LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,TIME LIMIT HAS EXPIRED

Minutes 60-50:


When the bell rings, the fan observes the champion, Ric Flair, emitting selfishness with just an expression and a swallow—that frown on the champ with the cleft underneath moving in slow motion. Then, the fan turns his attention to Barry, on the other end of the ring, bouncing his long (or maybe lanky) youth off the ropes.

The fan shouldn’t be there. But he sits his ass against the hard chair, anyway, and yells like there’s no tomorrow. He yells in protest of a tomorrow coming.


He remembers laughing on the beach with Joan, holding the sand in his hand. With it slipping through his fingers, he squeezed some of it just as hard as he could.

She laughed and said, “You can’t hold that forever, you know!”


He doesn’t have words to describe the ocean. He can’t remember Miami well enough. Too much booze, too much fun, and too many years had passed, and it all passed like flashes. Still, he remembers in a lust filled moment of hugging her, in her string bikini, saying the dumbest thing. He said, “Maybe, I’ll put it in a jar.”


“We didn’t bring a jar, silly!” she told him in Miami.


He drinks more bud out of the plastic cup. He shouldn’t be buying a beer that expensive. Brad fired him after 13 and ½ years, but he bought this ticket before he knew he couldn’t afford it! It’s funny how money in the bank begins to spend away when there’s no check being deposited. He sits there wondering if Joan will be there when he gets back, wondering if she’ll take the dog, little Nina, away with her. “I refuse to walk that dog in her little dress.” He said to Joan. “I don’t want to look like a queer!” One thing he knew; his hero, Bob Windham, wouldn’t walk a Jack Russel in a tutu.


Flair and Barry Windham taunt him, as Flair struts instead of locking up with Barry.
“Go, Barry! Go Barry!” He shouts. He thinks Barry’s eyes met his, but he was probably just looking in his direction. Barry, the son of Black Jack, could really do what his father never did; become World Champion! Flair tells the stranger sitting next to him to shut up; calls him fat. The guy in his “American Dream” hat seems embarrassed but smiles, anyway.


He prefers a golden retriever over a Jack Russel, like Nina, but over time she won his heart over with her constant tail wagging and her embracing when he use to get home from work. Oh, that’s right, work—how will he afford all her shots? The hardest thing he had to tell Joan—ever— was, “Brad Whitley sat across from me, today, somber faced, and leaned in and said, ‘we just think it’s best for both parties if we go separate directions.’” Lately, Joan’s done something he’d never seen her do, drink tequila straight. She never drank it straight, but she takes it that way now with the last of their savings like it’s the end of the world. He wonders if she’d be there when he gets home. She demanded that he return the ticket, but there weren’t refunds.
As Flair wrenches at Barry’s head with the side headlock, he hopes the match lasts forever. He doesn’t want to go back to life outside it.


“We didn’t bring a jar, silly.” She told him in Miami.


Minutes 50-45


Barry rolls Flair over, and Flair kicks out at two. He rolls him up twice more. The fans cheer and Barry feels them in his hands. With sweat already making his hair a darker blonde, he slips out and locks Flair’s head with his own head lock. He has a wedgie and he doesn’t care. He won’t let this moment slip through the cracks. So many women: and he can’t wait for the party tonight.
He hooks Flair’s head, fast and loosely.

Minutes 45-40


The fan looks at the guy with the Dusty hat next to him just smiling. Next to the other guy there’s an empty seat. Strange, it was for seats that close to ringside to be empty. Flair had just wiggled out of the head lock and jerked Barry legs, then pointed right at the guy, and said “Shut up, fat boy!” That marked the second time in only 15 minutes Ric Flair berated this man. Why does Flair keep yelling at this guy? He hasn’t made a peep the entire match?


“Hey!” He said to the man. “You just gonna let him talk to you like that?”
The man kept smiling, lying back. “It’s ok. I just want to enjoy it. Was supposed to bring my buddy with me tonight…”


The empty seat where that man’s buddy should be wasn’t lost on the fan.
“I lost him, unexpectedly. He use to drink so much and I learned to pick him up, ya know.” The fan continued in a daze, looking ahead. “I lifted at the knees and just pulled as quickly as I could and helped him to the car. Lost him to a heart attack. I think of his weight in my arms and the life that use to be inside it all.” The man in the Dusty hat said.


The fan replied, “Sorry to hear.” They both looked ahead not facing each other. However, the fan just thought of one word “sand.” This Dusty fan’s friend had just slipped through his arms, too soon.


“We didn’t bring a jar, silly.” Joan, once, told him in Miami.


Minutes 40-30.


