CROSS RECOBA versus 'THE ICEMAN' RYAN MCCOLLUM

The flight back west was delayed; it was almost inevitable when he thought about it. This was his fourth flight in as many days. Vegas to Louisiana, Louisiana to Texas, Texas to New York and now here he was in JFK Airport and after four days he could finally take stock of the events that had occurred since he had left The Sands to fulfil his commitments in the wrestling world.

He felt a pain twinge in his back; a receipt from The Bombtrax’s decimation of him to close out the in-ring action at WICKED #2. He’d been cleared to fight ‘Burning’ James Edwards at the last WICKED taping but whether or not he was fully recovered was answered now – Press packed a hell of a lot of power into his offense.

The win against Edwards had been predicted by many but that hadn’t stopped him planning and training as hard as he would have for a Johnny Raike or an Alex Cross. Recoba was a relative rookie; he’d been in the underdog situation himself and upset the expert opinion – it was always a possibility. The experts hadn’t known of the lingering injuries he had been carrying into the match – in hindsight when you watched the video back you can clearly see Cross swearing under his breath after he hit the Million Lira dropkick to Edwards – it was a move that required him to have to take into consideration that if he didn’t connect it was like being thrown over the top rope from a running start.

He’d also paid attention to the match that would matter most to him – Calhoun vs McCollum; much like his own it was the story of the favorite vs the debuting underdog. Cross had already begun preparing to face Kip Calhoun, the heavy favorite, before his match with Edwards. He’d spent the time practicing his sprawl technique, avoiding amateur wrestling holds and looking to outpace his opponent. The unforeseen result meant that he’d have to adjust his approach to cater for the similar size and style that The Iceman presented.

After he flew out from Louisiana it was on to Texas for the Hate City Syndicate taping. While he was in the air news had filtered in that Jubille Jynx had left the promotion. This in itself wasn’t a surprise but it did highlight the fact that HCS presented a massive risk. Pure Amusement Wrestling had stability and had established itself as a force to be reckoned with. That it did so while being open for the same time as HCS only highlighted the latter’s shortcomings.

By the time he’d landed in Fort Worth Recoba had made his mind up – HCS had to go. Al Envy, the booker, showed that he was a class-act by granting Cross’ release with little in the way of obstruction. Recoba guessed Envy was somewhat relieved to drop the cost of flying Recoba in for shows and, in a company where flakiness was becoming the norm, the clear-cut nature of Cross’ employment became one less issue for him to worry about.

The Las Vegas resident had stayed for the show, keen to see what the Post-Recoba HCS would look like and the show confirmed that Envy would be fine. Resigning your position was one thing but Recoba wasn’t prepared to leave someone in the lurch – it was bad for business and, in this industry, people tended to have long memories for those who slighted them.

Now he was returning from New York after spending the previous night taking in the city with Larissa Jackson. It was far too soon to get ahead of himself but it looked promising – they’d both enjoyed themselves and Cross felt slightly sad he couldn’t have turned the trip into a longer one. Sadly, business was calling back in Vegas.

The plane ride to New York had given him time to think through his situation; not just in wrestling but with The Sands. Without the extra time needed to commit to the Hate City Syndicate he’d have more time to focus on his work at the hotel, this would stand him in greater stead with Costello. He could become more than a figurehead in his role; regain the control he’d relinquished in order to step back into the ring for more than one company.

He took a sip from the Asahi beer that sat in front of him and surveyed his surroundings. There were worse places to be waiting for a plane than the JFK Clubhouse. Modern design in bold colors accentuated the exclusivity of the place that granted him anonymity away from any PAW fans. It was something he’d always loved about New York – anyone who saw him there could walk two blocks and see any other famous person and so they’d become jaded to stardom. The airport though was different; tourists tended to not respect the aloofness that New York ran on.

