If At First You Don't Succeed…

[Ryan LeCavalier]

If at first you don't succeed…

If pressed, Ryan probably wouldn’t even be able to give you a real answer as to how she felt about the outcome of her match with Dom Harter. She could give you an accurate timeline of where everything went wrong, maybe, but the actual development of it still mystifies – says the woman who was dropped on her neck not once, but twice. Ryan had never been good at taking losses; she took every single one of them personal, furthermore she somehow came back from every single loss a better wrestler, in spite of the victor. It’s just the initial feeling of coming up short that bothered her most, as a result she couldn’t escape it; it was a flush feeling, best described as nausea with a headache. If you really think about it, now she was forever connected to Dom Harter in the worst way. She had been defeated, narrowly. Her first instinct was to climb back into the ring with him, thereafter, though she was forced to fight another day.

She didn’t know what it was about Dom that inspired this in her; honestly, he was the kind of person Ryan would normally find rather easy to be. He was difficult, he had an ego, also he was both naïve and insecure. Generally those were traits you normally found, and yet there he was, Dom took it to an entirely different level. It’s the difference that turned her from marble stone at the thought of victory slipping just past her finger tips.

There was still a silver lining to be had. At least people knew who she was; they didn’t exactly have to like her personality or her brand of wrestling. They had to respect her. She was a full-fledged member of the FGA Roster, christened by Dom Harter himself.

Christ, it hurt.

Her resistance had been tested time and time again and she never once came out on the other side unscathed. Fortunately for her, she still considers herself young enough in her career to recover. Others assured her over and over again that that wouldn’t always be the case, and maybe they might’ve been right.

She’s a wick to wrestling that’s a flame—flammable enough to someday burn her until she sizzles and disappears. Gone in a single flame, that turned blaze of glory. She’ll take her chances should that day ever come. For these days, the need to wrestle through numbness outweighs her own longevity. These days, she’s an escape artist. The look in her eyes vacant, her bones ache, and its losses like these she starts feeling worn.

Here—

in the velvet deep,

in the velvet guise,

—does she become.

In some ways, she doesn’t care about losing.

She doesn’t like reflect on it—not often.

Maybe she should. Maybe it would be good for the soul to reminisce from time to time. It was practically art, after all—the things she did for a career.

It is with perverse dejection that that she sat there, she still hadn’t changed yet, her contempt worn just as firm as the t-shirt that started to stick against her lithe frame. Wrestlers sometimes have an unglamorous duty to fulfill, and it brings her the question why she even began wrestling in the first place. All those years ago, she was bright-eyed, ready for anything, looking to do her family’s namesake proud. She can’t remember how many husky revelations were brought to light over the course of her career, all of them ended in ruining her innocence. It’s why today she’s more narrowed-eyed, skeptical of most – gone from an eagle to a sparrow.

There’s more. Things she’s chosen to forget.

She could pry the memories from between her own ribs. She could remember all the accolades and the crazy ways her bones showed her fortitude during matches, eyes set ablaze as a mouth dripping foul blood that shed within reason. She could remember, beyond the current haze of fog that filled her mind, telling Nina about her aspirations for herself in the sport, and how she virtually could’ve made a career of this.

Heavy lies her mistake.

She brandished herself like a spear, weapon born.

She framed akin to an effigy on the front lines, solider shouldered as well as Atlas-eyed (inviting the devil into the wild.) Bruises broke across her skin, a friendly reminder of the past few hours, bringing her mistakes full circle: purple and blue, though hide intact, she’s wax where she was once iron. So to say – she’s come undone rather artfully.

Her pride is a spiritual successor; teeth laden the floor metaphorically.

She was terrible at being astray.

Then again. She wasn’t even at her absolute worst.

And now, here, she was still at trying to decipher her own mood, even with her face contorted into a medium of confusion and anguish. She had an idea of what came succeeding a lost, while she was in England she was subjected to unrivaled scrutiny. She was curious if it had changed – for as long as she was a wrestler, she’s never compared nor contrasted others criticisms of her. (Keep in mind their opinion remained valid; she just chose to ignore them, for the most part.)

Hands tired yet retained their very unique nimbleness as she recovered her iPhone 6s. The gun metal gray hue of the device offset its sleek modern design, though modernism had no principle when you received it as a gift. First thing that was brought to her attention was no new messages from her wife. Salem (her in-law) had sent a few congratulations text. Ryan’s eyes were consumed on every kilobyte of processing power it took to display every message.

A sigh managed to escape past her lips, “Classic Salem.”

The internet always an interesting place – didn’t matter if you valued their opinion or not. As haughty a reason as any she decided to see if the hive-mind carried Dom Harter’s flag for him. And she was right, one of the first few articles that jumped out at her only preyed on her own anxiety.

