The Long Goodbye
Prologue: One Good Year
I am… My name is…. Who am I?
Oh that’s right, Danny Robinson. Jesus Christ, the chairshots to the head are seriously taking their toll on me.
Well this is new for me. I’m fifty-two years old and for around fifty-two of those years; I have bottled up all of my feelings, thoughts, emotions -what have you- to have an iron sight on my ultimate goal.
Becoming the best professional wrestler I could be.
My therapist, who I have been seeing for about a month now, strongly suggested that I begin self-reflecting, journaling even. Essentially being present and processing who I am, what my legacy will be, and so on and so forth.
That’s why I’ve created you. I don’t know who you are or what you are, but I prefer self-reflecting in a way where I am having a conversation, I guess. I’m too old school to do a video log or whatever the hell these new kids are up to; but I guess this is my fake one and you are my viewer.
I guess you are me. Or I am you.
One of those.
Woah……
Sorry, weird fourth wall shit, let’s bury that for now.
The decision has been made; I can’t really remember when. But I CAN remember staring up at the bright lights in “The Pavillion”, and just sensing it’s time.
My body is not what it once was; hell not even my mind is. As much as I am able to be quick and witty with you right now. Getting my words out has always been a struggle for me. And you can imagine….. pro wrestler who stumbles over his words? I’ve had a real treat navigating this business with that as one of my glowing strengths. Age and maturity has not assisted in that effort. If anything, I struggle with word-finding more than ever.
And that night in the Pavillion is where the decision was made. It’s a vibe you get. A feeling. When you know not only are your better days behind you, but there’s only a select amount of good days left. Most wrestlers when they hit this phase, they bury it deep down. Whether that be coating it with shots of Jameson or finding some young chick to make them feel younger.
I’ve seen it all.
I don’t want to go out like that.
I won’t be retiring on top per se. I essentially make my work at this stage in my career at a local independent promotion. But hey…. It’s an honest living and my body can no longer take the long nights on the road going town to town, so truthfully I prefer this.
And there’s something personal and familial with a local indie.
The same families tend to show. The talent tends to stay the same. It really is like one big family.
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I guess this is the part where I should introduce you to the circus.
And we will be keeping Kayfabe…
Yeah, let’s keep a little bit of dignity here. I’m not about to sit here and start rattling off government names. These people have ring names for a reason. You’ll get those, and that’s more than enough.
Besides… I don’t know if I even remember half their real ones.
So.
First up… we’ve got “The Booker.”
Real creative, I know.
Guy runs the whole operation. Owns it, books it, shapes it, whatever term you want to use to make it sound more legitimate than it is. You don’t see him much. Not at shows, not backstage, not anywhere you’d expect the guy in charge to actually be.
But then… out of nowhere… he’s there.
Leaning against a wall. Sitting in the back row. Standing in the ring after everyone’s cleared out. Doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t need to.
And when he talks, people listen. Not because he’s loud. Not because he’s intimidating.
Just because… that’s just the way it is.
I’ve known a lot of “Bookers” in my life. Guys who needed you to know they were in charge.
This one doesn’t.
Don’t know if that makes him better… or worse. Who’s to say.
Then there’s “Bozo the Jester.”
…Jesus Christ.
I don’t like this guy.
Let’s just get that out of the way now.
He’s one of those clowns, literally and figuratively, who thinks the louder he is, the more he matters. Face paint, bells, the whole deal. But there’s something off about him that doesn’t feel like an act.
And I’ve been around long enough to tell the difference.
Crowd hates him. He leans into it. Good for business, I guess. That’s what everyone says. “He gets heat.”
Yeah… sure.
Some guys get heat because they’re good at what they do.
Some guys get heat because people genuinely want them to go away.
I’ll let you figure out which one he is.
“Sherry Cherry.”
Now there’s someone who doesn’t need smoke and mirrors.