He placed the beer back onto the table in front of him and loaded up the Bloomberg website on the complementary iPad. The editorial waxed lyrical about an impending bearish market for oil – Cross had been privy to this opinion some weeks previously. The economists from BP had chosen The Sands to escape to prior to the publication of their annual Energy Outlook and alcohol had always made for an easy route to sensitive information. Costello had been able to adjust their position and from what Recoba was reading it looked like the short-sell approach would pay dividends very shortly.

The smile that had spread across Recoba’s face quickly dispersed as he became aware that he wasn’t alone. This was confirmed when he felt a rhythmic tapping on the top of his head. The Illinois native tipped his head back to see the wide grin of a child peering down on him.

“Are you Cross Recoba?” the child asked the question in the monotone whine that children equate with the correct way to find out information.

The child had all the precociousness that reminded Recoba why he hated children, the way they think that they can ask whatever question they like because their parents want them to be inquisitive and to learn about the world. The fact that not one of the rugrats had learnt how to mind their own business or respect people’s privacy was the reason that Recoba hated most parents. He sat up straighter and turned round – surely a security guard or the brat’s parents would be here to remove the pygmy from his vicinity. Cross let out an audible sigh when he realized that there wouldn’t even be a panicked nanny looking to save their job. Recoba put down the iPad and picked up his beer.

“You know I am, you’re a PAW fan, aren’t you?”

The child nodded his head, almost expecting praise for answering the question.

“What do you want?” Recoba’s voice remained deadpan.

The child reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad pushing it in Recoba’s face. The PAW star sideswiped the kids hand to buy some personal space.

“I have a better idea, kid…”

Cross reached into his bag and started to rummage around.

“How about we toss the old pigskin round the lounge?...”

Recoba came up empty-handed but smiled as he saw the kid scarper out of perceived harm’s way.

---

I know, no-one’s surprized I made it this far. Were they banking on my talent? Not at all. Were they banking on my ability to adapt? Why would they? What they were banking on was that I’d find some way to weasel out of it. That after seeing me throw a suitcase of money at The Bombtrax that this was then going to be my shtick. After all, before that I just picked on the crowd…didn’t I?

Appearances can be funny things, if you misread them – they trip you up…make you look foolish. McCollum; you, of all people, should appreciate that. You were the one that no-one paid any attention to. When the brackets came out I wasn’t in the minority when I saw Calhoun as the most likely to come out the match and into the next round.

Was it being the unknown quantity that gave you the edge? That you had no expectation to live up to in the company? Maybe the fact that you knew where Calhoun’s weakness was because it’s not hidden under armor or at all for that matter? Who’s to say now, and more to the point – who cares? Welcome to the big leagues.

Why do I say that? Because everyone in it from now on is a genuine contender; last week I tamed the underdog and this week I get you, and you’re probably the most dangerous person left in the tournament.

The Bombtrax, they’ve proved they’re no slouches – take it from someone who knows first-hand. Hungry Jack, the man who got a bye from a dark match, hardly a bad endorsement of what he could be like in the ring. Alex Cross, he came into this company and when the first taping was announced he was on everyone’s radar as the standout star. Harris and Raike, they were the underdogs when this place opened but now they’re the ones who’ll be headlining the show. Got a lot to live up to – think you can handle it?

---

Nicole heard the door open and looked up to see a man who, though she had never met, recognized on sight. The dirty blonde hair styled into a cut that screamed it belonged to someone who had avoided state school. The shirt unbuttoned at the top but perfectly pressed and the suit that was either from Saville Row or Italy fit perfectly. The man unfurled the scarf from his neck and took off his overcoat, draping both over his lead arm without breaking his stride.

She had heard of the man’s reputation for it was here, in The Sands, that it had been forged. She had often wondered why bottles of Oxley Gin were stocked within the room and Costello’s office but, in her year working for Al, had never been opened but now she had a reason to use one. She walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured a generous measure over two blocks of ice into the tumbler. She looked back to see that the man had taken the societal cue to sit down in one of the leather armchairs. She topped his drink up with tonic water that neither drowned nor purely watered down the drink and placed it on the table in front of him.

“Mr. Beasant, is Al expecting you?” she asked.

Beasant smiled as he placed his fingers around the glass.

