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I'm a warrior. I'm an unofficial bare-knuckle fighter. I'm top dog, always salivating at the front of the pack, out for blood.
Except, now, there is no pack — only blood. So I'm an army of one, annihilating all in my path, and I do it alone by necessity rather than choice. I came to the WWE with two brothers, and now that those brothers have drifted away over time, each diverging down separate paths, I must transfer my focus into building my own legacy. I never thought it would come to this, and I'm not sure whether that comment makes me sad, naive, or some combination of the two, but I had no doubts my boys and I would remain a bonded trio, shutting down all obstacles in our path. All I'm left with are fragmented memories and misguided estimates as to who we could have been, had Seth never turned his back on us.
Every morning when I wake, I look myself in the mirror and ask a single question: where did it all go so horribly wrong? If Seth made the decision to plot against us, which, clearly he did, does it make me equally as guilty for our downfall by not acknowledging the warning signs? How could I have been so blind, and not only me, but Dean as well? It doesn't take long for my mind to come full circle and remind me that I can't play the martyr, and so I don't, because the last thing any of us boys are is a victim. We're grown men who made our own choices, and we'll live with them for the rest of our individual lives. And that's all we are now; three separate individuals, lost souls, each struggling to find our way.
I'm not well right now, but I'm coping, and that's all I could ever ask of myself. I was on a roll, proving I could be a force in my own right, on my own terms, when I was sidelined with an incarcerated hernia. Don't be fooled into thinking this wasn't something that was built over time, a result of all my bumps and spills in the ring over the course of several years, training to become the wrestling monstrosity I am today, but it's funny, in a roundabout sorta way. Here I was, thinking I needed to watch my back, that Seth might jump me and mess me up real bad, and the enemy that actually ends up taking me out is a hernia. Who woulda guessed it, right? If you say you woulda, you're probably lying.
Dean passed up a wild weekend in Las Vegas shortly after my surgery, all so he could come and visit. I didn't even have to do any convincing. He was the one to call and notify me of his impending arrival, and he was the one to pack his bags and book his plane ticket. I guess I should take back my earlier comment about how I don't have any WWE brothers anymore, because, clearly, I've still got one, and he's a pretty damn reliable one, too. Anyways, one of the things I love most about living in Pensacola is how accessible all the good restaurants are, so, when Saturday came, I parked my wounded ass in a chair on the patio of a ritzy Italian restaurant, awaiting Dean's arrival.
I had been spotted almost immediately upon entering the place and was still in the process of ignoring a few clusters of fans gawking at me through the glass windows as I checked my watch, pushing my hair away from my face when it fell in the way. When the throngs of people watching me from inside the restaurant grew in number, as if my arrival had been announced on the indoor intercom system, I tugged my hair back into a low ponytail using the tie on my right wrist and pushed my sunglasses further up on the bridge of my nose. I briefly considered pulling my iPod out of my back pocket and slipping my earbuds in, since I couldn't think of any possible way to make myself seem less approachable than by doing that, but then Dean appeared, as the kind hostess pointed me out to him, and my evil plan was aborted. It's not that I don't love my fans, but there's a time and a place to interact with them, and this wasn't it.
"What's happenin', dude?" I asked, giving him a high-five. I tugged him in for a bro-hug, which is my name for one of those hugs that guys do in a manly way, where we clap each other on the back a bunch of times and lightly bump chests. That's what we did, then Dean had a seat and scanned the place with a critical eye. I just knew he would have plenty to say about my choice in eatery.
"Dude, what's up with all this prissy shit?" he asked, laughing and jerking his head to remove the dirty-blond strands resting on his forehead, which had a bad habit of trickling into his eyes. He was in desperate need of a haircut, or a trim at the very least, but he would never get one, because he thought his messy hair added to the appeal of his well-earned reputation as an unhinged weirdo. I cannot make this stuff up, people. He actually said this to me one day in the locker room, no joke.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked. Of course, I was only egging him on, because, in all honesty, I knew exactly what he meant. I suppose that's why I picked the place, at least on a subconscious level. I wanted him to poke fun at our surroundings. It would serve as my daily source of entertainment and help to lighten the mood. "It's not that prissy here, is it?"
"Dude, they've got these cloth napkins and shit," Dean announced not-so-eloquently, just in time for their server to walk up and ask for their drink orders. She didn't react verbally, although the way her thick, contoured eyebrows raised and button nose scrunched made it seem like she was horrified to hear such a negative impression of her workplace. Dean was too forward to be bashful and simply shrugged, ordering his drink of choice. "I'll take a Budweiser."
"Tall or short glass?" she inquired.
"Tall, very tall. Tall like the Eiffel Tower," he requested, jerking his head once to the left, then the right, as if working a kink out of his neck.
