The hero, the masked man and the Mizard of Oz
My wife got eye-fucked by the Miz, we saw Rey Mysterio's face and I shook hands with John Cena.
If you want the short version of our WWE experience, there it is. It began with the top heel in the business, finished with it's number-one hero and was jam-packed full of incredible, once-in-a-lifetime backstage moments inbetween. And then there were the matches themselves! Our second-row seats weren't cheap, but they were worth every last cent. Seriously: if you have any interest in wrestling, and the WWE is coming to your town, take the time to check it out. You will not be disappointed.
Now, to make with the details!
It wasn't supposed to be a crazy day. stareyednight and I slept in. I did a workout after I woke up and played some video games. Nice, normal, relaxing day off before a big event... right up until the editor called. "You're going to the wrestling tonight, right?" he asked. "Think you can write another article for us, maybe get another interview?"
We were scheduled to attend WWE's meet-and-greet, but I knew that wouldn't cut the mustard. In the time since my last post, I'd learned that event was more an autograph session: line up, get a signature and say hi, move along. I'd need more than that for a newspaper article. And so I undertook an epic, seven-hour game of phone-tag with WWE's two publicists, the venue's manager, my pictorial editor and one of our photographers. The final result was another notch in the "toil and its reward" column:
- Free tickets for doggypanter and matron_jojo.
- Free VIP parking for our car.
- True backstage passes for stareyednight and myself.
- A one-on-one interview with Rey freaking Mysterio!!!
That's when I marked out. Thank goodness I had time to compose myself and regain my professionalism, because the thought of meeting Rey was completely overwhelming. I've followed his career since his legendary Halloween Havoc match in 1997, purchased all his DVDs, read his autobiography, bought a replica of his mask... the works. This was, for me, better than meeting any other WWE performer. This was Rey. So I geared up with his book, one of LJ's toys and a sharpie, ready for the moment.
I also geared up with my notebook, work bag and other journalistic tools. There was still an interview to be conducted, and things were going to be tight. I'd speak to Rey at 6.30pm, and have to call the story down the phone before (a) the paper's 7.30pm deadline and (b) the show's 7.30pm kick-off. Not impossible, but not easy. To speed things along, I pre-wrote the story, leaving gaps for quotes, and e-mailed it to the night COS. That way, I'd know precisely what I'd need to ask Rey to finish off the article. Not my favourite way of working, but we do as needs demand.
All that was left to do was don our distinctive, matching "Edge Farewell Tour" t-shirts and wait.
doggypanter and matron_jojo arrived at our place at 5pm. We piled into our car, grabbed dinner along the way, dropped them by the front doors at 6pm and made our way to the VIP parking. That's when the second lot of chaos kicked in. There were two guys at the booth: one who was expecting us, and one who wasn't. There was a park reserved for us... or was there? And there were two tour buses and an ambulance trying to manoeuvre through the VIP lot. Bad craziness, folks. In the end, guy-who-knew-us overrode guy-who-didn't, who grumpily told us to "go down the ramp and bother Dave".
Dave, the backstage manager, waited at the bottom of the ramp with a pleasant smile. He invited us to sit down, wait and observe the "no cell phone photographs" signs that were everywhere. The other signs caused me to freak out a little. There were arrows pointing to catering, dressing rooms for Divas and Superstars, media rooms and the legendary Gorilla Position, from whence all talent enters and leaves the ring. Holy flarking snot-balls, we were in the heart of the WWE! We couldn't have been anymore "backstage" if we were employees!
The publicist met us... with the paper's photographer in tow. She'd arrived before us and had already taken Rey's photo. Given the time pressures, that initially seemed like a good thing. Rey had excused himself to eat and dress for the show. He and CM Punk were kicking things off, meaning he'd have to be at the Gorilla right on 7.30pm. Still, no worries, it had only just gone 6.15pm. We'd be fine, right?
Ho ho, bubba.
The green room (which was red) was comfortable and well-appointed. WWE's Australian publicist was very nice, and her London counterpart (who runs all international tours) even more so. He and I spoke in-depth about Vince McMahon, WWE corporate and how the business runs. True insider stuff, truly fascinating, all of it off-the-record and staying that way. None of that took the edge off my deadline pressure. As time crept toward 7pm, I became more convinced I'd taken on an impossible editorial request.
Who broke the tension? Believe it or not, the Miz.