She left the page slightly annoyed, instantly there was a rabbit hole like effect, that a set space on the internet that was carved to act as a room for prayer. Which to be fair was basically a miniature chapel for Dom Harter’s Fans. There were many female fans ranging from about late teens to early twenties professing their love for Dom and his antics. Not only were they pro wrestling fans, they easily drove the gambit down her throat. She couldn’t tell what was worse, exactly. From the use of the word “Lit” accompanied by several ‘fire’ based emoji’s to the fact that some of them actually commented on her appearance, they ruled the roost holding little regard for her as performer. Their male counterparts begged FGA to rid themselves of the ‘STD’ they had contracted by signing her: “She’s literately the worst wrestler to come to FGA since Fujiko Mine.”

If Nina were here she’d say ‘I hate to say I told you so, but...’ knowing this she dropped her phone into her lap, simply choosing to close her eyes for a second.

When had she suddenly become everyone else's target? She wondered.

“I hate my life.”

Why?

‘It’s not your fault people don’t know what they want,’ she tried for a smile, anything that would tell her it was okay.

Was she was okay?

Look at her—

she will not be devoured,

can’t you see?

—she has teeth too.

Confidence is the key.

At least, that’s what she’s been told all her life. That good things come to those who feel deserving of them. That positivity could breed positivity. But she can’t help but to wonder whether or not luck is the final culprit. That good luck is what nurtures confidence. That those without it, are doomed to defeat.

(And that’s what the woman before you would tell you. From her very somber quiet that lifted from her shoulders, roaring mid shiver to her feet. To the ferocity in her hands whenever aggravation causes them to run through her hair and tease at her scalp. The cup that kisses the bilateral parting of her lips, its gold rim tasting of shame and certain mercy.)

“It’s been forever, we haven’t seen each other since college. How’s life been treating you?”

“It’s life.” Ryan replied, sitting her teacup onto her plate, “I’ve got my career, I recently got married for starters.” She took a moment to process while looking at her ring, “I can’t complain too much.”

A thin shrug of the shoulders was Ryan’s trademark; it not only separated her, it colored her indifferent, as if she wasn’t a human that she was something alternative – something more progressive.

Tessa Wilde – her college roommate – was far beyond anything indifferent. For four years she spent in the corner of the room trying to just get by. From what Ryan could remember off of the top of her head she wasn’t very sociable. Guys didn’t talk to her for obvious reasons: She was avoided. They didn’t invite her to parties; they spent most of their time playing impractical jokes on her. She too was a lowly film studies major, somehow she even got invited to parties. There were often times she spent her time pulling back her hair as she blurred into the toilet, crying her eyes about how she wanted to go home and film making wasn’t for her, all this amidst a drunken depression.

“I bet she’s very lucky to have you,” Tessa mused as she smiled at her very rosily, “You helped me through the roughest part of my life for god sake, anybody that’s willing to sit through four years of being scrutinized by their peers just for a piece of paper is in good company. I truly believe you deserve the best of everything that comes your way.”

Lady luck was no companion of Ryan Lecavalier’s. She’s always worked hard for everything she’s ever wanted.

“I suppose.” Ryan titled her head examining her face trying to find where she was coming from, she couldn’t. “So what did you end up doing anyway? I know you were discovered and modeling was the first thing to come along, but didn’t you used to want to direct major horror films?”

Tessa didn’t respond she just glared at Ryan as she was trying to find a way to explain something that was clearly obvious, didn’t change the fact that failing at ones goal was better than giving it up completely; Ryan’s always tried to follow suite, she might not always have been top-tier talent to most, but she always tried to make her job fun for herself and others.

“I Rather not talk about it,” Asked Tessa, her face didn’t look out of place, it was her actions and her voice that carried all the fright, her limbs snapping out of it with ease. “Have you kept in touch with our old roommates?”

“Not really.” Ryan scrunched her nose, “I hear about them in passing, that’s about it.” Unfolding her elbows Ryan reached near her plate to raise a magazine she carried with her, “You’re the only one I keep up with.” Ryan admits, flashing the magazine about. The magazine was an advanced copy of Tessa’s fashion editorial, it wasn’t due out until the fall.

“How’d you get that?”

Again Ryan shoulders shook, “Do you remember my cousin Misha? She runs the magazine that covered your story, I asked for an advance copy.”

Confidence is never the key.

Only a key is ever the key.

“Are you still doing the wrestling thing?”

Wrestling…thing?

