Cal and I dragged ourselves to the arena, coffee in hand, the California sunrise looking like a mockery of our exhaustion.
We spent hours running drills. For me, this match was dangerous. The producers wanted a spectacle. They wanted “Timeless” Silas Reed to defy gravity.
This was a Ladder Match. My father and uncle practically invented the stipulation in the 90s.
They were known for shaping high fly wrestling, jumping off twenty-foot ladders, crashing through tables, and putting their bodies through hell.
The stipulation was chaos by design. There were three teams involved, all rookies called up fromAftershock, and the objective was simple:retrieve the briefcase hanging twenty feet above the ring. Inside that case were two contracts. Whichever team pulled it down would secure a permanent spot on eitherMonday Night ShowdownorFriday Night Demolition.
This was our ticket.
We knew the outcome, of course. We knew we were winning. The plan was for us to grab the case and debut onShowdownthe very next night. But knowing the finish didn’t lower the danger. This was the opening match ofWrestle Empire. The Grandest Stage. And the producers didn’t just want a win; they wanted a moment that would live forever.
“You sure about this spot?” Cal asked, holding the base of a twelve-foot ladder as I climbed to the top rung during the walkthrough.
“I have to be,” I said, looking down at the empty tables set up below. “It’s what they expect.”
Cal looked at me, his jaw set. He didn’t like it. He was a ground guy. A striker. But he knew, just like I did, that the moment the bell rang, he would have to become something else. He would have to embrace the chaos. He would have to become the brawler that ran with weapons, the indie kid who knew how to make steel hurt.
The arena was shaking.
Seventy thousand people. The noise was a physical force, pressing against my eardrums.
“You ready?” Cal yelled over the roar.
We stood in Gorilla position. The other three rookie teams had already entered.
“Let’s steal the show,” I said.
My music hit. “Centuries” byFall Out Boy.
We walked out together. Not as rivals. As a unit.
I wore white and gold. Cal wore black and silver. We looked like the future.
The bell rang, and it was instant chaos. Ladders were weaponized within seconds.
Cal wrestled like a man possessed. He wasn’t doing high spots; he was hurting people. He picked up a ladder and spun it like a windmill, clearing the ring. He caught a guy diving off the top rope and power bombed him onto a steel chair. He was the brutal, violent force that kept the other teams at bay.
And I flew.
I scrambled up ladders like a spider. I leaped from the rungs to the ropes, hitting dropkicks that sent bodies flying.
Then came the spot.
I stood on top of a fifteen-foot ladder in the center of the ring. Two guys were on tables outside the ring.
I looked at Cal. He was fighting off two guys in the corner, but he paused. He looked up at me. He nodded.
Trust.
I jumped.
I rotated in the air, a high angle Senton from the heavens. I crashed through the bodies and the wood. The impact knocked the wind out of me, jarring every bone in my body, but the roar of the crowd was worth it.
Holy Shit! Holy Shit!
I lay in the wreckage, gasping.
