Post by Dionysus on Oct 21, 2022 2:33:38 GMT -5
If I had the ability to fight anybody, whether it was inside the ring or out of it, huh…
For me, the answer is a pretty straightforward one.
But you will get that answer in due time. First, a brief glimpse into the life of Dionysus. Don’t worry, it's PG-13; no pools of wine or a huge *ahem* revelry, so to speak.
If there is anything in this world I value above all else, it is my family. There were times I disliked being an only child, but my mother was a teacher, and I would see enough of her students around that I could call them my brothers or sisters, depending on who was there. It also made the time with my family that much more special. One of my earliest memories was sitting in my father’s lap while he watched a tape from an old wrestling show. I remember cheering for the good guy and booing the bad guy on that fuzzy screen of our television, all while my father watched in silence, writing down some notes on occasion. I looked up at him and told him, proudly, that I wanted to be one of those TV guys when I grew up. He chuckled and gave me a hug, tussling my hair before he said, “Well if that’s what you want to be, then dear old dad will help you. I would do anything for you, Dion.”
…Yes, Dion. You know, short for Dionysus. I never did figure out why they wanted to name me after a god. Maybe they thought it would bring me luck.
The memory still remains vivid to me. The static from the TV trying to catch any reception, the house darkened aside from the TV’s light, the expression on my father’s face, proud and smiling, but with the weight of the world hanging off his face. I knew him as a hard-working man looking to provide for his family as best he could, but my father also abandoned his dreams of stardom to start a family with my mother. So it was only natural that when I was eight, he finally received his big break, an opportunity to go work in Japan. A great opportunity at that; while we weren’t exactly living in squalor, we were far from wealthy, and the offer he received was very generous. From what I was told, it would be hard work; he would be assisting with establishing a wrestling school and working as a trainer there for a few months, at least until they could get their own staffing.
I remember standing outside Lindbergh Terminal, watching as my parents embraced goodbye. Seeing the two of them surround themselves with the love that they shared…I had completely forgotten that I held his bag. I dropped it, running to the two of them, doing my best to wrap my arms around my father’s waist. He looked down at me, his eyes misty and red, on the verge of tears. He chuckled, ruffling my hair and told me, “You take good care of your mother. I'll be back before you know it.” He then grabbed his bag and, while he stood facing the doors to the airport, turned his head and winked at me. His determined grin, holding back the sorrow I know he felt in that moment, was the last image I had of my father.
…
*sniff*
Forgive me. This is the first I have said any of this in a while. The memories still weigh on my soul from time to time. Surely, I wasn’t expecting to answer this question in a strip club. But that is the setting we are in, and so we continue on.
What was meant to be a few months turned into several years. Years of waiting. Longing. Hoping one day he would return.
But never realizing those hopes. He was gone. He would remain gone…even today.
I don’t even…
I don’t even know if he is alive…
…
I’m sure, judges, you will understand that there is only one person I truly want to fight. I hope and dream of the day that comes, when I will be standing in that ring and hear those opening chords to Robert Tepper’s Domination. The feeling I will have when my father arrives from the back to stand across from the son he left all those years ago. How would he react? Seeing his baby boy standing there, the dreams he once carried passed on to his progeny. Or would he even recognize me? He left our lives when I was only eight. At nearly thirty now, would he even know that Dionysus was his own? Or would it just be some punk kid looking to leave his lumps on the veteran?
There are plenty of people who, if they were in my position, they would choose someone they have a blood feud with. A celebrity that they would truly enjoy tearing to pieces. Or perhaps a person with which someone has unresolved tension they must work through. But for me, the choice is simple. The person I most wish to fight…is my own father, Hector “The Fixer” Berget. Not because I want to fight him. Not because I feel hatred toward him. Not even because he is someone I feel I need to fight.
I want to fight him for one simple reason.
De Amore Patris Tui.
I want to see him again. I want my father’s love.
I want him to be a part of the life I have cultivated for myself. I want to bring him back to the home he had left behind, to the woman he loved more than anyone. But above all else, I want to live with the knowledge that he is alive. I want to tell him about our lives since his departure. The accident that nearly ended my career and nearly stole my mother’s memories. The anguish we went through rehabilitating. I want to show him the strength that we have needed to build for ourselves because of his absence. Despite his promise all those years ago, I want to tell him how I have made it to this moment without any of his aide.
And then I would ask him the toughest questions of his life.
Where were you when we needed you most?
Why did you stop writing to us?
Mom has moved on from you, you realize that? What makes you think she will want you back?
What will you do to make up the time you have lost with us?
And which limb do you not want me to break for your penance?
The pain I have endured in my life up until now pales in comparison to the scar on our hearts that he left us. The memory of his grin at the airport alternates between a smile of confidence and a cackle of deception. I don’t even know what kind of man he has become, if he is even still alive. I want to show him that the man I have become has everything to do with the blood, sweat, tears and sacrifice my mother had to endure to give me the life I lead today. That my life now is all because of her, not my father.
…Naturally, at this point, you understand my inner conflict. The man that has damaged me the most, my own father, is someone I simultaneously never want to see again and also want to be part of our lives once more. I can’t even address him properly in the context of the question. Maybe it would be easier, knowing that he is dead and gone. I could then hold on to the precious memories I do have of him. Maybe knowing he is alive and has been gone for this long is him telling us…
…Telling us that he…
…Why doesn’t he want us?
