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Impressions; Saburo Chino VS Cassius Reed
Topic Started: Dec 31 2016, 12:13 PM (71 Views)
KtotheB

-- December 19th, 2016, Osaka, Japan --

The treadmill turns under his feet at a steady rate, New Balance shoes thumping against the rubber surface of it in a practiced, steady rhythm as his muscles propel him forward. His eyes don’t focus on the display of the treadmill, or he’d see that he’s currently at an acceptable pace of a seven-minute mile, or that - according to the accumulation of his workout so far - he’s already on mile eight, instead his eyes are straight forward, gazing at the small fern that was hanging up in the corner of the garage where he’d set up his small home gym, though in reality what he was looking at and what he was seeing were two different things.

His eyes weren’t focused, and his mind wasn’t there, instead Saburo Chino was very, very far away from his comfortable two-story home in the Tennoji neighbourhood of Osaka. Instead he was across the Pacific as a young teen again in Seattle, ball tucked under his left arm as he broke the defensive line, his parents on the sidelines rooting him on even though they had no clue about the sport that their son had chosen to participate in after they’d moved to Seattle for business a mere two years before.

The tempo increases, Saburo’s legs pump slightly harder, his aging but still well-maintained physique increases their output to compensate, even despite the clicking noise in his knee that had developed after a surgery sometime in the past decade, and the swelling of his right ankle that had been sprained more times than he’d care to count. He doesn’t acknowledge it though, he doesn’t even feel it.

Instead, his mind and his memories have shifted once again, to a different time and place, this one not so far away, though a memory that’s just barely younger than the few years he’d spent living abroad.

He’s rushing his hardest, the white lines signifying the boundaries of his lane blurring as he greedily drinks in and expels air, his thighs, calves and shins burning as they pound in frenzied practice. Saburo knows there are people running with him, people that are trying to get ahead of him, trying to beat him, but he can’t quite see them, they lie on the edges of his perception, phantoms that he must outrun. His lungs burn, his legs feel weak and yet at the same time he can’t slow down, won’t slow down, the white ribbon draped across the lanes of the track signifying the end of the race draw ever closer.

His heartbeat is pounding in his head and in his veins, the sound of footsteps - both his own and those of his opponents - fade to nothing, the surrounding crowd of onlookers from various prefects and other schools also drains away like someone had pulled the stop-gap on his auditory functions, lowering everything to an almost imperceptible white-noise frequency.

He was almost there, just a few steps closer an-

“Sabu-san! This isn’t right!”

His wife’s voice punches through the veil of the runner’s high, and just like that Saburo’s memories drop away in that moment, the crowd, the track and the onlookers just vanish as the spell breaks and suddenly he’s back in his garage, looking at a fern. He gives his head a shake a moment before manually lowering the pace of the treadmill back down to a walking pace, and taking slow, calming breaths to bring his heart rate back down to casual levels.

“Anzu?” Saburo calls out after a moment, running a hand along his brow and through his thinning, short-cropped hair to clear the rivulets of sweat from running into his eyes, he hadn’t realized his wife had returned from shopping.

“I said this isn’t right, Sabu-san!” This time her voice is tinged with a bit of whine, which when combined with the formal honorific she tacked on to her own little ‘pet’ name for him meant that something was actually bugging her, and just like that Saburo’s thoughts turned to the many things that could possibly be wrong.

Was it that at the age of forty-six, stepping into one of the more infamous, high-octane tournaments like the Phoenix Wrestling ‘Iron King’ tournament seemed less like he was trying to earn a paycheck AND show his young wife what a career in pro-wrestling would be like and more like grandstanding bravado?

Could it be that Anzu was having second thoughts about getting involved in the industry itself?

Or might she have forgotten to pick something up at the store… again?

“What isn’t right, Anzu?” He calls out, he never felt the need for honorifics in general, his short time in the United States had imprinted on him a more casual, informal social id that had made the formality seem all the more pointless at a young age. On a professional and public basis he still used them, but in his own home, with his new wife? Not a chance.

Without the hum of the treadmill or the thunder of his steps and heartbeat to drown out the surrounding noise he can hear Anzu walking through the kitchen of their house, her steps still tinged with a beat amusia because her femur was still in the final stages of healing and pained her from time to time. After a moment, the door linking the garage to the house opens and the younger woman’s head pokes in, expression caught somewhere between embarrassed and mortified.

“I picked up the ring gear while I was out…” She starts before trailing off, when she’d expressed enough interest in his career to request to be trained they’d gone to one of the the few seamstresses for pro-wrestling tights that Saburo would vouch for and placed an order, it had been a few months, but Saburo was grateful it had finally been completed as his wife had been fretting constantly that she’d wanted to wear it when she accompanied her husband ringside for the tournament…

… unless of course, there was something wrong with the gear.

“... did they give you the wrong set?” Voice concerned, the veteran grappler stops and steps off the treadmill, wincing slightly as he feels his hips pop as he steps over to the door. He barely registers how the young woman before him almost pulls her head back inside the house as though to keep the rest of her body out of his line of sight.

“N-no… it’s what we ordered but…” There’s a definitive blush in her cheeks that Saburo finds equal parts attractive and amusing, he’s about to prompt her to continue but Anzu lets out a small huff before opening the door and stepping into view, “... is it supposed to be this tight!?”

The view is one Saburo appreciates, even though he’s sternly reminded in that moment subconsciously about the age gap that lies between them in her flustered attitude. She isn’t wearing the full set, the kick pads are being worn overtop of her sneakers instead of her wrestling boots and the choker at the top of her gear is undone, but it’s quite obvious that his wife is put off by the few extra pounds of baby fat she’s picked up through mild inactivity caused by her injury and recovery, the tights only seem to accentuate it, forcing it to bunch up slightly at her exposed midriff just above the waistband and below the top.

