Post by Danny Rizzo on Jul 26, 2019 6:24:01 GMT -5
Have you ever taken a moment to really, truly watch the inner workings and dealings of Valor Pro Wrestling? The way a man is consistently typecast by those around him. The way narratives are built week in and week out about someone without any evidence to substantiate a statement that has been made. Take, for example, the words of Kaya Djurdevic from the day after Rite of Kings until last week. Weaving a web that would have indicated she was better than the UnYielding champion. That she was destined for something far greater than he, Danny Rizzo, could have possibly dreamed or envisioned. That she, by sheer force of will, would bring to an end the reign of a man who had embraced and embodied the very definition of the word unyielding for months.
The sweet sound of music emanates from a point yet to be identified. The tune is enjoyable and with each step taken it seems to get progressively louder in your ears. That’s fine because it’s a catchy song, the notes smooth and flowing one to another. It’s almost like something that a person could dance to, if one was interested in that sort of thing. Glancing around, as you begin to hum along with the notes of the song being played, your eyes take in the scenery around you. Somehow it seems that time has shifted back years upon years. The road beneath your feet is pieced together unevenly with red bricks as you slowly progress along a narrow street. On either side of you are houses and shops tightly pressed together. Ahead there is an intersection where things open up and perhaps you could get a bit better of a view but for the time being the unfamiliar setting is jarring to your senses.
It could be said that Rizzo has become the thing that he hates the most. Hell, the Othello Brothers have been pushing that narrative from the moment the man decided to stand up for himself. Typecasting the UnYielding champion as the new NovaCaine. Trying to fit him into that tiny little box. Anyone with a brain could see the foolishness in that line of thinking, though. NovaCaine was never anything more than a shock jock. A moron who wanted to be seen as someone whose words were so jarring, and so offensive, that it rattled people to their core. He was a man who thought to get inside the heads of others around him by constantly threatening their well being outside of the ring. In truth, he was a poster child for toxic masculinity and his end at the hands of the reigning UnYielding champion was a testament to what happened to those who would walk the same path as NovaCaine had.
But that was not Rizzo’s path. Since Rite of Kings he had played within the rules. Since Rite of Kings, he had continued to do the same thing that he had done BEFORE Rite of Kings, performing admirably and cleanly, defending his championship without having to touch a weapon. Try as commentators and opponents might to cast him as the alleged thing he hates most, an objective observation of the facts would lead one to understand that he is exactly what he wanted to be. That his motivations for what he had done at Rite of Kings were exactly what he had said they were. But those reasons, and that truth, did not fit into the tiny little boxes so many people were determined to shove him into.
Music continues to dance in your ears just as your feet reach the intersection and your eyes glance in the direction you think the song is coming from. It has been playing for a little while now and the constant stream of notes are wearing on your nerves some. Taking in your surroundings to a greater extent you notice that the blue sky is dotted by rising smoke from chimneys in every direction. The sun, just barely above the horizon, touches your skin and provides a brief moment of warmth and comfort, causing you to close your eyes until your mind once more registers the steady stream of the notes and you find yourself determined to locate the source and stop it.
One almost could not blame the commonality amongst UnYielding challengers trying to force the man whose championship they longed to take into a certain role. Wrestlers are often childlike in their thinking, seeing themselves as a conquering hero in some big, grand epoch. Everyone wanted to be the main character, crafting a tale in their own minds in storybook form. Something that could be passed on to children and grandchildren, perhaps written down and mass produced for the horde of hungry fans always seeking to consume the next feel good story. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? So many determined to live in their own personal fairy tale without paying attention to the reality of their own life and their own position. And the simple fact of the matter is that reality. Life. None of it is fairytale-esque.
To find success one did not merely ride in on a beautiful white horse in shining armor at the precise, opportune moment. If anyone would open their ears and listen they would find that that was the message Rizzo had been telling the world for some time now. He embodied that grind and if anyone was going to truly challenge him they would have to embody that grind too. Not coming riding in on a white horse in beautiful, shining armor fresh off a few victories against inconsequential opposition. But, hey, it’s hard to listen and pay attention to the words of the champion when you’re busy dreaming and staring at the stars.
