The Greatest Wrestler in History
A champion.
At that point in time, the word meant the wrestler who became the face of the company.
The champion was always the first one fed into interview offers, commercials, and all manner of public appearances.
Which was why, before long, I found myself chewing through a schedule so packed I could barely see straight.
But a pro wrestler's public appearances were markedly different from those of your typical sports star.
First up: throwing out the ceremonial first pitch.
"We're in your hands for the day."
"No, no — the pleasure is ours."
Upon arriving at the baseball stadium, we went straight to the staff, exchanged pleasantries, and got the rundown on how the pitch worked.
Baku, who had come along with me, flashed the staff a bright, beaming smile. So utterly different from his usual cool demeanor back at GCW that I could only smile bitterly.
"Are you really the Baku I know?"
"……Shut it, you punk. How about you hustle through your greetings too and leave a good impression while you're at it. That's how you get invited back to throw another pitch."
"Juggling talent management and external appearances both — that's rough on you."
"What choice do I have? Harley says his ears are shot, so he can't do it. You expect much from an old geezer who's half dead already?"
"Uh, he hasn't actually retired yet, though……"
"That's what I meant."
I'll have to mention that to him later.
Having hatched that wicked little scheme, I threw the pitch as planned and waved back at the roaring crowd.
This was routine business. Showing up on TV one more time, all in service of promoting GCW.
On the other hand, there existed appearances that made a pro wrestler anything but ordinary.
Talk show guest spots.
There was a late-night program called The Long Night Show, broadcast by a local station.
Invited on as a guest, I played along as the staff suggested — kayfabe intact. In other words, I went there as the 'god' of professional wrestling, the character himself.
……Honestly, keeping the act going outside the ring was a little embarrassing. But what could I do? I was a pro wrestler.
A cozy, warmly lit studio. Fielding questions from Jamie, the host of The Long Night Show, I answered with my heel persona fully intact.
"So, Sin — is the life of a pro wrestler a hard one?"
"Hard? Of course. But it's a joy, so I endure."
"Ohh. So even a wicked man like you holds the value of labor dear?"
"Absolutely. Labor is sacred. And the labor a man like me must perform is the continual proving of my own worth."
"Your worth?"
"That's right. Every night, I step into that ring and beat down sons of bitches who've displeased me. That is my labor."
"Is that really labor, though? Couldn't one call it simple violence?"
"Not at all, Jamie. The idiots in GCW can't hold a candle to me, but even they are idiots who 'train' day in and day out for the sake of fighting and winning."
"True enough, pro wrestlers do have bodies like Greek statues."
"Then look at this body — built specifically to overwhelm and destroy men like that. It's a work of art."
I pointed a finger toward the audience, at a middle-aged woman whose expression had gone rigid.
"You there, gorgeous."
Apparently she was taking all of this as completely, one hundred percent 'real.'
This is fun. Let's tease her a little more.
"I know I'm sexy — it's a burden, truly. But won't you spare a glance like that for the anchor sitting next to me?"
……Why, though, were her cheeks turning red? And why was she suddenly pulling foundation out of her bag?
Flustered for a split second, I clamped my arrogant expression back into place and turned to the host.
"Anyway — this is censored territory, so I can't say it on air. But buy a three-hundred-dollar ticket, and you'll be free to savor these magnificent muscles to your heart's content."
"Sin, that's a slightly dangerous statement……"
"Ah, of course. Savoring with the eyes only. Touching costs extra."
Jamie let out a long sigh.
Obviously, all of it was acting.
Before the taping, we'd scripted out exactly how the conversation would flow. And it wasn't just me — The Long Night Show itself ran on a script from the ground up.
In the end, all of television was fake.
Was it a bit much to say that out loud?
The whole thing was a staged play. American broadcasting walked so far down the road of artifice that even whether a host stepped with his left foot or his right was predetermined. All that remained was showing the audience what they wanted to see.