The waitress probably assumed that was exactly what he was trying for, but I knew Dean well enough to detect that it was his normal twitchiness. That was just Dean: odd, outspoken, and fidgety with a heart of gold to go along with it. She nodded and scribbled down his drink choice, tucking some chocolate brown hair back into her messy ponytail and focusing in on me next. Her chest fell long and slow, like she was letting out a huge breath she had been needlessly holding onto, and I liked to think it was because I set her at ease. I've always been more personable than Dean, and that's not a shot at him, either. It's just the truth.
"I'll take a Long Island Iced Tea, darlin'," I said, drawing the last word out flirtatiously. I don't mean to be cocky, but I got game, and I pull it out and use it to my advantage whenever an opportunity arises. Her mocha-colored eyes widened, then narrowed, and both actions were followed by a new tinge of pink in her cheeks that hadn't been there before, as she scribbled down my requested drink and scurried away, only after a mumbled promise to soon return.
"Oh, I'll take a Long Island Iced Tea, baby girl," Dean mocked, raising his voice and speaking derisively, even batting his eyelashes for good measure. I leaned back in my chair and chuckled, since that was the only thing left to do. I wasn't so egotistical that I couldn't find the humor in being made fun of for my outstandingly flirtatious ways. "Leave it to you to hit on her. She was pretty hot, though. I wonder if she'd ever wanna party."
"I don't know, man. Maybe you should ask."
"Could you imagine the fun we'd have? I'd take her out to the Spearmint Rhino and show her the time of her life."
"Right, because every girl wants to be taken to a strip club on a first date. She'll be delighted," I said, laughing. My laughter was immediately followed by a grumble as I held my abdomen, precisely where the incision had been made. I was healing, getting stronger every day, but there was still quite a ways to go in rehabbing my injury. The more it hurt, the more hungry I became to return to in-ring action. That ring was my home. I was broken from my thoughts by Dean, who wore a look of pure concern.
"You okay, man?" he questioned. "Do you want to order and take it to go? At least that way you could eat in your recliner chair and be comfortable, and I don't mind or anything."
"Nah, it's all good, we're fine here. So...I got somethin' to ask, but I don't want it to get weird or anything."
"Sure; shoot," Dean nodded, awaiting his question. He was fearless, the way I was most times, although on this day, I was anything but. "Ask away."
"Does Seth ever, well...have you ever heard through the grapevine that he's asked about us? I mean, the entire company knows about my hernia, so he definitely knows I'm injured, but does he even care, or does he just pretend none of this is happening?"
Dean's eyes grew heavy and exhausted, and I knew I was digging up dirt that couldn't easily be replaced. Once I got this started, there would be no turning back, and I had to be prepared to deal with that. I'm not entirely even sure why I cared where Seth's head was at. He wasn't a part of my life anymore, nor Dean's, but much like an ex who needed a report on the other ex to know how they were holding up, I needed to know how Seth was managing. Like I said, I can't explain exactly why, but there was a sick feeling that settled in my stomach, weighing me down like an anchor ever since that fateful night.
Only the night before, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, had I realized where my vicious nausea was emanating from. I needed Seth to care. It had shifted from a want to a need, an unending desire to know that all we had been though wasn't a lie or facade. I needed to know that, in some odd way, our brotherhood was always intact, no matter how far apart we drifted. By the look on Dean's face, I think he was feeling more of the same, not that he ever would have admitted it to me. But still, I recognized heartache when I saw it, and his eyes were swimming with a deep-seated splash of melancholy.
Our drinks were placed down on the table by our server right then, who asked if we needed more time to glance over our menus. I had completely neglected studying the menu, but I had also eaten there enough times to know I didn't want anything besides the chicken parmesan, so I ordered it, and Dean asked for the same as me, probably caught off guard since he hadn't studied the menu any better than me. When we were left in silence once more, aside from the drone of passing traffic on the street beside us, Dean made his move. "You don't need to be worried about him, okay? Just focus on getting better and we can run that joint again."
"Separately," I specified.
"Well, yeah, of course separately."
"Why 'of course'?"
"What do ya mean?" Dean responded.
He picked up his beer glass and swirled the fizzy, brown liquid around like it were red wine, bringing the rim to his mouth and taking a long swig. He was showing more interest in a cool beverage than what I was saying, and I wondered how it was that nobody who had been in The Shield had cared about it more than me. That group was Seth's baby, his brainchild, and he had tossed it away like nothing. If it were that easy for a creator to dismiss his creation, perhaps that should have been my cue to leave this all alone myself. The Shield was dead, and the truest version of me had succumbed along with it. I may as well have had a marked grave somewhere, because my very essence as a wrestler was deceased, changed forever.
"I mean exactly what it sounds like," I reiterated. "Do you think Seth cares about turning on us or not?"
