The First Gold Around My Shoulder

The feud between Sinsell and Street Times drew rave reviews from experts and casual fans alike.

Every rivalry we'd been part of until then had been deadly serious, so people found this new side of us refreshing. Our characters expanded, and Russell and I connected with the audience as babyfaces with a whole new dimension to them.

A good babyface has to carry something likable, something approachable. In that sense, we'd stumbled onto the perfect opponents to let that side of us shine.

Street Times.

A championship belt hung at the end of the rivalry, and wanting it was no different from before. But every step of the way, the whole thing unfolded with impeccable absurdity.

On paper, Street Times were the ones getting the psychological warfare in ahead of the pay-per-view showdown.

But Russell and I refused to lose that game either. We weren't the type to take one hit and let it slide.

Which is why the Russell-versus-Montez match that aired the very next week... sucked the souls clean out of everyone watching.

Both men had sports tape wound tight around both their ankles. As a result, they spent the entire match bouncing and hopping around the ring.

"Nngh!"

"Goddammit!"

The crowd laughed themselves half to death. Down at ringside, I pounded the apron and shouted with all the gravity I could muster.

"Russell! Run!!"

On the opposite corner stood J. Angelo, who was similarly screaming instructions at a flustered Montez.

They'd started it, after all.

There was no rule stating you couldn't tape up your opponent's body, so the referee looked utterly at a loss.

Two men hopping around the ring, attacking each other while desperately trying to tear off the tape.

And then Montez's thunderous ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shoulder tackle put Russell down.

A cover followed, and in my panic, I yanked the referee's leg to stop the count.

"Sin! That's a disqualification...!"

"Aaaah...!"

Whatever happens, happens.

I took the sports tape I was holding and wound it around the referee's ankle too. The sight sent the crowd into a roar of incredulous laughter.

The referee tried to resist, but Angelo came over and helped.

"Wh-what are you doing?!"

"Just hold still!"

I whipped around in shock — Angelo was wrapping tape at a frightening speed.

...And then three of us began bouncing and hopping all over the ring.

It was a scene that bore no resemblance whatsoever to a wrestling match. But that was precisely what made it so entertaining.

"P-please, stop it!"

The flustered referee cried out, and soon all three men tangled together and collapsed in a heap.

With six legs—no, wait, three—intertwined every which way, Russell popped up and slapped on a joint lock.

"GRRRAAAAAAGH!!"

But that was the referee!

"Hey, hey, Russell! Ref! It's the ref!"

"Huh?!"

Russell spun around in alarm, and Montez's attack came right on top of it. Furrowing my brow, I climbed onto the apron to go after Montez.

But Angelo grabbed me, and I got tied up too. With the unconscious referee sprawled between us, the three of us hopped around the ring trying to catch each other.

Angelo, who'd come up to taunt us, didn't last long either before his feet got snared in the sports tape.

Boing! Boing! Boing! Boing!

Four hulking men, all over six feet tall, bouncing wildly around the ring. The crowd was nearly dying of laughter.

And once the atmosphere had ripened just right, I rolled out under the ropes, took a pair of scissors from the waiting paramedic, and brandished them.

"Hey, give that back!"

"S-Sin! Cut mine first!"

A chase ensued.

Four men averaging over two hundred pounds now hopping around the ringside area. When the crowd saw the scissors in my hand, they erupted in a massive cheer.

And so, the first to cut his tape free, I made short work of the tangled Montez and Angelo.

The match ended when Russell, handed the scissors and freed as well, locked Montez in the Sharpshooter.

Trapped by the tape with no way to escape, Montez couldn't hold out — he tapped out with gusto.

The highlight of it all: Street Times scrambling out of the ring and bouncing away into the night.

A few days later.

I was taking a breather after a creative meeting when Baku came looking for me.

"Something came for you."

"A fan letter?"

Usually he handed them over in a bundled stack, but today there was just one. As I was wondering about it, Baku handed me a separate bundle of envelopes as well.

"The one I gave you first has something a bit special inside. Read it."

"...You didn't really need to tell me that. I read all of them anyway."

I smiled wryly.

Letters like that were always screened in case they contained something dangerous. It was only natural that Baku knew the contents.

Though, come to think of it, he's never pulled one letter aside for me like this before.

Curious, I pulled out the letter he'd handed me first.

Two pages.

One was a drawing — four men bouncing around a ring, rendered in crayon.

The other was the letter.

The mother of the boy who'd drawn the picture. An indescribable heaviness settled in my chest as I looked up.

"It caught my attention, so I looked into it. He's a pediatric cancer patient. Five years old — can't write yet, so his mother transcribed the letter for him. One came for Russell too. I'll pass it along."

"...I see."

"I'll admit, when you two first pitched this comedy feud, I had my doubts."

Baku leaned back against the wall.

The locker room air settled into a quiet calm. I folded the letter along its original creases and slipped it back into the envelope.

"I worried it might be going too far. Making a mockery of things, you know."

"That's fair."

Even by my own standards, we'd been pretty relentlessly silly.

"But you're still you. You did a hell of a thing."

"Russell and the Street Times seniors did most of the heavy lifting."

"Anyway, that's what I came to talk about."

Baku turned to face me.

"Once you become champion — how about you go pay this kid a visit?"

"...What exactly are you planning?"

"Simple. We do what head office loves: fulfill our duty as a company that shows children dreams and hope."

"A newspaper crew comes out, takes photos, does an interview?"

"It's business."

"Alright."

"Then get ready."

With a small grin, Baku turned and left.