The only difference now was that the thing being shown wasn't 'Junho Kim playing Sin' — I simply matched their demand by performing 'Sin' in front of them.
This phenomenon would persist through 2006 and 2007. Afterward, pro wrestling characters would evolve — less exaggeration, more authentic athlete. And in that process, kayfabe would slowly fade into shadow.
So having drunken deeply on my own villainous persona at The Long Night Show, I returned to the company.
When I went to report to Harley that my work was done, I found him wearing an extremely uncomfortable expression.
I asked what was wrong, and he answered with a look of sheer disbelief.
"Turns out the station got flooded with viewer complaints. 'How could you book such an arrogant bastard?' they said."
Which proved it once and for all: people only see what they want to see.
See? I told you they wouldn't believe it.
* * *
As GCW champion, I churned through public appearance after public appearance, drumming up publicity for the promotion.
The separate appearance fees piled up along the way, and with nothing in particular to spend them on, I decided to just send the money home to my parents.
So before heading into the training facility — partly to check in after so long — I picked up my phone.
Riiing, riiing.
After that heartwarming dial tone came the clack of the receiver, and Mom picked up.
"Keep in touch."
Wait, no — that was Dad.
"……? Dad?"
"What on earth have you been getting up to these days? How are stories about you even reaching us over here?"
What's this about?
Caught off guard, I couldn't get a word out. In the pause, a brief burst of bickering crackled through from the other end — tap tap tap — before someone else took the phone.
"My darling son~"
"Uh, Mom. I was just calling to send you and Dad some spending money, so you two can eat something nice——"
"Nothing bad happening lately, is there?"
"Wha — no? Nothing at all."
Good things had been happening, plenty of them.
"Mommy told you not to do bad things out there, remember? I said you never throw the first punch — you take the hit first, then you shoot~"
"……"
That's how you die, Mom.
"And why on earth did you hit that Russell boy?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You know Mrs. Lee's son, Sangwon? The dim one? He came over here sobbing his eyes out. Asking why you betrayed Russell."
"……No, Mom."
"If you fought with that friend, you need to make up! If it's hard, should Mommy come along? His mother says she can come out too!"
To Canada?
I panicked and simply listened to my mother's soft, gentle voice for a while. And somewhere in that listening, before I knew it, a smile crept onto my face.
Of all things, to be on the receiving end of Mom's worrying. And Dad — even without saying it outright, he'd clearly been fretting over whether I was out there running wild.
I'll have to sneak the money over later.
With that thought, I humored Mom for a while longer, then answered.
"Don't worry, Mom. Wherever I go, I'm behaving in a way that won't shame me as your son."
Call ended, I threw on a shirt and headed for the training facility.
Wrestlers grinding through their drills in and around the ring turned to look at me.
"Oh, you're here."
"Sin!"
"Hey, sorry — gimme a hand with this!"
Greeted by the wrestlers, I started my training, pairing up with Sheamus to loosen the body with some light work.
Pro wrestling was a sport where a single mistake could kill you or leave you crippled for life.
Which was exactly why keeping your senses honed and never letting them dull mattered so much.
Every day we drilled the fundamentals and polished our techniques.
About an hour passed like that.
"Whew. Shall we take a breather?"
"Go ahead, sir."
Having sweated out a decent amount, Sheamus and I took a short rest in a pair of chairs.
Before long, Baku walked into the training facility.
"What's going on?"
"Beats me."
"He's not coming to ask you what you want to do again, is he?"
"……No way. Surely not."
And surely found the man out.
Baku scanned the room, spotted me, and came over grinning.
It was true I wanted to weigh in — but I never imagined Baku would come fetch me like it was the most natural thing in the world. A wrestler muscling into the booking meetings was, after all, overstepping.
Which is why I was so careful about how I attended those meetings in the first place.
So they all knew by now. And yet nobody made a fuss about it, which struck me as oddly fascinating.