"There isn't really anymore 'us', Roman," Dean shot back. I knew he thought that way, but something about actually hearing it come out of his mouth tore my heart in two. I never would have come clean to him about that, but it was tough realizing there was nothing left to salvage from the wreckage. Everything was totaled. "We're three different guys, and when you get this crazy jumble of personalities, shit's gonna happen. That's life, and we've all moved on, I think, and no, Seth hasn't been talking about us. Does it really matter? Who needs him?"
I do!
I didn't actually say that, but I wanted to. If I could have, I would have climbed up on the rooftop of that damned restaurant and shouted out everything I felt in my heart. Maybe Dean would have listened better if I had gone to such lengths. I wanted to be heard, but that day, I learned a valuable lesson. Just because someone is close enough to pick up the sound of your voice doesn't mean you're actually being heard. I needed Dean to be my parachute, slowing me down from my rapid descent. I need him to be my soft place to fall, and, instead, I was being told to turn the other cheek and move on. But how do you escape a wound that won't heal?
"It's really never gonna be the same, huh?" I mumbled, chin in hand.
"What's not?"
"Life," I filled in, connecting all the dots he was failing to see the link in. "It's always gonna be different."
"Yeah, so?"
"You don't care?" I scoffed, but my question was rhetorical. Dean opened his mouth to respond, and I shut him right up, because this was my time. I had already given him chances, and he had chosen to twiddles his thumbs and whistle, not a care in the world. "We spent one-and-a-half years riding in cars together, sleeping in hotel rooms together, working out at gyms together, stocking up on good food and drinks together, and working as a team, all to throw it away in one night?"
"That was his choice, not mine!" Dean shouted, pounding his fist down on the table.
Time stood still as the occupants of at least three other tables on the patio turned to look between the two of us, gawking like we were some sort of museum display. I flushed and stared at the table, but Dean had no shame, almost challenging our fellow customers to a fight as he stared right back at them. When the tension calmed and the conversations around us resumed, he cleared his throat. I could tell he was waiting for me to restart our discussion, but I wasn't interested anymore.
Suddenly, not even the pull of a good plate of food was enough to hold me over, and I didn't want to be anywhere except home. Home, lying in my bed or reclined in my chair, where I was the king of the castle and being backstabbed or blindsided wasn't a concern. My domain was the only place I could guarantee my safety, and sometimes it was enough to make me not want to leave the protection of my house ever again. And why should I? There were no friends to hang with — none who truly had my back, anyway — and aside from my family, I had no desire to speak to anyone.
In that moment, friendship and all the feelings that came along with it seemed so forced and superficial to me. Fake bullshit. I hate to be depressing now, but that's how I felt. That was the only way my mind could comprehend how a group of three, who had bonded over situations most people would never even dream of living through, could crumble like a building after being hit with a giant wrecking ball. I still can't explain to myself what must have gone through Seth's head that night. What could have possibly made him think picking up that steel chair, holding it high, and cracking it into my back was the answer? I may never know. In fact, the entire world may never know.
I still had Dean at least, except not really. We would remain friends, but he didn't get me anymore, and I wasn't sure when that had happened, either. I think there was a lot I didn't see, not because the warning signs weren't there, but because I didn't know how to read them. You can put a bunch of music notes in front of a person to show them how a particular song is played, but if they can't properly read sheet music, none of that shit is gonna help. That was basically the boat I had been in. Without knowing how to see the division and read the signs, I was hopeless, and now I was nearly friendless to boot.
We ate in an intense silence that afternoon, neither of us having the right words. It was only when we approached the end of the meal that Dean summoned the strength to speak up. "I still wanna be friends, y'know. Like, we'll hang out and talk, and we'll run into each other down the road, but we both have different goals now, and we should focus on that. You go your way, and I'll go mine. Not completely, but, y'know, it can be like a mini parting of ways, so to speak. We have to keep our heads clear, and we can't do that by holding onto the past."
"Yeah, man, for sure," I said, acting like it didn't bother me, like I wasn't a complete failure of a friend. "We'll see each other down the line."
"That's a promise," Dean added, reaching across the table to shake my hand.
I had been assigned a duty, as the oldest member of The Shield, to hold us all together. I was supposed to be the glue that kept us joined and on the same page, and I failed at my job. Yeah, Seth created the group, but I was a pillar of silent wisdom, and I didn't live up to that. The leftover guilt eats away at me now, and it probably always will, chipping away at my psyche one day after the next. I'll always dream about the past and hope for the future that maybe, when we've all had time to grow and reflect as men, we can get a little taste of what we used to have, because, dammit, no matter what I've already said to contradict this fact, what we had was real. It wasn't a friendship; it was straight-up brotherhood.
In time, we can be the three guys to fuck shit up again (in a good way) and bring every challenger on that WWE roster to their weakened knees. For now, though, I'm a scrapper, a free spirit, and an army of one.
And in my world today, it's one versus all.
End Part I