“No, but when he hears my matter of business he won’t be displeased. If you let him know I’m here he’ll be more than happy to make time for me.” The cut-glass English accent further confirmed the man’s pedigree.

Nicole smiled politely; she was unfamiliar with a scenario where Costello’s time would be dictated but she had heard of the
Englishman’s time at The Sands. She pressed a button on the intercom.

“Mr. Costello, Alexander Beasant is here to see you.”

She lifted her finger off the button and waited.

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

Costello’s reply was a surprise, by Nicole’s diary he was due to hold a conference call with a select number of investors. Even on a Sunday there was still time to strategize and curry investor favor.

The door to Costello’s office swung open to show Costello wearing a wide grin. Beasant had stood to meet him and the elder statesman of The Sands had enveloped the visitor in a bear-hug. He turned to Nicole as the two men made their way to his office.

“Can you stall the investors for half an hour - tell them I’ve had a surprise visit from family.”

Nicole nodded – she wondered where her amazement at the scene she had just witnessed. Alexander Beasant was a name that was spoken of reverentially within the hotel. He was the archetypal example for Costello’s work with gifted youngsters, being brought in as a prototype for the scheme moving from the shadows and into the legitimate world. He was an alumni of Winchester College and the London School of Economics; Costello had been a friend of his father’s and his recruitment of Beasant had caused friction between the two.

He had been assured a position within his father’s investment company but Costello had handpicked him to become the test case for putting his faith into the hands of prodigal youth. The move had been a gamble on both sides- for Beasant he was walking away from a guaranteed six-figure job straight out of university; for Costello the move came at a time when the market murmurings suggested that he needed to stand down. The Sands was seen as lagging behind some of its competitors and his cash reserves were rumored to be dwindling.

Through shrewd reading of the markets and a fortuitous talent for covering exposure Beasant had managed to help Costello build up his holdings in diverse areas. When, over half a decade later, Alexander informed Costello of his desire to set his own company up it was with the Italian-American’s blessing. Beasant retained a select list of clients with which he offered investment opportunities that rarely under-delivered on the promises the British man sold them on.

Costello gestured for Beasant to take a seat; he sat down opposite the younger man and poured himself a glass of Barolo.

“What can I do for you, Alexander?” The older man’s tone was full of warmth.

“I won’t keep you from your business too long – I’ve had an opportunity come up in California and it’s a no-brainer. I can get you a very favorable share but I might need to borrow some of your resources that aren’t measured by their monetary value in order to maximize its potential.” Beasant’s delivered his reply in a way that was straight to the point without being brusque.

“I’m all ears…”

---

It all comes down to pressure – I read somewhere that a 3rd string player and a starter have the same skills, go to training and they’re indistinguishable but as soon as those players step into the stadium, that’s when the differences become apparent.

The cheers, the expectations, the knowledge that somewhere someone put down money to see them, that’s when the differences start to creep out. The third stringer feels the crowd on his back and finds his shoulders heavier, finds his agility isn’t what it should be – as if some intangible force is holding their feet to the floor. The starter, he expects this atmosphere, he thrives on it. To him this whole circus is why he laces up his boots. When it comes to taking to the field the Coach knows there isn’t a choice to be made; the third-stringer’s head is down, he’s avoiding eye-contact, his body language makes the decision without words needed to be spoken.

Does that thought ever go through your head? You know; the one that starts with a quiet whisper that doesn’t seem to shut up. That little nagging of self –doubt about your abilities and whether you’ll get it done this time? That voice you try and tell yourself is just you overthinking the night. It’s just your ego trying to check itself into a normal level. The murmur that disappears into silence when the bell rings and is replaced by endless adrenaline.

Except, what if it doesn’t? Me, I have the safety in the knowledge that to me the crowd are faceless, nameless people. You, on the other hand, you’ve not got that luxury. You’re forever under pressure to perform in that ring. I can look out and know that really there is no-one of any direct consequence to me that I can see; but you, you have the person you want to impress most in the entire world at ringside. Is that wise in your position? You have the chance to make a real statement in PAW but I’ve seen enough of you to see that your weakness isn’t your size, it’s your insecurity.

