Brandon Youngblood
The alarm was shrill. Oppressive. For Brandon, a headache followed the startle. As his eyes opened, he felt only regret. Getting to sleep was a struggle even in the best of circumstances. But once he got there? It was hard to find the motivation to wake. Pulling off his BiPAP mask, he couldn’t help longing for his pillow. The sheets felt perfectly soft.
Training called.
Amy groaned beside him, tossing, turning. Once the alarm was cut, she fell back to sleep. “Sorry.” His hand reached to reassure her before flecking away the crust in the corners of his eyes. Movement was a slog, each step from the bedroom to the hallway carrying grogginess and silent curses. The sun was up, pouring through the living room windows, the haggard snores of Cheddar louder than even the air conditioner.
Once in the kitchen, he rifled through the cabinets, pulling out a pot and filling it quarter way with water before setting it to boil. Steel cut oats from the pantry, a little honey bear to make them less bland. From the refrigerator, a carton of eggs and a package of arugula and baby spinach mixed greens. He was forgetting the coffee. Grinds with chicory. As he waited for the waters to heat, he reached over the countertop for an avocado, taking it into his hands before slicing it in two with a knife, removing the stone with the heel. Once the flesh was peeled away, he thinly sliced the fruit on a cutting board, taking another trip to the fridge for a splash of lime. Setting a stainless steel pan to warm, he rubbed his eyes, making sure to avoid the bridge of his nose as best as he could. The ENT persisted with saying he should be wearing a mask when he was wrestling from now on.
Why did Tom Battaglia have to make this so difficult?
It had been days since the surprise announcement. When Brandon saw the graphic, his brow furrowed. 2023 hadn’t been kind to The Anglo Luchador by any stretch of the imagination. At one time, he was the longest reigning champion in the ReVival, even managing to hold the top spot in the ELO rankings. When the calendar turned, it all came crashing down. Paxton Ray took his Intense Championship. Best swiped his prime position in the Murder Rumble. FLAMBERGE had collected his neck, Sykes his claim as paladin. Even the honor of lucha libre had been defended by Rocky De Leon at his expense.
So why was he here? What had he done to deserve a shot at becoming the Universal Champion? Brandon’s dismay after the Murder Rumble was a result of an ethos etched throughout his career that if he wasn’t perfect, he would never get such an opportunity. Such thoughts could prove fertile ground to pull from when building an internal narrative.
It didn’t stick.
Tom had taken down Arthur Pleasant. All those mentioned before, TAL pushed them to their very limit, garnering more legitimacy than he had at the heights of his Intense run. After the Turmoil match, with so many other potential contenders falling under The Russian Bear, and with Avalon and Daniels coming off title losses, the list of pedigreed challengers had been winnowed. The Luchador had earned this.
In doing so, The Tower of Babel felt himself mired in a potential trap.
Days of a reign and the number of successful defenses weren’t governing metrics anymore, not with the promise he made to myself with how this time went. Nor could he use the cudgel of hatred as a default. The drive had to come from someplace else. Cancer Jiles was his antithesis, the rival he never wanted to deal with or acknowledge. Knox was a gatekeeping and self aggrandizing fraud, someone he took great pleasure in foundationally destroying. Atken was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, preaching a bullshit message with such conviction that he truly believed it. Then, there was Tyler Best. The less said there, the better.
Every one of those victories carried with them a sense of justice.
But this one…this one would fall in the Hanlon category. A painful weight to the destruction. Hayes was supposed to be the new generation manifest, his era launching PRIME ever further. To beat him and take the Universal Championship, despite what doing so would represent for the rest of the young man’s life? There’s no joy to be found there. Tom was the same. Years of toil, littered with self doubt, working hard, building to this moment, he finally had the chance to reign as the very best in all of wrestling. Monumental. Had the Luchador annoyed him? Of course. Going to Mexico in a fit of fightful rage, all he’d done in the lead up to facing Ria at The Nightmare, the weird foray into Taco Bell marketing on the Ace Network? Those, however, weren’t actionable sins. They wouldn’t salve dashing what might be Battaglia’s only chance to become Universal. Days upon days had already been wasted in a weird preparatory listlessness. If he didn’t find the hook, he was setting himself up for failure.
