The year is 2003. It’s October, and Minneapolis is a city on the precipice of something. Greatness? Maybe not...but something is in the air. The Timberwolves have finally cracked the Western Conference Finals. Prince is back on local radio. Every bulletin board along Hennepin is calling out a different Replacements tribute band. There’s a sliver of momentum stirring up in the belly of the beast, that anxious feeling that either excites or scares you, but you know what it means. It means something is about to change.

This town used to be a proving ground for wrestlers all across the country. Armories filled to the rafters. VFW halls thick with smoke and sweat, hosting brawls that your grandparents love to still talk about. A lineage that runs straight back through the AWA and into the identity of the city itself. When that died in 1995, most simply turned away and gave up wrestling as a teenage past time. By 2003, even the hardcore fans struggled to maintain an interest. The WWE reigned supreme, and whilst TNA and Ring of Honor were a nice alternative, they failed to take hold of the fine people of this state.

My name is Artemis “Arty” Johnson. I’m forty years old. Minneapolis born and raised. I’ve covered just about every sport this city’s produced, from high school gyms to half-empty minor league ballparks. Wrestling somehow always slipped past me professionally. Either it wasn’t here, or it didn’t feel like something I recognised. Modern national wrestling promotions never quite captured the magic nor landed the way it did when I was a kid in the seventies. Those people felt larger than life, the rivalries seemed so intense, and the matches may not stand up from an athletic perspective to some of the high flying stunt work that has become very popular these days, but they were dripping with storyline, psychology, and purpose.

So when, a few months ago, I started hearing a few quiet mentions of a guy called Isaac Hale that was looking to put Minneapolis Wrestling back on the map again, I had to pay attention.

As luck would have it, I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew Isaac's grandmother, and so after an exchange of pleasantries on MySpace, I took him up on an offer to stop by his yard and watch him and a handful of others train. What I found wasn’t slick or impressive in the way polished promotions tend to be. They certainly didn't have a production budget. But it was serious. The effort was genuine. And after speaking to a few of the lads and gals, one thing became clear very quickly: they all really believed in this.

Not long after, Isaac and I sat down over steaks and cheap whiskey at a local smokehouse. He slid an “all-access pass” across the table — a laminated index card with my name written on it in marker — and asked if I’d cover North Star Wrestling from day one. No expectations, no spin. Just access and an open mind.

That I could do.

Then nothing. A generic Christmas text. Silence. Until January 8th, 2004, when a short message came through:

“First show. Feb 13th. My backyard. 3pm. Hope you can make it.
— Isaac”

A few days later, a leaflet appeared in my letterbox.


The opening weekend of North Star Wrestling is finally upon us.
Hale Family Grounds, Kenwood. Directions overleaf.

An eight-man tournament across two nights will determine the best of this particular collection of misfits. Full weekend tickets for both shows are available for the price of one.


Isaac Hale vs. Captain Galaxy
Hale has trained and wrestled across the States for over a decade, including a brief spell as WCW enhancement talent in the mid-nineties. A technical wrestler with a grounded approach.
His opponent is the mysterious Captain Galaxy. That is, apparently, all anyone knows.

Gregor Knox vs. Kade Huxley
Gregor Knox was recently released from prison for a crime he insists he didn’t commit, only because someone else got there first. Aggressive, joyless, and far too comfortable with violence.
He faces Kade Huxley, the so-called Grunge Prophet, an unpredictable and inexperienced presence who claims he’s here to leave a mark.

Canvas Creed vs. “Big Flex” Brian Bravo
Some will tell you Canvas isn’t his given name. Those people are wrong. He believes wrestling is art and he’s looking for a masterpiece.
Brian Bravo believes he already is one. Permanently oiled, aggressively muscled, and sporting a questionable seventies moustache. One half of the Yard Kings.

“Sky High” Jaime Rourke vs. “Scrap-Iron” Sam Sharpe
Rourke has been wrestling for sixteen months and moves like gravity is simply an option.
He faces the other Yard King, Sam Sharpe — wiry, mean, and rarely without a rusty spanner in hand.



Hale isn’t just the founder. He’s the centre of everything here. Fifteen years on the road, now in his early thirties, and still feeling like momentum never quite arrived. Where many became cynical and bitter, he decided to switch tact and create his own destiny.


Rourke wrestles on instinct more than anything else. A glorified stuntman to some, but a loveable daredevil to the rest. With only eighteen months under his belt he is still green but improving every day and, more importantly than anything, he is eager to learn.


