By Alayna Patterson
The body doesn’t forget. Nor does its audience.
His partner was thrown backstage. His opponents’ silhouettes towered over him, the noise of the crowd dissipated, as all his senses thrummed. Vyse could make out the lights that brightened and blurred at the edges.
In one exhale, Alcover Vyse could swear that his ribs collapsed. His eyes closed.
It was Mass Nutrition where Australian Pro Wrestling Gym had met weekly, and trainees would gather for a night of chaos. It was a quaint space; made of brick, one shop among many that lined a strip, the area itself industrial.
In a room behind the storefront, APWG’s wrestlers would set up their small ring, with some padding adjacent, and begin: Warm up, stretch, cool down. Then, place your head down upon the mat, roll forward until you stood. Over, and over, and over.
Afterwards, you learned to fall safely, so the impact of a fall (choreographed, or otherwise) was distributed evenly to lessen the pain. This is known as a bump. This you’d repeat, over and over.
Then, the drills. Learning moves, submissions (a hold that puts pressure on a specific body part of your opponent) and strikes (punches, kicks, chops), so that wrestlers could craft these for spots: a sequence of moves, in a specific order, that tell a story within your match.
Today they learned to moonsault, which was a move where you’d backflip into a body splash: a stomach-first landing on to an opponent below.
It’s preparing for a tag-team main event at the Club Bondi Junction RSL, watching his fellow trainees brawl, when Alcover Vyse concocts the spot. He’d take a chokeslam – taking your opponent, grabbing them by the throat and lifting them up, before slamming them to the ground – on the hardwood stage itself, adjacent to the ring.
Cesar, the other half of Team Chaotix, was by his side. In front of them gathered the behemoths, Drew and Roswell, their opponents. Vyse placed his hands on hips, a tattoo peaking behind a singlet. Out of the ring they were best friends, and their gimmick was simple: they were the only people that could tolerate each other’s personalities.
Cesar, the drunken masked pirate, was the most light-hearted of the two, using quippy one-liners and often doing spots drinking rum to power up. Along with his lanky frame, this contrasted against Vyse, the mysterious and unpredictable man on the cusp of unspeakable violence, coupled with a penchant for breaking things frequently. The two bickered often.
In a few weeks, APWG would take their tiny ring to Bondi. It was weeks before his main event match when Vyse pitched the spot (after a brief conversation with his opponents, Roswell and Drew, who were keen) to his trainer, Leigh.
“You may not recover from this. Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’re invincible,” Leigh said.
“It won’t hurt that bad.”
“It’s not the pain I’m concerned about. I know you can handle that.”
Leigh raised an eyebrow at him.
“This would get such a big pop, though.”
After a back and forth, they settled.
“Scoop slam.”
Leigh patted Vyse’s shoulder, walking past him.
Vyse exchanged a disappointed look with Cesar, shaking his head.
“It’s not going to sell as well.”
Vyse had watched wrestling matches repeatedly, analysing and taking note of what made a match great. The spot stuck so clearly. It strayed from their norm and would get a dynamic response. It wasn’t safe, and it broke an unspoken rule that APWG set up for themselves: the safety of the ring.
Cesar shrugged.
“Is it worth arguing with him on this?”
“I want both of you to chokeslam me.” Vyse nodded, arms folded. “On the stage.”
“So, this has evolved passed me just choke-slamming you now?” Drew asked.
Vyse rehearses a spin-kick – spinning into a kick landing on to your opponent – backstage: “Just hit me as f…ing hard as you want.”
“Hell yeah.”
Roswell smiling, glances at him, and shakes his head.
“You’re a madman.”
Vyse nods. “They’ll love it.”
The last match of the show asks the very best of its wrestlers. If the final match contains the spots that the community reminisces about for years to come, Vyse knows he’s done his job. They may not remember where the venue was, or who else wrestled that night, and they may not remember your name.
But they remember you.
In the ring, you live for that impact. How else were the others going to learn to take risks if he didn’t incite the same risk?
Regardless of blood drawn and sore limbs, there’s a tale to tell with the dynamics of a show or match. If one side is winning but the opponent crushes them (physically or mentally), a redemption is required to keep the audience engaged. Let them wonder, and keep them there.
A match plays out in acts, decided in collaboration with your opponent. To get a boisterous reaction takes enormous effort. Vyse wants that for the wrestlers he’d seen grow.
He cracks his knuckles, pacing the rehearsal room. Under his skin, something dull and fuzzy, eager to exit; there’s a numbness to the anticipation when his entrance song plays. As he leaves the dressing room and enters the stage, the crowd sings back to him, and he approaches the ring.
Vyse is suddenly aware of his ribcage, lungs, and heart. The room slows, but his thoughts don’t slow to reality’s pace. His clammy palms grasp a towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The announcers’ words weave with the audience, tugging at their energy. The tag teams stand in their respective corners of the ring, with Cesar’s hands on Vyse’s shoulders.
Behind his eyelids, the planned moves of the match echo back to him. A small nod to the referee. Then, to Roswell and Drew.
The scoop slam was safer, Leigh had said, but he had to master his craft, wield the madness.
So, the madman he was going to be.
The bell rings.
Cesar is the first to enter the centre of the ring, Drew towering over him and tossing him away to get to Vyse.
Vyse slaps Cesar before tagging himself into the ring alongside Roswell, another bearded man who towered over Vyse. There’s a back and forth, hitting the ropes and turnbuckles of the ring. A blur.
A forearm to Drew’s head from Vyse. Cesar tags himself in to pull the beards of both Roswell and Drew for a laugh from the audience. A blur.
They overpower Cesar, and Vyse cannonballs into the audience, where Drew awaits. Drew gets back up, jumping over the top rope and moonsaults on to the three waiting below. A blur.
It’s after failed attempts to tear Roswell and Drew down that Cesar is tossed to backstage. Vyse doesn’t remember getting to the main stage.
A drop of sweat. The swirl of adrenaline as Drew and Roswell take hold of Vyse. The crowd inhales.
Momentum, then the crack against wood reverberates like a shotgun. Bracing for the move continues vibrating through Vyse’s bones. There’s stillness before the crowd exhales in devastation.
Vyse lays there for a while. His figure tensed up, grasping at an agony he couldn’t accurately locate.
The seizing of limbs and chest. Breath, short. Had his lungs filled with liquid?
At some point he’d picked himself up from the stage to finish what remained, considered the redemption for Team Chaotix. They collapse into a heap on top of Drew, obtaining the count of three required for their victory.
Cesar pulls Vyse in for a hug, and he groans, almost ripping the pirate off him.
Leigh walks into the rehearsal room towards where Alcover Vyse lay on the floor.
“What happened to the scoop slam?”
Vyse simply grins.
Featured image: Despite what his darker alter ego may make you believe, Alcover Vyse – or James – is more cheerful by day. Picture: A. Patterson
