Table of Contents
Dedication
Copyright Page
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINENTEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For all the Superstars I’ve loved to watch since I was a kid. And especially for WWE Hall of Famer “The Unpredictable” Johnny Rodz, who pumped iron next to me at the Gladiator’s Gym on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
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CHAPTER ONE
“OH, SAY, CAN YOU SEE, BY THE DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT, WHAT SO PROUDLY WE HAILED AT THE TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING?. . .”
Shawn Reynolds, part of the huge crowd that filled the Scottrade Center in St. Louis, stood in silence with his father and younger brother as pop singer Sheryl Crow—a St. Louis native—sang the first words of the “Star-Spangled Banner.”
Shawn had been doubtful when his brother, Peter, had announced that what he wanted for his tenth birthday was to attend a World Wrestling Entertainment live event in St. Louis. It was a long drive from their home in Columbia, Missouri, to St. Louis, and the night would end late. Their parents were pretty strict about the boys sticking to a regular bedtime. Plus, how could they even get tickets?
“Please, Shawn,” Peter had begged. “If I ask Dad, he’ll say no. But if we both ask . . .”
It wasn’t such a shock that Peter wanted to see the WWE in person. He was a huge fan, as was their dad, Sanford. Shawn, though, had never cared for wrestling. Basically, he thought it was the dumbest thing ever. Still, Shawn had chimed in on his brother’s behalf and had even found three tickets on a local website. The kicker was when Shawn donated some of his snow-shoveling money to help pay for the tickets.
Just a week ago, Peter had come out for breakfast to find the tickets on the table. He’d been thrilled. If only they could have found a fourth. Not for his mom, Carla, who would be working that evening—she was a children’s librarian at the Columbia Public Library. The fourth ticket would have gone to Alex Garcia, the son of the Reynoldses’ closest family friends and one of Shawn’s best buddies. Alex was the world’s biggest WWE fan—even bigger than Peter.
Shawn glanced to his left. Next to him was his tall, athletic dad, standing ramrod straight like the soldier he was. Beyond his dad was Peter, who had the same short, brown hair and blue eyes as Shawn and was nearly as tall, even though he was two years younger.
As Sheryl soared into the final verse, Shawn wondered how she could sing in front of twenty thousand people. If it were him, he’d have bolted a long time ago since he suffered from body-numbing stage fright. He never played his guitar in front of people. An oral report in school? That gave him actual hives.
“. . . o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!”
The song ended, the crowd roared, and indoor fireworks blasted skyward.
“Whaddya think, Shawnie?” his father boomed, taking in the atmosphere. “You lovin’ it?”
“Not sure, Dad,” Shawn replied. Every so often, he tried to watch the WWE on television with his father and brother. He never lasted more than one bout.
Sanford laughed heartily as they all sat down. “It’s okay to say no, son. I’m a soldier. My commanders specialize in saying no!”
“Well, I’m a fan, Dad,” Peter piped up. “When I grow up, I’m going to be the chief executioner of the WWE!”
Shawn smiled. His brother was constantly using big words, and he didn’t always use them correctly. Right there, for example, he meant to say “chief executive,” meaning “boss,” instead of “executioner,” meaning “someone who puts another person to death for a crime they committed.”
Sanford shook a finger in mock warning. “How about you finish elementary school before you make a career choice.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A voice boomed over the public address system. “Welcome to a very special winter break edition of WWE Raw!”
“Here comes a cameraman!” Sanford pointed to an approaching TV cameraman. “Hold up your signs!”
Shawn and Peter had made poster board signs for the show. Actually, Shawn had made the signs, since he was a good artist and Peter had the talent of a garden slug. Peter’s sign featured the WWE logo and read: I LOVE RAW AND IT’S MY TENTH BIRTHDAY! Shawn’s read: HEY! PUT MY BIRTHDAY BRO ON TV!
To Shawn’s surprise, the cameraman stopped in front of them. “Hey, birthday dude and his big bro!” he called in a raspy voice. “You’re on television!”
Peter waved his sign wildly. The people in their section cheered.
“Hey, birthday dude!” the cameraman shouted. “Say hey to your mom at home!”
“She’s working!” Peter protested.
“Say hey, anyway!”
“Hi, Mom!” Peter yelled, and waved his sign again.
As the cameraman moved on, Shawn felt his cell phone—an older model that used to belong to his dad—vibrate in his pocke
t. He wondered if it was his mom, somehow watching from the library. “Hello?”