Creed approaches wrestling as expression as much as it is competition. Beneath the eccentricity is a sharp mind and a deep psychological understanding of the business. There’s also a quiet philosopher within, but he tends to keep his own counsel.


If you didnt know, by reputation alone, that Knox had been in prison before you saw him, he would flagrantly remind you of that as he is rarely seen out of a prison jumpsuit. Some mangled form of protest of innocence I suppose. Knox brings something real and unsettling. He hits hard and lets others ask the questions later.


Loud, delusional, and strangely inseparable. Bravo loves his reflection. Sharpe loves a fight. They cheat, brag, and will do whatever it takes to come out on top. When Sam isn't brooding for an unfair fight, you might find him at the poker table until his bad luck turns his mood foul and he starts swinging.


Cosmic destiny. Interstellar justice. Captain Galaxy fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. Or at least he tries. The kids are gonna love him.


A proficient technician in the ring but a troubled soul out of it - sometimes also in it. He hears whispers and voices, but when they talk to him they dont tend to have much in the way of understanding. Maybe some healthy competition will help him come to terms with whatever it is that troubles him.


A man who claims to have a sinister plan to take over the world. Oh boy.


The NSW ring announcer. Always dressed for the occasion - just usually the wrong one. Is routinely disappointed that this isn't a battle of the bands.

Runs the merch table and cannot abide the Yard Kings. They claim this is why theyve never sold a shirt, but there might be other reasons for that. As the Hale family matriarch, Gail takes no prisoners if she sees any shenanigans, tomfoolery, or chicanery. Her words.


North Star Wrestling is messy. It’s hopeful. It’s held together by belief and some very cheap and run down equipment. If something real is going to rise in Minneapolis again, could this be the first flicker?

Welcome to the beginning of North Star Wrestling.

There is a particular honesty to trading ten bucks to stand in someone’s backyard in the February cold to watch wrestling. Minneapolis had taken a beating that winter, and while the worst of the snow had already been cleared away, patches of old ice still clung stubbornly to the edges of lawns and pavements in Kenwood. The ground was damp, the air sharp enough to sting the lungs if you breathed too deeply, and the sky sat heavy and grey overhead.

Most of the nine people in attendance seemed to be a friend or a family member of someone on the show. A couple, though, stood off to the side as quietly as possible, bundled up and clearly hoping not to be dragged into conversation by anyone overly enthusiastic. There was a smattering of blankets on chairs, and early fears that there wouldnt be enough to go around were unfounded.

The setup was plain. A ring in the backyard. A few folding chairs. The most noticeable change since a previous visit was the addition of Christmas lights wrapped loosely around the ring posts, remnants of a pantomime held there in December that no one had bothered to take down. Once everyone was ushered into place, Rhonda Hogan clicked a boombox to life, and North Star Wrestling officially began.

---

Isaac Hale stepped into the ring and raised his voice to address the small crowd, dispensing with any idea anyone may or may not have had of amplification.

“Alright, uh… thanks for coming out,” he said, scanning the faces around him. “I know it’s cold, and I know this isn’t exactly a big setup, but it means a lot that you’re here. What we’re doing is putting Minnesota wrestling back on the map! Two nights. Eight guys. Only one man will walk out as the best that North Star Wrestling has to offer." The crowd murmured in response.

He nodded once, as if to steady himself. “That’s it. Let’s get this show on the road!”

Captain Galaxy arrived almost immediately, greeting Hale with an enthusiastic handshake. He looked out over the ring with confidence, striking a series of poses as though the space carried more weight than its surroundings suggested.

“Fear not, North Star,” Galaxy announced. “The cosmic balance will be maintained on this day.”

Hale nodded back, expression unreadable.


Hale worked patiently, allowing Galaxy room early before gradually pulling the match into calmer waters. Galaxy fought forward with conviction, throwing himself into openings whenever they appeared, even if the execution sometimes was left a bit lacking. Hale looked to exert control over his cosmic opponent.

When the moment came, it came quickly. Hale cut off Galaxy’s momentum and sent the caped crusader hard into the canvas. A backbreaker followed by a snatch spine buster set up for the finisher. Isaac drove him down with a compact double-underhook driver, that he calls The Halestorm, folding him up for the pin and the first victory in the books of North Star Wrestling.


