Post by Anna on Jul 15, 2016 9:47:23 GMT -5
Pedro Gonzales has a theory.
It goes a little something like this. The best way to wrestle is with 99% of your gut and 1% of your brain. He didn't come across this theory by accident either. Research was a big part of the pie, more so of himself than of anybody else. The start of his career, when he barely had a clue what he was doing, was marked with a winning streak. Yet now that he was being trained on a consistent basis, he thought about it way too much. The obsession of thinking the way a wrestler would had driven him farther and farther from the one thing that separated him from the rest: pure instinct. He had absorbed too much knowledge with his mind when he should've been absorbing it in his body instead.
Sure, he was still winning. He gained the pin for himself and Chase Dupree who had been turned into a punching bag every time he went in the ring. (Though Pedro would never tell Annie this. You just don't disrespect the LDFC's foster mom, especially when she signs your copy of her Playboy with a smile.) Yet every now and then, he still felt the need to help his friends.
Josh Mitchell is one of those friends. And if their sparring shenanigans and current matches were anything to go by, he seemed to be doing well under the tutelage of Candy the Striking Master of Doom. Pedro keeps trying to summon up the courage to ask for an audience with her and yet...something inside tells him not to.
There was always the sense that...it could be better. It doesn't feel as natural as it should. Though it seems contradictory now, at the moment where he feels worthy of the mantle of "professional wrestler", he now wanted to not be just a wrester any more. In order to find yourself in this business, you have to learn as much as you can. Be gluttonous with moves. Pound the trainer's words into your head. Make said trainers your new gods and believe every word they say.
Then when it gets too confining, you burn the vast majority of it down, keep whatever's left, and rebuild.
His foot taps, slow, getting a rhythm.
Turn off the logical mind. STOP. Fuck their pace. STOP. Make them work yours. STOP. Keep moving.
Time goes by. Weeks go by. The night comes. Josh wins his match against Butcher (no surprise). Maritza wants to keep putting him in headlocks. He doesn’t come to class. The voice mail is filling up.
He begins to hop one foot to the other, the very footfalls picking up the beat. The logic in his brain hisses at him.
Thisssss isssss ssssssstupid. You need to pay attention with your classsssssessssss...
And where has that gotten me? Where has that gotten me? Where has that--
FAST BEAT THE FEET! *knock knock knock knock* FAST FALL THE HANDS! *knock knock knock knock* Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings. It's a bird! It's a plane! It's--
Sssssssstupid.
Enough! I am Mumm-Ra the Everliving! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The gut tells the tale.
Why are you speaking like this all of a sudden? Where have you been?
Hiding. Waiting for you to find me.
Well, here we are.
...
Yes. Here we are. And now, the real training begins.
It goes a little something like this. The best way to wrestle is with 99% of your gut and 1% of your brain. He didn't come across this theory by accident either. Research was a big part of the pie, more so of himself than of anybody else. The start of his career, when he barely had a clue what he was doing, was marked with a winning streak. Yet now that he was being trained on a consistent basis, he thought about it way too much. The obsession of thinking the way a wrestler would had driven him farther and farther from the one thing that separated him from the rest: pure instinct. He had absorbed too much knowledge with his mind when he should've been absorbing it in his body instead.
Sure, he was still winning. He gained the pin for himself and Chase Dupree who had been turned into a punching bag every time he went in the ring. (Though Pedro would never tell Annie this. You just don't disrespect the LDFC's foster mom, especially when she signs your copy of her Playboy with a smile.) Yet every now and then, he still felt the need to help his friends.
Josh Mitchell is one of those friends. And if their sparring shenanigans and current matches were anything to go by, he seemed to be doing well under the tutelage of Candy the Striking Master of Doom. Pedro keeps trying to summon up the courage to ask for an audience with her and yet...something inside tells him not to.
There was always the sense that...it could be better. It doesn't feel as natural as it should. Though it seems contradictory now, at the moment where he feels worthy of the mantle of "professional wrestler", he now wanted to not be just a wrester any more. In order to find yourself in this business, you have to learn as much as you can. Be gluttonous with moves. Pound the trainer's words into your head. Make said trainers your new gods and believe every word they say.
Then when it gets too confining, you burn the vast majority of it down, keep whatever's left, and rebuild.
His foot taps, slow, getting a rhythm.
Turn off the logical mind. STOP. Fuck their pace. STOP. Make them work yours. STOP. Keep moving.
Time goes by. Weeks go by. The night comes. Josh wins his match against Butcher (no surprise). Maritza wants to keep putting him in headlocks. He doesn’t come to class. The voice mail is filling up.
He begins to hop one foot to the other, the very footfalls picking up the beat. The logic in his brain hisses at him.
Thisssss isssss ssssssstupid. You need to pay attention with your classsssssessssss...
And where has that gotten me? Where has that gotten me? Where has that--
FAST BEAT THE FEET! *knock knock knock knock* FAST FALL THE HANDS! *knock knock knock knock* Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings. It's a bird! It's a plane! It's--
Sssssssstupid.
Enough! I am Mumm-Ra the Everliving! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The gut tells the tale.
Why are you speaking like this all of a sudden? Where have you been?
Hiding. Waiting for you to find me.
Well, here we are.
...
Yes. Here we are. And now, the real training begins.