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In life, and in pro wrestling, sometimes you just can’t win.
You can do everything right—and still lose. The affliction that’s ailing Bea Valentine is one I’m acutely familiar with. Over the course of my career, I have weathered more storms and endured more adversity than maybe any elitist ever. I know better than anyone how that affects your psyche. And as the misfortunes and losses mount, self-doubt then becomes your cruelest opponent. Whether you emerge from the trenches renewed, or totally devastated, stems from the design you have created. If your confidence is irreparably shaken, complete devastation is the logical next step. What is truly “irreparable,” though? In the context of this company and its dynamics, what’s fixable and what’s permanently, unsalvageably broken are often figments of our imagination. You are still alive, even after being thrown off a cell. Not only are you alive, you are competing in a match on Showdown against Karl Impact just weeks later. Adversity is a two-pronged threat, because it’s not just about the struggle, but about the madness which arises within us from it. A few losses, and it’s just human nature that people get in their own head trying to reinvent the wheel on a tried-and-true formula because they think they’ve been figured out and that it’s all downhill from here. Sometimes, you do have to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes, the formula fractures, and what scatters from that formula are fragments of who you used to be without any discernible cohesion; a mishmash of components that once formed a whole, greater than the sum of its parts, separated into parts and no longer whole, so it’s no longer great.
To advance to the stage I’m at, to get back to firing on all cylinders, I had to eschew the idea of a “return to form” and rebuild the foundation. Delusional self-belief without incorporating any new changes is counterproductive at best and could permanently dim your star in this business at worst. That’s what I hear coming out of your mouth, Bea. I hear fake self-confidence. I hear ego-massaging by you, trying to convince yourself that you simply have bad luck instead of bad process. When you tell yourself your misfortunes are nothing but luck and fluctuation, you insulate yourself from having to confront reality. You hide from the truth. The warts have been exposed, but you’re turning the other cheek because you don’t want to face your fears. All the rah-rah shit and the obligatory fake niceties aren’t going to help your career. Praying on my downfall isn’t going to help your career. It sure as hell hasn’t helped anyone else’s. Obviously, for as hopeless as you’ve painted it, your career on paper isn’t necessarily in the dire straits you’re portraying it. You have an opportunity to compete for the Answers World Championship at Pain for Pride and turn all these upsets into nothing more than a bad memory, should you defeat Harper Lee in a No Holds Barred match at Grand Rampage. And yet, despite that, and simply based on your words and the inflection in your voice and what we’ve all witnessed ourselves, it’s clear a theme has emerged—Bea Valentine coming up short.
For the longest time, that theme has existed for me, and to an even higher degree. It seemed like no matter what I did, I was coming up short in one way or another. I was relearning how to wrestle to prepare for a full-time comeback after three decades in the business took its toll, but I wasn’t quite there, and so my comebacks for a couple of years proved fleeting—until now. I was no longer able to endure the daily grind of being an EAW elitist, and that was my darkest hour, but I didn’t just “find the magic” again. I remade the magic. I partook in a rigorous rehabilitation regimen, rife with experimental therapies, international physician consults, and everything under the sun, and I was confident enough when I returned last year that I had determined it wouldn’t just be a one-off—it was a full-fledged return to the fire.