After the match, and after the dust had settled, Galaxy rose, shook Hale’s hand again, and turned to the crowd to raise his opponents hand in victory.

“The mission continues,” he declared, raising a fist with his other arm. “The stars shall be my guide.”



Gregor Knox didn't care to wait for introductions.

“LOOK at you,” he shouted across the ring as he tore off his prison jumpsuit. “You don’t belong in here with a guy like me.”

It seemed that Knox was right. The match began and Gregor had Huxley completely on the back foot. Large clubbing blows and knife edge chops knocked the wind out of him and had him struggling to get a grip in the match. Huxley flinched at something whilst Gregor posed for the fans, something stirred in him.

Huxley got himself to his feet and then retreated under the familiar pressure from Knox but a slight pause in the big man gave Knox the opportunity he was looking for. He hit a basement dropkick to the knee of the big man and then, after ducking a lariat attempt, rebounded with a chop block that drove Knox down to one knee. The big man tried to adjust but Kade was relentless now. He saw his opportunity and grabbed on with both hands.

He remembered a Ric Flair best of DVD that Isaac had been watching during tryouts. He looked to apply the figure four leg lock to Gregor but his opponents tree trunk legs stopped Kade from being able to actually lock it in. Kade considered his options before a concerned look stretched across his face.

“No..” Huxley whispered. “No, its too soon...”

The opening that Kade had created working on the knee was closing quickly as Knox slapped some life back into his damaged joint. Knox stumbled up and then launched forward, catching Huxley mid-transition with a brutal lariat! Someone in the crowd gasped. He damn near took his head off! He dragged Huxley's limp body and then dropped him with a brutal Hard Times Slam (Boss Man Slam) The three count was elementary.


Knox remained standing afterward, breathing hard, glaring at the crowd.

“Anybody else out there wondering who runs this place.” he barked. “I do. This is my house.”



Brian Bravo arrived with a camera and an expectation of immediate admiration from the crowd. He attempted to recruit someone to take his picture but, when that failed, the referee was pressed into service and a camera shoved into his hands. Bravo posed for a few shots before snatching the camera back and handing it to Sam Sharpe who had just shown up at ringside to support his Yard King buddy. Canvas Creed was next out and with no explanation at all, began pouring blue paint over himself until it ran freely down his head and arms and body and all over the canvas as the match started.

Bravo was completely taken aback and became immediately hesitant to lock up. He complained to the ref, he complained to Sharpe, and he complained to the crowd. It did him no good. Bravo’s confidence collapsed as the two locked up and he was immediately coated in blue paint.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bravo snapped. “You’re ruining my tan!”

As paint transferred from Creed to Bravo’s arm, then his face, Bravo’s focus shifted from distraction to visible distress. Creed remained composed, smiling, and waiting. Bravo started throwing haymakers but they barely grazed and Creed slipped around and launched the big man with a release German suplex. The crowd cheered and Bravo was absolutely shocked. He looked at his muscles and felt betrayed. Another missed haymaker and another release German suplex.

Bravo was now coated in paint and Sharpe rushed over to him with a blanket he had stolen from someone in the audience and tried to wipe the paint off but it simply smeared the paint even more and spread it across the rapidly diminishing bronzed body of 'Big Flex'.

“Stop!” Bravo shouted. “You’re making it worse!”

Brian shoved his partner away and turned back to the action but Creed had finished playing games. He rocked Bravo with a flurry of European uppercuts and then hit one more release German for good measure before signalling that this was over. Bravo groggily stumbled to his feet but he gets caught immediately with an Impaler DDT and Creed locks in a Dragon Sleeper for the submission victory. Bravo taps out and looks close to tears as he rolls out of the ring.


Intermission took the form of a tombola organised by Grandma Gail. Numbers were called out, tickets were misplaced, and complaints were shut down with a level of authority that left little room for argument. At one point Brian Bravo wandered over to collect his prize, now almost completely coated blue, but was waved away by Gail before he could do any damage. She said she would mail it to him.


Jaime Rourke came out to some generic alternative rock and addressed the crowd briefly before his match, pacing with barely contained energy.

“Look, I don’t know how many chances you get to do something like this,” he said. “So I’m not wasting mine. I'm aiming for the tippity top, Sky High baby! Sky high!”

He slapped the top rope and waited for his opponent.