The locker room fell silent, and I took the letter out again to look at the drawing.

A wonderful thing, this job of mine. That it could give hope to a boy suffering through pain I couldn't even imagine.

And if meeting him could give him courage, I wanted nothing more than to do it.

That said... from a business standpoint, Baku's proposal wasn't half bad either.

Business.

A meeting between a pediatric cancer patient and a professional wrestler could make money.

God, I disgust myself sometimes.

But it was an instinct I couldn't help as an industry man. A wrestler, whatever else he was, had to capture the public's attention to generate revenue.

And what, exactly, made a meeting with a sick boy profitable?

In the not-so-distant future, during the era of Shawn Cena, exactly this would be used to launder the WWF's image.

And through it, an audience unlike any before came flooding in.

Families. Viewers watching together, parents and children alike.

The old 'Bad Attitude Era' had chased blue-collar fans and young men hungry for shock and edge.

But the Cena era was different.

And it hit with unprecedented success, opening an entirely new age.

They called it the 'Family-Friendly Era.'

It was as if Captain Logan's old 'Golden Era' had been resurrected in a new form. Gone was the cartoonish exaggeration of those days, but Cena carried his message to people ground down by a hard and difficult world.

That message was Never Give Up. Cena's words to all those worn thin by life, content to settle for their circumstances.

The company, mired in a transitional slump, found its way out again — and grew enormously, posting staggering profits.

At the very center of it all stood the icon Shawn Cena, meeting fans and bringing hope to sick children.

Come to think of it, Cena said something about that, didn't he.

It was during an interview.

It was a quiet, persistent criticism that the WWF used charity as a business tool. Then one day, a reporter confronted Cena with it directly, face to face.

He thought for a moment. Then he answered with that bright, easy voice of his.

A hell of an answer.

Rumor is, that reporter got absolutely torn apart online afterward.

I thought Cena had it exactly right.

Remembering his words, pride in what we were doing came flooding back.

The show I built, the story I told — for someone out there, it had become hope.

Let's finish this thing properly.

So that when this feud ended, everyone involved would come out of it better off than before.

Losing doesn't automatically ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠diminish you.

In fact, a great feud is one that ends with both men — winner and loser — standing taller than when it began.

This rivalry was the perfect example.

The pay-per-view came at the end of March.

GCW Takedown.

Russell's Crescent came crashing down onto the prone Angelo.

BOOM!

The cover followed.

The crowd, who'd cheered both teams with feverish devotion all night, counted along together.

[One! Two! Three!]

Ding-ding-ding!

The bell rang out sharp and clear.

Choking back the tears, I threw both my arms into the air.

My first championship belt. Ever.

Unable to contain himself, Russell came sprinting over and crushed me in a hug. Under Russell's entrance music, we received the belts and ran through the ceremony.

Amid a roar of adulation, I climbed to the top of the ring post, and the crowd applauded with everything they had.

We were champions.

From the days we'd been rivals, to building our teamwork together against the common enemy of the Wyatt Family, to getting beaten down by the great Greg Hart, to standing toe-to-toe with one worthy opponent after another — we'd climbed all this way, and finally seized ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tag team titles.

The Street Times feud had kept the audience in stitches from beginning to end. And at its climax, we delivered a match that wove comedy and earnestness together in perfect measure — and finally took the win.

The people loved us.

We'd overtaken Street Times, who'd been beloved from the start, and earned our recognition as champions.

More than that, this feud had given them plenty too.

We'd expanded their existing gimmick, forging a fresh new character built around 'stealing the win,' and their beautiful performances earned the crowd's genuine respect in return.

When the ceremony ended and Russell and I climbed down from the ring, Street Times were waiting — recovered, composed, standing tall.

A flicker of tension ran through the moment.

Then both men extended their hands.

A rivalry ending in mutual respect. The crowd sent up a thunderous chant.

[Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!]

Russell and I looked around, stunned.

But then, as if to honor their tribute, we shook hands with Street Times.

The passing of the tag team championship torch couldn't have gone more beautifully.

We let the two of them exit first, milked the celebration a little longer, then headed to the backstage area.

A brief commercial break.

The crowd at Gorilla Position, it seemed, had been waiting for us — they showered our coronation with congratulations.

"Congratulations, you little punks."

"Hell of a match."

Harley and Baku.

"Sin, here's a towel."

"Russell, get some water in you too."

The staff.

"We're doing a rematch sometime, right?"

"You two wear those belts well."

The Street Times seniors.

Russell and I thanked everyone who'd congratulated us and stepped aside for the next match.

We barely said a word the whole walk back to the locker room.

Partly because the match had drained us to the last drop — but mostly because we wanted to hold on to this feeling a little longer.

Finally, inside the locker room.

After receiving the congratulations of the other waiting wrestlers, I stepped into the showers and found Russell's eyes meeting mine for a moment.

He smirked.

"You leaving your belt in here?"

"Says the guy who—"

Neither of us had changed out of our gear yet.

Russell wore his belt around his waist. Mine hung from my shoulder.

The weight of it made my body tremble, just for a second. I wiped the fog off the mirror with my hand and looked at myself.

A wreck of a man.

Top thrown somewhere out of sight, the tape around my fists frayed to shreds.

But the gold gleaming at my shoulder — that was truly, genuinely beautiful.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown — wasn't that how it went?

From this moment on, I was no longer a challenger. I was a champion, charged with leading the rest of the roster forward.

But I wasn't worried.

Because I had Russell standing beside me.

The two of us were, after all, the greatest fan-favorite tag team in GCW history.