Last Man Standing

One. In the world of professional wrestling, the Last Man Standing match is one of the most grueling, feud-boiling, violent matches imaginable. Two men step into the ring with the only goal being to incapacitate the other by any means necessary. You’re aiming to keep your opponent down on the mat for the count of ten and when the bell rings, battered and bloodied, you will raise your hand in victory.

Two. Whether there’s a title on the line or just a grudge to be settled, the fans froth at the mouth with bloodlust. The referee will emphatically announce each count, raising his hands above his head as the inflictor of the damage looks on.

Three. I come from a long line of ridge runners and whiskey drinkers, men who towered over me and my pudgy, timid frame. I had a mean streak in me, but I didn’t have the gumption to use it. I have seen faces bloodied, the bodies of cars crumpled, and shards of glass scattered across the pavement. It’s left quite the impression, and I can’t say that I feel sorry for such experiences.

Four. Wrestling and life are dramas that burn slowly and then all at once. I’ve not declared any winners just yet. At one time I would have raised my own hand, but now I have a son of my own. The Childers name will live on through him. He has soft, blue eyes and a golden crown of hair atop his head. Vince McMahon would call him a star in the making. I’d tend to agree.

Five. His match is just getting underway, and the ring is slanted sideways. He’s perched on the top rope, but there’s no one in the center of the ring to receive a shooting star press. I just hope he doesn’t break his neck trying.

Six. I still watch every wrestling pay-per-view that I can with my grandpa. We’ve moved from my Granny’s house to my own couch, and now my son ditty-bops around the living room with a toy tractor in hand. The way he roots for the faces and curses the heels, my grandpa reminds me of a kid in his own way.

Seven. I always had that place in my heart for the villains. There’s nothing like a slick, backhanded victory to steal the championship. My cousins and I once craved those weapons-filled matches, crimson masks locked in a structure made from two miles of steel chain. Nowadays I like the old matches, Harley Race and Ric Flair grappling inside of the simple steel cage structure. A possum roll-up pin is a work of beauty that many will never appreciate.

Eight. Hiram is growing up faster than I could ever imagine. He’s walking, talking, and has a mind of his own. As I think about the generations of wrestlers I’ve watched come and go, it reminds me of how fast history is written and records erased. The greatest of all time is only good for a decade or so if they’re lucky.

Nine. Whoever’s in that ring will eventually have their knees buckle beneath them. Their foreheads will split open, their ribs will be bruised. Whether it’s a work or not. Ten.

Written by Rick Childers