Louder and louder the music grows, your feet whisking you quickly toward the source of the endless song. Your teeth grinding, finally you round a corner and your eyes take in what seems to be an odd setting before you. A large crowd has gathered in what, you presume, is the center of town. The brick street your feet travel on leads to a large, open green where the crowd stares upward, their eyes transfixed on a silhouette on the roof that sashays and deftly dances at the peak of the roof. Closer and closer you’re carried, not fully aware of the quickness of your pace until you slam to a halt a few feet behind the back edge of the gathered crowd.
A familiar face registers in your mind as you glance at the man on the roof but instead your attention drifts to another, toward the front of the crowd, a bald man with a thick beard whose eyes are much like the rest of the crowds, transfixed upon the dancing man. But instead of watching, his hands and arms move in rhythm with the song, almost as though he’s conducting the music that’s being played and it is at that moment, as your gaze drifts upward, that you spot the object in the dancing man on the roofs hands. A fiddle. Yet even as he plays and dances his own eyes are focused on a point somewhere in front of him, only taking them off that point for brief moments when he flourish and twists and spins upon the pinpoint axis of the roof.
Slowly, your eyes shift from the bald man conducting the music, to the familiar man dancing on the roof playing the song, to the point that the performers eyes are set upon and it’s there that you spot a cute, petite blonde girl. She isn’t stunningly beautiful by any means but she is poised and confident, and it’s in that moment that it all comes together. The balding man, conducting the performance. The dancing man, putting on a show for the world to see. The blonde girl, giving him something to focus on to maintain his balance.
There’s beauty and intricacy to it but for whatever reason you can’t help but despise the man. Despise him for his skill. Despise him for those he has around him helping him to continue his performance. For keeping the song going. It grates on you until you reach down and you pick up a rock at your feet and hurl it up at the dancing man.
And deftly, just like every other person who has come and done the same, he side steps it and keeps on dancing with a smile on his face.
The Fiddler on the Roof.
“There’s something to be said for naivety”
In the quiet of his own home, Danny Rizzo rests in his own chair. It’s early in the morning, the sun just beginning to shine through the windows of the house that he now shares with his closest friend, Kaven Drell.
“Sometimes not knowing what your getting yourself into can help with the nerves that would otherwise be overwhelming if you were fully able to grasp the magnitude of the situation you find yourself in. Trust me. I would know. I’ve been there. And looking back I can say that I’m thankful for the moments that I was blissfully unaware.”
Nodding his head in understanding, he shoots a look in the direction of the camera that is trained on him that says he can relate.
“I’m grateful that I did not have a full understanding of what I was getting myself into when I stepped into the ring against Brodie so many weeks ago now. Ignorant of the path that I would be taken on. I’ve been in your shoes before, Indi. I can appreciate where you’re coming from. I can appreciate that desperate feeling of not wanting to let an opportunity slip through your fingers. Those shoes that you’ve put on? I’ve walked more than a mile in.”
The expression on his face shifts from understanding to one of sympathy and a touch of pity.
“What makes you different than any of the others, Indi? What makes you special? What makes you able to accomplish what no one else has been able to do since the ninth episode of Blitz, since all the way back at very start of January, and that’s beat me, one on one. I’m not talking about a match where I chose to end it with a chair shot, Indi. I’m talking about beating me, pinning my shoulders to the mat. No one has been able to do that in singles competition for months. So what makes you different? What makes your fairy tale distinct? What makes you stand out?”
The questions, clearly rhetorical, have an edge of weariness to them, as though Rizzo is growing tired of seeing and hearing the same thing week in and week out.
“You don’t have an answer to that question because, at the end of the day, you are no different than the rest. You’ll hang on to the same tired, played out lines you’ve heard others vomit in their promotional work, or on an episode of Blitz. You’ll continue to buy into the same narrative that everyone else has. You’ll fool yourself and because of that, you’re going to leave disappointed just like everyone else that has tried to take my UnYielding Championship from me.”
Clicking his tongue, his head shakes from side to side, nearly imperceptibly, in dismay.