The fact is, instead of dragging my name through the mud, all of you should be using my career as a template. You need to win a championship? I laid the blueprint. You need to win Grand Rampage? I laid the blueprint. You need to beat a legacy manufacturer? I laid the blueprint (needs an update though with EAW’s current crop of main eventers). And you need a resurgence? Goddamn, did I lay the blueprint. Over and over again, every struggle you’ve experienced, every new horizon for another season, almost anything you’ve experienced in your career I can relate to a moment in time for myself, and how I improbably managed to rise to the occasion. You should be talking about that, learning from the example I set, praising what I’ve accomplished simply to be speaking to you in this position, Bea, but instead you’re telling the world that your only hope is my downfall. But then you say you’re NOT hoping for it? You’re indecisive, you’re second-guessing yourself, while I’ve been locking in for months, because I know when I’m at the peak of my powers, yours truly as champion is an unavoidable reality that only formalities, politics, and time can delay. I can’t be denied, and I won’t be denied, and the path back to rectifying the disasters of the last several years begins again when I upend Joso at Grand Rampage and reset the totem pole, again. You’re not saying anything of substantive value calling yourself a “selfish competitor.” It’s a distinction without a difference. By the very nature of the word “competitor,” we are inherently selfish—and of course, we should be. We want the best for ourselves and our careers. We do this not just for the money it provides, but the pageantry, spectacle, scale, and most of all? The sport. Everyone’s motivations are different, but those qualities overlap in the majority of elitists. They certainly overlap in you and I. You’ve gotten far in this business already, but you can go so much farther if you unlock your untapped potential and reach the sort of pro wrestling enlightenment that I’ve ascended to. You’re breaking down the rationale behind trying to beat me, but it’s without purpose. You are scheduled in a match against me on Showdown. Regardless of the context in your career, and regardless of the context in my career, I would expect you to want to beat me. The alternative would be surrender. We’re not in the business of surrender. We’re not in the business of giving up. We’re not in the business of quitting. And yet it almost sounds like that’s your next crucible, Bea—warding off the voice in your head that’s telling you to quit because of the calamities that have transpired in your career of late. You sound like you’re vacillating, weighing the pros and cons of resistance versus submission, and it almost feels like you finished your latest promo ditty by telling the world what you feel you’re expected to say by the brass and the fans who believe in you, rather than because you sincerely feel that way. The words speak of confidence, the talk of a “new Bea,” but you feel kind of removed. You seem uninvested. You seem to not have that energy. And if that’s the case heading into Grand Rampage? Harper Lee’s already won.
You need something to make you believe in yourself again, and you think that’s a win against The Quintessential, capital C, Champion. Well, it certainly would be, but if you’re relying on me to suddenly “slip up” to give you a mulligan and spare you further embarrassment and agony, put the wrestling gear away and pick up the crack pipe, ‘cause you gotta be smoking that shit to think I’m laying down for you—or anybody. If I am defeated, it will be because I was defeated—not because I beat myself. Those were the mistakes I made over the past several years, whether because of restrictions imposed upon me by my physical state at the time or because of a missing link that I’ve since found, who cares? I cracked that code, I solved my Rubik’s cube, and now that heat is on you, Bea. Elevate, or burn.
You can do everything right—and still lose. The affliction that’s ailing Bea Valentine is one I’m acutely familiar with. Over the course of my career, I have weathered more storms and endured more adversity than maybe any elitist ever. I know better than anyone how that affects your psyche. And as the misfortunes and losses mount, self-doubt then becomes your cruelest opponent. Whether you emerge from the trenches renewed, or totally devastated, stems from the design you have created. If your confidence is irreparably shaken, complete devastation is the logical next step. What is truly “irreparable,” though? In the context of this company and its dynamics, what’s fixable and what’s permanently, unsalvageably broken are often figments of our imagination. You are still alive, even after being thrown off a cell. Not only are you alive, you are competing in a match on Showdown against Karl Impact just weeks later. Adversity is a two-pronged threat, because it’s not just about the struggle, but about the madness which arises within us from it. A few losses, and it’s just human nature that people get in their own head trying to reinvent the wheel on a tried-and-true formula because they think they’ve been figured out and that it’s all downhill from here. Sometimes, you do have to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes, the formula fractures, and what scatters from that formula are fragments of who you used to be without any discernible cohesion; a mishmash of components that once formed a whole, greater than the sum of its parts, separated into parts and no longer whole, so it’s no longer great.
To advance to the stage I’m at, to get back to firing on all cylinders, I had to eschew the idea of a “return to form” and rebuild the foundation. Delusional self-belief without incorporating any new changes is counterproductive at best and could permanently dim your star in this business at worst. That’s what I hear coming out of your mouth, Bea. I hear fake self-confidence. I hear ego-massaging by you, trying to convince yourself that you simply have bad luck instead of bad process. When you tell yourself your misfortunes are nothing but luck and fluctuation, you insulate yourself from having to confront reality. You hide from the truth. The warts have been exposed, but you’re turning the other cheek because you don’t want to face your fears. All the rah-rah shit and the obligatory fake niceties aren’t going to help your career. Praying on my downfall isn’t going to help your career. It sure as hell hasn’t helped anyone else’s. Obviously, for as hopeless as you’ve painted it, your career on paper isn’t necessarily in the dire straits you’re portraying it. You have an opportunity to compete for the Answers World Championship at Pain for Pride and turn all these upsets into nothing more than a bad memory, should you defeat Harper Lee in a No Holds Barred match at Grand Rampage. And yet, despite that, and simply based on your words and the inflection in your voice and what we’ve all witnessed ourselves, it’s clear a theme has emerged—Bea Valentine coming up short.