Tell me, Ryan, how many times a day does the fear of Tappy leaving you cross your mind? How often do you worry that if you don’t pick up the win that she’ll see you as beneath her and go back to just humping and dumping the flavor of the month? What will you do if you find yourself without any momentum as I throw you from pillar to post like I did Edwards, what will you do if you look over to Tapanga and see her eyes glaze over as she realizes she’s better than you?

You asked me if I wanted to take the easy way out of our match, like you assumed I did with Press and Youth. Just step aside and let you have the win and owe me a favor – that’s your business ‘proposition’ as you put it. I’m afraid that you’ve overstated your worth in this transaction – you’ve overplayed your hand.

I gave The Bombtrax money because it motivates them, I know that, you know that, and they sure as anything know that. I gave them money because it was advantageous to both sides, but most importantly…I gave them money because I knew I had a losing hand. The Bombtrax are a pack animal; I was only fighting Press but, like Raptors, the fear isn’t the one that’s right in front of you, the danger is the one you can’t see until it’s too late.

You, when we look objectively, you have far more to lose in this match than I do – if I lose I’ve done enough to not have to worry about title shots, they’ll come about, I know how to keep myself top of mind with the fans. If you lose, well, we’ve touched on this – maybe it’s the loss that shows Tapanga that you’re not what she thought, or she’ll bring up when you have a fight? What will the wrestling world think if you lose? That you fluked it passed Calhoun? Are you worried that at WICKED #4 you’ll tap out and go home and find that TAP’S OUT?

I know my game-plan going in; I’m going to take every opportunity to steal the show from you like I did to Edwards. But that, that isn’t going to be enough, I’m then going to make sure that every slam, every hold, every moment of the match that I have going my way will be engineered to make sure that your ringside cheerleader, the Soccer Mom Who Could, has a close-up of her darling little lapdog screaming in pain as I curb stomp his face into the mat, can feel the heat of his breath as he screams out in agony while reaching for the ropes, and feels the fight exit your body as I hit you with the Sicilian Typewriter.

---

Upon landing Cross had wasted no time unpacking his travel bag and instead wanted to strike while the ideas were fresh in his mind. He’d be sad for Cassie and Elliott having their new-found power stripped from them for no other reason than better resources were now available for the role. He’d be sure to give them a generous quarterly bonus next month in lieu of an apology.

Recoba pushed opened the door and strode through it, his gait suggested a man who clearly had a plan. Nicole stood up with a look that screamed alarmed.

“Cross, you can’t…”

It was futile; he wasn’t going to listen, she thought to herself, he never had. He ignored her protests and opened the door to Costello’s office. She stood behind him her mouth agape in the horror that could await her for failing to stop Recoba. Costello sat in his chair, the Barolo half-finished and resting in front of him.

“Santino…”

“Al, everything is sorted! I’ve reduced my wrestling schedule. I’m going to get some rest but in the morning I’ll be in shape to go back to taking a more hands-on role within the Public Relations team again!”

If pauses could become pregnant than this one would be judged as very much overdue. Costello’s expression changed as his face dropped. The jovial mood that his face had conveyed now seemed to be one of sadness and sympathy for the PAW superstar.

“Take a seat, Cross.” He gestured to the empty sofa to his left.

Cross walked over to the seat and sat down. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the glass in front of him; empty. Costello never drank spirits before dusk; Recoba scanned for more clues and quickly found a large one – a bottle of Oxley. His heart sank as it became evident who was the other guest to the conversation.

“I’m happy with how things have been running in the Public Relations team. A copy of your termination from the Hate City Syndicate was couriered here yesterday and its presence was brought to my attention – so I know you now have a reduced schedule. That still isn’t going to sway my opinion on the matter – you need to learn how to take a step back and see the bigger picture. Additionally, you need to remember that this isn’t a punishment.”

Costello chose his words carefully; he didn’t want to humiliate his young charge.

