When I get to the hangar, eighteen-year old Heavy “Not the luchadore, a different Heavy” Metal and Sexy Samantha are frowning at the ladder in the center of the ring.

      This doesn’t surprise me.

    Tonight will be two firsts for young Heavy Metal. It will be his first time working the main event, and his first ever ladder match.

-

     Heavy Metal studies the ladder like archaeologist in front of an undiscovered obelisk or a junior high school troublemaker called to the board to solve a math problem, hoping if he stares at it long enough, it will surrender its secrets.

-

    Sam has other things on her mind.

    “So did Massive call you?” she yells over at me.

-

     “No,” I say. “What?”

      She shoots a glance at Metal before continuing. “You’re part of the finish. Heavy Metal’s turning heel. At the end of the match, you’re going to come in to ask him why he’s turned on the fans and he’s going to sandwich you in the ladder and kick it a bunch of times.”

-

     “Why are they turning you heel?” I ask.

-

     Sam and Metal shrug. “That’s the way Massive wants it.”

    “I should probably put in my contact lenses then,” I say.

     I am playing it cool, but I am secretly very excited. And terrified. I have never been asked to be part of the in-ring action before. There are a lot of reasons why the scenario Metal and Samantha have floated doesn’t make sense, but as an outsider, there are a lot of things in wrestling I don’t understand, and I’ve learned to take it in stride.

      “Don’t worry, Dan!” Heavy Metal calls after me. “It won’t hurt…much.”

   -

    “Be sure to grit your teeth tight together while he's kicking you!” Sam adds.

    I step into the bathroom to “gear up,” which is wrestle-speak for change into what I’m wearing to the show. My “gear” looks suspiciously like normal clothes, only ironed.

-

   I like to say “gear up” though, just like I like the idea of getting beat up tonight after the main event. Part of it is the rush that comes with being part of the show, feeling the weight of those cheers and boos.

-

    And part of it is because it makes me feel like one of the boys.

-

    One of the Boys.

-

    A couple of the guys have referred to me as “one of the boys,” and though I appreciate the compliment, deep in my heart, I know it isn’t true. I have never taken a bump. The only move I can semi-execute is the arm-wringer, and even then, the odds are fifty-fifty, I will work the wrong arm. I contribute nothing to ring crew except the ability to hold bolts or look up and say, “The ceiling fan is going to decapitate anyone who climbs that turnbuckle (*).

-

   I am to wrestling what Henry Pym is to the Avengers (**)

-

   But my lack of qualifications  isn’t going to stop me from being in the main event. Lawrence Taylor headlined a Wrestlemania, after all. I’m more worried about blowing the main event. What if I can’t sell the beating properly? What if my timing’s bad? What if I get an attack of the giggles?

     I don’t want to take any chances. I’m going to tell Heavy Metal to lay into me. I figure, if he stiffs me hard enough, I’ll HAVE to sell it.

-

    I’m putting my second contact lens in when Heavy Metal walks into the bathroom.

-

    “Sam’s  ribbing you,” he tells me. “You’re not getting beat down.”

-

    “Cool,” I say.

     I’m trying to hide my disappointment, but something must have shown in my face, because Heavy Metal gives me the same thoughtful look he gave the ladder earlier and says, “You really would have done it, wouldn’t you?”

-

    “Sure,” I say. “I trust you.”

      He shakes his head and throws his arm around my shoulder.

      “Tremendous,” he says, which is his favorite word.

-

     As we leave the bathroom I tell him, “Actually, I was worried you wouldn’t hit me hard enough.”

     “Brodribb, Brodribb, Brodribb,” he replies. “I promise you, when the time comes, I will hit you as hard as I can.”

-

     “Umm…tremendous?” It doesn’t sound nearly as cool when I say it.

-

     He claps me on the shoulder again and we go to greet the out-of-town guys, who have just arrived wheeling their gear behind them.

-

      I may not be one of the boys. But for this moment at least, I feel I belong.

(*) I am however, a chair stacker without peer.

-

(**) The harshest shot at Pym came (maybe unsurprisingly) from his wife, the Wasp,  who once asked him if he could do anything “that doesn’t involve getting big, getting small or telling ants what to do through a helmet.” Stiff.