For the longest time, that theme has existed for me, and to an even higher degree. It seemed like no matter what I did, I was coming up short in one way or another. I was relearning how to wrestle to prepare for a full-time comeback after three decades in the business took its toll, but I wasn’t quite there, and so my comebacks for a couple of years proved fleeting—until now. I was no longer able to endure the daily grind of being an EAW elitist, and that was my darkest hour, but I didn’t just “find the magic” again. I remade the magic. I partook in a rigorous rehabilitation regimen, rife with experimental therapies, international physician consults, and everything under the sun, and I was confident enough when I returned last year that I had determined it wouldn’t just be a one-off—it was a full-fledged return to the fire.
The fact is, instead of dragging my name through the mud, all of you should be using my career as a template. You need to win a championship? I laid the blueprint. You need to win Grand Rampage? I laid the blueprint. You need to beat a legacy manufacturer? I laid the blueprint (needs an update though with EAW’s current crop of main eventers). And you need a resurgence? Goddamn, did I lay the blueprint. Over and over again, every struggle you’ve experienced, every new horizon for another season, almost anything you’ve experienced in your career I can relate to a moment in time for myself, and how I improbably managed to rise to the occasion. You should be talking about that, learning from the example I set, praising what I’ve accomplished simply to be speaking to you in this position, Bea, but instead you’re telling the world that your only hope is my downfall. But then you say you’re NOT hoping for it? You’re indecisive, you’re second-guessing yourself, while I’ve been locking in for months, because I know when I’m at the peak of my powers, yours truly as champion is an unavoidable reality that only formalities, politics, and time can delay. I can’t be denied, and I won’t be denied, and the path back to rectifying the disasters of the last several years begins again when I upend Joso at Grand Rampage and reset the totem pole, again. You’re not saying anything of substantive value calling yourself a “selfish competitor.” It’s a distinction without a difference. By the very nature of the word “competitor,” we are inherently selfish—and of course, we should be. We want the best for ourselves and our careers. We do this not just for the money it provides, but the pageantry, spectacle, scale, and most of all? The sport. Everyone’s motivations are different, but those qualities overlap in the majority of elitists. They certainly overlap in you and I. You’ve gotten far in this business already, but you can go so much farther if you unlock your untapped potential and reach the sort of pro wrestling enlightenment that I’ve ascended to. You’re breaking down the rationale behind trying to beat me, but it’s without purpose. You are scheduled in a match against me on Showdown. Regardless of the context in your career, and regardless of the context in my career, I would expect you to want to beat me. The alternative would be surrender. We’re not in the business of surrender. We’re not in the business of giving up. We’re not in the business of quitting. And yet it almost sounds like that’s your next crucible, Bea—warding off the voice in your head that’s telling you to quit because of the calamities that have transpired in your career of late. You sound like you’re vacillating, weighing the pros and cons of resistance versus submission, and it almost feels like you finished your latest promo ditty by telling the world what you feel you’re expected to say by the brass and the fans who believe in you, rather than because you sincerely feel that way. The words speak of confidence, the talk of a “new Bea,” but you feel kind of removed. You seem uninvested. You seem to not have that energy. And if that’s the case heading into Grand Rampage? Harper Lee’s already won.
You need something to make you believe in yourself again, and you think that’s a win against The Quintessential, capital C, Champion. Well, it certainly would be, but if you’re relying on me to suddenly “slip up” to give you a mulligan and spare you further embarrassment and agony, put the wrestling gear away and pick up the crack pipe, ‘cause you gotta be smoking that shit to think I’m laying down for you—or anybody. If I am defeated, it will be because I was defeated—not because I beat myself. Those were the mistakes I made over the past several years, whether because of restrictions imposed upon me by my physical state at the time or because of a missing link that I’ve since found, who cares? I cracked that code, I solved my Rubik’s cube, and now that heat is on you, Bea. Elevate, or burn.