Sharpe came out, alone, but with a wild look in his eyes. Rourke moved relentlessly from the opening bell, darting across the ring and throwing himself into his opponent with little regard for the consequences. A flying back elbow sent Sharpe sprawling to the outside and Rourke scrambled like a cat to the top rope. Just as Sam got to his feet he saw Rourke flying at him with a moonsault to the outside, wiping both men out.

The crowd stirred into life as Jaime climbed the ropes again but this time he was cut off and had his legs pulled from under him. Sharpe reigned down body shots and hit a snap neckbreaker that got a two count. The wiry bruiser took control of the match. Sharpe was the smaller man but his physicality and aggression was enough to cut the high flyer down to size and keep him grounded. He barked at Rourke and the crowd alike as he looked to slow the pace right down to a crawl.

“Can't jump around now ey little ant.” Sharpe sneered, "can't dance 'round me."

Jaime looked to dig deep and try to feed off the energy of the crowd, although a few were frozen stiff and were struggling to meet his demands. Rhonda Hogan took it upon herself to start cheering and chanting "Jai-Me! Jai-Me!" A couple of others joined in. So did Grandma Gail. Rourke was finally feeling it and he started firing back. A springboard shining wizard landed on Sharpe but it was only enough for a two count. Rourke couldnt believe it. He thought he had him and then made a rookie mistake as he argued with the referee over the cadence of the count. This allowed Sharpe the time, motive, and opportunity to retrieve his rusty spanner and, in plain view of the referee, he swung for the fences and looked to eliminate his high flying opponent.

Unfortunately for Sam, but fortunately a company with minimal insurance coverage, his swing missed completely and the momentum carried him forward into the ropes. In a slapstick moment he rebounded off the ropes, smacked himself in the head with the rusty spanner and collapsed into a heap on the mat. The referee saw it all but ruled that the match MUST CONTINUE, and Rourke made no mistake in capitalising this time. He shrugged at his fallen opponent and climbed up to the top rope one final time. Frogsplash! 1...2...3. Jaime Rourke wins.


Rourke rolled to the floor afterward, laughing in disbelief as the crowd cheered for him. As Rourke celebrated in and around the ring, Rhonda stepped forward, coughing abruptly to get attention.

“Okay! Um—thank you everyone for coming,” she called out. “Your tickets work tomorrow too, so please come back. Bring people. We’ve been North Star Wrestling. Thanks for coming.”

The cold still hadn't cleared from the air but without the biting edge of the wind it was much more manageable than it was at yesterday's show. The snowbanks were the same dull grey they’d been the night before, and the ground underfoot still held that damp, half-frozen soil that made you wary of every step.

What had changed was the feeling in the crowd, mostly thanks to being more prepared for standing around on a winter’s day in an open space. Most had many more layers than they did last night and a BBQ had a captivated audience that would require some coaxing to depart. All in all, spirits were high, and anticipation was in the air.

The nine from the night before had returned, which speaks to some kind of success, and a few had convinced partners and friends to join them. I did a quick headcount and realised there were twenty-three people gathered here to watch a backyard wrestling promotion in relative discomfort. On a weekend where the WWE were promoting a show with an intergender blindfold match, this was an atypical independent tournament designed to showcase the talent in the matches, rather than insult their audience. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me there. I’ll still watch but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here!

There was no sense of grandeur nor lavish occasion at the Hale Family Grounds, but those who had seen the likes of Gregor Knox, Jaime Rourke, Canvas Creed, and the “North Star” himself Isaac Hale last night were keenly excited to see what they might deliver this time around. Rhonda Hogan paced nearby with her notes, practicing names again, though it was hard to imagine anyone present had forgotten them overnight. She was the exception to prove the rule. She stood up, straightened her hoody, checked her notes one final time before clearing her throat and ushering the crowd to their seats.

It was time for North Star Wrestling: Ascension to begin.

---

Rhonda clapped her hands together, cleared her throat once more for good measure and announced the continuation of the Proving Grounds Tournament, thanking everyone for coming back out in the cold. She got about halfway through her announcement before Gregor Knox appeared from behind the house and stepped into the ring without acknowledgement.

“This is a waste of time,” Knox said, his eyes drifting across the folding chairs and the small crowd, taking stock. “Proving Grounds? I don’t need to prove anything.”

He leaned back against the ropes, jaw set, a grin creeping across his face.

“Nearly twenty-four hours ago, I smashed Kade Huxley,” he continued. “So tonight, I’m not asking for a match. I’m giving someone permission to see if it don’t go the exact same way.”

