EPISODE 4 THE BABYFACE

I walked into the computer room to find Richy staring at a black-and-maroon website.

“What’s NWA Hammerlock?” I asked, reading the letters at the top of the screen. It sounded like either a rap band or an especially unfriendly shark. Maybe both.

“It’s a wrestling school in the UK.”

“Oh, cool!” I said as I wondered if he was reconsidering his art career.

Earlier that week, we’d watched a new show by WWE called Tough Enough, where contestants with no prior wrestling experience learned the craft from scratch. The training was gruesome and the bumps looked painful. But most stuck with it, because two winners—one male, one female—would be selected to join the promotion.

It was frustrating to watch, because these aspiring stars would constantly drop out of fitness tests or complain about being sore or hurt. “Stop being a little bitch!” I’d yell at the television. “This is your dream, people!!! You’re so lucky! How could you show any weakness?! It’s the WWE, for Godsake!”

Richy and I knew we could do better (my athletic shortcomings were simply a side note), so I figured that’s why he was looking up NWA Hammerlock.

“I wrote to them and told them I want to train. I said I’m not a dreamer, I know the hard work that it will take, but I feel like I would regret it if I never tried,” Richy explained as he scrolled through the website, landing on the talent roster.

“Look! There’s two Irish lads on their website,” he pointed out as he clicked on their profiles.

“Paul Tracey”—a tall, slightly smug-looking, largely pale, gingery blond lad.

“Fergal Devitt,” who was dark-haired, with piercing blue eyes and an unbelievably ripped body.

“That Fergal lad looks like a real douchebag,” I jeered.

Even though I was sure I could do better than the people on Tough Enough, the thought of actually pursuing wrestling had never crossed my mind. But now there was a pit of envy in my stomach—that Richy was most likely going to get to do this and I wouldn’t.

At nineteen, he was a full-grown adult, but there was no way my mom was going to let my fifteen-year-old-self fly over to England to train to be a wrassler.

A few days later the owner of Hammerlock, Andre Baker, wrote back to accept Richy’s application. In a delightful turn of events, he announced that Paul Tracy and that douchey-looking Fergal Devitt would be opening a wrestling school in Ireland in May.

“That’s two weeks from now! Where is it going to be?”

“In Bray”—which was a simple one-hour train ride from us.

“I want to go!” I beamed.

“You can’t. You have to be sixteen,” he said as he tried to sway me away

“I’ll lie!”

“You’re not coming. I don’t want to have to look after my little sister.”

“You won’t have to.” My lies had already begun.

My brother wasn’t going to get behind my newly found wrestling ambitions just yet, and neither would my mother. In fact, if she ever came into the room when we had wrestling on, she would shriek, avert her eyes, and run quickly out of the room as if she had caught us watching some depraved porno. It was for that reason she wouldn’t even get the chance to object—as I told her I was going to do Brazilian jiu-jitsu, which sounded much more exotic.

Luckily for me, my dad was always a supporter of whatever eccentric whim would pop into my noggin.

Training would commence at 2:00 pm on Sunday, so the Saturday night before I stayed with my dad.

“Dad, they’re opening a wrestling school in Bray. I really want to go.”

“That’s great, Becks! Sure, you’ll be only marvelous.” I could have told him I was going to be a competitive sewer diver and I’m sure he would have said the same thing.

“Would you be able to give me a lift?”

“Of course, madame,” my dad said with a certain sense of austerity.

As we drove up the next afternoon with Tough Enough fresh in my mind, I fully expected to pull up to a warehouse with a giant metal sign over the door that would read: “NWA Ireland.”

I would walk in and be dwarfed by muscle-bound men and women all ready to prove their fortitude. It would be darkly lit except for a single spotlight that would shine down upon a wrestling ring in the center of the room, fitted out with bright red ropes and a black canvas. I was giddy with anticipation.

“This looks like the spot,” my dad announced as we pulled up twenty minutes early to the school, which was actually just the gymnasium of a local primary school. Needless to say, there was no giant metal “NWA Ireland” sign hanging over the door.

“Don’t come in!” I instructed my dad as I got out of the car. Nothing would have been as uncool or a dead giveaway to my youth as my dad chaperoning me on my first day.

“As you wish, missy.”