Stir the pot and grab a cup of coffee. A dollop of butter for both. Brandon used to enjoy french vanilla but had sacrificed it when he returned to the ring. A sip awakened his senses. The oats were starting to firm. He reached for the carton of eggs, beginning to pull a few out, when his eyes caught something tucked against the corner of the countertop. The box of Cubanos Tom had given to him after LUCHA ESPECIAL 2.
A simple gift?
No. They represented something far more.
The Kohl Center in Madison. Three days out of the last four, as well as the entire wrestling season, led to tonight. Eight mats had become four, one for each of the boys divisions and one for the girls. An arena packed near capacity. Wrestling was a big deal in Wisconsin. Brandon’s focus was on the first mat, where the Division One finals were taking place. Four rounds against the best in the state, with two left standing. It started at the lightest weight class and moved its way up from there. 220 was just before last..
Cody jogged onto the mat, his hands busying themselves with his headgear. As he did, the clang of cowbells from Melissa and Travis, from Amy, from the Memorial student body contingent made for a raucous clarion call. They may as well have been war drums. They traveled well. So did Milton High. Garrett Kawczynski was stoic in his manner as he walked to the center of the mat, his gear already set. A Red Hawk through and through. He was no stranger to this moment.
In fact, he’d been waiting for it all year.
He’d finished third at 182 as a Freshman before winning the title as a Sophomore. As a Junior, he moved up a class, taking 195. Undefeated for three straight years. The only reason he wasn’t ranked number one in the state was because of a hamstring injury in the middle of the season. Motivation. Garrett had signed a letter of intent to go to Missouri already. For a year, despite his own successes, all he heard about was the phenom from pro wrestling blood. A fraud. Brandon saw his son growl at his opponent. Both Cody and Garrett started shoving each other, refusing to shake hands.
Mere moments before the whistle, anticipation ramping, a nervousness rapping through a father’s body, causing his eyes to wander, peering along the periphery of the mat. With one glance near the scorer’s table, something familiar. A man in khakis and a tight polo colored a deep blue. Even from this distance, the USA embroidery above his left breast was prominent.
Back from another lifetime.
The whistle jarred Brandon back to attention.
Both Cody and Garrett exploded right from the gate, locking up, trying to exert dominance. While Kawczynski wasn’t as tall, he was stocky, clearly used to having a strength advantage over his peers. Cody didn’t wilt under the pressure, fighting back, jostling him forward. Garrett’s legs quivered in response. The wrestling press in Wisconsin had been anticipating this match up for months. Now, all they would get were answers. Some epic showdown worth talking about.
How wrong they were.
With guttural precision, Cody swung his opponent to the mat, causing him to splay out as the aggressor tried to plot for a pin. A point sacrificed wouldn’t be the end for Garrett, and while he wasn’t used to playing defense, he had the skills necessary to fight his way through. There was no moving him from his position, no matter how much Cody tried. Soon, there would be a stand up. He had other ideas. Brandon knew it the moment he saw it, those hands of his son’s worming their way around his opponent’s waist. An attempted roll was blocked by Garrett, his eyes looking outward to the referee, wanting a stand up. Cody maneuvered his body so that he was on his knees, his back toward Garrett’s head. A deep squat and jerk. Kawczynski was no longer on the mat, instead finding himself wrenched to a crouch, his legs wildly seeking the mat for safe haven. All the while, Cody was lifting him up, grimacing, belting out a roar as he gathered himself, rising to a full stand, deadlifting him up with him. The crowd hooped and hollered at what they were witnessing. Kawczynski was airborne, a helpless lamb. Cody walked a few steps with him in his grasp, and then, with a violent pop of his hips, he slammed the two time state champion into the mat with a resounding thud. Karelin lift. A viral moment from a concussive blow. Nobody remembers the pin, just the result.
Brandon couldn’t fight back the tears of pride he felt.
Cody Covington was a state champion.
The Cubanos represented a celebration and a point of pride. “Like father, like son,” Tom told him, handing him the box. He deserved a gift in return. The Suntories were supposed to be for Brandon’s own use, but with such a gesture, it was only right to return in kind.
A splash of oil. Let it get to temperature. Heat was the secret to stainless steel. And once the light shimmering began, Brandon started cracking eggs, dropping four in the pan. Sputtering, crackling, they firmed up quickly, and as they did, he rolled the handle of the pan with his wrist, the eggs gliding about frictionless. Just enough time to lay out the greens on a plate and top with the avocado slices.
