Post by Graham Gosch on Feb 16, 2018 5:03:18 GMT
Who or What is #GOSCHSTYLE
Deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth guide us into a field of green grass surrounded by a couple thousand screaming fans in the stands. It's the fourth quarter of the NAIA Collegiate Football playoffs and from our view we can see eleven men break a huddle and walk towards the camera. Five larger men line up on parallel to one another on the line of scrimmage as the leader of them barks out orders. The men across from them in dirtied white jerseys are screaming and using hand signals to communicate silently to one another among the crowd noise and confusion. The camera pans to the scoreboard where we see Chattanooga is up four points 21-17.
The scene pulls wide and we see a jersey with the last name "GOSCH" across the back in dark blue letters above the number 11. His feet are perfectly spaced apart in an athletic stance as the offense begins to move and the quarterback hands the ball off behind him; without warning Gosch is moving quickly towards the collisions in front of him as a body appears to leap over the larger men on the line but he is suddenly met facemask to facemask by Gosch who stops him dead in the air before dropping him to the bottom of the pile.
"HES SHORT, HES SHORT", Gosch yells out waving his arms in denial. The referees in the zebra stripes agree as they wave their hands and signal that he is indeed short of the goal line that stood in front of Gosch.
The players in the dirtied white Chatanooga jerseys celebrate around him as he throws his hands in the air.
"TACKLE MADE BY GRAHAM GOSCH.....GOSCH.....GOSCH", the words that started from the speakers of the football stadium echo into an eternity as the scene fades to darkness.
"GOSCH.... YOU'RE UP NEXT", the darkness disappears as we see a man sitting on a wooden bench leaned over with a towel on his head. The football field is gone but as the man throws the towel off of his head the look in his eyes are the draw the same intensity that the previous scene had given us. No more field, no more team mates. The voice that echoed through the stadium was gone but his name is still the same. The feeling is still the same. He doesn't need a team to lead to feel as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. It's been like that his entire life.
That's what happens when your blood line is the legacy of modern day technical wrestling. You don't need anyone to tell you how important it is every time you step foot into wrestling ring. You've paved a path of expectations that nobody can live up to you besides you.... and even that is a tall order to fill. Graham stands up from the wooden bench and throws the towel to the tiled floor of the locker room. He bends down and uses both of his hands to slap his thighs before moving them up to slap his face.
"This is fucking Gosch Style...go time baby", he walks towards the door and as his hand reaches forward he swings open the door and as we hear the crowd cheering and the sounds of "When Everything Falls" bouncing off the walls of a local hall that hosts professional wrestling we fade again and the door opening turns into the front door of a suburban house. Graham is no longer in his wrestling attire, but instead jeans and a flannel shirt.
He enters into a living room with a large L shaped couch on top of a wooden floor, on the couch is an older man that resembles Graham but with a weathered face and grey hair.
"Son", the man says as he turns his head towards Graham.
Graham smiles softly with the hint of a small laugh, "Pops.."
"Do what to I owe this pleasure?" he turns the television off and gets up from the couch embracing Graham.
Graham recicprocates the sentiment, "You can hug me now, but you aren' t going to like why I'm here..."
The old man pats Graham on the shoulder with a bit of crisp, "Nonsense. I've already been getting text messages from some of the guys around the neighborhood. I heard the news."
"And yet you still left the door unlocked...", theres a brief moment where the two of them stare at each other before exchanging a laugh, "Before you tell me this is a mistake I need you to hear me out."
His old man throws his hands up in protest, "No need to explain, Graham. You're still chasing the ghost of Pap. I've tried to sway you away from this for years. I tried to tell you to stay away from these carnies. They'll use you up and spit you out sooner than you'll be able to reach any sort of self preserving legacy", he pauses for a moment, "You'll just need to figure it out on your own."
Graham nods his head in annoyance with his lips pursed. He knew his father wouldn't approve of any of this. Since he was a child the only thing his dad made him promise was that he would exhaust all professional options before he decided that becoming a professional wrestler was the path he would follow. A path his Great Grandfather Georg had made famous all those years ago.
"The gym is going well. I've got guys from all around the world coming in to train, pops. I can't just stand by and teach everything I know to watch it be used by others in competition while I crunch numbers behind a desk", he breaks eye contact with his father, "I'm not saying that isn't a life worth living... but..."
Graham was cut off, but not by any vocal objection by his father. Instead it was the disapproving head shake that he saw in rebuttal. People often say they'd rather be yelled at by their parents then feel the tension of silence from the ones they love.
