Post by Tamatoa Harikoa on Jan 27, 2019 22:00:12 GMT -4
You’ve all heard the expression – what goes up must come down.
Such is life. One finds themself finally clawing hand over fist to get somewhere and try as they might, their house of cards still crashes down arouned them. Nothing they can do to stop it.
I had made it. Against all of the odds, I did it. A young cobber from a small town in a small country. Dreams of making a name for himself in the states. I cut my teeth in this place. But try as I might, it always ended up going to shit.
Glory and Honor Wrestling. I held my clutches on every title they had, then the doors closed. EVPW, my story continued. I had found a home. In EVPW I had my identity. So when it too died, part of Hayden HardKore died along with it.
But yes, I had made it. A name for myself. It wasn’t long until the big times started calling. The contracts rolled in and I continued to build that career. On paper, I should have been happy with what I had accomplished. On paper, I had done more for my little country than anybody before me. But I was empty inside, seeking the next challenge, the next risky spot. And eventually, the next bottle to sate the unquenchable thirst for whatever it was that I had lost.
I searched for my identity in all the wrong places and it cost me.... My career. My name. My dignity. I drank it all to hell.
September 4th, 2016
Somewhere We Describe as Rock Bottom
Blurry bloodshot eyes open, blinking as the mid-morning light invades. A groan emanates, sign of life in what is otherwise a dormant figure. Slowly, the rest of the body catches up and tjhe figure rolls over with a groan. The clinking of countless beer bottles being scattered out of the way as the body struggles to stand brings another groan out of his lips. He holds his head in agony, bedraggled hair matching the very cesspool that surrounds him. The habitat of a drunkard.
It is at this point that he notices the bottle, his hand still absent-mindedly clutched around it. The dregs of whisky left in the bottom. He downs the bottle before tossing it away. Staggering, he navigates the maze of empty bottles to the fridge. Knowing full well that there is nothing edible inside, he opens the door anyway and stares into the void for a few moments. With a grunt, he closes the door again as his eyes are drawn to the flyer on the door.
IWF WarZone
September 4th - Hayden HardKore: The Fastest Rising Star.
Hayden simply smiles and peels the note off the flyer. A glance in the mirror to fix his hair and freshen up and he is on the road – looking every bit as put together as he always did.
Before long, he had reached the venue. Practising his ‘sober grin’ all the way from the carpark, he is greeted by a large framed red-faced man who stops him in his tracks.
“I smell alcohol. Have you been drinking?”
Hayden narrows his eyes into a glare and attempts to push past him.
“Bugger off Webb. I’m good to go.”
The man stops him again, looking square into his bloodshot eyes.
“I’m not taking that risk again. Not after last time. I made myself clear. Be here and be sober. You wander in, you’re late, you’re full of attitude and you stink of piss. Read my lips motherfucker... You are fired.”
The words stop Hayden in his tracks harder than any fist ever could. To some, this would be the wakeup call that they needed, but to those in denial, like Hayden was, it only served a different purpose. The anger boiled to the surface and Hayden turned to face the departing man. A brick, discarded and lying in the carpark served as the perfect weapon. So Hayden picked it up and clocked Webb across the back of the head with it. The big man dropped like a sack of potatoes, not even having the time to break his fall. A few kicks for good measure found their way home before Hayden was dragged away by security.
January 23rd, 2017
Tongariro National Park, New Zealand
Hayden’s eyes startle open at the sound, impatient and annoyed. The word is repeated with a touch more anger.
“Whakaaraaraa... Wake up. Or do you not even know your native tongue?”
Hayden pushes himself to his feet, opening his mouth to protest but the old man isn’t interested and silences him with a hand before he has begun.
“Aue. Pakaru mai te haunga. Aue.”
The old man mutters to himself as he exits the communal sleeping area, the whare nui of the marae. Several warriors have gathered in the centre of the pā and it is here that the man hobbles, impatiently beckoning Hayden to follow him. When they both arrive, the warriors are waiting for them silently. The old man addresses Hayden, loud enough for all to hear.
“You call yourself a warrior. You have made a name for yourself as a warrior and done many great things in the name of Aotearoa. Yet a man is not merely summed up by his accomplishments. No... Te manawa ō tane. It is the heart of a man that is the true measure. So far, in your heart I only find weakness.”
Several of the warriors nod and aye in agreement. A round of ‘Kia ora’ is heard as approval of the old man’s observations.
“Pakaru mai te haunga... You are useless, pathetic. You drink your troubles away, only finding more troubles at the bottom of every bottle. Well, in this sacred place, we stand before the mighty mountains, the warriors of legend. Tongariro as our guide, we will test your heart. We will dig deep inside and you will find yourself.”
The man falls slilent. It is a statement, not a question that he poses to him. Hayden has no protest in him, only nodding in approval. A broken man.
Perhaps this will be the path to finding his identity once more. To finding himself.
[To be continued...]
