Note: The rumors of me having brutally and accidentally decapitating myself while combing my hair are just that: rumors.
Browsing through the remains of what promised to be an electrifying escapade, complete with enough twists and turns to provide me a lifetime of a roller coaster ride, would be a foolish thing to do.
Those times are gone, never to return.
How I wished I had tried harder to hold on to it; I could have been much more knowledgeable.
Such were my hopes for my passion for wrestling, which dwindled to the point where it became nothing more than a joke.
The torn and tattered pages still remain with me to this day; at least, I had not forsaken the very last morsel of knowledge I acquired. But would my love for professional wrestling ever return?
Seven long years passed without a mention of the word wrestling; I passed my best friend in the corridors of our school and didn’t even bother to glance at him. The person, with whom I grew up, became just another teen-ager in my mind.
So much had changed.
(At the time, our class had been split into two different sections and would remain so until two years later.)
Seven years: could we have something in common now? Something we could rebuild our friendship around?
Why bother pondering over it?
Summer came around the corner, and with report cards on the horizon, we decided to take a vacation and revisit our homeland once more.
I hardly remembered anybody there. It had been seven years since I’ve been in contact with any one person.
I became familiar with everyone within a week, and by the time the month was over, we formed a group of miscreants who would go as far as teasing a retired colonel who carried a bottle of kerosene and a matchbox wherever he went.
We were coming back from a football match one evening when I noticed one of my cousins buying a copy of "Here Comes the Pain."
The first thought that came into my head was, “Who the hell is Brock Lesnar and what in the world does he eat?”
My cousin, as if reading my mind, quickly said, "Your brother told me that babies are the best bet."
After doing some research and going through a lot of SmackDown! tapes, my friends and I started finding ways to get trading cards and PPV tapes. Anything and everything related to wrestling had now become ours to acquire.
The very place that started it all had once again reignited the dying flame of my passion for pro-wrestling.
Was it destined to be this way? I’d like to think so.
But I still was not content.
My mind was racing with questions that hit me one after the other, some that needed to be answered immediately, others being not so relevant.
What happened to Bret Hart? Why was Shawn away for such a long time?
Why is Ric Flair so old? Has Paul Heyman ever had a cough drop?
I pitched to get back to the Emirates right away; my request was obviously denied due to the frivolous nature that my mum gets into when she comes back to a place that is close to her heart.
I once visited the Parliament building, along with my friends and watched as the dignitaries sat and discussed issues of the nation.
Would the wrestler’s court look a little something like this?
After spending a fortnight watching my friends recreating the first ever Iron Man match, with results I’d rather not share due to the sheer amount of injuries they sustained, I returned to the Emirates ready to absorb all I could about professional wrestling.
When all was read, watched, and experienced, I still had one distressing issue to deal with. I had literally nobody to intelligently discuss wrestling with.
My brother and I would casually talk about it sometime, until we’d reach the Bermuda Triangle of topics that is known to many fanatics as “Cena talk,” where no matter how much reasoning and logic you use to explain your point of view, your argument is just met with a deafening roar.
As the time for my board exams drew ever closer, our sections were joined and yet again I was sitting with the old circle of troublemakers, trying to muster up a few words to say to a friend who I had lost all contact and any sense of amity with.
He was quite polite and invited me home that weekend.
What the hell are we going to do for an entire day—study?
I agreed reluctantly and told him I was looking forward to it.
What I would see at his house left me speechless; the Wrestlemania Anthology set. He was concerned at first, thinking I might have gone into shock and then his lips curled into a wide grin.
He said, “I’ve been watching since 2002, and Brock Lesnar is one bad motha@*$!#”
And that was it—the turning point.
My passion rejuvenated, my friendship revived; I came home again to professional wrestling.
The rest is history.
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