"But what, Graham? You'd rather sacrifice your body for some faceless entity in front of a bunch of assholes drinking soda and smashing fried foods in their face? You have your life set. A gym. Friends. I know you don't like to talk about her much but you've got Nora as well out of some stroke of luck", he walks away from Graham and into the kitchen.
Graham follows closely behind as his father pours himself a stiff bourbon from the bar, "Nora is going too, I can't just let her walk into a place like this alone. I won't."
"You really think your industry is good for relationships, Graham? Your grandfather made me SWEAR I'd never get into that industry. He knew what it did to his father and he told me to tell you the same. It's not the matches it's the short recovery time. The travel. The toll it takes mentally. I don't want to see that happen to you."
A long drink from the clear glass is finished by a worrisome stare into Graham's eyes. A foreshadowing, heart breaking, stare.
"Look.... maybe you and grandpa weren't made for it but I am. Pap knew I was and that's why he gave me old VHS and film reels. That's why he sat me down well into his nineties and showed me Catch Style Grappling", there was another person who knew Graham had it in him. He knows it isn't the place to use her as an example but he feels desperate, "Mom knew it too...sh-"
"DO NOT bring her into this. Your mother, god rest her soul, is rolling over in her god damn grave knowing you're going to some factory to fight for whatever acceptance or purpose you feel like you don't have in this life." Tears begin to build and roll down the hardened cheeks of the old man. he can't bare to mention her name in a time like this and is shocked Graham would even consider it.
"Just do me a favor.... would ya?" his father looks up at Graham wiping the tears away, "Don't fucking fail. Don't go into this for her and thinking you're going to protect her. From what you've told me she's more than capable of defending herself. And don't go into this for Pap, either. Don't use him as an excuse to dive back into this carny life. If you're going to do it, do it for you. Do it because you want to be the god damn best."
Graham's defeated posture perks up, he pushes his chest out and walks over to his father placing his hand on a shoulder.
"I'm doing this for our last name. The same reason you worked for years in a factory to make enough money for mom to drag me around to wrestling tounraments. The same reason grandpa slaved in that same god damn factory years before you. Our name doesn't deserve to be buried in a factory or spoken about as if it's a ghost in this industry. As long as there's a Gosch alive on this planet there should be a Gosch in the ring. The styles that have been summoned from circus tents and trampolines, Pop are demeaning to what Pap did. The factory will know now what the world has forgotten all too easily. Gosch style... is the only style. This is our legacy..."
As the two go to embrace the scene swtiches back to Graham walking through the locker room door we had previously seen him approach and down the hall through backstage help, catering, and the medical staff. His music still plays anticipating his emergence from behind the curtains.
"This.....this is fucking Gosch Style..."
The scene pulls wide and we see a jersey with the last name "GOSCH" across the back in dark blue letters above the number 11. His feet are perfectly spaced apart in an athletic stance as the offense begins to move and the quarterback hands the ball off behind him; without warning Gosch is moving quickly towards the collisions in front of him as a body appears to leap over the larger men on the line but he is suddenly met facemask to facemask by Gosch who stops him dead in the air before dropping him to the bottom of the pile.
"HES SHORT, HES SHORT", Gosch yells out waving his arms in denial. The referees in the zebra stripes agree as they wave their hands and signal that he is indeed short of the goal line that stood in front of Gosch.
The players in the dirtied white Chatanooga jerseys celebrate around him as he throws his hands in the air.
"TACKLE MADE BY GRAHAM GOSCH.....GOSCH.....GOSCH", the words that started from the speakers of the football stadium echo into an eternity as the scene fades to darkness.
"GOSCH.... YOU'RE UP NEXT", the darkness disappears as we see a man sitting on a wooden bench leaned over with a towel on his head. The football field is gone but as the man throws the towel off of his head the look in his eyes are the draw the same intensity that the previous scene had given us. No more field, no more team mates. The voice that echoed through the stadium was gone but his name is still the same. The feeling is still the same. He doesn't need a team to lead to feel as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. It's been like that his entire life.
That's what happens when your blood line is the legacy of modern day technical wrestling. You don't need anyone to tell you how important it is every time you step foot into wrestling ring. You've paved a path of expectations that nobody can live up to you besides you.... and even that is a tall order to fill. Graham stands up from the wooden bench and throws the towel to the tiled floor of the locker room. He bends down and uses both of his hands to slap his thighs before moving them up to slap his face.
"This is fucking Gosch Style...go time baby", he walks towards the door and as his hand reaches forward he swings open the door and as we hear the crowd cheering and the sounds of "When Everything Falls" bouncing off the walls of a local hall that hosts professional wrestling we fade again and the door opening turns into the front door of a suburban house. Graham is no longer in his wrestling attire, but instead jeans and a flannel shirt.
