Vancouver, Part 2
Chris Jacob had never been the type with a flashy arsenal of moves.
He wasn't particularly strong or fast, either.
He was the kind of wrestler who packed small transitional movements between techniques, crafting matches that flowed like water from one beat to the next.
And though he insisted he stood six feet, he was actually closer to five-nine or five-ten — a height that made him an easy target for opponents.
He never hesitated to job, either…
Maybe that was why I'd always liked Jacob, even when he worked as a heel.
Watching the match, Frank was a similar type — just a little taller. Both of them sold so well that even a simple sequence of hammering followed by a knee to the gut looked like something special.
Jacob drove a knee into Frank's midsection, took control, and sent him toward the ropes. As Frank came rebounding back, Jacob smoothly flipped him with an arm drag. In the follow-up, he cleanly hit the Codebreaker — the double-knee facebreaker he'd been using a lot lately — and went for the cover.
Frank kicked out at the two-count.
Jacob hauled him up into a headlock. He seemed to be going for a bulldog, but Frank shoved him off, and the momentum carried naturally into a rope rebound. After the bounce, Jacob threw a forearm at Frank's head.
But Jacob's height was too low. He awkwardly clipped Frank around the jaw, and Frank covered for him with a sell.
Jacob's breathing was growing heavier, and he seemed to be sweating more by the minute. The first five or six minutes had been fine, but the pace of the match was draining his stamina second by second.
Then Jacob completely botched the reception on Frank's inverted atomic drop. He hadn't even been hit, but he rolled around as if he had. Frank hit a German suplex and went straight for the cover.
Jacob bounced out at two.
Frank immediately locked an arm around Jacob's neck from behind and applied pressure. The sleeper hold seemed deliberate — giving Jacob a chance to catch his breath.
Watching was fine, but I still had a job to do as the sidekick. I moved around to Jacob's front, slapped the canvas with my palm, and shouted.
Slap! Slap!
"Snap out of it! Focus!"
Slap! Slap!
"You're gonna lose to some green kid like that?"
My voice must have carried into the seats, because laughter rippled through the crowd.
Hahaha!
Green kid! Green kid!
Frank glared at me, but he was selling the struggle too, pouring everything into the hold. After about twenty seconds of rest, Jacob drove an elbow into Frank's gut and broke free.
The brief breather seemed to help — Jacob's movements picked up a little speed. When Frank caught the kick Jacob threw, Jacob spun and landed an enzuigiri with the opposite foot. Then he hit a Lionsault with an extremely low trajectory — more like a backward roll than anything else.
Ugh. That trajectory is just… better not to attempt it at all. Why even try?
Maybe my expectations had been too high after watching him dismantle Troy McIntyre in an instant. But Jacob's pathetic performance right now was genuinely heartbreaking to watch.
He couldn't even go a full ten minutes…
He'd win this match, but winning came with its own problems. Sandy Orton had hit his aging curve too, but he was still sharp as ever. In pure ring work, Jacob was going to get absolutely destroyed.
Frank kicked out of the cover after the Lionsault. Jacob climbed the top rope and jumped for an elbow drop.
Thud.
Frank rolled out of the way, and Jacob — who'd hit nothing but canvas — clutched his elbow and writhed on the mat. Frank pulled him up and shoved Jacob's head between his thighs. He set up as if for a powerbomb, but Jacob reached out with both arms, hooked Frank's legs, and toppled him.
Thud.
Was that the ssireum technique — the back-of-the-knee pull? Or the knee sweep? Something like that. From there, Jacob grabbed both of Frank's legs and slowly flipped him a hundred and eighty degrees.
It led straight into the Walls of Jacob, and whether that was the end of the script or not, Frank immediately tapped out.
"Whew."
A sigh slipped out of me on its own. Frank had set the whole table, and Jacob had just walked over with a spoon and taken the meal.
The crowd still gave Jacob a round of applause, and I clapped hard right along with them, playing my role. Jacob did his victory celebration and climbed down from the ring.
"You okay?"
"Don't say a word."
Jacob said it with a smiling face, but there was nothing to smile about in the words themselves. He headed toward the stage, waving brightly to the crowd, and left the arena completely.
When we got back to Gorilla Position, the mood wasn't good. There was no way the people here didn't know what I already knew.
"Honestly, I'm sorry. John. And to the general manager, too…"
"It happens when you're not feeling right."
"It sounds like an excuse, but I think I cut weight too fast. The second we got past the opening, I just had no power left in my body."
Everyone just listened.
"I'll get my body right over the next week. So I don't embarrass myself any further."
John clapped him on the shoulder.
"Paulo! Jane! Take care of the last match for me."
"Got it."
"Understood."
John put his arm around Jacob's shoulders and walked out with him.
"I'll be heading out."
"Me too."
When Frank spoke up, I said the same and left Gorilla Position. I called out to Frank, who was walking a few steps ahead of me.
"Frank!"
"Huh? What?"
"Your selling tonight. That was really something."
I gave him a thumbs-up, and he smiled back.
"Thanks."
I watched him wave and walk off, then headed toward my own locker room.
John grabbed a bottle of water on his way past and headed for the emergency stairwell.
"Sit."
Jacob sat without a word.
"Here. Drink up and put out that fire in your gut."