Flair wrestles with the best ways to make Barry look good. The crowd silences. They need something more. If he makes Windham look good, Florida will want him to stay champ. He doesn’t want to ever give it back to Dusty or Harley. This has to be his time. “Put your arms around me,” Flair whispers. “Turn on your knees, mount your feet to the ground, push up slowly— I said slowly— you’re going too fast. Ok good you got it! Now, back-body drop me!” Flair fills himself slipping through the sweat in Barry’s arms and continues, “Hurry up! Make it fast!” Flair feels the hard canvas and bounces just a bit. He screams and holds on to the scream as long as his voice allows. In return, the fans cheer for as long as they can.
But nobody brought a jar.


Minutes 30-20


The fan forgets it all: the lost job, the failing marriage, the dog. In minutes 30 to 20 he lives inside cross body blocks and flip overs. Inside cradles and counters. Will Flair pin Barry? No! He can’t! Barry keeps kicking out! It’s like a basketball game, Barry gets the ball and right when he gets to the rim, Flair fouls him or makes the steal from him. It’s back and forth! The guy in the Dusty hat, next to him, loosens his pants to breathe. Barry goes behind Flair and rolls him up. 1, 2, and 2 and ½! In ½ seconds Barry of done what his favorite, Black Jack, never did; win the belt! But the match still has 20 minutes left before curfew; Barry still has time!


Minutes 20-10:


“Let’s end it a bit early tonight, Ric. Let’s hit the town. You only live once!” Barry whispers, breathing heavily as Flair stretches his abdominal.


“Do you hear these people,” Flair says, “They’re chanting your name!”


Barry can’t see anything but Flair’s foot in a blur. He rocks Flair forward a couple of times just to hear the crowd, again.


“You’re dad’s standing,” Flair says, “Standing! Matches like this don’t happen at every house.”


Barry chuckles to himself. For him this is just the beginning. It’s just one more marathon with Ric...He knows his best days will come in time.


Minutes 10-1:


Then, Flair feels the frequency of his high scream for as long as he can feel it as Windham reverses the adnominal stretch with a hip toss. As he sees the body approach him quickly, he halts time and the fans cheers as he bends at the knees and lifts Widham up for an atomic drop. He lost the time between the atomic drop and the figure four, but yelled profanity’s at Windham on the outside and smiled on the inside as he applied more and more pressure. “Yes,” he thought. “They love Barry. I’ve done it!

Neither Harley nor Dusty could do this!” He doubted himself before, but as he a rolled on his stomach and screamed like he was being pushed to the gas chamber, he never felt better about his fate.


He let Barry loose. Then, he heard the fans count the seconds until he mounted, with the assistance of the ropes, to his feet. He stood and woo’d and smiled at the boos. He walks over to Barry to hook him one more time, but Barry inside cradles him. With ring awareness being his only sight, the 60 minute man knows what 2 and ¾’s of a second felt like and kicks out just at it.


He throws Barry off the ropes and locks a sleeper, but knowing he only has 4 minutes left, he doesn’t hold on too long. He whispers to Barry, “I’m going to let you go, but you have to hit the best lariat of your life. Knock me to the other side of the ring, punk!”


At Barry’s feigned strength Flair feels he bounce off the ropes and feels Barry’s arm across his lip. At 2 and 3 quarters of a referees slap against the mat, Flair places his foot across the bottom rope.


The two mount to their feet run off opposite side. Things got blurry for Flair as Windham’s head hits his. He’s finally tiring down and hope the referee counts slowly as they lay on the mat. With less than 60 minutes to go he feels his body his the canvas with sunset flips and rolls ups.


He can’t go any longer. They’ve pushed too long. But, then, then the official got on the mat and counted, then whispered 6 seconds left. Flair quickly grabbed Barry’s slippery locks and call bulldog. He felt little as Barry kicked near his gut, grabbed his hair, locked him into darkness, ran with him, and dropped him on his nose. The referee slapped the mat just once and the bell rang...


In the left corner, lay flair holding just ten pounds over his tired body. For him the urgency of the moment means everything. He has to make this 3rd title rein the best. He has to be better than Harley, than Dusty, than Kiniski, than Brisco even. He breathes at ease, knowing he’s learned how to do it.

In the right corner, Barry tries his best to show disappointment. His dad told him to be patient. His years would come, he thought to himself, but tonight’s the party.

In the crowd, the fan hears the boos for Flair and the chants for Barry, but anxiety locks him in a hold. He feels for the man next to him, who lost his buddy forever, but like many fans before him and after him, the stalling can’t last forever. The time limit has expired, and now he must wrestle being a grown man.