If Triple H had pulled this in the same situation, someone like Greg Hart would never have let it slide. That everyone simply trusted me — it filled me with a quiet sense of responsibility.
"Sin, what are you sitting around for?"
"……Where am I supposed to be going?"
"The meeting, obviously."
Baku, too, acted like it went without saying. I subtly checked the other wrestlers' faces as I rose from my seat.
On the way to the office after changing, I couldn't help asking what on earth was going on.
"Did the discussion hit a wall? No matter how you slice it, being that obvious about it in front of the other wrestlers is……"
"Eh, half the room already treats you as the boss now. You'll be fine."
"The boss is Bobby, sir."
"Hear the way that Bobby talks about you, and you'll change your tune."
"What does he say?"
"Says if you were a woman, he'd have tricked you into marrying him one way or another."
"……That's a dangerous statement, sir."
"Marriage is all about fooling and being fooled in the end. I figure that's why he said it."
"Hmm."
Good grief. Do I just accept this and move on? It's embarrassing on so many levels.
Ever since I'd become champion, everyone here seemed to have accepted me as the king of this place. Mortifying — but I couldn't deny it felt good, either.
"So. How did the meeting go?"
"……Plenty of decent ideas came up. But the consensus is that the best move is to hear out your own opinion first."
"My opinion?"
"Regarding your next rival."
So the moment had finally come.
My match against Wyatt had battered my body badly enough that I'd spent these past few weeks doing segments only, no matches.
"What do you think?"
"……What's the outcome?"
"You retain, of course."
"And when Russell comes back?"
"Word is he'll be cleared to return by the pay-per-view after next, give or take."
"The December pay-per-view, then."
"So — anything come to mind?"
"Well…… honestly, I'm not sure whether it'll actually work."
"It'll work. Has a single idea you've pitched so far ever flopped?"
"No. None."
"Right. I trust you'll hand us another good one this time too."
With that, Baku led me into the office — where Harley, seated at the head of the table, welcomed me.
"There he is."
"You asked for me."
"I did. About your next rival — first, have a look at the ideas on the whiteboard, will you?"
I turned my head and checked the names on the board.
Bobby Ashley.
Sheamus.
Carlito.
Three names in all. Then Harley and several of the team leads began their explanations.
"Bobby, as you well know, is our Main Eventer. We're thinking a rivalry built on the pretext of his betrayal of Russell."
"Sheamus is in a situation similar to yours. He lost to you before losing to Wyatt — so what about him wanting his revenge on you?"
"Carlito's a tag guy, but his singles work is strong, and we think his style would mesh well with yours."
All of them were wrestlers who seemed capable of delivering a solid rivalry. Pictures formed naturally in my head — Bobby overpowering me with raw strength, Sheamus much the same, Carlito and I trading technique for technique.
"Of course, each of them has clear weaknesses as well, so we'd like you to carry them."
"Weaknesses, sir?"
"Bobby's character runs a little flat. Sheamus's reactions have cooled off lately, no way around it. And Carlito's mic-work leaves something to be desired."
"……"
Too accurate to argue with. I couldn't bring myself to say a word.
Watching me stand there chewing it over, Harley pressed me.
"So — your thoughts?"
"Um……"
The truth was, the moment I'd looked at that board, two ideas had already taken shape.
"You're going to pick two?"
"No — not two of these. I'd like to name someone else."
"Ohh. Someone you've had your eye on?"
"Who is it, then?"
"Without a doubt — the greatest wrestler in the entire history of this business."
At my words, Baku's eyes went wide with shock as he stared at me.
"Harley Racy."
Then his face fell.
"……What?"
He, at least, had deflated — while everyone else, Harley included, stood struck speechless.
Harley Racy. The old man I'd been quietly planning to recruit(?) out of Silver Town before long.
A match against him — that was the first idea I'd been nursing.
That's right. A bout against a man in his sixties.