"No! No! No!" Seth screamed. It wasn't because of the pain. He'd exchange all the pain in the world for never hearing those words. That diagnosis was the end of the world for him. That fucking injury just wrecked his life. His career lay in ruins. That's how the Blackout must feel. You're all right, you feel fine, then, out of nowhere, there's a boot stepping on you head and nothing. Nothing but darkness.
"There has to be something you can do." Seth wasn't going to give up. He isn't one of those. There has to be a way to avoid the inevitable.
"I'm really sorry."
"No," he shouted. His urgent voice surprised, and scared, the doctor so much that the papers fell out of his hands onto the floor. He had to kneel to collect them again.
"Maybe I should give you a minute," the doctor suggested. If Seth's mood was a trustful indicator, it was better to leave right away.
"What for? To think about what I'm gonna do for the rest of eternity?" It wasn't easy for Seth to digest the new information. It was worse considering how young he was; he had the whole career ahead of him. He would have become a champion, the face of the company, no question about that.
"Mr. Rollins, I know it's hard –"
Seth interrupted him, "You know nothing!"
"Mr. Rollins, you can get a second opinion . . ."
"You can bet I will."
". . . but every good doctor will tell you the same thing. If you enter that ring ever again, you'll leave –"
"I'll leave on a wheelchair." Seth has heard that sentence before; he knew how it ends. "But if –"
This time the doctor interrupted him. "There's no if, Mr. Rollins."
"One more match."
"Not in this condition."
"Then fix me," Seth said as if it was that easy. "I'll pay you extra. Just say the price. Money's not a problem."
"I'm sorry. There's really nothing I can do. I mean, not in a way that you'd be able to compete again."
"Compete, compete . . . This is not about fucking competition! Even if I didn't become the number one wrestler, even if I had to put others over for the rest of my life . . . it'd be worth it."
"That'd be even worse. You simply can't do those jumps, flips, kicks, drops, and moonsaults –"
"Like you know anything about it."
"That doesn't matter. The fact is, you can't do that anymore."
"Don't tell me what to do!" Seth shouted and decided to leave the doctor's office immediately. He slammed the door, and then it was easy for him leave the building since all the people, seeing his angry look, quickly made a way for him. But he stayed inside. He stopped right before the exit. It was hard for him to process but this doctor was a professional, he was one of the best in the whole States so he certainly knew what he was talking about. When he said it is the end, then it really is the end.
Seth is a tough guy, not a sentimental crybaby, but dealing with this was way too hard. You can never be ready to hear this bad news. When they tell you that you have to stop wrestling, but you're let's say forty, it's difficult, but even if you were in good health, you could do it for a couple more years. But when you're not even thirty . . . what can you do? You're set to win matches, become a champion. No matter if you're a face or a heel, fans simply can't ignore you. And they want to see you because you're fun to watch. You don't botch and you're a great seller. Your acrobatic skills are incredible and every day you're better on the mic. You look good, you sound good and you perform better than two thirds of the roster. You're the whole package. . . . And then they tell you it's not gonna happen.
You hear nothing; you see nothing. You're unconscious.