Fatherhood. They represented fatherhood. Such things were perilous. Tom knew far too well. For months, his family was under direct threat from Pleasant, and now, from Foster Nackedy and Paxton Ray. One merely wanted to exert their control. The others…
Brandon didn’t like what he was beginning to think, but once the synapses started firing, it was impossible to stop. The Earth shattering revelation from ReVival. That Tom had been involved with hiding Nora and Melissa…
No. Don’t go there. Don’t fucking go there. It’s just a coincidence.
It’s just a coincidence.
How many shakes of salt did he add? There was far too much pepper in the pan. A nervous twitch of the eye. Why did Tom have to make this so difficult?
Why couldn’t he be just like the rest?
Why was he leading him down a path to empathize with The Bayou Butcher?
Sins are relative creatures. Paxton Ray is a monster because what he did was broadcast around the world. Make no mistake; Brandon thought what Tom was doing was brave. But the tower doesn’t care. If one doesn’t deposit hate to feed it what it craves, then another part of the self must be taken.
If it needs to be pulled from darkness, so be it.
This path wasn’t some stretch. It was scarily autobiographical. Even with a broken nose, he could still remember the stench of Karachi vividly. Not one night in particular, too many of them had the same flavor. Originally, he’d gone there to escape. To die. What he’d done to Melissa and Cody, the man he was…there was no redeeming him. Even after Lindsay coaxed Grow from him, there were secrets he refused to ever share out of shame, even after he left the fighting pits and the al-Shirani Brothers.
Running an ambulance for the Edhi Foundation in the dead of night in a lawless city. Rarely ever any down time. A paper sack lunch with just enough protein to get him through the shift. The ritual at the start of every tour was the same. Lay everything out in the cabin. Reach into his wallet and pull out the picture.
While Paxton got in bed with monsters to find his information, Brandon was more conventional. He was still wrestling when he paid private investigators to keep tabs on his ex-wife and infant son. They run to Wisconsin, trying to make a new life, get far away as they could be from him. He couldn’t blame them. It didn’t stop him from invading their privacy. The only proof he had that his son even existed was grainy, shot from a distance, caught in a supermarket parking lot. Cody’s chubby cheeks, his body wrapped in blankets. He never knew him, yet his absence made his heart ache.
A kiss from a world away. Sleep well, son.
When Tom looked at Brandon, did he know the fullness of the truth? That as he runs and attacks in defense, thinking himself moral arbiter, that the man he shares cigars and whiskey with is just as stained as the man he’s crusading against?
Or that, perhaps, his friend was even worse?
The greens made a wonderful bed for the eggs, the oats steaming in their bowl. A light drizzle of honey. Fuel. Stabbing through the yolk, it ran, adding flavor to all underneath. The hook was sunk deep. This wasn’t an existential crisis. The Diamond had spent far too long in self flagellation to go down the road about whether he was worthy. That right wasn’t for him to bestow, and as time wore on, defeatism only served to masturbate depression. Those tolls had long since been paid. The overseasoning of his eggs didn’t register.
Could Battaglia even fathom the depths of what it meant to build from being a devil? What it would cost not just then, but in the future?
“Melissa…he has to know the truth.”
The Altoona Family Restaurant. To relive and forgive. It had been over a year since Brandon had come back stateside from Pakistan, and in the interim, he’d spent that time trying to rebuild his life. To be worthy of the forgiveness Melissa had granted him.
Another heavy snowfall. January was good for them, as well as subzero temperatures. Like outside, her soup was growing cold, barely touched as the conversation they were having continued on. After all this time, and despite her husband Travis’s misgivings, it was time for Brandon to finally meet his son. “Look, I think I’m being very clear with you here–”
He’d danced on egg shells long enough. “He’s going to find out. Hell, if he hasn’t found out already–”
“Cody doesn’t need to know–”
“If he’s been looking up my matches on the internet then something has to have–”
“–no. No. It’s never come up.”
