Bruised Brain Pt.2

The puddle of sweat grows outward upon the aged concrete. For some reason it fascinates me, just as it did on the hardwood. There I sit on the narrow bench sucking the blood from a broken lip and staring at sweat.
How would you describe the taste of blood? Think about it.
The foul smell of greasy chicken and pierogis fill one nostril. The stench of passing fast food fills the other along with the cursed smell of Hot Stuff that plagues every locker room. I could get up and flee the foulness, make my way out of the concrete block prison to the curtain like the other wrestlers, but there I sit staring at that damn puddle of sweat surrounded by concrete blocks peeling 50 years of paint. To my right is a sink, a urinal and of course an occupied stall. The stall is always occupied in the locker rooms of sporting events it seems. Before me a shower drips, it is where the doctor usually does his stitching. For once I don’t need stitches, except my pants which are without a crotch. To my left is another bench lined with wrestler’s gym bags, spray bottles of water, oil, and that f’n Hot Stuff! The room is no more than 15x15 and old, real old.
“JJ, Yo JJ” The voice is that of Boogie Woogie Brown. There he sits, all 370 pounds of him, in the center of what has been named the “Faces” locker room on a stool made for a first grader. He is wearing nothing but green weenie benders (yes the same as in the pic) and licking his fingers while juggling a clipboard along with a white Styrofoam carton of chicken and pierogis. I don’t even know what the hell a pierogi is or how to spell it, but Boogie Woogie Brown it is not a pleasant site to behold at the moment. Yet I remember him sitting on that tiny stool clear as me staring at these words I type, just as I remember the pool of sweat and confliction of smells.
“Hey you okay? You need the Doc?” I can’t tell you what I replied but the next words I remember were “Your up next.”
“Next?”
How can the end of match 7 become the beginning of match 10 in the blink of an eye? With a concussion that’s how. Generally speaking the average wrestling match is about 8 minutes long, add in entrances and such and your looking at roughly 15 minutes. Somehow 30+ minutes passed with me just staring at a puddle of sweat and no one asking otherwise. The "Doc" was ofcoarse out enjoying the show.
“Match 11, that’s you brother.”
“Who am I wrestling?”
“Mozart, you sure you okay?” I am only guessing at how the conversation went as my next memory is of me sneaking out the curtain and bolting out the emergency door in a sprint with the hopes of no one seeing….

Oh No! Did our hero succumb to the pressure? Will our hero be named a coward? Where did he go minutes before his match? Did he come back? What happens to a person with a concussion as he confronts adversity?
Stay tuned kiddies your questions will be answered along with some “secrets” of the business in our next exciting episode. Same Bat time, Same Bat Channel.

Ahh Grasshopper did you really read the passage from the ancient Book of Change? I mean really read it? Read it again, contemplate it and then we shall proceed with your training.
“The superior man respectfully appreciates the cycles of increase and decrease…. External ploys will not put an end to the natural cycle of deterioration. Time Will. Nurture your mind and body… Look for wisdom in your acceptance of the times.” I Ching #23

Tune-age of the day: I see no one killed the rooster it is playing on the radio. Good thing, because it is one of my favorites.