Love y Lucha

Part 4

"Break my thumb," Paco told Ramon.

"What?" Paco's brother said, although he was sure he had spoken perfectly clear.

"Just do it," Paco said hurriedly. He lay down on the mat, extending his arm and sacrificed thumb. He was thirteen years old and for some reason he was at his wits end. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time lucha had gone from the carefree days of tumbling and graceful flips to bone bending submission holds and teeth rattling slams to the mat. He knew he should feel fortunate, that the kids who shined shoes and sold candy on the street would give anything to be in his place, to train under the superhero, El Rey Cruz. But for some reason he didn't.

The hierarchy was clear. Just as Paco would follow his father off a cliff, so would his brother for him. Ramon closed his eyes and lunged forward, narrowly missing Paco's hand with his foot.

"You've gotta look where you're going," Paco said through clenched teeth, bracing himself once more.

Ramon took a breath and lunged forward again.

The pain was worth forgetting.

Ramon went and retrieved El Rey.

Paco approached his father, sniveling slightly.

"Apá," Paco said, holding up his hand. His thumb hung at a pitiful angle.

El Rey took him by the wrist, grasping the thumb with two fingers, causing Paco to cry out.

"You're fine," his father said.

"It's broken!"

"No," his father said. "You're fine. Keep going."

"Apá!" Paco uttered.

The conversation was over. Paco couldn't say he felt surprised. Even when he thought he had nothing left to give, El Rey asked for more and more of him.

That was one of the times Paco felt pure hatred towards his father. Still, he continued to do as he said. Eventually, at the age of sixteen, Paco became a técnico's técnico, El Hijo del Rey Cruz. The crowds loved characters like this. They represented something safe and noble. But what they seemed to love even more was a rudo.

The rudos were exhilarating. They hurled insults back at the crowd, they challenged big mouths with an open palm, they thrived off boos and jeers.

And so he convinced his father to let El Hijo del Rey Cruz, el técnico, to evolve into El Devioso, the rudo. His trademark was a long main of curly black hair. It was a westernized look, a tribute to the white wrestlers on TV, the big leagues, where he fantasized about making it someday.

The crowd thrived on the drama that was El Rey and his delinquent son. What had gone wrong? It was all El Devioso, he had taken too many blows to the head. Or worse, he was possessed! Of course God had set out to test El Rey.

Even if El Devioso had rebelled against his father inside the ring, outside the ring Paco still did as he was told. Even in retirement, El Rey still controlled everything that happened in La Ele. But when El Rey proposed a cabello contra cabello match, or a wager of hair versus hair, against another long haired luchador, Inca King, Paco fought it.

Especially when he found out he was slated to lose.

El Devioso was soaring in popularity, he had a chance to turn técnico. There was no reason to knock him down, not now.

But his father insisted, in order for someone to soar, first they had to hit the bottom.

The mask was removed just enough to expose the hair. Strands rained down his back as Paco came to bitter realization that he would never control his own career, not as long as he stayed in La Ele, or anywhere near El Rey.