“I’ve been wrestling for years, actually.” She paused trying to make a mental note of the question. Damn. It was a bullet to the brain. Was she trying to kill her? Okay, not literally, but the pain was definitely intense for someone who never really had to answer a question, only to feel embarrassed about the outcome.

“I don’t mean this the wrong way,” Tessa’s face was blank so of course she meant it “Don’t you think it’s a little barbaric?” She asked, but didn’t mean any disrespect. “You’ve got men and women practically rolling around in their underwear. I’ve seen those crowds, not only are they vulgar, they’ve got no direction in life it seems.”

How utterly ironic, she couldn’t fathom entertainment, pinning that very false identity unto a group of people who did nothing to her. She was a makeshift medieval painting of a battle axe.

And in discovery, lady resolve strengthens.

Comments made it easy to rise from one’s seat like ashes, even easier to place a twenty onto the table.

[Note: The Following Audio Log was posted to Ryan Lecavalier's personal website: http://housofLecavalier(dot)com.]

“I was so very close. I made one mistake and Dom Harter capitalized off of it. Yeah, I was surprised myself. Dom beat me. Not only did he beat me, I can’t really say anything about him resorting what comes natural to him. To my knowledge he hasn’t even taken much time to gloat, imagine that. I know its odd coming from someone who vowed to lay it all on the line Tucson, Arizona last week against Dom Harter in the ring. I can give credit where it’s due. Harter actually found a way to outlast me; I didn’t even conceive that it was possible. And for as much trash as he talked last week, I certainly proved I didn’t have to target his shoulder to keep him on the mat either.”

“I know none of you won’t overlook the fact that I declared a win, I think I asked him to prove me wrong – if I recall correctly. I’ve had about a week or so to really sit down and think about certain things I said last week. One thing that I noticed is that last week I mentioned FGA being like a mountain, one that’s climb is both challenging and rewarding at the same time. I started that climb last week for a reason, that’s because I wanted to give everything I had. As generic as it sounded at the time, I still truly believe that I’m in the company of some of the best wrestlers alive today. Some of your egos are hard to come by and the only way that I can even look past that is getting into the ring, with each and every one of you…then I really started thinking about just how cliché that all is.”

“In fact, I questioned why I became a wrestler in the first place. If you ask that question to anyone on this roster an answer that’s obvious that you won’t get at least on the surface, is that that they like pain. When I think of pain, I think of working hard, I’m reminded what I’ve gone through to get to a certain point in life. Pain is supposed to be both cruel and unforgiving at the same time; it shows no difference in who it robs of their longevity. Thinking about what surrounds the concept of pain, I’ve actually been brought to a certain notion, one that involves my opponent this week in Rick Young.”

“Rick is a pretty interesting guy. I actually watched what he said last week; most of it was actually true. How do I know it’s true? Because we all know, it takes a liar to know a liar. Everything he mentioned was broken up into various ellipses and half-truths, things that are only designed to get guys like him ahead in life. Judging from what he said, he’s better off reading The Secret. Rick let me bring this to you, as clear and direct as I can, you’ve mentioned what a sadistic you’ve become over the years, in reality you lied. You might not have said it directly but your body language and speech certainly betrayed you. I need you to answer this question for me: What happens when get into the ring with someone who’s legitimately better than you? If your match last week was any indication, I think it’s safe to say nothing’s going to happen.”

“Do you know the exact odds of someone with your low moral fiber beating someone like me with high moral fiber? About 1/6 chance if you compared it to a fatal car crash anywhere in Louisiana, but really, those odds don’t mean anything, right? Especially to you. That’s because you’re always looking out for yourself.”

“…Yeah, I can just feel the excitement slipping away from the middle of that ring in the Orleans Arena, the moment you step into the ring. How depressing is that? At any rate, I hope you’re prepared, because I need vindication for last week. I know this makes me sound paranoid, but without a win against Harter my debut is kind of uneventful. It’s hard to make it on the Above and Beyond V show on name value alone; not that I have any experience at that, I’ve never used my name to get me anywhere I life. There isn’t a lot I foresee you doing in that ring, besides charge at me like your life depended on it. What I do foresee is me beating your ass around the ring for part of the match, because let’s face it there isn’t much choice. I don’t want fans booing me because I place you in a half-hold, or took my time ripping you limb from limb.”

“I don’t have the edge to sit through reading comments online. Of when I should’ve thrown a punch instead of applying a hold, and so on and so forth that’s so passé. The odds of you beating me are slim to none; they’re only about half and half. If you’re a thrill seeker, congratulations! Your fight or flight responses will be needed. This is one match you won’t beat the odds.”

“I’d go into how you’re marching at your own pearl, but I rather leave you to speculate what that actually means.”

“Just remember Rick…”

“If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”