A gorgeous island with beautiful scenery such as the white sand beaches and the crystal clear blue waters to the gorgeous women that inhabit the land.
As most people come to this place to get away from their every day problems and relax for a few days, I don’t have that luxury. I took a five hour red eye from the Windy City after competing in one promotion to come here and get ready for the Original Defiant. Fatigue and exhaustion feel my body, but I don’t have time to relax or sleep because to beat someone with the pedigree of a Bronson Box, I have to continue and grind whether my body wants to shut down on me.
Every since I got off the plane at seven this morning I’ve been fully focused on my match with Bronson.
The first thing I did when I got to the hotel was change into my workout clothes and working out in the hotel’s gym before making myself run five miles on the beach. I have to continue to push myself no matter how tired I am or how much I want to rest because Bronson’s not going to give me a chance to rest in our match. He’s not going to give me time to call a time out and come up with a plan of attack when it goes awry.
To beat Bronson Box, and take that next step to the Legacy championship, I have to push myself beyond what I normally push myself too because this isn’t some scrub I’m used to beating in Chicago, this is Bronson Box. The man that sent Rhys Townsend packing from Wrestle UTA and bloodied the fuck out of the current Legacy champion with a six inch metal spike.
After working out, and going down to the local wrestling gym to get some training in, I was able to rest and relax for a moment after my shower and film studies of Bronson Box, courtesy of Wrestle UTA and Defiance Wrestling film libraries. I was feeling good and feeling relaxed after a hot steamy shower and a nice massage until I saw Box’s latest promo, and the things he said in his piece felt like a shot to the nuts, and that’s what brings us to what I’ve been doing for the last three hours……..
The yell of the grito is heard from the beach as the salsa music plays and the people on the beach are dancing and having fun in the white sands as the liquor has them feeling good and they are listening to a song that is really hitting them.
This isn’t just your typical Boriqua beach bash, but a Quinceanera.
They got everyone’s momma and their cousin to see little Maria turn fifteen. The dresses look fabulous and elegant, and suits are on point, and it’s a sight to see just formal wear being danced around a giant bonfire in the middle of the beach.
But I’m not cutting a rug in the sand and wishing Maria a happy birthday. No, I’m at the Juan’s Bar en la playa fifty yards away having a drink or two….or three or four.
As the celebration continues to be heard from the beach, I down my Jack and Coke, and motion to the bartender to serve me another.
As the bartender tops off my glass I slowly pick it up and gaze into the brown liquid.
“Is he right? Am I just another wrestler like a Rhys Townsend or the million others that have come and gone in HOW that hasn’t made a lasting impact?”
I ask myself as I take a brief pause before downing my drink and calling for another.
As the bartender fills my glass I remember the stinging words of the War God.
“If you vanished from this promotion tomorrow the impression you’d have left could be filled with any number of clones just like you, with yer’ spiky hair and your prick attitude and yer’ bloody tattoos and yer’ ridiculous movie references. I’ve seen you before Scott, I’ve beaten you before, I’ve seen a hundred of you come and go and come again. If Bronson Box lifted off the surface of UTA there’s nobody like me, lad. Nobody. I’d leave a Bronson Box sized hole not one of you bloody bastards could hope to fill.”
Let’s look at the facts of the people who came from The Big Easy to the ones that came from Chicago.
Eric Dane, won the chamber at Ring King, and a proverbial world title contender.
Stephen Greer and Tyrone Walker, world tag team champions.
Bronson Box, the man who almost defeated John Sektor for the Legacy championship.
Alex Beckman, former Prodigy champion and injured indefinitely.
John Sektor, Legacy champion, but hasn’t been seen or heard from in weeks.
Cecilworth Farthington, on air authority figure for Wrestleshow, inactive as a competitor.
Rhys Townsend, gone.
Samuel Owens, gone.
When it comes down to it, the Defiant Ones have made a lasting impact more so than my Chicago brethren.
Tyrone has taking a sabbatical, but he’s vowed to be back after taking care of his business, but we don’t know if Alex Beckman will ever be back just like we don’t know if Farthington will ever lace up his boots again while he’s running Wrestleshow.
And even though Mike Best has decided to come out of retirement, he hasn’t been seen or heard from either as the machine that is UTA continues to roll on and sign new roster members with each passing day.
Hell, Santa Claus just resigned with the company.
I don’t want to end up a forgotten name of the long list of wrestlers that has come into this company.
I want to prove myself worthy and be taken seriously by my peers.
When people hear my name I want it to mean something important. I want it them to hate facing me because I’m a tough son of a bitch that is going to bring the fight every time I step through those ropes to compete. I don’t want to be a special attraction like a Skylar Montgomery or a Lisil Jackson.
I want to be a headliner.
I want to be a champion.
I want to be fucking remembered!
I don’t want to be that guy that came from that one promotion to compete in a tournament that defeated the guy who he always defeats only to lose to everyone’s favorite Canadian.
At Wrestleshow this Monday, I want to be the guy that defeated Bronson fucking Box, and took a huge step towards the Legacy championship, but also in his UTA career.
I go to take another drink but I stop myself to remember the other words from the fiery Scotsman that struck an accord with me.
“So keep bein’ cute there, Mad Max. Keep believin’ yer’self the inevitable hero of your own little fairytale. Because when it comes down to brass tacks you’re a quitter…”
The grip around the glass beings to tighten and every time I mention the word quitter in my mind my anger begins to build as the glass in my hand begins to slowly crack. I reach my boiling point as the glass shatters and I wince in pain from the loose shards cutting into my flesh and the sting of alcohol mixing in.
As the bartender asks me if I’m ok in Spanish as he wipes up the mess I just stare at my hand and clinch it shut before slamming it onto the bar.
Who the fuck does Bronson Box think he is?
Who does he think he can judge me and what I’ve done in my life?
Yes, I chose a baseball career over wrestling because when your fucking last name cannot get you bookings you have to find other ways to make a living.
What the fuck does he know when you have to travel half way around the world and compete under a mask and a false name because your last name rubs certain people of power the wrong way.
Most importantly, what the fuck does he know about the pain and frustration of being compared to your old man, and no matter what amount of success you achieve it’s never enough to get out of his shadow.
My name isn’t Cary Stevens and it will never be Cary Stevens, but that is the price and the curse I have to bare with an entitled name, but I’ve never quit anything in my life. I didn’t quit my baseball career, and I didn’t quit on giving wrestling another opportunity. Even though I fucking hate getting compared to my old man that doesn’t stop me from trying because you never know, sometimes you just might get out of your father’s shadow, but I’ll never know if I quit.
I didn’t quit the Chicago promotion after getting made to look like a jackass for the last two years because that’s not me. When it closes it’s doors for good that’s when Scott Stevens has quit.
Box, I’m not quitting UTA because I’m not going to give you that satisfaction you want that you bumped off another guy from the Windy City.
I’ve come here to the UTA to prove that Scott Stevens is here to become a main stay and not just a guy who filled a roster slot, and I prove that by beating your ass on Monday night.
“I’ll show you quitter mother fucker.”
I mumble to myself as I take the towel the bartender handed me and wrap it around my hand.