“C’MON, SPARKY, PUSH IT!”

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...

“SPARKY, THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU, YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT OUT THERE!  THIS AIN'T YOUR LITTLE KICKBOXING LAND, THIS IS *REAL* HURT!”

Twenty-four, twenty-five.  I staggered up to my feet, the wind knocked out of me after my sixth set of twenty-five pushups, digging deep inside for my second wind... more like my ninth or tenth wind at this point, and after a second’s hesitation, I charged at a large black man built like a retired linebacker, only to get hoisted and pressed overhead.  While I was suspended in the air, he looked up at me, dead in the eyes, and said “let me give you a second to think about it,” and I knew what was coming wouldn’t be pleas--

“Time’s up.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH-- thud.

“SPARKY!  DON’T YOU FUCKING PUSS OUT ON ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Welcome to the past nine months, fans.

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Before I was “The Jersey Devil” Troy Matthews, I was “Dynamite” Davey Sparks.  I was a lot younger and stupider then, and I took a lot, a LOT, of risks.  Probably the reason my knee still acts up from time to time.  And my home was at Hell House Gym and Wrestling School, in Gloucester City, New Jersey.  In the sleepy suburban landscape, Hell House was a den of pain and suffering run by Stanley Sharpe, a lifelong journeyman wrestler who loved to bend his students, if not outright break them, and put their dreams of wrestling stardom to the test.

The crazy old coot had a reputation for running one of the best wrestling schools in the Mid-Atlantic, though, so he clearly knew what he was doing.  He was sitting in his office, reading the newspaper, when I knocked on his door.

"Thanks for taking me and Jack in, Stan."

"Anytime, Sparky," he responded, looking up from the paper, using that nickname for me that he'd been using since he first christened me Davey Sparks in 1998. 

"That kid, he's got some potential, but he looks like he carries a lot on his mind."

"Yeah," I replied, shaking my head in lament, "The guy takes too much of this shitty business to heart sometimes.  He'd be ten times the star he is now, if he'd just let it all get to him.  I hope he sticks around; everyone I know in it's dropped out."

"Oh, yeah?  How are them Andrews boys you used to pal around with?"

"Oh, Mark and Ryan?  Well, Ryan's been doing his thing in Mexico, he's a big star there now.  But Mark... he just decided to retire.  Closed up his school, sold all his stuff, just outright quit."

Mark and Ryan Andrews where the first friends out of wrestling school I'd made.  They were a tag team, Mark going by the name "Iceman" and wrestling a methodical scientific style, and Ryan calling himself "Wildfire" and always being a highflyer.

"A shame," Stanley sighed, "but at least it leaves me with more students... not that they're exactly beating my old door down anymore.  Now it's all MMA-this and MMA-that.  And now the goddamn business is leaning towards these pretty boy types, when in my day you needed to either be a salty SOB, or at the very least, look like one."

I rolled my eyes, knowing that tone.  Though I did agree with him.  Yeah, MMA teaches a guy how to throw down one-on-one in a ring and make a guy give up, but pro wrestling taught me how to be a salty old dog, thanks to Stanley and his crew.  But now that's "out of style".  That's why Ronnie King, that big guy who press-slammed me a sack of flour, decided "screw it" on his hopes for a big time career and focused on his family and ministry.  Great guy, he is.

"Yeah."

A long pause.

"So Jack and I are heading to Amarillo in a few days.  Gonna fight one of those shooter guys."

"Oh, is that right?  Well, give him a kick in the head for me, will ya?"

I chuckled and turned out of the office.  "Yeah, I'll get right to that."

I got my coat and headed out of the gym, taking a deep breath of freezing January air, and got to thinking about my return to DEFIANCE Wrestling, and what my whole career has been up to this point.

 

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