“Al, I’m spinning my wheels at the moment! I’ve become a man of leisure at the age of 21!” Cross’ temper which normally was even was showing signs of becoming frayed from the lack of activity he had seen over the last month.

“I had anticipated this, Cross, believe me when I tell you I have your best interests at heart. Tonight I need you to be present at the Superbowl party – your team have organized it, your role is to lend some of your star power to it and play the host as well as I know you do.”

Recoba remained silent. Inside he thought – ‘why not just call me the white Sonny Liston and be done with it?’

“Something that I hadn’t planned for but has dropped into my lap is an investment opportunity that will require you to work on the project in a capacity that will play to the unique set of skills you possess.”

Cross let a small smile form. The door from the bathroom opened and out stepped Alexander Beasant. The smile that had formed only seconds before faded into a look that Recoba hope hid his distaste for the man Recoba used to call ‘Al Piccolo’.

“Alexander”

“Santino”

The two men barely hid the mutual disdain that existed between them.

“Cross, Alexander has presented an opportunity that you should find extremely exciting but he won’t be able to do it alone. We’ll secure our position this week but start preparing for this to become a full-time concern in the very near future…”

---

The word that is going to be used when we look back at my route to the semi-finals is going to be focus. Which sounds obvious, right? Every match requires focus in order to come out on top, but we’re not talking about having focus, more we’ll be mentioning a lack of focus from yourself, Ryan.

Are you really that focused on our match, McCollum? You are aware I’m your opponent and not Steve Harris, right? I wasn’t too sure, you see I take it as a sign of enormous disrespect that you spend probably as much time, if not more, talking about someone who isn’t even in the match, but that’s what I’m on about, Ryan. You seem to need to pull focus towards the match. I get it, you want him because of Tappy but I hate to break it to someone older than me but – you’re an adult now. You have your own problems to deal with in the shape of me.

What makes you do it? Is it the knowledge that you’re very much the lesser partner, there’s always one in every relationship that has ever been, is or will be. Who are you to her, really? You’re her pick-me-up, her safety net. “Did I shit the bed last week at the WICKED taping?” “No, of course not, Tappy!” - sound familiar? You’re her ‘Yes’ man, her gopher, the mirror that never tells the truth. I’ll give you some counsel that someone really needs to tell you – she will dump you quicker than the snap of a Wulf’s ankle the second you outlive your usefulness.

Back to talking about focus, it’s not a whole object, a whole approach, it’s made up of tiny, little gains you can make by paying attention to the finer detail in the match. What foot do I use to set up the enziguri? How do I judge when it’s time to show PAW A Million Lira? What makes me go for Garibaldi’s Guillotine over the Sicilian Typewriter and vice-versa? What has me worried is that I could understand you going to such lengths over Harris and defending her honor if you’d only gone and done your research on me.

The Sands isn’t a chain, it isn’t part of a cookie-cutter, brand-guideline, seamless customer experience hotel group where every towel is laid out the same from San Fran to New York. It’s a singular entity, I may be splitting hairs here but we’re not in shallow waters any longer. We’re not in a place where you can afford to bring anything but your ‘A’ game from here on out.

You don’t get the ‘briefcase’ option like The Bombtrax because you lack leverage – if anything you should extend the offer to me of stepping aside. What cards do you hold? I saw you fight last week; you’ve lost the aura of the unknown. You’re not in a position where you can risk everything because if you did you know that TB would be all over you for being irresponsible. If you have performed even the merest nod towards due diligence you might have noticed that my strengths aren’t that I’m the quickest or the strongest – I win battles by using my brain, I find advantages and gaps where they don’t exist to many others. You might think that having your paramour at ringside gives you strength but all I see is a weakness, and it’s one that everyone but you has worked out I’ll be exploiting it to the fullest extent I can. Why tell you? Because I know you just can’t help yourself.

I’ll lay out how it’s going to go up front and with a week to go. I can even sum it up in six words. Turn up. Sicilian Typewriter. Semi-Finals.


*****