Knox tore his shirt off and tossed it aside as Rhonda retreated quickly to her seat. Generic alternative rock crackled out of the speakers, signalling the arrival of Jaime Rourke. Knox paced back and forth in the ring, restless and coiled, like a starved beast waiting to be let loose.




Jaime tried to repeat his high-flying heroics from his match against Sam Sharpe, but Knox was much bigger and far more focused. Rourke moved quickly, bounced around and attacked Knox’s legs early, forcing him to turn and reset. He looked to pinpoint the knee that Kade Huxley had worked over yesterday, but he was working over the wrong knee! It hampered Knox, who kept finding himself in the unusual position of being on the back foot, but he was a difficult man to keep down. Jaime went up top and looked to hit a frog splash, but Knox got his knees up!

The pain shot through him immediately, but he had a litany of pain to compare this with, and it didn’t measure up, not by a damn sight. He breathed heavily and willed himself to ignore the knee and get this one over with. He stood up and absorbed Jaime’s strikes, pushing forward without urgency or concern. When he finally caught Rourke mid-strike he easily overpowered him. Rourke tried to hit the ropes but found Knox waiting with a back body drop. He popped back up only for a series of clubbing blows and forearms to drop him to a knee. A headbutt snapped his head back. Knox dragged him upright only to put him down again, slow and deliberate. Methodical.

Rourke refused to stay down. He threw a few weak punches that did nothing to stop the onslaught. Another lariat dropped Rourke hard to the canvas. Knox looked like he was toying with his prey as he locked in a bearhug and began to swing Jaime around, shaking him violently in the middle of the ring. Rourke finally slipped free and landed a dropkick that staggered Knox just enough to draw a reaction from the crowd, but it was short-lived. Knox answered by swatting Rourke out of the sky on a diving crossbody attempt before hoisting him up and crunching him back down into the mat with the Hard Times Slam. 1, 2, 3. Knox advances.




Rourke lay there staring up at the lights while Knox stood over him, expression unchanged and in no mood for celebration. He simply stepped back through the ropes and called out that “it doesn’t matter who advances to the finals, because this was his house!”

Damn, he’s really trying to get that over.




Canvas Creed came out but instead of entering the ring, he wandered around it. He seemed deep in thought as the crowd looked on, wondering what this was about. Creed paused as if to address the people in the front row before he thought better of it and jumped onto the ring apron, sitting there and looking out.

His hands were marked with flecks of dried paint, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance, unwavering, barely blinking. For a moment, he said nothing at all, as if weighing whether words would only cheapen what he was trying to say.

“Perfection,” Creed began quietly, “isn’t some kind of Nirvana or state of being that you reach. Far from it. Perfection is something you chase.”

He scratched his chin. Pondering.

“That chase has fuelled millennia of poets who write about it and try to capture its essence. Painters ruin a hundred thousand canvases looking for it between jagged lines and uncouth brushstrokes. Musicians sell their soul just to have a chance at doing something great. They call it a masterpiece when it finally appears, or at least others do, but what they never talk about is the cost. The sleepless nights. The failures that can make or break a man. The desperation that almost kills you.”

Creed looked up at the lights.

“People will ask if it’s worth it when the odds are forever stacked against us, when Fate gives us hope only to dash it on the rocks in the last moments like a cruel mistress teaching us lessons we will never come to know.”

Someone in the crowd shouted out, “Well, is it?” which made Creed smirk.

“Of course. I have suffered many lessons, but if I have learned one thing, it is that reward without suffering is empty and hollow and meaningless. I haven’t come here just to win. I have come here to make something that lasts. Something beautiful. And I am prepared to suffer for my dreams.”

A faint smile crossed his face, thin and strained.

“Isaac Hale. I sense you have similar aspirations, at least your technical prowess in this sacred space is to be commended. But whilst your reputation may go before you, it is in the unknown, not the known, where we might find ourselves. Should I fall short, I’ll tear it all apart and start again and again and again. Because eventually—”

He held out his arms to the crowd.

“—I will create something perfect.”




Creed remained seated on the apron as Isaac Hale made his way to the ring, the two sharing a brief look before Hale stepped between the ropes. Creed followed a moment later, slower and deliberate, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Hale, clearly inspired by the gallantry of Captain Galaxy yesterday, offered a handshake to begin. Creed accepted, and the match was underway.