Tough as nails. I mean that in the most literal sense. I’ve seen her take shots that would fold half the locker room and just… keep moving. No theatrics, no looking around for sympathy. Just gets back up and keeps going.
And yeah… she’s easy on the eyes.
Not gonna sit here and pretend otherwise. I’m fifty-two, not dead.
But that’s the thing, people see that first. They always do. And then about five minutes into a match, they stop seeing it entirely.
Because she’ll make you forget.
Real quick.
And then there’s Dalton “The Cowboy” Smith.
Yeah. He’s the guy.
Top of the card. Champion. The one they build the posters around, the one the kids line up to see, the one the parents actually trust to take a picture with their kid.
Good wrestler, too. Not just for this level. I mean… good.
But more than that… he’s a good man.
Which is rare.
We came up around the same time. Same roads. Same shitty drives, same locker rooms that smelled like sweat and regret. I’ve seen him when there were fifteen people in the crowd and half of them didn’t pay. And I’ve seen him close to the top.
He hasn’t changed much. And doesn’t aspire to be more than what he is.
That’s probably why he’s where he is.
…
We’re close.
Closer than I probably let on.
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I could sit here all day and run through the cast of characters, but that would just waste the hell out of both of our times.
So…. yea, this will be my last full year in the sport.
I know what you are going to say… A wrestler and retirement is as sacred as a “final” tour from your dad’s favorite rock band.
So I’ve decided to do exactly that and make a tour out of it. There are still some boxes left to be crossed off from my career and truly; I would not keep that retirement sacred if I didn’t cross them off.
One last time as a champion…
One last time on TV…
An Iron-Man Match…
A Deathmatch…
Lastly, finding a protege to mentor and put over on my way out.
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So yeah… that’s the plan.
Or at least… that’s what I’m telling myself right now.
Plans have a funny way of changing in this business. Bodies give out. Opportunities don’t come.
But I’ve got one good year left in me. Maybe not good in the way it used to be. Not main eventing buildings or stealing shows. Just… good enough.
Good enough to mean something.
Good enough to walk away on my own terms… or at least close to it.
And if I forget why I’m doing all of this somewhere along the way… if I wake up one morning and can’t quite piece it together…
Well.
That’s why you’re here.
The Long Goodbye
Chapter One: Finding the Words
My phone alarm goes off at 7:00. Not because I even need it to.
Just… habit.
I’m usually up before it. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling like I’m waiting for something to start. Like there’s supposed to be a moment where everything kicks into gear and I feel… I don’t know, purpose, urgency, something. But it never really comes.
So I let it ring for a second. Long enough to acknowledge it.
Then I turn it off and get up.
My place is small. It’s a Studio. One of those setups where you can stand in the middle of it and see your whole life without moving your head, which sounds depressing when you say it like that, but I’ve never really needed much space to begin with. Never had the time to enjoy it anyway.
But it’s clean.
Everything’s got a spot. Everything goes back to where it needs to be. Shoes lined up, gear bag tucked into the corner, kitchen counter wiped down like I’m expecting company at any moment.
I’m not expecting anyone.
Haven’t in a while.
Still… I keep it like that.
Control, I guess.
Or at the very least, the illusion of it. There’s something about the little wins of a clean room and a made bed that help you push through the day.
You make sure the mug is in the same place. The keys are always by the door. The bag is packed the same way every time.
Because if those things start moving…
Then what?
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Coffee. Always black.
Same mug. Don’t even remember where I got it from. Probably a show. Probably handed to me by someone I shook hands with, thanked, and forgot about ten minutes later.
I stand there while it brews like there’s something important about the process. Like I’m supervising it. Like if I turn my back for even a second, it’ll come out wrong and that’ll somehow set the tone for the rest of the day.
It never does.
It’s always the same.
I just… stand there anyway.
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There’s a mirror by the door.
Full body. Cheap thing. Slightly warped if you look at it too long, like it’s trying to tell you something you don’t really want to hear.
