The heat of the kevlar and the suit in the dressing room was nothing compared to the heat of it out in the arena, under the lights. It wasn’t even that big of a house, but it was packed straight to the rafters. Between the heat of the crowd, the lights, and the pressure of being in front of that many eyes, I thought I was going to drop from dehydration before we’d been out there for three minutes.
Grant went through his whole routine with the flag, talking about the Union, downplaying and trash-talking the Confederacy.
“Rebels shouldn’t get memorials,” he was shouting. “Losers don’t get statues in my book!” The crowd was lustily booing as he threw the torn flag to the mat and ground into it with the heel of his boot.
“The only place this flag and everything it represents belongs,” he was saying, really getting into it, biting at the words, throwing the crowd’s energy back into its face, “is in the trash!” With that cue, a stage hand held out a metal trash can to me, and I dutifully passed it over.
Inside there were already a few scraps of flash paper, to make sure that the flag burned, or at least that it looked like it burned.
As I watched the crowd I realized that Grant was good at this, or better than he’d been the first time I saw him do it. Everyone likes an energized audience.
I tried to pay more attention to them than to him, which was tough. He was pretty magnetic, and I don’t think anyone was more surprised by that than me. I saw a lot of folks yelling, some people waving signs I couldn’t read, but I didn’t see anyone coming out of their seat, nobody holding a weapon, nothing that rubbed me any wrong way.
I was so busy studying the crowd I didn’t realize Grant was talking about me until his hand landed on my shoulder. He was handing me the trash can with the smoldering remnants of the torn flag in it.
“Some people don’t like hearing these truths,” he shouted. “Some cowards assume I’ll be just like them, and shut up the first time someone threatens me. Am I scared? Have I stopped?” The crowd roared, “No!”
I took the trash can and handed it down to a waiting stage hand, who dumped a cup of water in it and spirited it away down the tunnel.
“But the company…the company needs to protect us, you know? They’ve go to watch over their investments. So they went and got me the finest bodyguard money could buy.” He slapped me on the shoulder. The crowd cheered.
“Any of you cowards out there want to try anything, think twice,” he yelled. “My boy Jack is ready for you!”
I hated this. I hated it beyond words. I never liked thinking about crowds at wrestling meets, and those were pretty tame compared to this one. I did my best “stoic movie extra portraying a bodyguard,” keeping my face completely neutral, hands at my sides, idly scanning the crowd.
The attention shifted off of me pretty quickly once Blake came out to a smattering of applause that sounded almost polite compared to the response Grant had gotten.
Then the real show started.
Grant was into it, this night. Their early clinches and exchanges of blows had a sharpness to them that I hadn’t seen before. Early on Grant had Blake in some kind of come along hold via his shoulder and dragged him to the corner, dramatically waving at the crowd, getting them to their feet, before slinging Blake across the ring into a complicated series of off-the-ropes moves.
I stayed put in the corner, watching the crowd, but occasionally I was drawn into the match. At one point I heard an honest to god slap—not the ghost blow complete with stomp on the ring to make a sound, but the real contact of flesh on flesh.
I turned to see the imprint of Blake’s hand across Grant’s cheek, white and livid. Both of them looked furious; Grant with being struck and Blake about whatever had caused him to lash out.
They came together in a clinch and I strained to hear anything they said to one another.
I didn’t catch anything, but when they came out of it, Grant was focused on their wrestling and not on the crowd. It was only a matter of moments till he lifted Blake up and slammed him down again, then pinned him.
Grant stomped around the ring, urging the crowd on, whipping them into a frenzy, until he took his black cavalry hat and tossed it into the crowd.
Blake had already made his exit by the time Grant stamped down the tunnel. I hurried after him, wondering if I was going to have to get between them. Given the state Grant was in, I didn’t like my odds a whole lot.
Once in the safety of the tunnel, Grant came right for Blake, who was leaning against the wall.
“What the fuck was that?” he growled, getting right in the older wrestler’s face.
“Playing to the crowd is great,” Blake said, “until you’re paying more attention to them than to the wrestling. That’s how people get hurt.”
“Then fuckin’ say something instead of slapping me. You made me look like a bitch in front of the entire house.”
By now, stage hands were wandering over, wondering if they were going to have to break it up.
“You wouldn’t have listened just to words,” Blake said, finally and forcefully backing Grant away from him with his hands on the inside of the younger man’s shoulders. “But you did listen to the slap.”
“But the crowd…”
“Fucking loves you,” Blake said, pointing back down the tunnel. “You put yourself over, really, for maybe the first goddamn time, kid. Pay attention.”
Then Blake walked away, presumably to the trainer’s room, for his usual ice and whirlpool treatments.
I followed Grant to his dressing room, convinced that Blake was right.