The former WWE Champion sauntered in to speak to Mr London about "tomorrow's arrangements". Mr London responded by introducing me, and the Miz and I shook hands. I introduced stareyednight and, as noted, the Miz eye-fucked my wife. I'm totally serious: he looked her up and down twice before shaking her hand and giving her the smoulder (she's still buzzing about it). Once his eyes left my wife, the Miz and I talked about my Edge shirt, his title run ("I know it was awesome, I don't need you to tell me that") and how much he's enjoying Australia (a lot). He didn't break character but wasn't an asshole, either, and it was very cool.
Time kept ticking. I kept myself distracted by watching the Superstars and Divas walk past us toward catering. I saw Beth Phoenix, Dolph Ziggler and Vladimir Kozlov; I had brief-but-fun interactions with Mike Rotunda (formerly IRS, now a road agent) and Santino Marella. WWE's ring announcer, Justin Roberts, came in to talk to Mr London and, like the Miz before him, got pulled into our orbit. Very nice guy who clearly loves his job. None of these people were obligated to talk to us - they simply saw fans standing around and decided to introduce themselves. That speaks highly of the WWE culture, I feel.
7pm and still no Rey. I called work; the boss was talking about running the photo and pre-write without any quotes. It'd do the job, yes, but I'd never be happy with it. I practically willed Rey to appear and, five minutes later, he did! I looked down, Rey looked up; I stooped and he reached out so we could shake hands. Pure magic. There was only one thing missing... his mask. Yes, you read that correctly: I interviewed a maskless Rey Mysterio. That's still a completely surreal thought to me. I know he's a normal guy and doesn't wear it all the time, but to leave it behind for a media call?
"They told me you're a fan," he shrugged, laying out his ring clothes and attacking them with a pair of scissors. "I thought we'd talk while I get ready for the show. Is that cool?"
Oh hell yes, Mr Mysterio, it sure was. More than that, it was an honour - it meant Rey, and WWE, trusted me enough not to break kayfabe. Wow. Chuffed but pressed for time, I asked four questions I knew would garner the four quotes I needed. With them out of the way, I fell back on talking shop, great matches, his influence on LJ... fannish stuff without being scary-devoted. He happily signed the book, thanking me for reading it. After signing the toy, he pressed it into my hands. "Please tell your daughter I said hello to her," he said as he held my gaze. A class act, that man. No call for him to do that, and yet he does. No wonder he has such a great rapport with the fans.
Rey bid us farewell and left for Gorilla; I leapt for my phone (beating deadline, I'm proud to say, by 15 minutes).
The backstage fun wasn't over yet. While I worked, Kofi Kingston walked into the green room for a phone interview. stareyednight, incredible wife that she is, made sure Kofi knew he'd spoken to me previously. When I got off the phone, there was a smiling Superstar waiting to shake my hand and thank me for the story (which he'd been given by a fan at the airport that morning). I got my photo taken with Kofi, and three of my big WWE goals had been accomplished.
As Ms Australia and Mr London walked us out of backstage, it seemed goal #4 would be crossed off as well. Sitting by the monitors, alone with his thoughts, was John Cena. He was scheduled for the last match of the night, but was already dressed and ready to go. He saw us at a distance and nodded politely. Emboldened, I asked Mr London if we could "break protocol" and say hello. All I wanted to do was thank John for being a fantastic role model and spokesman for the business. Mr London shook his head; there are "very few sacred areas" backstage, he explained, and the monitor area is one of them. If a Superstar is sitting there, they want to be left alone. I was disappointed (stareyednight even more so), but we respected that. We were in John's world, and I wasn't about to trespass.
"You guys have just earned yourself WWE credentials for life," Ms Australia confided a moment later. "Every time we come to town, we'll be in touch to hook you up."
The publicists led us out of wrestling Oz and back toward reality... but there was one last stop along the way. Alex Riley was psyching himself up near the door to catering. "Hey guys," he said as we walked past, "where you off to?" I told him we were going to get good seats to watch him kick ass. "Damn straight," he grinned.
We emerged on the right-hand side of the Gorilla position; the spot from whence Alberto Del Rio's car appears on TV. The Raw theme was playing, the house lights were down and the show was about to start. "You might want to move over this way," Mr London said, urging us toward the bleachers. "Quickly."