“I’m not foolish enough to think that I will be UnYielding Champion forever, Indi. Eventually the song comes to an end. Eventually the music stops. But when it does, it will be because I chose for it to and not because anyone else forced me to stop playing.”
With a smirk, his eyes drift to the side and the camera shifts to focus on an object leaning up against an end table nearby. A fiddle.
Just as Rizzo begins to hum a familiar tune.
Pause.
The sweet sound of music emanates from a point yet to be identified. The tune is enjoyable and with each step taken it seems to get progressively louder in your ears. That’s fine because it’s a catchy song, the notes smooth and flowing one to another. It’s almost like something that a person could dance to, if one was interested in that sort of thing. Glancing around, as you begin to hum along with the notes of the song being played, your eyes take in the scenery around you. Somehow it seems that time has shifted back years upon years. The road beneath your feet is pieced together unevenly with red bricks as you slowly progress along a narrow street. On either side of you are houses and shops tightly pressed together. Ahead there is an intersection where things open up and perhaps you could get a bit better of a view but for the time being the unfamiliar setting is jarring to your senses.
Resume.
It could be said that Rizzo has become the thing that he hates the most. Hell, the Othello Brothers have been pushing that narrative from the moment the man decided to stand up for himself. Typecasting the UnYielding champion as the new NovaCaine. Trying to fit him into that tiny little box. Anyone with a brain could see the foolishness in that line of thinking, though. NovaCaine was never anything more than a shock jock. A moron who wanted to be seen as someone whose words were so jarring, and so offensive, that it rattled people to their core. He was a man who thought to get inside the heads of others around him by constantly threatening their well being outside of the ring. In truth, he was a poster child for toxic masculinity and his end at the hands of the reigning UnYielding champion was a testament to what happened to those who would walk the same path as NovaCaine had.
But that was not Rizzo’s path. Since Rite of Kings he had played within the rules. Since Rite of Kings, he had continued to do the same thing that he had done BEFORE Rite of Kings, performing admirably and cleanly, defending his championship without having to touch a weapon. Try as commentators and opponents might to cast him as the alleged thing he hates most, an objective observation of the facts would lead one to understand that he is exactly what he wanted to be. That his motivations for what he had done at Rite of Kings were exactly what he had said they were. But those reasons, and that truth, did not fit into the tiny little boxes so many people were determined to shove him into.
Pause.
Music continues to dance in your ears just as your feet reach the intersection and your eyes glance in the direction you think the song is coming from. It has been playing for a little while now and the constant stream of notes are wearing on your nerves some. Taking in your surroundings to a greater extent you notice that the blue sky is dotted by rising smoke from chimneys in every direction. The sun, just barely above the horizon, touches your skin and provides a brief moment of warmth and comfort, causing you to close your eyes until your mind once more registers the steady stream of the notes and you find yourself determined to locate the source and stop it.
Resume.
One almost could not blame the commonality amongst UnYielding challengers trying to force the man whose championship they longed to take into a certain role. Wrestlers are often childlike in their thinking, seeing themselves as a conquering hero in some big, grand epoch. Everyone wanted to be the main character, crafting a tale in their own minds in storybook form. Something that could be passed on to children and grandchildren, perhaps written down and mass produced for the horde of hungry fans always seeking to consume the next feel good story. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? So many determined to live in their own personal fairy tale without paying attention to the reality of their own life and their own position. And the simple fact of the matter is that reality. Life. None of it is fairytale-esque.
To find success one did not merely ride in on a beautiful white horse in shining armor at the precise, opportune moment. If anyone would open their ears and listen they would find that that was the message Rizzo had been telling the world for some time now. He embodied that grind and if anyone was going to truly challenge him they would have to embody that grind too. Not coming riding in on a white horse in beautiful, shining armor fresh off a few victories against inconsequential opposition. But, hey, it’s hard to listen and pay attention to the words of the champion when you’re busy dreaming and staring at the stars.
Pause.
Louder and louder the music grows, your feet whisking you quickly toward the source of the endless song. Your teeth grinding, finally you round a corner and your eyes take in what seems to be an odd setting before you. A large crowd has gathered in what, you presume, is the center of town. The brick street your feet travel on leads to a large, open green where the crowd stares upward, their eyes transfixed on a silhouette on the roof that sashays and deftly dances at the peak of the roof. Closer and closer you’re carried, not fully aware of the quickness of your pace until you slam to a halt a few feet behind the back edge of the gathered crowd.