I jumped out of the car and ran across the grounds, trying to avoid getting soaking wet on this classically rainy Sunday. I kept my hoodie over my head to prevent my freshly dyed red hair from running down my shirt as I pulled up my baggy pants so that the bottoms didn’t get drenched in the grass.

I walked up nervously, pushed open the double doors, and turned left to enter the hall. Now was time for my master plan. If I say I’m sixteen, they’ll be onto me. They might even ask for ID and that would be mortifying. I’ll say I’m seventeen and they won’t suspect a thing!

“Hello,” a singsongy voice greeted me. It was Fergal Devitt, and his profile picture had not done him justice. He was stunning, engaging, confident, and one of those types you couldn’t help but be drawn to; there was a knowing that he would go on and do big things one day—which he has, as Finn Balor in WWE—and more than anything, he was not, in fact, the least bit douchey. He sat at a table with a sign-up sheet in front of him: name, age, contact number, money.

“Rebecca Quin, 17, January 30th, 1985, 0868918980,” a neatly folded ten-euro bill courtesy of my pops.

“Go ahead,” Fergal said without asking for ID as he guided me into the hall, proving my master plan a success!!

I’m a goddamn genius!

I looked around the brightly lit room. It was nothing like I had pictured. There were no behemoths leering over me. Just about twelve teenage boys, some tall and gangly, some short and skinny, some with their hair half-grown-out in that really awkward stage. Some a bit rotund, one or two who looked like they lifted a few weights but also loved a burger and a beer. I did a double take. I was also the only girl in the class. It was strangely comforting. I had gone from being the least fit girl in my PE class to suddenly being the most fit girl in my wrestling class. Absolute worst-case scenario, no matter how bad I might be at this, I would still be the best girl here.

Most shocking of all, there was no spotlit wrestling ring with bright red ropes and a black canvas. In fact, there was no wrestling ring at all! Just six blue padded mats on the floor.

A few minutes later my brother walked in the door, his hair and clothes wet from walking the twenty minutes from the train station.

Sucker, I thought, while simultaneously being comforted by his presence.

I could tell he was annoyed to see me, his annoyance growing in relation to my awkwardness as I inevitably wanted to be glued by his side.

“Get away from me,” he growled through clenched teeth, trying not to draw attention to the fact that I was following him around like a lost puppy.

When everyone had arrived, Paul and Fergal welcomed the class.

“We don’t have a wrestling ring yet; it should be here in the next few weeks. In the meantime, we’ll get you started with the basics.”

“Basics” was right. We began with a short and simple warm-up, which was a few air squats and jumping jacks, nothing like the fitness tests I had seen on Tough Enough. I came here ready to puke, for crying out loud!

Next up: bumping. I had seen people struggle with this on TV. I wasn’t going to be one of those people. I wasn’t going to be a wuss about it. Just fall backwards, tuck your chin, land on the upper part of your back, and slap the mat. Simple as that. How hard could it be?

My brother, who had now put as much space between us as he could, volunteered to go first.

His first bump was flawless, as if he had been doing it since birth. Just came out of the womb and hit a perfect flat back. Asshole.

Next in line was a short, skinny boy named Kenny who bore a shocking resemblance to Frankie Muniz and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds. He also landed perfectly.

I knew this shit would be a piece of piss, I thought, their competence giving me confidence.

They were then followed by a tall, gangly lad.

That’s a long way to fall, I thought.

He obviously thought so too.

He fell to the ground awkwardly as he tried to protect himself. I began to coach him in my head, like the armchair expert I had become: Just commit! Land on your back; what are you doing, sissy-boy?

He couldn’t hear my telepathic instructions so he kept landing on his elbows or otherwise attempting to break his fall in the most painful ways possible. How shameful, I thought.

“Who’s next?”

That was my cue to jump in. Something I have learned from failing at most things is, take your turn when it seems like the bar is at an all-time low. That way, there’s nowhere to go but up!

“I’ll go!” I volunteered enthusiastically.

I stood on the blue mat. Arms across my chest, ready to hurl myself backwards and—for the first time in my life—be a pure natural at something.

Thud, thud, thud, thud. I landed unimpressively—not smoothly on the upper part of my back, but on my lower back, followed by my elbows, then my upper back, and, finally, my head. My hands didn’t slap the mat like I expected. More like gave it a feeble high five, Napoleon Dynamite–style. Also: Ouch! That fucking hurt.

