that I wouldn’t leave, and they lied to my face. 

It all started when I was young. I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin, all of the legends of old. I wanted to be just like them from the moment I started watching, and that ambition never wavered in my mind. I spent my younger days making impromptu rings on my bed, doing flips, practicing submission maneuvers on my pillows, and a bunch of other things my mother would have hated me doing. 

As I grew older, I began to understand the world of professional wrestling more as a business, and less as a show. As a business, all of the stars were marketable. They had larger than life personas, cool costumes, and for the most part, they were all enormous and ripped. You don’t always realize just watching on TV, but these guys are about 6’5, 230 pounds on average. The “short” ones are still about 6’0, and don’t get me started on the 7+ behemoths that dominate the main event scene.

 Well, I wanted to get a head start on my look, and so at around the age of 12, I took heavily to lifting weights. I would utilize the dumbbells and bench press left behind by my father. I wish he had been around to instruct me on how to use them. I lifted and lifted day after day, I felt I was building strength. However, with my picky eating habits as a devout vegetarian, I simply wasn’t getting the protein to make it worth my while. I also wish I had taken it seriously when my mother had told me I would stunt my growth. I maxed out at about 5’9.

By the time I had turned 18, I realized that I wouldn’t be getting much larger than I am now. I had already begun training wrestling nearly full time, and I simply didn’t have the time or energy to pursue weightlifting to an extent that would make significant progress. So, I decided I would focus on my moveset. I would focus on my work inside of the ring. The look of the match, not of the wrestler. I would spend the next few years putting together a persona based on technical wrestling, match quality, and an unmitigated love of the sport. 

I had my doubts at first. In fact, I have my doubts to this day. I was always aware of my talents in between the ropes, as was everyone I worked with. Still, I feared. I feared it wouldn’t be enough. My small size would simply be too much to overcome. I would never make it to the WWE, let alone as a champion. Well, as I ascended the indie ranks, jumping from promotion to promotion, my doubts started to fade. I traveled the country, and eventually the world, putting on classic match after classic match. Everywhere I went, I received a crowd reaction I could never expect. If they weren’t cheering for me at the start, they damn sure were at the end.

Eventually, my status grew too much to be ignored. I just know they tried. I put in work in the indie circuit for 7 years. I stole show after show from sea to shining sea. Still for 7 years I got nothing. It got to the point where, back in the WWE, they began to hijack shows. Not in a dangerous sense of the word, no. At shows were I was not even present, or had ever appeared on the programming, the audience began to cheer my name throughout the entirety of shows. They would take over promos with my signature “Yes!” chant, would actively ignore matches, and more. The audience demanded my presence in the company. 

Without the love of the crowd I don’t know if I ever would have made it. I grinded, I put my blood sweat and tears into the sport. Countless hours working on new moves. Working on new ways to chain together holds. New ways to sell the pain of different maneuvers. Innovations in facial expression and ragdoll imitations. It all paid off when soon after the chants began, my agent received a call from the WWE, inviting me in for a tryout.

The tryout didn’t last long. It went amazingly, and the man conducting it assured me he had seen my work before. Before long, there I was, and official member of the WWE roster. I had finally made it, but I wasn’t satisfied. My dream wasn’t just to make the WWE, my dream was to be WWE champion. I knew that it was a longshot, but I had been stealing shows all of my life, breaking down doors for myself. I didn’t intend to stop until I reached the top.

For my first few years, things were fine. I put my head down, I worked the undercards, took my lumps, and it was great. I put on great matches, everyone knew it from the crowd to the critics at home. Every week I felt I had stolen the show. But as time went on, I could tell the higher-ups didn’t feel that way. I waited and I waited for opportunities to be presented to me. Alas, for 3 years, I worked nothing but curtain-jerkers and tag-team matches intended to excite the audience with no real stakes. 

At Money in the Bank, I finally decided I had enough. I was once again the opening match. Throughout the show, the audience once again took over with chants of my name. They were pissed that I was not even included in the Money in the Bank match. A match that guarantees it’s winner a championship match at any time. And you know what? I was pissed too. I was passed over an opportunity to even be in the match, only for established superstar, 10 time champion Randy Orton to come away with the win. A man who didn’t need it at all, with a fan favorite like me rotting away on the undercard. That was the final straw.

So that day, I decided to say something. My contract would soon be expiring, and I had an ultimatum. I didn’t care about the money. I was never in it for the money. I only wanted to create a legacy in the sport I love. I informed the head of creative, I love the company and the sport. However, if I don’t get a championship opportunity, then I would be taking my talents elsewhere. I have the talent, and the crowd support, but not the opportunity. 

He told me, as I had suspected, that I just didn’t have the look to be the flagbearer of the company. So that was that. For the next few weeks, it was reported in the dirt sheets and assumed amongst the crowd that I would be leaving the company. However, that all changed one night on Raw. After multiple weeks of overwhelming fan support, WWE champion John Cena hand-selected me as the opponent for his title at this year's Summerslam.

This was it, my big break, the moment I trained all of my life for. I practiced and practiced ensuring that I would not slip up in the biggest match of my life. I worked on brand new moves, I hit the gym as much as possible, and I got into the best shape of my life. As the date approached, and the crowd support grew more and more intense, I received the best news of my life.

The CEO of the company called me into his office, and he told me himself that at Summerslam, the plan was for me to defeat John Cena for the WWE championship. I was so overcome with excitement, I could hardly pay attention to anything he said after. All I remember is that he had told me to play along after the match, and not to go into business for myself. That basically means, don’t screw up an angle trying to make yourself look better. That means if you get hit with a move unexpectedly, you sell it. If you need to take a pinfall, you take it. If someone hits you with a chair you take your shot. 

The day finally arrived. Triple H was booked as the special guest referee. Now a member of the creative team, and a known entity to the audience, it just seemed a little fun addition to the match. The match was electric. John Cena, the most polarizing star in the company, was the perfect foil for my overwhelming crowd support. For 30 minutes, we burned the house down while the crowd chanted my name. We executed sequence after sequence, move after move, reversal after reversal all with such grace and athleticism. Every slam with strength and impact. Every strike painful to watch but harmless in reality. Once again, the match of the night belonged to me. 

When the time came to close the show, and I hit my finishing maneuver, time felt at a stand-still. I hooked the leg, and the referee counted. 1, 2, 3. And the crowd? The crowd exploded. The loudest reaction I had ever heard with my own two ears. I labor back to my feet and lift my hands high in the air as the audience showers me in adulation. I had finally done it. They handed me the title, and special guest referee Triple H lifted my hand high in the air. I celebrated for about 15 seconds. He pulled me in close and gave me a hug. 

Then, I heard it. Randy Ortons music played over the speakers. Mr. Money in the Bank himself. I froze, not sure of what was going on. He slowly walked to the ring as I only stared him down. Would they really take my moment in such a way? Surely not without telling me. My suspicions seem to be confirmed. He stops on the ramp, looks down at me, lifts his briefcase in the air, and begins to walk away. 

I let off a nod and tell him to get lost, playing up to my character. However, he stops and glances behind him. At that moment, Triple H spins me around. He looks me in my eyes, and he tells me.

“Sorry kid, we had to make it look realistic. Take the pin.”

And with that, he kicks me in the stomach and hits me with his finishing move. My heart sinks, as Randy Orton comes to the ring, he raises my leg, and Triple H counts, 1, 2, 3. I got my wish that night. I became the WWE champion. Just five minutes later, it was all taken from me. I don’t know if I will ever reach that height again, but I know I will never give up until I do.