Miami, FL
Sep 19, 2017
The storm had passed and the city of Miami was coming back to life. The Miami-Dade School District had made the decision to resume classes earlier this week, vacationers flocked to the beach for a last chance at summer vacation, and the entertainment business was back in town. While many were returning, two men who never left the city stood together in an abandoned gym preparing to attempt something outside of their area of expertise.
“So basically just give this jabroni the business,” Marion Payett directed, his eye behind the lens of an iPhone camera. “No holds barred on the dude.”
Rafa Whatley stood before his agent, wearing an overtight, bright orange sweat suit and looking extraordinarily uncomfortable in front of the camera. His face was covered in sweat, from training or from nervousness is anyone’s guess. A few moments passed as the rookie wrestler built up the steam necessary to deliver his first promo.
“I’m sick of all these fake ass n***as puttin’ my name in their mouth and disrespectin’,” Whatley began choppily, uncomfortably, and incredibly inarticulately. His eyes widened as he watched his agent gesture to bring it down a notch from behind the camera.
Director Marion Payett, from behind the camera
“I’ve been called a cheater, a liar, a scam, a thug – what I did was wrong,” Whatley said, a little more eloquent this time. “I made a mistake, but I owned up to that mistake and will be punished for the rest of my life. I’m the most dominant football player in the world, and I’m not allowed to compete. My life’s work has been taken from me.
“So if you think you can join the mob - sit out there - and disrespect me, you better be ready for retaliation,” Whatley stared into the camera with a menacing scowl. When triggered, Rafa could become quite intimidating.
“That goes out to all phony journalists who ran my name through the mud this summer, to all the fake people who pretended to have my back and then vanished into thin air, and to anyone who decides to talk to me about it in the wrestling ring. Stephen A. Smith, you’ll get what’s coming to you. My former teammates that put my name in their mouth, you’ll get what’s coming to you. Jeremy Starling… boy… I’ve got something special in mind for your punk a**.”
Rafa Whatley actually smiled briefly, something he really hadn’t done since the Superbowl.
“Jeremy Starling,” Rafa paused after repeating the name, as if the sounds revealed prominent information about the man. “In the midst of all the trash that came from your mouth earlier today you asked me a thought-provoking question: ‘What separates the men from the boys?’. I’ve thought about that question a lot over my life. Every time I trucked a 170lb white boy 10 yards down the field, the question popped into my head. Every time one of my dogs, who were just as talented and gifted as I am, was carted off the field never to play another snap, I asked myself that question. Is greatness most often achieved because of talent, or will? Luck of circumstance? Does a higher power decide who deserves to be great?”
Whatley actually looked up to the ceiling and briefly crossed his chest as if on instinct, as every professional athlete had done always.
“Jeremy Starling, you pretended you had the answer,” Whatley continued, “Some hot garbage about ‘inspiring hearts and minds’ that sounded like something I heard in a classroom one time. The truth is, being great doesn’t have anything to do with what normal people think. The audience doesn’t have the capability to wrap their heads around greatness. They don’t understand what it takes, the
obsession that is required to dominate. Because they will never understand, what the audience believes is irrelevant, boy.
“What is relevant are the basic facts of this fight. You are a lot more experienced than me, no lie. Apparently, you’ve been doing this for a year. This is my first professional fight, and I call it a fight because that is exactly what it’s gone be. You have more experience in a wrestling ring, but in a fight, I am 3 inches taller, 30lb heavier, and not to mention I’m the toughest, dirtiest f***ing dog you will ever meet.”
Whatley looked to be gaining confidence, both in front of the camera and for his upcoming foray into the wrestling ring. His tone had squared up significantly and the message he was delivering was surprisingly sharp. While Rafa Whatley certainly had sustained long-lasting brain damage during his brief football career, it appeared some of that free college education was still rattling around in there.
“Even though this is my debut in a wrestling ring, I am the more experienced fighter. I’ve spent my entire life pushing ‘boys’ around, and that’s exactly what you are, Jeremy Starling. Any wrestling accolades or experience you bring to this fight are worthless.
“We are both men who have clearly had their successes outside of the wrestling world. The difference between us is where that success lies. You are a successful businessman with an empire named after you. I am a world-class athlete who has been successful in every athletic contest I have ever attempted. If I were you, boy, I might consider sticking to that boardroom of yours before a
man puts you in a damn wheelchair for the rest of your life.
“You called my wrestling career a ‘charade’, but you’re the one whining about dirty refs costing you wins or that no one ‘thinks’ Erik Holland is fit to be champion. Let me tell you again, boy, it doesn’t matter what anyone ‘thinks’, least of all
you or the audience. The opinions that matter are of the men who take what they want - like championships - away from boys like Jeremy Starling.
See you at Frontline, boy.”