I don’t.
Quick glance. That’s it.
I don’t linger. Don’t check angles. Don’t turn sideways to see what’s changed, what’s gone, what’s hanging on by a thread.
Still standing.
Still upright.
That’s usually enough for me.
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I’m at the door.
Keys in hand.
Don’t remember picking them up. Don’t remember walking over there. Don’t remember if I locked the window, turned the stove off, any of that stuff you’re supposed to double-check when you leave.
Happens more than I’d like.
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I’m outside the Pavillion.
Don’t ask me about the drive. Couldn’t tell you. Same roads, same turns, same lights that I’m pretty sure I stopped at, but I wouldn’t swear to it if you put me under a bright light and told me to bet my life on it.
Muscle memory. You know that sensation where you could be on a long drive and all of a sudden you return to being sentient and you think, “How in the fuck have I been driving?? I’ve not been paying attention”. With my mundane lifestyle; that sensation is ever present.
Body knows what it’s doing even when the mind decides to take a little walk somewhere else.
And just like that… things start to come back into focus, like someone adjusted the lens without telling me.
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There’s already a line.
Families. Kids. A couple regulars I recognize right away, the kind that show up early to everything like they’re afraid the building’s gonna pack up and leave if they’re not there to witness it.
One of the kids spots me.
“Danny!”
That does it.
That’s the switch.
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I straighten up a bit. Roll my shoulders, feel something crack that probably shouldn’t crack, and put something resembling a smile on my face.
“Hey, bud.”
Autographs. Handshakes. Pictures.
Same questions, same cadence, same rhythm like we’re all following a script that nobody ever wrote down but everyone somehow memorized anyway.
“You wrestling tonight?”
“No, just here to clean the bathrooms.”
That one usually gets a laugh.
Don’t know why.
I’ve been saying it for years.
Still works.
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A dad thanks me. Says his kid watches my matches on YouTube, says it like it means something bigger than it probably does, like I should feel proud or accomplished or… immortal, I guess. And hey, it is pretty neat that other people are profiting off my work.
I nod like that’s normal.
Like I didn’t come up in an era where if you weren’t there live, you didn’t see it. Period. No replays, no clips, no comments section telling you what you did right or wrong.
Different world. Not sure if it’s better. Not sure it matters.
Another kid asks if I’m gonna win tonight.
I tell him I’m gonna try.
That’s the honest answer.
He seems okay with it.
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I slip inside. Door shuts behind me.
And just like that… the noise changes.
Outside, it’s excitement. Energy. Kids running around, parents yelling, tickets getting scanned, people trying to convince themselves they’re about to see something special.
Inside…
It’s quieter.
More honest.
The smell hits first.
Sweat. Tape. That faint metallic scent from the ring that never really goes away no matter how many times they wipe it down, like it’s soaked into the wood, into the canvas, into everything that’s ever happened in there.
Locker room’s already half full.
Guys stretching. Wrapping wrists. Sitting there staring off into nothing like they’re either about to go to war or fall asleep sitting up.
Someone nods at me.
I nod back.
No big greetings. No long conversations. You don’t need them at this stage. You see a guy enough times, you know where he’s at without asking. You can read it in how he’s taping his hands, how tight he’s lacing his boots, how long he sits there before moving. Check in about the finish and call the rest while we’re out there. It’s my favorite part of the gig.
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I set my bag down in my usual spot.
Same chair.
Same corner.
Same routine.
If someone ever moved it, I don’t know what I’d do.
Probably freak the fuck out.
For a second… I just stand there.
Looking around.
Taking it in.
Trying to place myself in it, like I’m checking to make sure I still belong here, that I didn’t miss the moment where this all passed me by and nobody bothered to say anything.
Then I sit.
Start taping my hands.
Left first.
Always left first.
Don’t remember why.
Don’t question it either.
Some things you just let be.