“Not quite… kick your legs out and try slapping the mat,” Fergal coached.

That’s what I was trying to do!!

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I whimpered.

I tried again. This time just three thuds. My back, elbows, and the back of my head. The slap was equally waif-like.

“Give it a go again.”

Thud, thud. Ooooof. I had winded myself this time. The mats didn’t provide much cushion, considering there was concrete just an inch below.

“All right, we’ll come back to it.”

“Yeah, cool,” I uttered painfully as I hobbled to the back of the line.

Next up were front bumps, i.e., falling forward, which came a bit easier. Something about being able to see where I was going was helpful.

Then we moved on to side bumps. We were instructed to crouch down, then throw ourselves to the side and land with our whole side body flush to the mat while simultaneously slapping it.

More mat slapping… I did not have a knack for mat slapping.

Again my brother landed everything perfectly and with intensity. For me, not so much. I was more like an old lady slowly falling to the side with no way to stop herself while letting out an understated howl as her face plummeted closer to the ground.

After falling repeatedly with little cushion to break our falls, I was delighted when Paul pulled out a giant crash pad and declared, “You’re going to learn flip bumps next.”

Essentially you do a somersault, but instead of landing on your feet, you land on your back.

Shockingly, I didn’t stink up the joint this time. Sure, I barely made it over—but I made it over, and that’s the main thing.

We were only thirty minutes in and I already had a pounding headache and sore, tender ribs.

“All right, that was bumps. We’re going to drill them every week so you get them down perfectly. They’re the most important things you’ll do, so you need to be able to do them well.”

Okay, no big deal that I didn’t have them down perfectly yet. Lots of time to work on them. But also: Fuck, I’ll have to fall down lots to get the hang of this thing—and it really, really hurts.

“Now I want you all to pick a partner and we’re going to show you how to lock up,” Paul continued.

My eyes searched eagerly for Richy, who was actively avoiding my stare and had already joined up with someone close to his size.

I had to be paired with a stranger.

“You go with him,” Fergal said, pointing to Kenny, that tiny little flawless bumper.

Paul and Fergal demonstrated a perfect, aggressive-looking lock-up. Stomping their feet simultaneously as they locked arms.

“Anyone have any questions?”

“No!” several voices yelled.

Not that I was going to speak up anyway, but… what did they just do? Which arm went where? What foot how?

“How do we do this?” I meekly asked Kenny. Luckily, he was kind as he guided my arms where they needed to go and showed me which foot to lead with.

I was abysmal at this, but it was exhilarating. I had never broken down the mechanics of what I had seen on TV. To be able to do that here, so that one day I might be able to have an actual wrestling match, was thrilling.

Not that I had any ambition to be in WWE. Like my brother had said of himself earlier, “I’m not a dreamer,” and that would be such a faraway, lofty, exaggerated dream. I wanted to do something stable, like my mother. Maybe I could become a lawyer or something? Fight for the underdogs of life. You know, if I started studying and stopped smoking away my brain cells.

When the class was finished, we had learned how to bump, lock up, exchange a few holds, and even do a little demonstration match at the end.

Bad as I was, to my comfort—or at least I told myself—I wasn’t the worst person there. Poor, gangly fucker.

Waking up the next day, my body was aching. My neck creaked from the repetitive whiplash, but I couldn’t wait to get on the bus to school and tell my friends all about it.

I had found something that I loved. I wasn’t good at it, but I wanted to be, and that seemed more important.

But now I had to look the part. Get jacked, stacked, ripped, lean, and mean. Gainzzzzzzzzz, baby! Except I didn’t have a clue about nutrition. I only knew that jacked people drink protein shakes. So I bought my very first tub of protein powder. Bye-bye, flabville—muscletown, here I come.

I eagerly opened the white tub and gagged at the waft that followed. It smelled like a two-thousand-pound man who lived on a diet of eggs and moldy cheese had caged his farts into this powder substance I was about to consume. Pinching my nose and choking back the thick, gloopy beverage, I tried desperately not to vomit. There must be a better way.

I wanted shoulders and abs like my hero Lita, the spunky female spitfire I had watched busting out backflips on TV, but maybe not that badly yet.

I decided my best bet was to cut out my drinking and smoking and join in the fad at the time and stick with a low-fat diet, which would consist solely of bread, pasta, rice, and more bread. I was going to build a body from the gods, loaf by loaf.