He sat back in disbelief. Why wasn’t she looking at him? “I find that hard to believe. And with kids at school, shit…there’s just no–”
“Listen, Brandon!” Her fist slammed the table. “Do you think I want to relive that all over again? I rebuilt my life. You…you rebuilt your life. It’s in the past. What you did, what I did…it’s all in the past.”
His heart raced. “Look…I understand where you’re coming from. Believe me. I do. But he’s going to find out eventually. And I think it’s better if he hears it from us.”
Incredulousness etched her face. “He’s a kid. We’re going to explain what happened that night, what led to it, to a kid? Like he’s got the capacity to understand? He doesn’t even know you. We tell him what happened, and who says he ever forgives us?”
“It doesn’t have to be right now. Not immediately. But when he’s ready.” For Brandon, it was the only way. To tell him straight how he lashed out in a fit of rage that night, and how ever since, he felt nothing but regret. This was his sin. If his son hated him for it, so be it. But he deserved to know.
She sighed, stirring her soup. “He’s my son, Brandon. That responsibility? You gave it up before you even knew who he was. You want to have the chance to get that back? I’m allowing it. But it’s on my terms. This isn’t an argument. This isn’t bargaining. It’s my decision…and it’s final. You understand?”
Nothing she said was false. He slouched in his booth seat, looking toward her. “So what do we do?”
For a few moments, silence. Then? “When the time comes…if it comes…we tell him the truth. That everything was gossip mongering. That time passed, and after everything, his parents found a way to forgive each other. Because that’s what really happened.”
Blank patches of memory. Suddenly, he was questioning his own recollection of that night. What he heard. What he felt.
If only he knew.
All he would do, what he would become, the love and respect he would win…if Tom Battaglia had done to him what he was doing to Paxton Ray, it never would have happened. The Brandon Youngblood of today would’ve never come to be. Instead, something far worse than a Pariah would stand in his place. The Lafayette Bruiser may never ask for forgiveness. Brandon had.
All the same, it wasn’t for The Son Of The Shogun to determine his destiny.
It was irrational. Brandon knew it. He didn’t care. Breakfast was gone in hearty bites, washed down with coffee. A mere sliver had cascaded into a state of mind. Something necessary to do what had to be done.
Their battle in Baltimore wasn’t for righteousness. It was for fate. The year anniversary of Atken and Thirteen lingered in the periphery. What came from it, the bumps in the road, the fall, he refused to revisit them. Nine long months he’d waited to regain the Universal Championship. Was it coincidence that bringing a child to term took the same amount of time? The championship was a part of him now, and despite where The Anglo Luchador fell on the spectrum, the mere audacity to try and plunge him back into the darkness after all he’d worked for was personal. A weight vest and an oxygen deprivation mask, all to set up for a five mile run. Go into the fray. The fight of a lifetime. Prepare to ruthlessly drown Battaglia’s dream and show him what it takes to stand as the standard.
It was the only way.
Summer bled into autumn, yet the heat remained. For Cody, it meant the end of vacation. Back to school. A Sophomore on varsity, and a starter no less. Memorial ran away with their season opener, drubbing La Crosse Logan to the score of 36-8. This would be the year they turned it all around. Would qualify for the playoffs. He had a dozen tackles. A sack and a forced fumble. The family was there.
Even his blood father, despite what Phil Atken had done to him. Just looking at him made him wince. Swollen eyes and a ghastly broken nose. Yet despite this, Brandon was in Carson Park, smiling, ringing a cowbell with the rest of the crowd. “That’s my boy.” Not because of the win or the statistics; it just was. An immutable love. Cody knew nothing else from his old man from the moment he surfaced into his life.
With heavy eyes, Cody felt himself slowly drift to sleep, the glow from his phone ebbing away until he heard the notifying ping. Thanks TikTok. He thumbed open his lockscreen, pressing the notification out of habit.
The message wasn’t from a friend, but rather, a username of alphanumerics. “You need to see this,” it exclaimed. He could’ve blocked it. What waited on the other side of a press was an animated sound wave against blackness, each peak rising with grainy, tinny voices. A shrill cry pleading, begging, desperate for help. A rage in the distance, a muffled voice punctuated with heavy pounding. The principles were familiar yet unknown in the midst of the curtain’s removal; it took him moments before he figured out just who and what this was.
As realization dawned, text stamped against the void.
“If it wasn’t for you, Daddy would never have hit Mommy.”