A split-second later, the pyro went off. The craziest, most colourful, loudest fireworks I have ever heard in my entire life. You know what you see at the start of a WWE pay-per-view or TV show? Imagine being 10m from it! We both jumped like frightened rabbits, then we laughed ourselves utterly stupid. We'd watched the start of a WWE show from the wings! Giddy, we bid farewell to the publicists and picked our way through the crowd to our seats.
The show had begun.
Long-time fans fill the internet with rants about who should and should not be pushed. They question the decisions WWE makes, and draw justification from TV ratings and the quality of individual episodes. Having experienced the show live, from the very front, I can tell you such things are secondary to WWE. Non-televised events demand more from the Superstars and Divas; they have no cameras or commentary to back them up or tell their stories. It's all on them, and they have to interact with the back and front rows equally. No mean feat in a big arena.
It's those qualities, I believe, that determine who's at the top of the card and who remains a curiousity or comedy performer. Zack Ryder may be hugely over with the internet crowd, but his gimmick doesn't translate in an arena. The Bella twins are (supposedly) beautiful, but they lack charisma. Kelly Kelly gets a huge pop for her entrance, but the crowd dies while she wrestles. Compare that with Santino Marella, who exaggerates his movements for the cheap seats and constantly chatters to the front row. He mugs, calls out the name of moves, mutters "I've got him... now I don't got him", all sorts of crazy shit. Dolph Ziggler does the same but in a villainous way; he'd lock Kofi Kingston in a submission move then stare at the nearest little kid saying "he's never going to break this hold".
The true masters are the marquee names. CM Punk drew heat like a magnet, nearly inciting a fan to jump the rails and take a swing at him. R-Truth had us alternately crying with laughter and howling in derision. His "little Jimmy" routine is infectious in a live setting; you can't help but get swept up in it. But no heel does it like the Miz. Much as it pains me to say it, he is as awesome as he claims. He led the crowd along like a freaking pied piper, even concocting an antidote to the dreaded "what?" chant ("If you're going to boo me, then be original about it! Boo me like you mean it!")
And Cena... well, there's a reason that man is the face of WWE. His charisma is a living, palpable thing. I've never experienced anything like it. He possesses the singular ability to make you feel like he's performing solely for you, talking to you, fighting for you. There were two "smart marks" sitting next to us, booing Cena as such people do. Eventually they gave up, becoming as wrapped in the story as the rest of us. They couldn't help it, faced with the fire and passion pouring out of every kid in that arena. In them I saw myself almost 30 years ago, chanting for Hulk Hogan. They held up their armbands, t-shirts and signs, willing John to win. When he did, the place came unglued.
There were some low points. The Divas match was forgettable (at least Beth Phoenix was good). Alex Riley botched several spots (we could hear the Miz complaining and admonishing him). stareyednight accidentally elbowed me in the temple while cheering ("I only promised not to deafen you," she grimaced).
There were more high points. Justin, Rey, Kofi, the Miz, Riley and Cena all made a point of acknowledging stareyednight and I from the ring (our unique shirts helped as much as our volume, I figure). We cheered for referee Mike Chioda and he gave us the thumbs-up. My wife got into an ongoing shouting match with R-Truth ("it's possible I'm an agitator", she grinned). We started a "Nicky" chant during Dolph Ziggler's match (it's his former character name) and he glared at us mouthing "really?".
We saw singles matches, tag-team matches, high-flying, submission work, pantomime comedy and a hardcore bout with a kendo stick, a chair and a table. The good guys won (save Kofi and Santino), the bad guys lost (Punk shuffled out of the ring, pretending to cry) and John Cena stood tall at the end of it all, soaking in the crowd's adulation. We were high on it, too, feeding off all the good vibes flowing down from the stands, through us and into the ring. I honestly didn't think it could be any better.
I was wrong.
As we watched, John Cena hefted the WWE Championship over one shoulder, rolled out to ringside and made his way around, shaking hands with fans. He went past stareyednight and I, paused and came back. John stretched his hand between the people in the front row and offered it to me. I shook it firmly and thanked him for a great show. He looked me dead in the eye and said "thank you for coming out".