You tell me that, judges.
Why doesn’t he want…me?
For me, the answer is a pretty straightforward one.
But you will get that answer in due time. First, a brief glimpse into the life of Dionysus. Don’t worry, it's PG-13; no pools of wine or a huge *ahem* revelry, so to speak.
If there is anything in this world I value above all else, it is my family. There were times I disliked being an only child, but my mother was a teacher, and I would see enough of her students around that I could call them my brothers or sisters, depending on who was there. It also made the time with my family that much more special. One of my earliest memories was sitting in my father’s lap while he watched a tape from an old wrestling show. I remember cheering for the good guy and booing the bad guy on that fuzzy screen of our television, all while my father watched in silence, writing down some notes on occasion. I looked up at him and told him, proudly, that I wanted to be one of those TV guys when I grew up. He chuckled and gave me a hug, tussling my hair before he said, “Well if that’s what you want to be, then dear old dad will help you. I would do anything for you, Dion.”
…Yes, Dion. You know, short for Dionysus. I never did figure out why they wanted to name me after a god. Maybe they thought it would bring me luck.
The memory still remains vivid to me. The static from the TV trying to catch any reception, the house darkened aside from the TV’s light, the expression on my father’s face, proud and smiling, but with the weight of the world hanging off his face. I knew him as a hard-working man looking to provide for his family as best he could, but my father also abandoned his dreams of stardom to start a family with my mother. So it was only natural that when I was eight, he finally received his big break, an opportunity to go work in Japan. A great opportunity at that; while we weren’t exactly living in squalor, we were far from wealthy, and the offer he received was very generous. From what I was told, it would be hard work; he would be assisting with establishing a wrestling school and working as a trainer there for a few months, at least until they could get their own staffing.
I remember standing outside Lindbergh Terminal, watching as my parents embraced goodbye. Seeing the two of them surround themselves with the love that they shared…I had completely forgotten that I held his bag. I dropped it, running to the two of them, doing my best to wrap my arms around my father’s waist. He looked down at me, his eyes misty and red, on the verge of tears. He chuckled, ruffling my hair and told me, “You take good care of your mother. I'll be back before you know it.” He then grabbed his bag and, while he stood facing the doors to the airport, turned his head and winked at me. His determined grin, holding back the sorrow I know he felt in that moment, was the last image I had of my father.
…
*sniff*
Forgive me. This is the first I have said any of this in a while. The memories still weigh on my soul from time to time. Surely, I wasn’t expecting to answer this question in a strip club. But that is the setting we are in, and so we continue on.
What was meant to be a few months turned into several years. Years of waiting. Longing. Hoping one day he would return.
But never realizing those hopes. He was gone. He would remain gone…even today.
I don’t even…
I don’t even know if he is alive…
…
I’m sure, judges, you will understand that there is only one person I truly want to fight. I hope and dream of the day that comes, when I will be standing in that ring and hear those opening chords to Robert Tepper’s Domination. The feeling I will have when my father arrives from the back to stand across from the son he left all those years ago. How would he react? Seeing his baby boy standing there, the dreams he once carried passed on to his progeny. Or would he even recognize me? He left our lives when I was only eight. At nearly thirty now, would he even know that Dionysus was his own? Or would it just be some punk kid looking to leave his lumps on the veteran?
There are plenty of people who, if they were in my position, they would choose someone they have a blood feud with. A celebrity that they would truly enjoy tearing to pieces. Or perhaps a person with which someone has unresolved tension they must work through. But for me, the choice is simple. The person I most wish to fight…is my own father, Hector “The Fixer” Berget. Not because I want to fight him. Not because I feel hatred toward him. Not even because he is someone I feel I need to fight.
I want to fight him for one simple reason.
De Amore Patris Tui.
I want to see him again. I want my father’s love.
I want him to be a part of the life I have cultivated for myself. I want to bring him back to the home he had left behind, to the woman he loved more than anyone. But above all else, I want to live with the knowledge that he is alive. I want to tell him about our lives since his departure. The accident that nearly ended my career and nearly stole my mother’s memories. The anguish we went through rehabilitating. I want to show him the strength that we have needed to build for ourselves because of his absence. Despite his promise all those years ago, I want to tell him how I have made it to this moment without any of his aide.
And then I would ask him the toughest questions of his life.
Where were you when we needed you most?
Why did you stop writing to us?
Mom has moved on from you, you realize that? What makes you think she will want you back?
What will you do to make up the time you have lost with us?
And which limb do you not want me to break for your penance?
The pain I have endured in my life up until now pales in comparison to the scar on our hearts that he left us. The memory of his grin at the airport alternates between a smile of confidence and a cackle of deception. I don’t even know what kind of man he has become, if he is even still alive. I want to show him that the man I have become has everything to do with the blood, sweat, tears and sacrifice my mother had to endure to give me the life I lead today. That my life now is all because of her, not my father.
…Naturally, at this point, you understand my inner conflict. The man that has damaged me the most, my own father, is someone I simultaneously never want to see again and also want to be part of our lives once more. I can’t even address him properly in the context of the question. Maybe it would be easier, knowing that he is dead and gone. I could then hold on to the precious memories I do have of him. Maybe knowing he is alive and has been gone for this long is him telling us…
…Telling us that he…
…Why doesn’t he want us?
You tell me that, judges.
Why doesn’t he want…me?