The crowd is hot. The spotlight dims. I’m prepared to do my thing. The ring announcer does theirs.

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall – “

“ONE FALL,” chimes the crowd. Smartasses.

The announcer continues. “-and it is for the Technicians Championship!”

The crowd – the relatively small crowd – gives a decent roar.

So, here’s the thing. I’ve always hated – like on a pretentious artistic level – I’ve always hated it when wrestlers come in to some generic rock and roll song and expect people to take them seriously. You see it more in the independent scene than anything. Some become iconic – CM Punk coming in to AFI’s “Misere Cantare” or Samoa Joe’s “Momma Said Knock You Out” or even Daniel Bryan Danielson’s “Final Countdown.” But anyone who comes out to “TNT” immediately gets an eye roll.

So I come out to an electric guitar cover of “Chariots of Fire.”

What of it? You think it’s stupid? I’ll put you in a headlock right now.

Whatever.

My theme blares. It’s a relatively generic theme, I guess, but it’s all about what fits the character. Not too dissimilar to one Daniel Bryan’s “Ride of the Valkyries” entrance…someone thought it’d be funny to give me one of the most mocked themes in the history of mankind. Fits with being a geek, don’t it?

“Introducing the challenger, FAAAAAYE GRIIIIIIMES!!”

Wow, there’s a lot of people here. Wonder how many of them are already have insults locked and loaded to throw at me when the bell rings.

Some weird electronic music blares across the speakers that wouldn’t be too out of place in a space documentary. One of the strangest looking dudes you’ll ever see in your life – okay, I say that, and he’s probably just like every strange dude you’ve ever seen. String bean of a body, Buddhist bead bracelets, baggy pants, semi-long hair that is so greasy a bumblebee could make a waterslide out of it, and my eyes can just smell the vape residue radiating from his attempt at a goatee.

But he is wearing someone I want more than anything in the world.

“And the opponent, weighing in at fifty-four moon rocks, he is the Technical Spectacles Champion - the Intrepid Planewalker - LUNAAAAR KIIIIID!”

How appropriate.

Once the announcer moves and the bell rings, I don’t care. I don’t care about his weirdness. I don’t care about his trailer park hair. I don’t care that his weight is in moon rocks. I only care about winning.

The match is a blur, honestly. All I remember is locking him in the Crossface. No amount of electro music can save him from tapping out.

I break the submission. My wrist is raised.

“Here is your winner and NEEEW Technicians Champion...FAAAAYE GRIIIIIMES!!”

I get handed the title. My title. I don’t hear the crowd. I don’t know whether I’m getting booed or cheered. I don’t care. I have my baby.

I remember it all like yesterday. The night I won it all.

It's a wonderful memory. I come here often. Here I was, a freshman completely unsure of her talents and if anyone would give her a chance.

I C-minused my way through classes, head above water and all that. Then one afternoon, Lunar Kid's car needed a jump and my dad was there. He was so eager to find someone to drop his title to.

I never got that. Even going into my junior year, I never understood why anyone wouldn't want to hold the gold. I eventually did learn. From maybe the most unlikely source: Dante Blair himself.