The opening minutes were defined not by the pursuit of perfection, but the pursuit of control. Both men worked patiently through holds and counters, each attempting to establish a strong position without overcommitting. Headlocks were slipped. Wristlocks were reversed. A series of lucha-style arm drags ended in a stalemate. Neither man gained more than a momentary advantage, resetting quickly each time the balance shifted.

Creed was the more relentless of the two, pressing forward and forcing Hale to respond. He slipped behind Hale twice, each time looking to cinch in a Dragon Sleeper, drawing a concerned murmur from the crowd as Creed had put down Brian Bravo last night with that very move. Hale fought it off calmly, backing Creed into the ropes and forcing him to break the hold.

As the match wore on, the pace began to quicken. Creed nearly caught Hale again in the Dragon Sleeper after a scramble, only for Hale to roll through and escape at the last moment. Hale answered with a sudden BRAINBUSTAH~! that earned a near fall, followed immediately by another after Creed countered a suplex and transitioned into a cradle of his own.

The end came as Creed reached for the Dragon Sleeper once more, but he went to the well once too often and Hale anticipated it. He reversed the grip and planted Creed with the Halestorm. 1...2...3. That was all she wrote. Hale advances.




Hale fell to a knee and leaned on the ropes, showing just how much that match had taken out of him. He rolled aside as Creed gathered himself and sat up slowly. There was no visible frustration as he realised he had been beaten by the better man and even offered up a handshake of his own. Hale accepted, and the two men shared a moment of respect in the middle of the ring. Creed nodded at Isaac and then left the ring holding his neck. Hale grimaced as he left the ring, favouring his lower back.




With the semi-finals finished, the show took a short break from the action. Grandma Gail was already moving, setting her folding table near the ring and placing a battered plastic bucket on top. She ran the raffle the same way she did everything else: briskly, loudly, and with the quiet assumption that nobody was going to argue with her about it. They usually didn’t.

Tickets were drawn. A North Star Wrestling training t-shirt was held up for inspection like a prize trophy, although someone asked if they had a fleece instead. A couple of people won free tickets to next month’s event. Rhonda was nearby to tell everyone that she would be announcing next month’s matches at the end of the show—she even let one of the matches slip. Gail rolled her eyes and clipped Rhonda behind the ear, warning everyone in earshot to keep that confidential information to themselves.

The main prize was a bottle of whiskey, promptly opened and shared around. Nothing like community spirit in the cold to keep you going. Gail then packed up her wares and motioned for everyone to return to their chairs, though it sounded more like a demand to leave her alone. Thankfully, most people thought she was just living the gimmick.




Kade Huxley moved slowly among the folding chairs, hands in the pockets of his jacket, filtering through the small crowd. He stopped once near the back, then again closer to the ring, speaking quietly enough that people leaned in to hear.

“He walks among us,” Huxley said. “But he is not one of us. He moves close enough that you stop noticing him. But he’s always there.”

He paused, letting that sit.

“That’s how you miss it. You expect danger to announce itself. You think you’ll see it coming. Even the unfamiliar. You lie awake and imagine how you would face it head-on. It’s never that simple.”

Huxley took a few steps toward the ring.

“Sometimes it just waits until you’re comfortable. Too comfortable.”

He rested a hand on the apron and looked back toward the crowd.

“You tell yourself there are places where nothing follows you. That some things end when you leave the building, or when the lights go out. That there’s no such thing as monsters.”

Huxley shook his head.

“How I wish you could be right.”

He slid under the bottom rope and stood, the ring quiet again.

“I don’t know when it’s going to happen,” he said. “Just that when it does—”

He drew breath to continue as outrageously upbeat house music hit the boombox, bursting the tension like a balloon.

Captain Galaxy erupted out from behind the house in full gear, cape catching the faint glimmer of the dying light as he jogged toward the ring, slapping hands and pumping a fist in the air. A few people laughed. A couple clapped along. Galaxy slid into the ring and climbed the ropes, pointing skyward.

“Justice has arrived!”

Huxley turned toward him, the moment clearly not what he had expected. He nodded once, stepped back, and let Galaxy take the space as the crowd followed the change in energy.

Galaxy spread his arms wide.

“Let’s go!”




Rhonda initially announced this as a fatal four-way match featuring the losers of the tournament matches last night—the Yard Kings consider themselves runners-up, not losers. However, she received a memo and announced that, in the spirit of competition, the Yard Kings would instead team together to face Kade Huxley and Captain Galaxy.

