***THE THUNDER EAGLES***
How about we take a break from the high school drama known
as Silent Warrior so that I can tell you a little story about my childhood. I
promise you we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled program after these
messages. Although, chapter thirteen will contain graphic sexual content, so if
you want to look for it when it’s up, go to Wattpad. Until the day I write that
chapter, you’re getting a story from my past.
In spite of the fact that I was raised on WWF, WCW, and ECW,
I didn’t have much love for sports or exercise of any kind growing up. I’m
paying for it now that I’m north of three hundred pounds, but even back when I
was a skinny little string bean, athletic competition was hard for me. I’d gas
out after the first few minutes. Imagine this kind of negative attitude applied
to elementary school-level soccer.
In the early to mid-90’s, I lived in Elk Grove, California
and achieved success in my third, fourth, and fifth grade academics. Athletic
achievements? Not so much. My parents signed me and my brother James up for
soccer, albeit different teams. James’s team, the Laguna Lasers, was successful
and happy to be so. My team, The Thunder Eagles (not to be confused with the
Thunderbirds), were an intergalactic disaster. We only won two games out of god
knows how many and one of those two games was against a team of children who
were much younger and smaller than us. For all of you wrestling nerds out
there, it’s basically Bone Soldier beating the shit out of James Ellsworth.
As a child, I’ve always been a sore loser no matter what the
game was. When I brother beat me at Connect Four, I threw a hissyfit like no
other. When I played Hero Quest and my barbarian was killed, I threw game
pieces across the living room in frustration. When the Thunder Eagles lost over
and over again, I wanted to beat something up. It didn’t help matters that I
was always getting knocked down (accidentally) or hit with the ball
(accidentally) by the other players. Whenever one of them would hit me, I’d chase
after them and throw hammer fists until I was benched for the rest of the game.
And then when both of our teams formed lines to high five each other, I
withdrew my hand. Hell, as angry as I was, I might as well have flipped them
off instead. Vinny Jones would be so proud of me.
It also didn’t help matters that my own teammates were
conspiring against me most of the time. I remember during practice how they
would play keep away with a soccer ball I brought myself. I never could get the
ball back from them, but every time someone kicked it away, I’d either shove
them to the ground or kick them in the legs. I also remember a time when a
fellow teammate named Jorge kept bouncing the ball off my legs, so I ran up to
him, kicked him in the asshole, and made him cry. I’d later recall these
stories as an adult to James, who kept asking me why I took everything so
personally back then. I’d jokingly respond with, “They tried to kill me!”
If I had been an adult and committed these violent and
vengeful acts against other players, I’d probably be in jail right now. But as
a kid, you can get away with pretty much anything and the worst you’ll get is
detention or a suspension (which is really just a nice vacation away from the
stresses of school). In the case of soccer, my mom bribed me with a trip to
McDonald’s after each game on the condition that I didn’t clobber anybody who
accidentally bumped me down. One particular game, I got smacked in the thigh
with the ball and it stung like hell. But instead of beating the shit out of
another kid, I cried my eyes out. Needless to say, I earned my Double Quarter
Pounder with Cheese that day.
The lesson I learned from all of this soccer immersion was
that if at first you don’t succeed, cry and cry again. As I said before, the Thunder
Eagles lost every game except for two. Plus, I was getting sick and tired of
being smashed around and gassing out after only a few seconds of activity.
While my brother James continues to enjoy an athletic lifestyle, I’ve resigned
myself to a life of videogames and have remained injury free since then. That
reminds me of another lesson I learned from soccer: if you get hit in what’s
supposed to be a no-contact sport, the admins might as well make it as violent
as possible. I would have loved to bring steel chairs and kendo sticks onto the
soccer field with me, maybe even a barbed wire bat. Extreme Championship
Soccer! ECS! ECS! ECS! ECS!
I’d like to think that this is why I continue to watch
wrestling and MMA as an adult: because violent sports don’t try to hide behind
the façade of being safe and conscientious about self-esteem. I guess football
could be considered violent because of all the concussions the players get, but
I have yet to see any of them whip out some martial arts moves on the gridiron,
so football doesn’t count in the end. And now that we’re on the topic of
violent sports, when, oh when are the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards
going to come out already?! That Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award is
ripe for the picking this year! Come on, Meltzer! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll
see you next time!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’ll hypnotize you like a vampire. Bite your neck and set
your head on fire. Shoot me with silver bullets, okay. I’ll pull ‘em out, pawn
‘em, and get paid!”
-Violent J from Insane Clown Posse rapping “Bring It On”-
