At nine, the phone rang. Kevin picked up in two steps.
Kevin hadn’t had an answer then. He didn’t have one now.
Kevin closed his eyes. Mike had retired from wrestling after the toxic shock syndrome that stole his strength, but the pills had stayed. The pain had stayed. Kevin had driven him to rehab twice. The second time, Mike had asked: Why do we keep doing this, Kev? Why did Dad make us think we had to be the best at something that breaks you? The Iron Claw
Kevin moved on instinct. Arm drag. Dropkick. The crowd counted along. He locked in the claw—left hand pressed to the man’s temple, fingers splayed, the gimmick his father had turned into legend. The referee asked if the man gave up. The man tapped. One minute, forty-two seconds.
He typed back: Soon.
“It’s Mike,” said the voice on the other end. Their youngest brother’s wife. “He fell again last night. The tox screen came back positive.”
The moment passed. The lights came up. Kevin climbed through the ropes and walked down the aisle without looking back. In the locker room, he sat on a metal folding chair and unwrapped his hands. His knuckles were raw. His knees ached. His phone buzzed: a text from his wife. Kids are asleep. They asked when you’ll be home. I said soon. At nine, the phone rang
“I’ll call Mom,” he said, and hung up.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t hear his father’s voice answering back. He didn’t have one now
Then he sat there a long time, listening to the crowd thin out, the janitor’s broom sweeping popcorn from the concrete. On the wall, a black-and-white photo of the old Von Erichs—six boys in matching robes, their father in the middle, all of them smiling. None of the six were still alive except him. None except Kevin.
He climbed into the ring. Across from him stood a man he’d wrestled a hundred times, a hired hand from Florida with a bleach-blond mullet and no idea what this meant. The bell rang.