Pushing away from the makeshift vanity, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and strode off with a confidence that he did not truly possess. With each step he took towards the commentary table, his limbs grew heavier and heavier; but Louis had taken the time to seal the facepaint, so even if he sweat profusely from either the heat or the building or anxiety getting the better of him, nothing would budge.
Since it was a taping and not a huge event, the audience consisted mostly of students that had yet to make their debuts, and regulars that were a patchwork of friends and families, along with a few local wrestling fans that’d been there since the first show. There was some relief that it wouldn’t be streaming live, so if he botched too badly, it could be edited in post production.
“Going full Zevon, huh?” Rod, the play-by-play commentator, greeted. His black suit and tie were a stark contrast to Mitch’s threadbare T. Rex shirt and worn jeans with holes in the knees.
“It’s what Jodie wanted me to do,” Mitch explained, worried that maybe this wouldn’t be a good idea after all. Who had the intense yearning to deal with an unhinged asshole for several hours?
“Should be fun.” Rod shifted through his papers, and he slid a legal pad and pen in front of Mitch’s seat. “Ingrid’s usually snarky anyway. I reckon you’ll just cuss a more than her?”
“I’ll try not to,” promised Mitch, not wanting to compromise the integrity of Rod’s work; he’d been doing this for over a decade, although with the way that he broadcasted, he may as well come straight from the 1950s. At that moment, Mitch had never been more thankful for having someone so experienced show him the ropes. They went over the card, Rod offering pointers on the various competitors and things that he had observed during his time in Grindhouse Pro, such as flourishes, passive mannerisms, and even projections for what was about to happen.
“You could probably take this with you when you’re back in the ring,” Rod stated matter-of-factly.
“Not gonna lie, I will,” Mitch rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.
“For now, though, if you’re being Zevon, be Zevon. You don’t really need to call the action, but you do need to be biased. Go on tangents. Get mean. You’re here to be entertaining, and maybe a little informative on occasion.” Rod continued to offer pointers, and Mitch hastily scribbled them onto the legal pad. “But if I start calling action, you let me do that; I’ll throw out a hand gesture if I need you to stop talking. And that’s how we’ll work together. Got all that?”
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“Easy enough, I think?” Mitch shrugged with his left arm.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Rod assured him. “Initially, it’ll be clunky. That’s fine.”
“Cool.” Mitch re-read his notes several times, then cleared his throat and glanced over. “Uh, this might be a weird question but…can I ask what it’s like calling one of my matches?”
Sharply inhaling through his nose, Rod looked Mitch up and down. His face bore no expression, and Mitch wondered how well he played poker. “How about I tell you after we’re done here?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine!” Mitch kept his eyes glued to the paper, berating himself for the stupid question. He hoped that the anxiety that was bursting out of his skin wasn’t radioactive, because he was sure that he was positively cancerous right there and then.
The lights flicked off and on, signifying that it was 5 minutes until the tapes rolled. People scurried into place, and it was surreal to witness the action all around, but not taking any part in it. Jodie’s stress could be felt across the room, growing more potent as she crossed over to check on Mitch.
“Don’t worry about me! Go do your girlboss things,” Mitch tried to nonchalantly wave her off, but she frowned at him.
“Did I force you into this? Are you ready? Am I a bad friend?” she asked, her tone frantic.
“Jo, don’t do this right now. We’re only going to amplify one another’s bullshit,” Mitch pleaded, taking her hand into his and squeezing it. “I’ll be alright. Please go away.”
“OK,” she agreed, taking a few steps, only to stop and look back with huge puppy dog eyes.
“Oh my god,” Mitch murmured, then shouted. “I’m gonna do great! Fuck off already!”
“There we go! That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Jodie, and she cheerfully skipped away. Mitch blinked a few times.
“DId you…did you just fucking neg me?” He huffed a laugh. “You bitch.”
“Love you!” Jodie blew him a kiss, which was caught and he shoved it into his mouth.
“By the way,” Rod nudged Mitch to get his attention as he mocked chewed. “I’m sure you know this, but the camera will show us first.”
“Right.” Mitch resisted the urge to scrub his face, and instead scratched his scalp and messed with his own hair. “How do I look?”
“Rabid,” Rod flatly responded.
“Typical, then. Good.” Mitch beamed, and could see Rod trying, and failing, to hold back a smirk. The lights flickered on and off again for the 1 minute warning, and he drummed his fingers against the table. “Almost showtime.”
“Just breathe,” advised Rod. “You’ve cut promos before, you got this.”