“Hello? Hello? All you can say is hello? This is the most amazing thing ever!” It was Alex, and his words tumbled on top of one another. This was typical. Alex either loved something or he hated something. He was never neutral. “I got you and Peter on my DVR! You guys are so lucky! Uh-oh. My mom is yelling at me! Gotta go!”
End of conversation. It was a good thing, though, because at the far end of the arena, a giant video display started flashing multiple colors. Irish rock music blared, and the hugest, palest, most red-haired man Shawn had ever seen strutted through the entrance. “That’s Sheamus. He’s the number one contender,” Sanford explained as the crowd booed. “Everyone hates him.”
“He’s so pale, he looks like human mayonnaise,” Shawn joked.
Sanford cracked up. “That’s what Cena always says.”
“Who’s Cena?”
“John Cena. My favorite wrestler. Look. Sheamus has a mic. Let’s listen,” Sanford replied.
The lights dimmed, and spotlights glinted off Sheamus’s pasty skin.
“Hello, St. Louis!” Sheamus had a serious Irish accent. “I’m not even scheduled to wrestle this evening. I guess the Raw general manager didn’t want to give you people a display of actual talent!”
The boos grew louder. Shawn heard his dad and Peter join in. He wondered if he should, too. This guy gave new meaning to the word obnoxious.
Sheamus wasn’t fazed. “That’s okay, that’s all right. I’ll see all these boys—not men, boys—in two months in Atlanta at WrestleMania when I take away John Cena’s title!”
Shawn didn’t know much about the WWE, but he knew about WrestleMania, since his dad ordered the pay-per-view every year. It was the WWE’s biggest event. Most WWE shows were held in arenas like this one. But WrestleMania took place in huge football stadiums. Sanford had told Shawn that even when he’d been overseas on active military duty, he’d gather with the guys in his unit to watch WrestleMania on a closed-circuit feed.
The bell sounded to start the night’s matches, but Sheamus wasn’t done. “I’ve changed my mind,” he bleated. “I think I will wrestle tonight. I don’t care what the first match is supposed to be. I’ve been the champion, I’m the number one contender, I’m giving you all a winter break surprise. Raw general manager? Make me a match!”
Suddenly, loud music started up—intense hip-hop.
“Whacha gonna do when we come for you?
Booyaka, booyaka, 619! Booyaka, booyaka, 619!”
“Rey Mysterio! That’s his theme music!” Peter shouted.
All around Shawn, people were calling the Superstar’s name. Shawn expected an oversize athlete like gigantic Sheamus, so it was a shock when a small man ran into the arena in time to the music. He wore loose-fitting red pants and a red, black, and white mask that covered his hair, forehead, nose, and cheeks. He received a thunderous welcome. Shawn glanced at Sheamus. He was twice the size of this little dude.
“Sheamus is going to kill him,” Shawn guessed.
“Maybe not,” his dad replied. “Rey’s fast. Rey’s smart. Rey knows it’s not how big you are. It’s how you face your fears and overcome them. The match isn’t over till the ref counts to three.”
The crowd erupted as Rey launched himself into the ring and did a back flip–front flip combination just for fun. Then the bell sounded, and the two Superstars collided.
Sheamus tried to use his superior size to his advantage, while Rey relied on quickness and agility. Sheamus smashed Rey to the canvas with a short-arm clothesline and managed a two-count. A moment later, Sheamus lifted Rey overhead like a baby, spun him around, and then hurled him to the floor outside the ring in a powerbomb. Rey lay on the cold concrete for a count of eight, but somehow got back in the ring.
Sanford leaned toward Shawn. “Look at Sheamus. He can’t believe Rey even got up!”
Angry that he hadn’t been able to finish off Rey, Sheamus tried to hoist Rey, but Rey slipped away and bounded to the top ropes of the corner. The crowd cheered, which got Sheamus even angrier. “Show me what you’ve got, little man!” he bellowed.
Sanford leaned over to Shawn. “Last October I saw Rey in this amazing match against Alberto Del Rio. It was the night that SmackDown moved over to the Syfy network,” Sanford related as Rey and Sheamus crisscrossed off the ropes. “He pulled that one out. Maybe he can do it again.”
“Never heard of Del Rio,” Shawn admitted. “The only Superstar I kinda know is Shawn Michaels, and that’s because you guys named me for him. You told me he retired.”
“Why didn’t you name me for a Superstar, too?” Peter asked.
“Because your mom wanted to name you for a saint,” Sanford responded.
Peter got the last word in, as usual. “She goofed.”
“Come on down, you runt!” Sheamus taunted Rey loudly enough for Shawn to hear.
