It had been nearly four years since I had seen my father; for reasons under my control, mind you. At the age of nearly eighteen, my father and I got into a fight. I started to get really sic while on the road with my father’s federation. That’s right. Wrestling is in my blood. Allow me to give you a bit of history with me and “Old Blue Eyes”…
My father was in amateur wrestling since he was seventeen. At nineteen, he hit it big and was hired by a federation based out of Chicago, called A.A.W. (American Amateur Wrestling) The federation predominantly traveled inside the United States and touched along the borders of mexico and Canada.
Two weeks after my father’s twenty-first birthday, he met my nineteen year old mother at an Anti-Gun Rally. Not to sound cliché, but it was love at first sight. That rally ended in passion. Three months later, my father and mother were wed, and six months after that, my eldest brother Michel was born. Following him, were Cináed, Quentin, Gabriel, and finally, me, in 1982.
The passionate and loving union of my parents didn’t last long. My father was away from home for long periods of time, and my mother, in her loneliness, found herself in numerous affairs. At the age of four, I was completely oblivious to both my parent’s unhappiness. All I can remember was my father talking to my brothers about the joys and excitement of wrestling. My mother, on the other hand, told me privately that she would never allow her songs to wrestle. It was far too dangerous.
In my seventh year of life, my parents got a divorce. My mother moved to Scotland, taking my brothers with her. I, however, was left with my father. This was all to spite my father, of course. For the better part of my life after seven, I was ignored by my father. Sure, he bought me things when I needed them, brought me on the road with him and home-schooled me, but he wasn’t much of a father figure.
I learned to live with it. But four years ago we got into a fight. In my mind, I figured he had always blamed me for his divorce, which was why I was ignored most of the time. Anyway, I got very ill with pneumonia and was put in the hospital. I was delusional and would curse at the nurses in French, insiting that they were only in the room with me to mind-fuck me. Of course, they didn’t understand any word I said.
My father came to the hospital once a day. When I took a turn for the worse, he stayed within my room with me, towelling-down my forehead and soothing my pains. It was probably the most fatherly thing he’d clone his whole life. Granted, it didn’t last long.
I came out of the sickly sleep. My father was sitting beside me on a chair, glaring at me. I was still slightly delusional, but most of the sickness had passed by then. He informed me that he had been fired from the A.A>W. for missing shows. Naturally, he blamed me. We argued, and soon enough, he said the worst thing a parent could ever say to their biological children: “You were an accident”. I stared at him in disbelief. I called the nurses to get him out of the room and not allow him back in.
I stayed in the hospital until I was completely better. I had managed to rack-up a hospital bill of over fourty-five grand. I didn’t rea;;u [ay attention to how much it was because I pulled most of it from my trust fund and the rest with my credit card. I went home to France, and mailed my credit card back to my father.
I lived in squalor for about two months, working as a receptionist for the French version of Playboy. When I turned eighteen, I was offered a position as a “bunny” in the magazine. At that point, I knew it was time to leave. It was another month or so before I got into wrestling… finally.
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So, there I was, staring blankly at the man who sat across from me. We’d ordered our food and now I was waiting for why he was here to being with.
“I’ve been watching the N.E.W. broadcasts, Gwen. Ever since you joined,” he explained. If I had had a quest for his pride, my stomach would have clenched. He no doubt had witnessed my losing streak, and how angry it had made me. Rightfully so, in my opinion. God, I hate tag teaming.
“So?” I asked, sipping from the coke-like beverage that sat in front of me. He frowned a bit, but was patient with me. He knew full-well that I was still hateful of him. Could he honestly blame me?
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you, okay?” He asked, growing frustrated. I crossed my arms over my chest, slouching into my chair.
“And what have you been thinking about? Specifically.” I requested, eyebrow raised over bright, blue pools. He hemmed and hawed a bit, taking a sip of his water.
“Um… well…” I waited for him to spit-it-out, rather impatiently. “I been thinking about what I’ve said and whatnot. I… I’m sorry for saying you’re a mistake. I was just really upset, about losing my job and you, technically, were why I was fired. But you’re not a mistake,” He said, speaking to me in French. An apology from Raphël Jordan? Scandalous. It was common knowledge, for everyone that knows my family, that the Jordan clan was never apologetic. We’re all very hot-headed and temperamental. I stared at him, skeptically, from across the table. Our food was placed down in front of us. I sighed quietly, rubbing the side of my face, in thought.
“I know you were mad. But that really was uncalled for. You have no idea how much that tore my heart apart. You treated mum like shit vicariously through me. Hell, dad, she doesn’t even know I exist anymore because of the spite between you two,” I muttered, idly pushing the piece of steak around in the spaghetti. He nodded faintly, staring down into his own plate.
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We were quiet for the most part of our meal, but after a few shots, we both loosened-up considerably. I told him about Joey Jackson and the International title shot I had coming up. As I had drunkenly expected, he gave me a perspective of what he would do in my situation.
“Just relax. Take each hit as an incentive to hit harder, tenfold…” Blah, blah, blah. My head was swimming. I just couldn’t focus on much of anything. The waiter came; I declined another shot. It looked as though I was sticking around until my head cleared and I was able to drive back to the hotel.
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An interesting evening, no doubt. I managed to get “home” without incident. Of course, I did drive only twenty miles-per-hour in the slow lane and waited for the largest gaps in traffic before turning or changing lanes. Let me put it this way: it took me twenty minutes to get to the restaurant and an hour to get home.
Almost out of pity, I’d given my father my business card – yes, I have business cards so shut your mouth. I got into my room without much incident, except for misjudging how wide the elevator doors were open. As soon as the door was shut, I stripped down.
Little did I realize… but my cell phone was ringing in my coat beside the bed.
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