The Yard Kings entered together, Sam Sharpe jawing immediately with anyone close enough to hear him while Brian Bravo tried unsuccessfully to rein him in. Sam even aimed a pointed barb in Rhonda’s direction, clearly anticipating a serious advantage in a four-way. Sharpe seemed to relish the verbal jousting with the crowd. Bravo less so. Brian posed when he reached the ring, soaking in the noise until the boos became too loud to ignore. He lowered his arms, visibly irritated.

Captain Galaxy struck the same pose from the ropes, worsening Bravo’s mood as he garnered a much louder reaction. Sharpe and Bravo wasted no time waiting for the bell and rushed their opponents. Galaxy was sent sprawling out of the ring as the Yard Kings isolated Huxley in their corner.

Sharpe laid in most of the damage as Bravo hovered just out of reach, picking his moments carefully and avoiding contact whenever possible. If the referee turned his back for a moment, Bravo was always ready to pounce with a cheap shot.

Huxley took the brunt of the match. Sharpe stayed on him with heavy strikes and scoop slams, ensuring frequent tags to maximise the time both Kings could be in the ring together. Galaxy tried to spur his partner on, but each glimpse of a tag was shut down. Every chance to create space was cut off.

A tag attempt was stopped when Sharpe dragged Huxley back by the ankle, allowing Bravo to sneak in with a forearm to the back of the head before rolling out again.

The hot tag finally came when Huxley slipped free of a corner splash and dove for his partner. Galaxy came in firing, unloading on both men and forcing the Yard Kings to retreat. Sharpe took clotheslines and a running leg lariat. Bravo stumbled after a dropkick and was sent over the top rope to the floor. Sharpe rolled out, both men wobbly.

Galaxy struck a heroic pose before hitting the ropes and launching himself with a springboard plancha, wiping out both Yard Kings to a sizeable reaction.

The momentum didn’t last.

The match broke down into chaos. Sharpe and Bravo regrouped faster, using their tag-team experience to regain control. A distraction from Sharpe allowed Bravo to clip Galaxy at the knee and send him into a two-man spinebuster.

Huxley tried to re-enter but was cut off on the apron. Sharpe knocked him to the floor and followed him out as Bravo set up the Pump Up Powerbomb. Galaxy fought with punches but was dropped hard on the back of his head. Bravo made the cover and secured the three count.




Galaxy rolled to the ropes as the bell rang, frustration clear. Bravo retreated, rubbing his jaw, while Sharpe celebrated loudly. Huxley pulled himself up on the outside and looked back into the ring as the Yard Kings backed up the ramp, shouting that they were the “best damn tag team in the company.”




Isaac Hale stood alone in the ring.

He rested his forearms across the top rope and looked out at the crowd.

“Gregor Knox is the kind of man who makes everything simple,” Hale said. “Not easy, but extremely simple.”

He straightened.

“You can know every hold in the book. All one thousand and four of them. You can have answers for most situations. And none of that guarantees anything when someone like Knox shows up and forces everyone to adjust.”

He paused.

“I’ve been wrestling a long time. Long enough to know that the most dangerous opponent isn’t always the most skilled one. It’s the one who doesn’t care what this costs them. The one with nothing to lose.”

He nodded once.

“I’ve trusted preparation most of my life. Trusted that staying sharp and staying calm would be enough.”

He shook his head.

“Sometimes it isn’t.”

“To be the one standing at the end, with your hand raised, it takes more than knowing what to do. It takes finding out how much you’re willing to give.”

He smiled slightly.

“Tonight, Gregor Knox finds out how far that goes.”




Knox did not wait for an introduction.

He stepped into the ring slowly, eyes locked on Hale, hard-faced and angry. Hale stood his ground, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his feet side to side. The two men sized each other up. There was no rush. No wasted movement.

The opening exchange showed that Hale was sharper. Cleaner. He won the first lock-up with leverage and nifty footwork, transitioning from a wristlock into a hammerlock and then a snapmare that sent the big man to the mat. Knox was just as surprised when it happened a second time but he was able to then quickly power out of a seated chinlock attempt.

Hale stayed on him, working quickly, forcing Knox to react to a variety of offense. A low dropkick caught Knox in the knee and drew a grunt of irritation. Knox rolled to the ropes to catch a break and smiled.

“Smart,” he muttered. “Now, try that again.”