He enters into a living room with a large L shaped couch on top of a wooden floor, on the couch is an older man that resembles Graham but with a weathered face and grey hair.
"Son", the man says as he turns his head towards Graham.
Graham smiles softly with the hint of a small laugh, "Pops.."
"Do what to I owe this pleasure?" he turns the television off and gets up from the couch embracing Graham.
Graham recicprocates the sentiment, "You can hug me now, but you aren' t going to like why I'm here..."
The old man pats Graham on the shoulder with a bit of crisp, "Nonsense. I've already been getting text messages from some of the guys around the neighborhood. I heard the news."
"And yet you still left the door unlocked...", theres a brief moment where the two of them stare at each other before exchanging a laugh, "Before you tell me this is a mistake I need you to hear me out."
His old man throws his hands up in protest, "No need to explain, Graham. You're still chasing the ghost of Pap. I've tried to sway you away from this for years. I tried to tell you to stay away from these carnies. They'll use you up and spit you out sooner than you'll be able to reach any sort of self preserving legacy", he pauses for a moment, "You'll just need to figure it out on your own."
Graham nods his head in annoyance with his lips pursed. He knew his father wouldn't approve of any of this. Since he was a child the only thing his dad made him promise was that he would exhaust all professional options before he decided that becoming a professional wrestler was the path he would follow. A path his Great Grandfather Georg had made famous all those years ago.
"The gym is going well. I've got guys from all around the world coming in to train, pops. I can't just stand by and teach everything I know to watch it be used by others in competition while I crunch numbers behind a desk", he breaks eye contact with his father, "I'm not saying that isn't a life worth living... but..."
Graham was cut off, but not by any vocal objection by his father. Instead it was the disapproving head shake that he saw in rebuttal. People often say they'd rather be yelled at by their parents then feel the tension of silence from the ones they love.
"But what, Graham? You'd rather sacrifice your body for some faceless entity in front of a bunch of assholes drinking soda and smashing fried foods in their face? You have your life set. A gym. Friends. I know you don't like to talk about her much but you've got Nora as well out of some stroke of luck", he walks away from Graham and into the kitchen.
Graham follows closely behind as his father pours himself a stiff bourbon from the bar, "Nora is going too, I can't just let her walk into a place like this alone. I won't."
"You really think your industry is good for relationships, Graham? Your grandfather made me SWEAR I'd never get into that industry. He knew what it did to his father and he told me to tell you the same. It's not the matches it's the short recovery time. The travel. The toll it takes mentally. I don't want to see that happen to you."
A long drink from the clear glass is finished by a worrisome stare into Graham's eyes. A foreshadowing, heart breaking, stare.
"Look.... maybe you and grandpa weren't made for it but I am. Pap knew I was and that's why he gave me old VHS and film reels. That's why he sat me down well into his nineties and showed me Catch Style Grappling", there was another person who knew Graham had it in him. He knows it isn't the place to use her as an example but he feels desperate, "Mom knew it too...sh-"
"DO NOT bring her into this. Your mother, god rest her soul, is rolling over in her god damn grave knowing you're going to some factory to fight for whatever acceptance or purpose you feel like you don't have in this life." Tears begin to build and roll down the hardened cheeks of the old man. he can't bare to mention her name in a time like this and is shocked Graham would even consider it.
"Just do me a favor.... would ya?" his father looks up at Graham wiping the tears away, "Don't fucking fail. Don't go into this for her and thinking you're going to protect her. From what you've told me she's more than capable of defending herself. And don't go into this for Pap, either. Don't use him as an excuse to dive back into this carny life. If you're going to do it, do it for you. Do it because you want to be the god damn best."
Graham's defeated posture perks up, he pushes his chest out and walks over to his father placing his hand on a shoulder.
"I'm doing this for our last name. The same reason you worked for years in a factory to make enough money for mom to drag me around to wrestling tounraments. The same reason grandpa slaved in that same god damn factory years before you. Our name doesn't deserve to be buried in a factory or spoken about as if it's a ghost in this industry. As long as there's a Gosch alive on this planet there should be a Gosch in the ring. The styles that have been summoned from circus tents and trampolines, Pop are demeaning to what Pap did. The factory will know now what the world has forgotten all too easily. Gosch style... is the only style. This is our legacy..."
As the two go to embrace the scene swtiches back to Graham walking through the locker room door we had previously seen him approach and down the hall through backstage help, catering, and the medical staff. His music still plays anticipating his emergence from behind the curtains.
"This.....this is fucking Gosch Style..."
GRAHAM GOSCH
@grapsgod
@grapsgod
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