Post by Deleted on Dec 9, 2017 13:16:17 GMT -8
I never met the man. Mom never said much about him, just that he was a wrestler and she’d met him when he was on tour, and that he was a champion. She never said his name and didn’t bring it up. I have a vague memory of her telling me I was better off not knowing my father.
I watched as much wrestling as I could growing up, looking for him, guessing at his identity from the wrestlers on screen. I guess that’s how I fell in love with the sport, through osmosis. I never found my dad, I had guesses, but after a while the guessing game turned into an overall admiration for what my father did, whoever he was.
My mother shook her head but remained unwilling to disparage me as she watched me turn into my father’s little girl even without his guiding hand there to steer my course. I started training at the age of twelve, learning how to roll and fall. They said I had a knack for it, that it must be in my blood, and I swelled with pride and remarked that I had a famous wrestling father but had to change the subject when drilled for specifics.
I guess, if you wanted to unearth the psychology behind it, I wanted to meet him from the very beginning but knew my mom would never facilitate it.
“He’s probably off traveling the world or something,” was her general, polite and sanitized answer when I’d press for more information.
I kept training, with that glimmer of hope clenched in my heart that I might run into him if I made it far enough into the business. Mom became proud, but with reservations, as I hit the mat for the first time in my first match and never looked back.
“It is in your veins,” she said afterward, wiping a tear from her eye.
On her deathbed she gave me his name: Brad Stokes. I’d never heard of him in all the years watching whatever wrestling events I could get my hands on on television or live. Maybe he went under a different name?
It was only months ago, after almost a year of apprehensive inner-cheek biting before I gathered enough courage to make contact. I’d learned that he did commentary now for some company in New York, The AWE, which had later morphed into something different called F2W. After years of looking for him, I couldn’t bring myself to try to see him on a screen, I need to see him in person. Television wasn’t enough anymore, nothing but real, in-the-flesh would do.
Apparently, there was a Stokes get-together in the works already. Some sort of reunion. I invited myself.
I stood there under the pavilion tent looking around at what amounted to a much larger family than I could have imagined. Grand parents I’d never known, uncles and aunts I met for the first time and swore to me they could recognize a resemblance upon learning of a familial connection.
Mingling, and fretting, and thinking about mom, standing there trying to be comfortable, and cool, and collected waiting to meet the man, the myth, my father. I stood there shooing away a few unwelcome advances from men who didn’t realize I was related whether through marriage of blood, which turned into an unexpected way to pass the time.
Around the middle of the night, one of the more persistent reunion-goers convinced me to give him a dance. He danced close and reeked of booze. I smiled politely as the music ended and broke away from the dance floor but he hung onto my hand and insisted I join him at his car.
There’s this point you reach in a journey or a quest where it just seems pointless. I travelled through 21 years to meet my father, and by the time this reunion rolled around everyone I asked said they hadn’t seen him and suspected he wouldn’t show up. With a shrug I decided to leave, which just happened to coincide with this guy leaving too. By his car he pulled out a joint, lit it and offered it to me. I refused. Blood tests were routine for the regional company I was working for so I played it safe. He mocked me for it, and insisted. I didn’t even know his name.
“Brad Stokes,” he smirked confidently, popping the collar of his leather jacket with the joint still in his mouth. “Now how about we take a spin back to my place?”
And that’s how I met my father.
I watched as much wrestling as I could growing up, looking for him, guessing at his identity from the wrestlers on screen. I guess that’s how I fell in love with the sport, through osmosis. I never found my dad, I had guesses, but after a while the guessing game turned into an overall admiration for what my father did, whoever he was.
My mother shook her head but remained unwilling to disparage me as she watched me turn into my father’s little girl even without his guiding hand there to steer my course. I started training at the age of twelve, learning how to roll and fall. They said I had a knack for it, that it must be in my blood, and I swelled with pride and remarked that I had a famous wrestling father but had to change the subject when drilled for specifics.
I guess, if you wanted to unearth the psychology behind it, I wanted to meet him from the very beginning but knew my mom would never facilitate it.
“He’s probably off traveling the world or something,” was her general, polite and sanitized answer when I’d press for more information.
I kept training, with that glimmer of hope clenched in my heart that I might run into him if I made it far enough into the business. Mom became proud, but with reservations, as I hit the mat for the first time in my first match and never looked back.
“It is in your veins,” she said afterward, wiping a tear from her eye.
On her deathbed she gave me his name: Brad Stokes. I’d never heard of him in all the years watching whatever wrestling events I could get my hands on on television or live. Maybe he went under a different name?
It was only months ago, after almost a year of apprehensive inner-cheek biting before I gathered enough courage to make contact. I’d learned that he did commentary now for some company in New York, The AWE, which had later morphed into something different called F2W. After years of looking for him, I couldn’t bring myself to try to see him on a screen, I need to see him in person. Television wasn’t enough anymore, nothing but real, in-the-flesh would do.
Apparently, there was a Stokes get-together in the works already. Some sort of reunion. I invited myself.
I stood there under the pavilion tent looking around at what amounted to a much larger family than I could have imagined. Grand parents I’d never known, uncles and aunts I met for the first time and swore to me they could recognize a resemblance upon learning of a familial connection.
Mingling, and fretting, and thinking about mom, standing there trying to be comfortable, and cool, and collected waiting to meet the man, the myth, my father. I stood there shooing away a few unwelcome advances from men who didn’t realize I was related whether through marriage of blood, which turned into an unexpected way to pass the time.
Around the middle of the night, one of the more persistent reunion-goers convinced me to give him a dance. He danced close and reeked of booze. I smiled politely as the music ended and broke away from the dance floor but he hung onto my hand and insisted I join him at his car.
There’s this point you reach in a journey or a quest where it just seems pointless. I travelled through 21 years to meet my father, and by the time this reunion rolled around everyone I asked said they hadn’t seen him and suspected he wouldn’t show up. With a shrug I decided to leave, which just happened to coincide with this guy leaving too. By his car he pulled out a joint, lit it and offered it to me. I refused. Blood tests were routine for the regional company I was working for so I played it safe. He mocked me for it, and insisted. I didn’t even know his name.
“Brad Stokes,” he smirked confidently, popping the collar of his leather jacket with the joint still in his mouth. “Now how about we take a spin back to my place?”
And that’s how I met my father.
