Good job Conor. I’mma keep an eye on you.
Benny said it best.
“If anything, High Flyer beat High Flyer!”
My how right he is.
Here’s my life five years ago.
Wake up. Quick breakfast shake. Hit the bags. Run the treads. Big dinner. Watch tape. Go to sleep.
Wake up, have breakfast with the ex and my youngest kid. Go run errands, pick up groceries, toss the kid some tape to better him. Look over financials. Record some lines. Have a sit down family dinner, sneak a work out in.
In the end, I always thought I would chose the business over every other facet of my life. As my gears and my bones grind to dust, I realize my fighting spirit diminishes just the same.
I like my quiet life.
I’m sitting on a rocking chair as the sun sets in the distance. It’s quiet here, just a few fireflies and crickets to soundtrack the mood. A small glass of iced tea, four equal cubes bobbing, with a sugar cane straw. My phone is inside. My mind is in the moment.
Greg, my oldest, is just bare forearm striking this large oak tree we planted when he just entered Elementary school. He’s throwing in a few shin kicks too. Strengthening those bones. Just thinking of doing that, I can hear the crack of my legs breaking.
Not in the showbiz sort of way. Like an Anderson Silva sort of way.
My son takes off in a sprint toward me and stops on a dime. He grabs a towel hanging from the railing and wipes sweat from his long blue hair. “Dad.” The towel obscures his face for a moment. “You should get out there. You’ve got another match this week.”
“Oh.” I chuckle. “I know. But honestly?”
“Sometimes…” I lean in, he follows. “I think I’m just holding on to a spot that should be someone else’s.” I nod to him.
“C’mon dad!” he leaps up, grabbing the overhanging roof and starts to do a set of pull ups. “You just gotta work out the rust, clean out the ol’ cobwebs.”
He doesn’t understand what I mean.
He should be in my spot.
I should consider doing what I do best nowadays.
Watch him succeed.
With all my love.
Listen, I’m satisfied, for the first time in my life. My ex and I are getting along. My psychiatrist is actually cutting down on my meds. My boy’s taking his first steps to superstardom.
Why should I keep fighting?
Why do I give two flying fudges what Simon Loveless thinks about me? A man who beat me during a battier spell in my hayday, when I tried to peer beyond the lens of reality. Listen, I just don’t see the need to come up with some insult equating his namesake to his emotional acuity, that Simon can love no one because he can not love even himself. That a man without love is just a man who eats himself from the inside out. That it’s REALLY great Lee saved you a roster spot after all this time.
Maybe I should go away for a few months and come back with a chip on my shoulder for no discernable reason.
Why do I bother in HOW?
I have what I want. I don’t need to be champion. I don’t need to beat Mike Best. Cancer Jiles proved just that.
In the end? I don’t gotta explain myself to you. I’m here. So fuck you.
I’m the God Damn High Flyer. That’s why.