Jacob took the bottle, drank a few swallows, then dumped the rest over his own head.
"Figured I'd dirtied everyone's eyes."
"You know it."
"Did I get too greedy?"
"Greedy? No. With your name value, making the quarterfinals should be a given. I just had no idea your stamina was that pathetic."
Crunch.
Jacob crushed the water bottle in his hand.
"I went too hard too early. I didn't think my stamina would drop that fast."
"Excuses."
"Yeah. All excuses."
"How much weight did you cut?"
"Fifteen kilos."
John burst out laughing at that.
"Hahaha. You cut fifteen kilos and your body still looks like that? Hahaha. Just how much were you stuffing your face? Hahaha."
"In EAW I was working as part of a stable, so I could get away with half-assing it."
"No wonder people say that place is completely rotten. Properly gone to seed."
Jacob didn't respond. A minute of silence passed between them.
"Still, you're lucky. At least you can still wrestle. I can't even move that much. One slam and my back feels like it's going to snap."
"Got worse?"
"No matter how much treatment I get, it keeps getting a little worse. Age."
After he finished speaking, John stood up.
"I'll assign you a training coach. Get your body right at the hotel fitness center. If you put on another match like that in the quarterfinals, be prepared to quit. We'll throw you a grand retirement ceremony."
"You don't even have to say it. I'll quit myself. I'm done embarrassing myself."
Hearing that, John turned his back immediately and spoke over his shoulder.
"I'll push your match back a week. You've got three weeks."
"Thanks, John."
"This might be the last one. Least I can do is give you that much time. Give it everything you've got."
Even after John left, Jacob sat there for a long time.
Wednesday's main event — Sandy Orton versus Joshua — was solid. Joshua was peaking after recently holding the NEXT Championship, and Sandy Orton had come in looking sharp. The back-and-forth match ended, as expected, with an RKO and a soccer kick, giving Sandy the win.
With a main event of that caliber, Jacob's rough performance earlier on the card probably stood out even more.
After the show, I caught a glimpse of Sandy and Booker K cornering Jacob for a talk. With two legends on the case, they'd figure something out.
Just because the Wednesday show in Vancouver was over didn't mean we left for Seattle right away.
"Selma! Rina! House show prep all good?"
"Yes."
"No problems."
Thursday: one more non-televised house show, then Friday we'd leave for Seattle. And at that house show, I was booked for an eight-minute match against Selma.
Championships did change hands at house shows sometimes, but not this time — it was more of a fan meet-and-greet kind of night. My match with Selma was set with Selma as the predetermined winner, run the same way we used to do it back at the academy.
We started with a lock-up. I sent Selma into the ropes, and as she came back she hit a dropkick.
"Ack!"
A short cry, and I tumbled straight backward.
Ohhh!
I rolled out of the way of Selma's leg drop. I kicked up to my feet and drove a boot into the chest of the seated Selma. This time Selma let out a short scream.
I grabbed her by the hair, hauled her up, and shoved her into one of the corners. After watching her bounce off the turnbuckle, I charged in like I was going for a lariat — but Selma raised her foot high. My face ran right into it, and I just collapsed onto the mat.
Selma dropped into a sprinter's starting stance, and the moment I got up she speared me flat. Then she worked the crowd, taking her time, before climbing to the top rope. I got up and chased her up there. I hammered her into submission and took her off the top with a suplex, both of us crashing down together.
Thuuud.
Whoaaa!
A top-rope suplex — rare in women's matches — drew a roar from the crowd.
I was first to my feet. I pretended to catch my breath, slowly pulled Selma up, set for a powerbomb, and lifted her. Selma, as if she'd been waiting for it, swung her legs up over my shoulders like she was climbing on for a piggyback ride. She hammered away in succession, and I was the one who went over backward.
Selma's standing elbow drop.
One!
Two!
Three!
After three, she pulled me up and hit a Russian leg sweep. I clutched the back of my head and rolled, and Selma hauled me up again, hoisted me, and hit an Angle Slam.
Then the finisher. A diving elbow drop from the top rope, and the cover.
One!
Two!
Three!
Ding. Ding. Ding.
If this had been a televised match, we wouldn't have rushed through it like this — but tonight the goal was to entertain the fans, so we just packed in the moves without any downtime. Anyone who'd come out to a house show knew exactly why we were doing it that way.
Clap clap clap.
Great job, Selma!
Good game! Good game!
Rina did great too.
I quietly rolled out of the ring so Selma could take her time with a victory celebration she hadn't gotten in a while. Then I hustled back to Gorilla Position.
"You two really have great chemistry."
John said it with genuine admiration — rare for him.
"We spent six months training with just each other."
"With a little polish, this could go on a PLE. Well done."
Jane praised us too.
"Maybe tell Selma that. Without Alf around, she's been a little down."
"I know."
"Got it."
A moment later Selma came in, and Jane, John, and the producer all heaped praise on her.
"Your selling's improved a lot. Clean up the promos a bit and you could shoot right up."
"Keep doing exactly that. You're doing great."
"You two have such good chemistry. Short match, but the impact was excellent."
Under the string of compliments, Selma beamed and thanked them.
"Thank you. I'll keep working hard."
Hearing Selma's bright voice, I felt my own mood lift.
And that was how our first road trip — the Vancouver tour — came to an end.