In his mind though, it’s perfect, even from a technical aspect, the stitching is tough, the material is layered thickly enough so that it won’t tear easily, The kick pads themselves are stitched in with leather, and - in his mind - the blue that matches his own ring gear was really, incredibly attractive, and a nice touch Anzu herself requested to have in support of him.

“Yes, hon, that looks perfect” he smiles warmly as he leans in to hug her lightly. She responds by turning her face away, the blush deepening in embarrassment, she lets out a huff before managing to meet his gaze.

“You’re not just saying that? I mean, I’m getting fat” Another pout.

“No, Anzu, I mean it,” He accents this with a kiss, “and while I’d love you even if you were fat, you’re not, you just have a few extra pounds because of the injury… take it from your husband, I’m old AND fat”

He chuckles as a girlish grin spreads across her face, she stands on her toes to kiss him back, after a moment they break it up.

“Now go pack your gear up. Our flight leaves in two days and I’m going to get another twenty minutes in on that treadmill” She nods at his words, before turning and walking back inside, the door closing behind her.

He stares at the door after she leaves for a prolonged moment, a small voice in his head ensuring that he’s keenly aware of something he knows, but is still profoundly struck by as a new husband. That his young wife had seemingly washed away any of his misgivings about why he was stepping back into the ring once again.

Feeling somewhat lighter, he steps back onto the treadmill and starts it up again, the tempo increasing until his legs are turning anew with practised, experienced rhythm.

Then his focus leaves, and suddenly he’s elsewhere, with the lights beaming down on him, a crowd cheering him on, and an opponent staring at him across the ring.

***

“Firstly, to Phoenix Wrestling, the fans, and to my opponent and any upcoming opponents, I feel I must apologize if my English is a little impol-… uh, unpolished. It has been awhile since I have used any…”

We cut in from black to reveal Saburo “Saji” Chino seated on a wooden bench in the Luxor Hotel’s gym, the collar of his hoodie is ringed dark with sweat, having obviously just completed a workout. His gym bag sits open at his feet as he regards the camera, leaned back slightly against the wall of the gym and occasionally taking small sips from the bottled water hanging loosely in his hand.

“With that said though, allow me to also extend my gratitude to Phoenix Wrestling for granting me the opportunity to compete in this year’s iteration of the Iron King. I know there’s some trepidation in letting someone of my age into a competition this intense, since it brings into mind questions of conditioning and - erm - ability to absorb punishment and continue on. So thank you”

He bows slightly to the camera.

“So why am I here? Why would someone like me - in the twilight years of my career - decide to fly across the Pacific and throw myself into something as gritty and tough as the Iron King? A fair question, most in the industry my age seem to prefer to confine themselves to smaller promotions and multi-man matches, content to fight, but more than anything content to teach and pass on what they’ve learned - their wealth of experience - to the young lions that will take their place. So what am I looking to accomplish? Why should I step into the fire?”

Saburo chuckles, scratching his eyebrow as he looks away from the camera a moment, slightly embarrassed.

“Honestly? I’m in the same boat as the lot of them. My wife Anzu has asked me to help her get into the career I’ve spent my entire adult life involved in… at first I thought it was um... pandering, but after enough insistence she assured me that hers was a genuine interest. I love her, and I understand there are many of my peers that would tell me to convince her not to, but I’ve always believed in someone making and sticking to their own choices and decisions… so it falls to me , her husband, to show her exactly what she’s getting into, to make sure she’s ready for pro-wrestling, because despite the boasts I see from may younger competitors these days, pro-wrestling is more than ready for you”

He rolls that statement in his head a moment, as though to double check it made sense, before nodding to himself and continuing.

“Still, that doesn’t mean I’m here to roll over and give anyone a ‘bi’ into the next round, there have been many times when I was competing in a grand prix or tournament somewhere in Japan where I wouldn’t occasionally get updates about the Iron King, a tournament that crosses cultures, continents, and genres of the profession we all exist within. One night a wrestler could be grappling only and the next? Dipping their fists in glass to cut their opponent open. I’ve been around a long time in this industry, and by that virtue and without meaning to brag, I’ve seen and done a lot, so I know on any night I should be prepared to bleed, or for someone to try and rip my arm out of it’s socket, but something different each night? Now that’s a challenge, and one I aim to test myself”

An easy smile spreads across his face.

“In fact, my first match on night two seems to let me know that this tournament is just that, a realm of possibilities. A street fight against young Cassius Reed”

He points into the lens.

“Now Cassius, I know we’ve never faced, but I can admit your family’s influence spreads far and wide enough that I’ve heard the Reed name before, sometimes at shows I was on, other times at shows I’ve went to watch. Always attached to one binding trait: Talent. You come from a long line of talented professionals. Now in my research leading into our match, I’ve seen enough to know you’ve got sharp hands, and a… boisterous attitude. You probably don’t think much of me as it stands right now. You may even think I’m just an old fool taking up a spot I don’t deserve, that you’re going to walk right through me, and never have to think about me again, and that’s fine, Cassius…”

He pauses a moment.

“... because you can have that perception before the bell, but whatever happens after that, be it fists, chairs, tables and the like. No matter who gets to move on in the Iron King and who gets sent home early, by the time the ref calls for the bell, your perception of me will be of one thing only, and that is: ‘that is one tough, old man’

Saburo’s serious countenance melts back into a warm smile.

“I’ll see you then Cassius, I look forward to making that impression on you”

With that we cut to black.
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