My name is Tony.
Ive been a writer at the Source Magazine for nearly ten years.
Throughout my career Ive broken stories, got the big scoops and seen my name flash across the screen with an article Ive prepared. To this day, I still feel a great thrill whenever my work is published.
Ive covered politics, music in all forms, television, film, sporting events and even professional wrestling. Some say Im a jack of all trades, master of none. I wouldve loved to stay in one field but it never worked out that way. No, my career has led me down several different roads and none more, challenging shall we say, than my interactions with Justin Cooper.
Yes.
That Justin Cooper.
The Justin Cooper.
I wrote a feature on him back in 2005 for a different publication. It revolved around a week we spent together on tour. I was his human shadow, following along, never interacting, just observing as the most successful rap star in Australian music history did his thing. I saw an arrogant kid do what he wanted, when he wanted to do it and somehow, even with so much confrontation from big record labels and media figureheads, I saw this kid reach heights never seen before.
Fast forward a few years later and I covered his retirement from the music industry. We laughed. That feature was a comedy piece and I had it framed for my office. A joke we all thought. Wrestling? Not a chance. The idea that this kid who couldnt get along with anyone would be successful twice in his life was impossible.
That feature, its beautiful frame and all, no longer hangs on my wall. Ive never read it again. Now, it sits in Justins house alongside his wrestling championships. Whenever he invites me over for drinks, even as a thirty-four-year-old man, Justin still becomes that arrogant little kid who must remind me that I dared to laugh at his dream. I said it was impossible.
Thats the thing about Justin Cooper. I said it earlier, he does what he wants, when he wants to do it. No matter if he is nineteen or thirty-four. Justin is smug. Justin is arrogant. Hell tell you that but thats what makes him great. You dont believe in him? Justin doesnt give a fuck.
So, as I sit here on the edge of retirement I couldnt imagine going out on any other story. For the final time, please take a seat and relax. This is a little story of my final journey with Justin Cooper. My final time, sitting across from my friend, someone who has grown to share a common respect with me.
***
Over here, Tonz.
A warm greeting awaited me as I arrived in to the bar where we agreed to meet. New York. The home of Madison Square Garden and the place where Justin would be competing. A World Championship match against a man he tells me is, and I quote, Worse than Ricky Runn.
The seat was cold and hard. Around us it wasnt as busy as I had expected. For the most part it seemed like the bar held truck drivers and grizzled old veterans of the bar. Locals, I could tell by the way the barman spoke to the few other patrons by their first name. For a big city, this was one of the few local hotspots where tourists wouldnt visit. I could see why. The room was poorly lit, the television... well they didnt have one and it clearly hadnt caught up to current regulations as the bar stunk of smoke.
Drink? asked Justin, downing a glass of whiskey.
I declined.
The barman poured Justin another drink. I watched him without saying a word. It was always interesting to see him. I found that letting him speak without asking anything was an effective way to get Justin to open up. From the first time we worked together, back when I shadowed him for a week, I never learnt so much about the man behind the character than I did when he forgot I was there. His face was stained with a beard. It was unclean, patchy at best and his eyes were dark underneath. As he grabbed the glass I noticed bruised knuckles and his clothes were wore and dirty.
What do you call the man who defeats the greatest to ever live? Justin said, he took a drag from his freshly lit cigarette whilst peering across the bar. His eyes never meeting mine. I wasnt sure. I asked you that a long time ago. At the time the answers were few. These days pretty much anyone has beaten Ty by now. A cheap imitation of what he once was, Tony. My achievement, gone down the fucking drain, because Ty couldnt hang it up. He had to come back and for what?
He took another drag of the cigarette. His eyes wandered over to meet mine and there they stayed. Justin was always hard to read and now, on this final meeting, I couldnt tell what I was looking at. The guy was different. He was checked out. I only came to this realisation later. I could easily act like some prophet but it was only as I walked away from the meeting. The brief five-minute conversation that Im detailing now, that I realised it.
