There is an old saying: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
But what happens when suddenly, without warning, your friend is suddenly your enemy?
This is what went down on Saturday (July 28), in Port Alice, British Columbia. Port Alice is a small town (pop. 700) in Northern Vancouver Island, about 400 kilometers north of Nanaimo. Initially, I was slated to wrestle my longtime friend (and sometimes foe), Kid Xtreme (left), until the match was later changed to a rematch with the psychotic Cutter. I felt bad that The Kid's chance at a match was up in the air, but I had to focus on wrestling a maniac; then, as mentioned in my July 27 commentary, the added worry of wrestling with bruised ribs (courtesy of Freddy Funk), was on my mind. The Kid offered to work out with me in the Fitness Edge boxing ring before the Port Alice show, but I declined because I was still tender; it affected my overall exercise routine this past week, too.
So I made the long, boring drive, with the Island Promoter, while The Kid drove some other people up to the show. About two hours before show time, I found out that Cutter had no-showed ... it was going to "Sugar-Xtreme III" in Port Alice.
This was my first show in Port Alice (as mentioned on a MySpace blog I wrote three weeks ago, which was meant to be humorous but came off a little rough when joking about my Xtreme friend), and would be my third match against The Kid; a "Rubber Match," as we have split victories: me on 8/27/05 in Coquitlam, him on 3/17/06 in Comox. Since then, however, The Kid has put on about 30 pounds of muscle (to be fair, so have I), and has had some MMA training (not me, as it's not my bag); plus, I had already confided in him that my ribs were killing me ... he even helped tape my ribs up before showtime, before the Promoter dropped the bomb that The Kid would be replacing Cutter last night. Meanwhile, I had family in attendance: my wife's Aunt Donna, Uncle Jim and second-cousin (their grandson), Austin, were all on hand. Austin is only 10 years old, and bragged to everyone in attendance how "his
cousin" was going to win a match tonight.
No pressure!
Our match was up second, and I took to the ring with ribs bandaged tight. I expected a clean match (this guy is my friend, after all), but I didn’t realize that The Kid was looking to make a name for himself in Port Alice: he hasn't had a lot of bookings lately, so I understand his sense of urgency. Understand, but not appreciate.
The Kid backed me into a corner and slapped me in the face, which got me hot under the bowtie; I powered him into another corner and threatened to slap him back, but got a thumb in the eye that was followed by an eye-burn down one length of the top rope. Blinded, I was susceptible to some big forearms to the throat; I blocked a roaring elbow and fought back with a pair of punches, but The Kid bailed on a third punch and hit the floor. Feeling the crowd's energy, I went for a hilo through the ropes: this was a ruse, as I knew The Kid had seen it coming. He sidestepped my "hurtling" form, and turned his back on me ... only to turn back into me storming off the apron with a flying clothesline. Rolling The Kid back in the ring, I got a two-count and followed with a scoop slam; something "twinged" in my ribcage, but I was determined to make it to Dusty Rhodes' elusive "pay windah" (if you weeeeeeeeellllllll), and followed with an elbowdrop that got another two-count.
After working The Kid in a corner, I was following a cross-corner whip with a back-splash, but The Kid sidestepped ... and unleashed on my ribs with kicks and forearms. I staggered, and took a running knee to the chest. This lead to The Kid's infamous boot-scrapes, followed by a running boot to the face. Groggy, I rolled in the ropes,getting slingshot throat first into the middle strand.
From there, The Kid brutalized my back with a suplex, some standing on my chest, and an agonizing camel clutch variation. I refused to tap, so I was punished with some brutal "shoot" knees that did some serious damage. I tried to fight back, but my aching ribs were sapping my oxygen and my strength. The Kid got cocky on his way to the top rope, however, allowing me a chance to crotch him on the top turnbuckle.
This was desperation time, so I reacted purely on instinct: hitting the first-ever superplex of my fledgling career! Both of us were down (and nearly counted out in the ring), but I was able to hold my own with a flurry of punches and went for a big scissors kick; instead of a knockout blow to the chin, my aching ribs affected my leap, and it was a jumping kick to the midsection. The crowd was pumped, so I fed off that energy and went to the top turnbuckle for the Sugar High (rolling senton splash off the top turnbuckle), but The Kid was playing possum: I crashed back-first on the mat, and was in serious pain.
I struggled to my feet, but The Kid hit a moonsault off the turnbuckles that drove his knee right into my skull; I went down in a heap, and was certainly going to be pinned.
But The Kid got greedy.
Instead of a clean cover, he hooked my belt; the ref saw it and refused a three-count, which had The Kid up and hopping mad. I tried to end things with a schoolboy (while The Kid was still arguing), but he kicked out and kneed me in the ribs to regain some momentum.
He tried another roaring elbow, but I ducked it and went for a kick to the midsection (to set up the SugarBuster), however, The Kid caught my leg and whipped me around to kick me in the midsection. Gasping for air, I was hoisted up for a Death Valley Driver, but I wriggled free and spun The Kid around ... and got that kick to the midsection: that set up my SugarBuster (sitdown "x-factor" facebuster), and I was able to hold on for the three-count.
As "Sugar, Sugar" blared, The Kid pitched a fit and stomped off; I took time to celebrate with my family (and newfound fans) in Port Alice, and staggered to the back. Backstage, The Kid has moved his bags away from mine; and we didn't have a lot to say to each other the rest of the night.
It's an awkward situation, to be sure; I know where he is coming from (I explained as much, in discussing why I spent more than a year torturing Scotty Sweatervest), but this is a little different: Sweatervest was essentially a stranger, while I have known The Kid for five years. We have become very close friends during the past three years. I don't mind that he wrestled hard to get the win, but the fact that he took those cheap shots ...
Hell, I don't know, my ribs are killing me right now: sitting here writing this is agony. I need a beer, an icepack, and some sleep. There's more to this story, regarding my trip back home; but that can be saved for another installment of Sugar-Free Stories.
Until next time, Sugar Addicts.
Match photos courtesy of Brittany and her cellphone. Thanks!
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