And for the first time all day…
I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
However, tonight is different. Tonight is where I will announce to the faithful of “Elm Street Pro Wrestling” that I will be retiring in a year's time.
As you can tell I am a very regimented person; I love a routine.
Well… tonight is where that routine stops.
Not only will I be announcing to the crowd that I will be retiring in a year, but I will be making an effort to achieve both firsts and incredibly difficult goals along this final voyage in the pro wrestling waters.
Being comfortable with uncomfortability is something I have always struggled with. Yea sure, I wrestle in my underwear in front of hundreds of people, but that is something that has practically been ingrained into me at this point.
I don’t think about the words right away.
That’s usually a mistake.
Most guys… they pace. They rehearse. They run lines under their breath, tweak a sentence here, sharpen a line there so it hits just right when the crowd’s looking at them. They treat it like a performance.
And it is.
It’s just… not the part I ever cared about.
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I’m sitting there with the tape half-wrapped around my wrist, just kind of holding it in place without pulling it tight, staring at nothing in particular and everything at the same time, trying to decide if this is something you prepare for… or something you just let happen when you get out there.
Because once you say it… that’s it.
There’s no walking it back. No “that came out wrong.” No pretending it was part of the show.
You tell people you’re done…
They hear you.
Even if you don’t fully believe it yet.
I run through it in my head anyway. Not word for word. Just… pieces. Fragments.
“I think it’s time.”
No. Too soft.
“I’ve decided…”
Too formal. Sounds like I’m reading off a piece of paper. I’ve never been that guy.
I press the tape down. Start over.
Left hand again.
Did I already start this one?
…
Yeah.
I did.
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The thing nobody really tells you, at least not in a way that sticks, is that retirement in this business isn’t some clean, definitive line you cross. It’s not a finish. It’s not even really a decision most of the time.
It’s erosion.
Slow.
Quiet.
A match where you’re a step late. A bump that lingers a little longer than it should.
And then one day… you’re sitting in a folding chair, staring at your hands, trying to remember why you walked into the room in the first place, and you realize.
You’ve already started leaving.
You’re just the last one to see it.
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I lean forward. Elbows on my knees.
Hands together.
Tape hanging loose.
If I say a year… that gives it shape.
Structure. You know I like that.
Something I can point to and say, “That’s the end.”
Even if it stretches. Even if it bends. Even if somewhere down the line I add another date, another match, another “one more time” because the crowd’s loud enough or the check clears or I just… don’t know what else to do with myself.
A year sounds honest. Sounds respectable. Sounds like something people can understand.
I try to picture the crowd when I say it. The regulars. The kids. The ones who’ve been here long enough to remember when I could actually go.
Do they get quiet?
Do they clap?
Do they look at each other like they’re not sure if it’s real?
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And then there’s Dalton.
I don’t need to look to know where he is. I can feel it. Same room, couple chairs over, probably lacing his boots the same way he always does, tight, methodical, no wasted movement.
That part doesn’t sit right with me.
But if I tell him beforehand… it becomes real in a different way. Becomes a conversation. Becomes something that can be talked about, questioned, maybe even talked out of.
And I don’t know if I can afford that.
Not right now.
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“I’ve got one year left.”
That’s closer.
That sounds like something I’d actually say.
No fluff. No buildup.
Just… the truth.
Or at least the version of it I can live with.
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I pull the tape tight this time. Finish the wrap.
Finally.
Right hand next.
Always right after.
That part, at least, I still remember.
I sit there a little longer than I need to. Longer than I should. Letting it settle.
Because once I stand up…
Once the music hits…
Once I step through that curtain and feel that shift again, that familiar pull where everything tightens up and sharpens and suddenly I remember exactly who I am supposed to be.
There’s no more thinking.
No more rehearsing.
No more second-guessing whether I picked the right words.
I’ll just say it.
However it comes out.
And that’ll be the version that sticks.