Hale feigned another dropkick but when Knox looked to grab Hale he found himself propelled forward with a flying head scissors. Knox was back up immediately, but he winced slightly as he got back to his feet. Hale hit the ropes but was promptly caught as Knox pulled Hale into a side headlock, dropping his weight and grinding him down. Hale forced him off the ropes but the rebounding shoulder tackle knocked Isaac for six.

A nerve pinch followed as Gregor began to methodically dismantle his opponent. When Hale fought out of one of his holds, he swiftly locked in another. A bear hug followed before a belly-to-belly slam folded Hale in half and knocked the wind out of him. Knox leaned in close.

“This is all you’ve got?” he asked quietly. “I expected more.”

Hale tried to escape with a flurry of elbows, only to be pulled back down into a grounded chinlock. Knox stayed on him, conserving energy, letting the clock work in his favour. Both men were in their third match in just over twenty-four hours, and whilst both men showed signs of it, Knox had carved a much straighter path to the finals than Hale.

Hale fought to his feet several times, but each time he was cut off and dragged back down to the canvas with his much heavier opponent weighing him down and tiring him out under all that mass. Hale knew he had to do as he said. Adjust.

He channelled the power of the hometown hero and fought back to a vertical base. Knox looked to lock in another bear hug, but whilst that hold had caught Hale by surprise earlier in the match, this time he was ready for it. A standing switch gave him space long enough to land a chop block to the leg, followed by a dragon screw that sent Knox to the mat clutching his knee. Which one didn’t matter. They were both giving Knox problems after Hale stomped away on them. Hale stayed focused, dropping a knee on his opponent’s chest and then getting a two count from a running splash.

The match quickened.

Knox answered with a hard forearm that dropped Hale, then drove him into the corner with a body avalanche. He followed with a side slam for a near fall, leaning back on the cover just enough to make a point.

Hale kicked out and rolled through, catching Knox with a sudden small package for two. Knox powered out and immediately clamped back onto Hale with another bear hug, lifting him slightly off the mat and squeezing until Hale’s face tightened in pain. He knew he shouldn't have been caught again. After what felt like an eternity, Hale slipped free and tried to end it.

He hooked Knox for the Halestorm—but his back gave out mid-lift. Hale staggered forward, clutching at his lower back as Knox capitalised instantly, flattening him with a short-arm clothesline. He hit another for good measure before lifting Hale up for a running powerslam. Hale landed hard but it was only a two count.

Knox stayed on him, barking now.

“How disappointing!”

A running knee strike followed, then a sit-out powerbomb for another close near fall. Knox began to grow frustrated, dragging Hale up and shoving him back into the corner before charging in again, and again, and again. He looked at Hale slumped in the corner and charged a fourth time only for Hale to sidestep and let Knox crash shoulder-first into the turnbuckle.

Hale went back to the leg.

Another dragon screw. A low dropkick. Knox stumbled, favouring the knee as Hale saw his opportunity. Knox broke free and swung wildly, only to be caught with a stiff forearm and a snap German suplex.

Both men were slow to rise.

Knox charged again, but his knee buckled and he took a running knee to the jaw. Hale mustered all of his remaining energy to hook the arms and land the Halestorm!

Hale hooked the leg.

1...

2....

3!




The crowd erupted and cheered as Isaac Hale pulled himself to his feet and with his chest heaving and one hand pressed against his lower back, the referee raised his other arm in victory. Rhonda announced him as the Proving Grounds Tournament winner and the crowd cheered once more.




Rhonda Hogan hesitated at the edge of the ring before stepping forward, notes clutched tightly in one hand.

“Okay—um—thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming out this weekend. Both nights. Especially tonight.”

She took a breath.

“This was the Proving Grounds Tournament, and Isaac Hale is your winner.”

She nodded, relieved.

“We’ll be back next month. Same place. And the next show is called *Daylight Breaks*.”

She added quickly: “That show will feature matches such as Canvas Creed versus Captain Galaxy, and Jaime Rourke versus the mystery charge of evil scientist Professor Pain making his North Star debut. Isaac Hale will be in action, as will the Yard Kings, Kade Huxley, and Gregor Knox.”

She lowered her notes.

“Thank you for giving this a chance. We’ve been North Star Wrestling. You’ve been great. Goodnight!”

She stepped back as people gathered their coats and chairs, the lights flickering softly around the Hale Family Grounds.