Did he remember us from that brief moment backstage? Had he learned, from Mr London, I was media and regretted not speaking to me? Did he just like the way I cheered? I'll never know but, really, the reason is immaterial. John Cena stopped to shake my hand and speak to me when he could have easily walked on by, and in doing so gave me that final, perfect moment in a perfect night of wrestling. It's going to stay with me for a long, long time.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF
If you want the short version of our WWE experience, there it is. It began with the top heel in the business, finished with it's number-one hero and was jam-packed full of incredible, once-in-a-lifetime backstage moments inbetween. And then there were the matches themselves! Our second-row seats weren't cheap, but they were worth every last cent. Seriously: if you have any interest in wrestling, and the WWE is coming to your town, take the time to check it out. You will not be disappointed.
Now, to make with the details!
It wasn't supposed to be a crazy day. stareyednight and I slept in. I did a workout after I woke up and played some video games. Nice, normal, relaxing day off before a big event... right up until the editor called. "You're going to the wrestling tonight, right?" he asked. "Think you can write another article for us, maybe get another interview?"
We were scheduled to attend WWE's meet-and-greet, but I knew that wouldn't cut the mustard. In the time since my last post, I'd learned that event was more an autograph session: line up, get a signature and say hi, move along. I'd need more than that for a newspaper article. And so I undertook an epic, seven-hour game of phone-tag with WWE's two publicists, the venue's manager, my pictorial editor and one of our photographers. The final result was another notch in the "toil and its reward" column:
- Free tickets for doggypanter and matron_jojo.
- Free VIP parking for our car.
- True backstage passes for stareyednight and myself.
- A one-on-one interview with Rey freaking Mysterio!!!
That's when I marked out. Thank goodness I had time to compose myself and regain my professionalism, because the thought of meeting Rey was completely overwhelming. I've followed his career since his legendary Halloween Havoc match in 1997, purchased all his DVDs, read his autobiography, bought a replica of his mask... the works. This was, for me, better than meeting any other WWE performer. This was Rey. So I geared up with his book, one of LJ's toys and a sharpie, ready for the moment.
I also geared up with my notebook, work bag and other journalistic tools. There was still an interview to be conducted, and things were going to be tight. I'd speak to Rey at 6.30pm, and have to call the story down the phone before (a) the paper's 7.30pm deadline and (b) the show's 7.30pm kick-off. Not impossible, but not easy. To speed things along, I pre-wrote the story, leaving gaps for quotes, and e-mailed it to the night COS. That way, I'd know precisely what I'd need to ask Rey to finish off the article. Not my favourite way of working, but we do as needs demand.
All that was left to do was don our distinctive, matching "Edge Farewell Tour" t-shirts and wait.
doggypanter and matron_jojo arrived at our place at 5pm. We piled into our car, grabbed dinner along the way, dropped them by the front doors at 6pm and made our way to the VIP parking. That's when the second lot of chaos kicked in. There were two guys at the booth: one who was expecting us, and one who wasn't. There was a park reserved for us... or was there? And there were two tour buses and an ambulance trying to manoeuvre through the VIP lot. Bad craziness, folks. In the end, guy-who-knew-us overrode guy-who-didn't, who grumpily told us to "go down the ramp and bother Dave".
Dave, the backstage manager, waited at the bottom of the ramp with a pleasant smile. He invited us to sit down, wait and observe the "no cell phone photographs" signs that were everywhere. The other signs caused me to freak out a little. There were arrows pointing to catering, dressing rooms for Divas and Superstars, media rooms and the legendary Gorilla Position, from whence all talent enters and leaves the ring. Holy flarking snot-balls, we were in the heart of the WWE! We couldn't have been anymore "backstage" if we were employees!
The publicist met us... with the paper's photographer in tow. She'd arrived before us and had already taken Rey's photo. Given the time pressures, that initially seemed like a good thing. Rey had excused himself to eat and dress for the show. He and CM Punk were kicking things off, meaning he'd have to be at the Gorilla right on 7.30pm. Still, no worries, it had only just gone 6.15pm. We'd be fine, right?
Ho ho, bubba.
The green room (which was red) was comfortable and well-appointed. WWE's Australian publicist was very nice, and her London counterpart (who runs all international tours) even more so. He and I spoke in-depth about Vince McMahon, WWE corporate and how the business runs. True insider stuff, truly fascinating, all of it off-the-record and staying that way. None of that took the edge off my deadline pressure. As time crept toward 7pm, I became more convinced I'd taken on an impossible editorial request.
Who broke the tension? Believe it or not, the Miz.