We continued. With a certain intrigue, I waited for him to speak again. The silence grew awkward as he continued smoking and slowly blowing the smoke back in my face. Sometimes he made rings. Still a total prick.
Why am I still doing this? Justin liked to ask questions of me. It was a power thing for him. He wanted to have some control and now, as his smoke dwindle away and he added to the thickness of the air inside the bar, Justin needed that. Control was slipping away for him professional. He had lost the World Championship, you see. Not the right to be called champion but the physical belt. Taken by the challenger, Garth Black. That had torn away at him. To have it ripped away so easily, control slipping through his fingers so he looked for something he could control. He looked at me as an easy mark.
Unfortunately, I wasnt. Justin received another glass of whiskey almost immediately. He took a deep sip and slid the glass over to the barman. Refill. Slowly, he reached down and pull up a bag. Black, gym style and seconds later it was gone. The bag wasnt important. What was important was the thing inside it. A title belt. Not the title belt he had lost but a replica as I would soon discover.
They sent me this since Im doing media tomorrow. Cant have a champion without a belt they said. Justin spat. The thought of wearing this belt was vile. It wasnt his belt. The one he had worked so hard to achieve. This was a lie. It was fake. I will not wear it. Fuck em. Let them fire me. Im over it. Im over the games. Ive played this game for seven years. Ive climbed to the top of the mountain, Tony. Look at me now! Do I look happy?
He didnt. The signs were all there. You just had to be looking for them. Garth Black. Three times Ive beaten him and now Im going for the fourth. Then itll be Eve or Flex. The cycle is never ending. They just keep coming and Im sick of it. Im done. Everything keeps spinning no matter what you do. Im not important to this company. The wheel keeps turning with or without me.
The fake title belt sat on the wood of the bar. It looked beautiful. The gold, jewels and crisp leather strapping. For the common person, they wouldnt be able to tell the difference. Justin however could. He saw it as a lie. A symbol of his failure. He wanted the real thing. Garth Black. Again. Hes got my title and they send me this. They slap me in the face by telling me to go on television with a childs toy wrapped around my waist. I will not do it! I've given everything to this federation, I've achieved my dreams and yet here I am still feeling like I have no control over anything. I thought that once I became World Champion that I'd be able to control my own destiny but ever since I've been nothing but a puppet for Garth. He has been the one in control. Well, that ends this Sunday!
"It all ends when I reach down to that place which made me famous. When I return to my mayhem roots one final time. Whether I win or lose, Garth Black will forever remember the day he stole my World Championship. It'll be a moment when he's old and retired that he regrets because of all the pain he suffered as a result in our Last Man Standing Match. He will remember what happens when you take what I earned. I don't have much left, Tony but I sure as hell have one last ass kicking left in me for that son of a bitch!" He stood up and threw a glass. It shattered.
***
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the last time I ever interviewed Justin Cooper. Five minutes in a local bar with a man who had lost himself. They had taken the one thing that had driven him. He had dreamed of becoming World Champion for years. Finally, he achieved it and right away someone had deprived him of the celebrating. That seemed to be a theme for Justin. Whenever hed win anything, it was haunted by a sense of doom.
On this occasion, we were asked to leave following his outburst. Justin went one way and I went the other. I havent spoken to him since.
Well, I did get one text message from him in the days after. One on the night he defended the WZCW World Heavyweight Championship against Garth Black. It was just two words. For all the hype, the celebrations and the smugness. I truly believe that Justin Cooper is one of the most real athletes Ive ever encountered. Athletes might even be the wrong wording. He is as real a person as Ive ever sat down with. I said it in an article when he left music, you may have dislike him, even hated him but youll miss Justin when hes gone.
It was as I reflected on that statement when I realised it. Nobody else had figured it out in the days leading up to his Madison Square Garden showdown. It was right there. For all to see if they just opened their eyes.
Win, lose or draw.
This match was to be his last.
And his final two words?
Fuck Garth.