Rey came on down. He did a flying forward flip and snapped his legs closed around Sheamus’s head. Momentum flipped Sheamus. A millisecond later, the Celtic Warrior’s shoulders were pinned to the mat.
“One, two, three!” the crowd chanted as the referee slapped the count on the canvas.
The match was over. The arena went crazy.
If a guy like Rey can beat a huge guy like Sheamus, then maybe there’s hope for a little guy like me, Shawn thought. So many times in his life, especially on the ball field, he’d been made fun of.
Sheamus bounded to his feet, astonished and angry that he had lost. The audience booed again. Shawn assumed they were booing Sheamus, and Rey must have assumed that, too. Neither saw a heavily tattooed Superstar sneak toward the ring holding a red gym bag.
Peter saw him first. “That’s CM Punk,” he shouted. “He hates Rey!”
“Rey hates him, too. They’ve been feuding for years,” Sanford explained to Shawn.
The crowd tried to get Rey to pay attention, but he was too distracted by Sheamus. Punk approached Rey unnoticed. Suddenly, Punk swung the gym bag with all his might, catching Rey on his right ankle. Clearly, there was more in the bag than just workout gear, since Rey crumpled, clutching at his ankle.
The crowd screamed at Punk. He smiled and shook hands with Sheamus to even more boos. Then the two Superstars walked together to the exit.
Silence fell over the arena. Rey slowly tried to stand.
As Shawn watched in dismay, Rey fell back onto the canvas, pounding it in frustration.
“That’s so wrong!” Shawn exclaimed to his father.
“You care?” Sanford asked.
“Of course I care!”
“If you care, you’re on your way to being part of the WWE Universe,” Sanford declared.
Right then as he looked worriedly at Rey still sprawled on the ring’s canvas, Shawn didn’t know if his father was right. What he did know was that he hated CM Punk for what he’d just done to a Superstar who’d done nothing to him.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten minutes later, Rey was helped from the ring.
“He’ll find a way to get back at Punk,” Sanford told Shawn.
“Not if he can’t wrestle!” Shawn shot back.
Sanford pointed. In the ring was a huge, dark-haired man in a suit and tie. “Look. That’s Vince McMahon with the microphone. He’s the head of the whole WWE. Maybe he’ll do something.”
Mr. McMahon raised his hand for silence. “What you just witnessed, ladies and gentlemen, was one of the most disgusting acts by a so-called Superstar in the storied history of the WWE. CM Punk! You’re a punk!”
The crowd roared, then booed as Punk appeared on the huge screen via a feed from the locker room. Shawn wondered what he could possibly say. Would he apologize?
No way.
“Mr. McMahon—Mysterio’s been ducking me for months. He deserved it!”
Even Shawn found himself booing until Mr. McMahon quieted the crowd again. “Actually, CM Punk, the joke is on you. Forget WrestleMania. You’re not wr
estling again until Rey Mysterio says you can. How about that?”
“What?” Punk was livid. “That’s not—”
“Bye-bye, Punkie Pie!” Mr. McMahon waved at the irate Punk, and the crowd went wild. Shawn was thrilled. Punk had gotten what he deserved.
Then Mr. McMahon welcomed two more Superstars to the ring.
“The big guy in the purple shirt is John Cena. He holds the WWE Championship,” Sanford explained as the crowd roared. “The other guy is Kofi Kingston. He’s really fun to watch.”
Cena took the mic. “There are a lot of young people here tonight. Hello to the next generation of the WWE Universe!”
Cena handed the mic to Kingston, who swept his hand around. “Parents, thanks for bringing your sons and daughters!”
More cheers. Shawn looked at his brother. Peter was beaming. It made Shawn feel great that he’d helped make this evening happen. He wasn’t having such a bad time himself, either.
An aide handed Mr. McMahon the WWE Championship. “This is the WWE Championship,” he declared. “Normally, the champ carries this himself. At this WrestleMania, we’re doing it differently. It will be carried in by a young person who earns the title of WWE SuperFan. Our first SuperFan will be strong, determined, and dedicated. He—or she!—will represent the young WWE Universe at events in the year to come. He or she will earn a full college scholarship to be placed in a trust until the SuperFan is ready to start school. For more information, visit WWE.com, the official website of the WWE!”
Shawn saw that Peter was so excited about the contest that he was practically climbing on their dad. “Can I enter? Please? I’ll be the most soporific SuperFan ever!”
Shawn grinned. He knew that soporific meant “causing sleep,” not “super-duper,” like his brother intended.
“It depends,” Sanford said gently.
“On what? It depends on what?”
“It depends on the rules.”
Peter thought for a moment. “Yeah. That’s right. But if I can, will you let me?”
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