The former WWE Champion sauntered in to speak to Mr London about "tomorrow's arrangements". Mr London responded by introducing me, and the Miz and I shook hands. I introduced stareyednight and, as noted, the Miz eye-fucked my wife. I'm totally serious: he looked her up and down twice before shaking her hand and giving her the smoulder (she's still buzzing about it). Once his eyes left my wife, the Miz and I talked about my Edge shirt, his title run ("I know it was awesome, I don't need you to tell me that") and how much he's enjoying Australia (a lot). He didn't break character but wasn't an asshole, either, and it was very cool.
Time kept ticking. I kept myself distracted by watching the Superstars and Divas walk past us toward catering. I saw Beth Phoenix, Dolph Ziggler and Vladimir Kozlov; I had brief-but-fun interactions with Mike Rotunda (formerly IRS, now a road agent) and Santino Marella. WWE's ring announcer, Justin Roberts, came in to talk to Mr London and, like the Miz before him, got pulled into our orbit. Very nice guy who clearly loves his job. None of these people were obligated to talk to us - they simply saw fans standing around and decided to introduce themselves. That speaks highly of the WWE culture, I feel.
7pm and still no Rey. I called work; the boss was talking about running the photo and pre-write without any quotes. It'd do the job, yes, but I'd never be happy with it. I practically willed Rey to appear and, five minutes later, he did! I looked down, Rey looked up; I stooped and he reached out so we could shake hands. Pure magic. There was only one thing missing... his mask. Yes, you read that correctly: I interviewed a maskless Rey Mysterio. That's still a completely surreal thought to me. I know he's a normal guy and doesn't wear it all the time, but to leave it behind for a media call?
"They told me you're a fan," he shrugged, laying out his ring clothes and attacking them with a pair of scissors. "I thought we'd talk while I get ready for the show. Is that cool?"
Oh hell yes, Mr Mysterio, it sure was. More than that, it was an honour - it meant Rey, and WWE, trusted me enough not to break kayfabe. Wow. Chuffed but pressed for time, I asked four questions I knew would garner the four quotes I needed. With them out of the way, I fell back on talking shop, great matches, his influence on LJ... fannish stuff without being scary-devoted. He happily signed the book, thanking me for reading it. After signing the toy, he pressed it into my hands. "Please tell your daughter I said hello to her," he said as he held my gaze. A class act, that man. No call for him to do that, and yet he does. No wonder he has such a great rapport with the fans.
Rey bid us farewell and left for Gorilla; I leapt for my phone (beating deadline, I'm proud to say, by 15 minutes).
The backstage fun wasn't over yet. While I worked, Kofi Kingston walked into the green room for a phone interview. stareyednight, incredible wife that she is, made sure Kofi knew he'd spoken to me previously. When I got off the phone, there was a smiling Superstar waiting to shake my hand and thank me for the story (which he'd been given by a fan at the airport that morning). I got my photo taken with Kofi, and three of my big WWE goals had been accomplished.
As Ms Australia and Mr London walked us out of backstage, it seemed goal #4 would be crossed off as well. Sitting by the monitors, alone with his thoughts, was John Cena. He was scheduled for the last match of the night, but was already dressed and ready to go. He saw us at a distance and nodded politely. Emboldened, I asked Mr London if we could "break protocol" and say hello. All I wanted to do was thank John for being a fantastic role model and spokesman for the business. Mr London shook his head; there are "very few sacred areas" backstage, he explained, and the monitor area is one of them. If a Superstar is sitting there, they want to be left alone. I was disappointed (stareyednight even more so), but we respected that. We were in John's world, and I wasn't about to trespass.
"You guys have just earned yourself WWE credentials for life," Ms Australia confided a moment later. "Every time we come to town, we'll be in touch to hook you up."
The publicists led us out of wrestling Oz and back toward reality... but there was one last stop along the way. Alex Riley was psyching himself up near the door to catering. "Hey guys," he said as we walked past, "where you off to?" I told him we were going to get good seats to watch him kick ass. "Damn straight," he grinned.
We emerged on the right-hand side of the Gorilla position; the spot from whence Alberto Del Rio's car appears on TV. The Raw theme was playing, the house lights were down and the show was about to start. "You might want to move over this way," Mr London said, urging us toward the bleachers. "Quickly."