A familiar face registers in your mind as you glance at the man on the roof but instead your attention drifts to another, toward the front of the crowd, a bald man with a thick beard whose eyes are much like the rest of the crowds, transfixed upon the dancing man. But instead of watching, his hands and arms move in rhythm with the song, almost as though he’s conducting the music that’s being played and it is at that moment, as your gaze drifts upward, that you spot the object in the dancing man on the roofs hands. A fiddle. Yet even as he plays and dances his own eyes are focused on a point somewhere in front of him, only taking them off that point for brief moments when he flourish and twists and spins upon the pinpoint axis of the roof.
Slowly, your eyes shift from the bald man conducting the music, to the familiar man dancing on the roof playing the song, to the point that the performers eyes are set upon and it’s there that you spot a cute, petite blonde girl. She isn’t stunningly beautiful by any means but she is poised and confident, and it’s in that moment that it all comes together. The balding man, conducting the performance. The dancing man, putting on a show for the world to see. The blonde girl, giving him something to focus on to maintain his balance.
There’s beauty and intricacy to it but for whatever reason you can’t help but despise the man. Despise him for his skill. Despise him for those he has around him helping him to continue his performance. For keeping the song going. It grates on you until you reach down and you pick up a rock at your feet and hurl it up at the dancing man.
And deftly, just like every other person who has come and done the same, he side steps it and keeps on dancing with a smile on his face.
The Fiddler on the Roof.
Stop.
*****
“There’s something to be said for naivety”
In the quiet of his own home, Danny Rizzo rests in his own chair. It’s early in the morning, the sun just beginning to shine through the windows of the house that he now shares with his closest friend, Kaven Drell.
“Sometimes not knowing what your getting yourself into can help with the nerves that would otherwise be overwhelming if you were fully able to grasp the magnitude of the situation you find yourself in. Trust me. I would know. I’ve been there. And looking back I can say that I’m thankful for the moments that I was blissfully unaware.”
Nodding his head in understanding, he shoots a look in the direction of the camera that is trained on him that says he can relate.
“I’m grateful that I did not have a full understanding of what I was getting myself into when I stepped into the ring against Brodie so many weeks ago now. Ignorant of the path that I would be taken on. I’ve been in your shoes before, Indi. I can appreciate where you’re coming from. I can appreciate that desperate feeling of not wanting to let an opportunity slip through your fingers. Those shoes that you’ve put on? I’ve walked more than a mile in.”
The expression on his face shifts from understanding to one of sympathy and a touch of pity.
“What makes you different than any of the others, Indi? What makes you special? What makes you able to accomplish what no one else has been able to do since the ninth episode of Blitz, since all the way back at very start of January, and that’s beat me, one on one. I’m not talking about a match where I chose to end it with a chair shot, Indi. I’m talking about beating me, pinning my shoulders to the mat. No one has been able to do that in singles competition for months. So what makes you different? What makes your fairy tale distinct? What makes you stand out?”
The questions, clearly rhetorical, have an edge of weariness to them, as though Rizzo is growing tired of seeing and hearing the same thing week in and week out.
“You don’t have an answer to that question because, at the end of the day, you are no different than the rest. You’ll hang on to the same tired, played out lines you’ve heard others vomit in their promotional work, or on an episode of Blitz. You’ll continue to buy into the same narrative that everyone else has. You’ll fool yourself and because of that, you’re going to leave disappointed just like everyone else that has tried to take my UnYielding Championship from me.”
Clicking his tongue, his head shakes from side to side, nearly imperceptibly, in dismay.
“I’m not foolish enough to think that I will be UnYielding Champion forever, Indi. Eventually the song comes to an end. Eventually the music stops. But when it does, it will be because I chose for it to and not because anyone else forced me to stop playing.”
With a smirk, his eyes drift to the side and the camera shifts to focus on an object leaning up against an end table nearby. A fiddle.
Just as Rizzo begins to hum a familiar tune.