by Michael Chin
One night at the matches, midway through our show, Ender Chung got knocked silly on a ring-apron powerbomb, when he took the brunt of the impact on the back of his skull.
Though his wrestling gimmick was that of a classic Chinaman, No English! No English! when the broadcasters put a mic in his face, he spoke normal English around the boys, a native of Kentucky with a hint of a southern drawl in his voice.
But that night, after he came to backstage in a cold sweat, squinting up at the bright fluorescent lights, and after the masked visage of Shibboleth the Destructor was the first to cross his sightline, he screamed, Mother! Mother! Great big elongated Os like he could feel it. Like if he could say the words long enough he could wrap them around her and bring her to him, bring her arms around him, so she could tell him it would all be OK until he came to his senses and it was OK again.
I guess we all wanted that.
Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and is an alum of Oregon State’s MFA Program. He won Bayou Magazine’s Knudsen Prize for fiction and has published in journals including The Normal School and Bellevue Literary Review. Find him at miketchin.com and follow him on Twitter @miketchin.