A split-second later, the pyro went off. The craziest, most colourful, loudest fireworks I have ever heard in my entire life. You know what you see at the start of a WWE pay-per-view or TV show? Imagine being 10m from it! We both jumped like frightened rabbits, then we laughed ourselves utterly stupid. We'd watched the start of a WWE show from the wings! Giddy, we bid farewell to the publicists and picked our way through the crowd to our seats.
The show had begun.
Long-time fans fill the internet with rants about who should and should not be pushed. They question the decisions WWE makes, and draw justification from TV ratings and the quality of individual episodes. Having experienced the show live, from the very front, I can tell you such things are secondary to WWE. Non-televised events demand more from the Superstars and Divas; they have no cameras or commentary to back them up or tell their stories. It's all on them, and they have to interact with the back and front rows equally. No mean feat in a big arena.
It's those qualities, I believe, that determine who's at the top of the card and who remains a curiousity or comedy performer. Zack Ryder may be hugely over with the internet crowd, but his gimmick doesn't translate in an arena. The Bella twins are (supposedly) beautiful, but they lack charisma. Kelly Kelly gets a huge pop for her entrance, but the crowd dies while she wrestles. Compare that with Santino Marella, who exaggerates his movements for the cheap seats and constantly chatters to the front row. He mugs, calls out the name of moves, mutters "I've got him... now I don't got him", all sorts of crazy shit. Dolph Ziggler does the same but in a villainous way; he'd lock Kofi Kingston in a submission move then stare at the nearest little kid saying "he's never going to break this hold".
The true masters are the marquee names. CM Punk drew heat like a magnet, nearly inciting a fan to jump the rails and take a swing at him. R-Truth had us alternately crying with laughter and howling in derision. His "little Jimmy" routine is infectious in a live setting; you can't help but get swept up in it. But no heel does it like the Miz. Much as it pains me to say it, he is as awesome as he claims. He led the crowd along like a freaking pied piper, even concocting an antidote to the dreaded "what?" chant ("If you're going to boo me, then be original about it! Boo me like you mean it!")
And Cena... well, there's a reason that man is the face of WWE. His charisma is a living, palpable thing. I've never experienced anything like it. He possesses the singular ability to make you feel like he's performing solely for you, talking to you, fighting for you. There were two "smart marks" sitting next to us, booing Cena as such people do. Eventually they gave up, becoming as wrapped in the story as the rest of us. They couldn't help it, faced with the fire and passion pouring out of every kid in that arena. In them I saw myself almost 30 years ago, chanting for Hulk Hogan. They held up their armbands, t-shirts and signs, willing John to win. When he did, the place came unglued.
There were some low points. The Divas match was forgettable (at least Beth Phoenix was good). Alex Riley botched several spots (we could hear the Miz complaining and admonishing him). stareyednight accidentally elbowed me in the temple while cheering ("I only promised not to deafen you," she grimaced).
There were more high points. Justin, Rey, Kofi, the Miz, Riley and Cena all made a point of acknowledging stareyednight and I from the ring (our unique shirts helped as much as our volume, I figure). We cheered for referee Mike Chioda and he gave us the thumbs-up. My wife got into an ongoing shouting match with R-Truth ("it's possible I'm an agitator", she grinned). We started a "Nicky" chant during Dolph Ziggler's match (it's his former character name) and he glared at us mouthing "really?".
We saw singles matches, tag-team matches, high-flying, submission work, pantomime comedy and a hardcore bout with a kendo stick, a chair and a table. The good guys won (save Kofi and Santino), the bad guys lost (Punk shuffled out of the ring, pretending to cry) and John Cena stood tall at the end of it all, soaking in the crowd's adulation. We were high on it, too, feeding off all the good vibes flowing down from the stands, through us and into the ring. I honestly didn't think it could be any better.
I was wrong.
As we watched, John Cena hefted the WWE Championship over one shoulder, rolled out to ringside and made his way around, shaking hands with fans. He went past stareyednight and I, paused and came back. John stretched his hand between the people in the front row and offered it to me. I shook it firmly and thanked him for a great show. He looked me dead in the eye and said "thank you for coming out".
Did he remember us from that brief moment backstage? Had he learned, from Mr London, I was media and regretted not speaking to me? Did he just like the way I cheered? I'll never know but, really, the reason is immaterial. John Cena stopped to shake my hand and speak to me when he could have easily walked on by, and in doing so gave me that final, perfect moment in a perfect night of wrestling. It's going to stay with me for a long, long time.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF