Respect. 3
When ‘Kindman’ Mick Foley made his entrance, hips swaying with that deliberately cute little walk, the sold-out crowd of fifteen thousand rose as one to welcome him.
Before long he stood in front of the cage. No matter how many dozens or hundreds of times these wrestlers had watched his matches, only a handful had ever seen the man in the flesh—and even then, only at some public appearance. Who among them had actually shared a ring with him? Jess Rolex and CM Metal, maybe. That was about it.
Westerners or not, every wrestler present dipped their heads in quiet respect.
Mick took a microphone from the general manager without hesitation, then shoved the steel door open with real force and climbed slowly into the ring. Every single step drew every eye in the building—crowd and wrestlers alike.
“Damn it! Why the hell did they play ‘Wreck’? I like ‘Happy Love’ way better.”
He had worn three different gimmicks over the years. Kindman was the schizophrenic, Happy Love the friendly neighbor, Cactus Mac the pure embodiment of cruelty and violence. The gear changed with the character. He was dressed as Kindman, so the theme made sense—yet even now he was still playing the unhinged version of himself.
“Heh heh heh. Hardcore, huh? I can already smell the blood.
Wait. No. You’ve already started bleeding, haven’t you? Heh heh heh.”
“It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Charina.”
Mick glanced around the mat, then answered.
“Heh heh heh. I know. I know all about you.
You put on one hell of a match at Emergency. In my whole life I’ve never seen a woman wrestle like that. Heh heh heh.”
“Thank you.”
“And it looks like you’re planning to do the same thing tonight.”
“You already knew that when you came out here, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I knew.”
—Clang—
The moment the words left his mouth, a referee stepped inside and the steel door slammed shut.
“Wow! Getting real juicy in here!”
He looked around with that exaggerated, clownish expression—then turned fully toward me, and the face changed completely. His eyes sharpened. Something dark and heavy began to rise off him like smoke.
“Twenty-nine years ago… that was the night I did Hell in a Cell with the Deadman…
Hmm. Would’ve been nicer if it had been an even thirty.”
He mixed in a little humor, but nobody laughed.
“That night I dislocated a shoulder, snapped two front teeth, and took dozens of stitches.
And!”
He yanked up his shirt and showed his side. The surgical scar was impossible to miss.
“One of my kidneys just… popped. I pissed red for a long, long time. Puhahaha.”
“…….”
Mick tilted his head slightly, eyes even sharper now as he locked onto me.
“Do I regret it?
Nope. Not for a second. Best match of my life!
But if I hadn’t gotten hurt that bad… maybe I’d still be wrestling. That’s the only part that stings—not being able to get in there anymore.”
He never raised his voice, yet the arena was so deathly quiet that every word landed straight in the ear.
“Charina. You’re twenty now, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kid! Are they forcing you into this match? Is somebody blackmailing you?”
Everything Mick Foley said was pure scenario. I had only given him the bare framework—the theme I wanted him to hit. I had no idea what actual words would come out of his mouth. So when he said “blackmail,” I just laughed.
“Pfft. No way. I’m doing this because I want to.”
“Ohhh! You’re even prettier when you smile instead of scowling.
Second prettiest after my love, Theresa.”
In a blink the smile vanished and the hard face returned. How many hours of practice did it take to switch expressions that cleanly for the Kindman gimmick?
“But! Why are you so desperate to die? Huh? Are you a freak? A suicide case? You that eager to die in the ring? Is that what Mommy and Daddy taught you?”
The lines poured out like rapid-fire rap.
“N-no… it’s not like th—”
“Or are you just gonna wrestle a year or two and quit? Then why the hell become a wrestler at all? With that face you could make a living doing anything.
Am I wrong?”
“…….”
“Kid. Look at those old bastards over there. They’re past forty and still killing it as wrestlers.”
He pointed straight at Jess Rolex and CM Metal.
“Shouldn’t you be standing in that ring for another twenty years too?
And more than anything—the era doesn’t want hardcore anymore. It’s a one-off. This is a world where you don’t have to bleed like that.”
Mick finished the sentence by lightly tapping my shoulder.
“Kid! ‘Don’t try this at home’ isn’t just for the audience. It goes for the wrestlers too.
And you? You don’t need any of this. Your future’s already bright. You’ve got what it takes to go all the way to the top.”
His genuine worry hit me hard enough that my throat tightened.
“Ugh… uh…”
I had wanted a lesson from him, but I never expected this. Had I been so obsessed with the end quest—Become an Icon—that I’d been sprinting too hard? There was no deadline. The road ahead was still endless…
“Kid! Even after all that, you still want to wrestle me?”
I shook my head side to side, then carefully held out my belt with both hands.
“This isn’t my belt. Please take it.”
“You sure? If I take this, that makes me champion.”
“Who the hell’s gonna say a word? The great Mick Foley wants it!
If some bastard does open his mouth, I’ll low-blow him myself.”
“Hahahaha!”
Mick laughed and accepted the belt.
“You’re better than Victor McMahon.
Hey! Victor! You watching on TV? Huh?
You petty little shit—worse than a twenty-year-old kid.”
The sudden shot at former chairman Victor McMahon finally cracked the crowd; laughter exploded through the seats.
I dropped into a full Korean-style bow, forehead nearly to the mat.
“K-kid… what the hell are you doing?”
“In the East, this is how we show respect.”
“Is that so? Am I really a wrestler who deserves that kind of respect? I’m touched.”
No need to drag it out any longer. Clean exit time.
“I’ll be going now. Thank you so much for the advice.”
“Take it easy. You can afford to.
Always look after your body. And remember—every wrestler who made it big on hardcore… none of them ended well.”
“Yes. I won’t forget.”
I climbed down, opened the steel door, and stepped out. The wrestlers parted to make a path. Tears of pure emotion had wrecked my face, but I still walked the ramp slowly, head high, proud.
The moment I hit backstage, the crew erupted in applause and cheers.
“Holy crap, so that was the scenario tonight!”
“Charina! That acting was insane!”
“You’re way too good for TPA. That was a beautiful show.”
“Best thing I’ve ever seen. Really moving.”
“Thank you.”
I gave a small nod of acknowledgment and headed straight for Gorilla Position.
“Beautiful scenario, Charina.”
“You cry on command that well? You weren’t actually crying, right?”
“Thank you. Let me just watch the ring for a second.”
“Sure.”
Multiple monitors showed every angle of the ring and the floor around it.
Heh heh. Free championship, huh? Am I the oldest champion ever now?
Mick Foley had dropped the seriousness and flipped straight back into comedy.
Brian Rondo! Aaron!
Y-yes, sir!
Brian answered, wound tight as a spring.
Mind if I keep this belt for just one week? It’s been so long since I held one—I wanna show it off to the wife.
Y-yes. Of course. Please do.
Brian was still half-dazed, but Aaron was not.
Mr. Foley, hand it back for now.
When General Manager Aaron asked for the return, Mick’s face twisted.
What? Not even one week?
We still have to engrave the name on it, don’t we? That’s what makes a real champion.
Uwahaha! Fair point. I’ll brag for a week and bring it right back.
Mick took the belt and made a full lap of the ring corners. Of course the crowd screamed his name like the building was coming down. Some of them were even crying—middle-aged men, no less.
Ending a show on an unusual ring segment like this had clearly made Paul a little nervous about the fallout. Only now did he break into a bright smile.
“That was an excellent scenario.
You sent Mick off the right way, gave the fans and the wrestlers a real lesson… and now you don’t have to keep chasing hardcore either.”
“Yes.”
“Best of all, we just stuck it to EAW.”
EAW still ran hardcore matches all the time. Every so often they put on something as brutal as the late-nineties Attitude Era. When Mick Foley himself warned people not to do hardcore, the hit to EAW was going to be real.
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Your face still looks off. You’re not sulking about losing the belt, are you?”
“It’s not that.”
Right then Stacey pulled me into a hug and patted my back.
“You heard Mick, right? Smile. Charina looks prettier when she smiles.”
“Yeees.”
“Hurry to the locker room. Theresa Foley’s waiting for you.”
“Yes. Thank you for your hard work.”
I said goodbye to everyone in Gorilla and headed for the locker room.
Even there, Theresa wrapped me in a hug. Only then did the last of the tension finally drain out of me.
“Honestly… after all this I still half-expected him to wrestle again, or that WWO was lying. But it was real. Thank you.”
“No, ma’am. The honor of standing in the ring with him was all mine.”
“How on earth did you come up with a scenario like that… You’re so young, yet so impressive.
I think any lingering attachment he still had to the ring is completely gone now.”
“You’ll have to come visit sometimes.”
“With an atmosphere like this? Anytime.”
While we talked, Mick Foley himself returned.
“This was more of an honor than my retirement, more than the Hall of Fame induction. Thank you, Charina.”
“Being able to share a ring with you was my honor.”
Word that Mick was in the room spread fast; wrestlers started lining up to pay respects. Mick shut it down cold.
“Your turn’s next week. Right now I’m taking Charina out to dinner.”
“Mick! I’m coming too!”
“Get lost, you disgusting man-child!”
CM Metal—who had actually wrestled Mick before—tried to tag along. Not a chance. Even Paul and Stacey, who had naturally assumed they were invited, got the boot.
Escorted by Mick and Theresa, I sat down to a late dinner and finally got to have the conversations I had never been able to have before. It was pure privilege.