You can never go back...

They say you can never truly go back. That if you do you're no more than a visitor. I have a lot of time for that theory. I believe it for a lot of occassions. Still, I had to test it...had to come here.

'Here' is a small, run down community centre in Hillsbrough, Sheffield. It's not much to look at. The paint is peeling on the sign outside. The floors are covered in a bit more dust than they probably should be. The odd empty can glares out from a corner, daring you to go and pick it up. No, it's not pretty. But then again it never was.

This was where the journey really started. This is the venue of my first match. I'd been into wrestling since I was a kid. Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks, introduced by Dickie Davis. Later there was The Hart Foundation taking on The British Bulldogs, the first American style match I saw. Sat in the front room at my grans, a plate of chicken and beans on my lap.

That's other reason I was back in Sheffield. Three days until Christmas and I was dropping presents off for the family. I had a few short days break in the press junket to promote the CXA Reunion show. So I decided to come back here.

"Bloody cold weather!"

I turn, broken out of my dreamy state by a voice behind me. I turn to find an older man, probably in his late fifties, coming into the room. From the brush he carries I'm guessing he's the caretaker. His stoop and slow shamble towards me tells me why the hall is in the state it's in.

"Yes, it's supposed to get below freezing again today."

The man gives me the once over, for the first time taking in what he's seeing. He can't get many people dressed like me in here. Long leather boots rise to the knee, over silvery trousers. On the top half a high-necked tunic style coat in a dark blue. Red tinted goggle-glasses over my eyes. He decides I'm not here to steal anything and starts to sweep.

"You 'ere to book the hall? Bit late for a panto..."

He's decided to peg me as an entertainer, not far from the truth. I smile and shake my head.

"No, I'm just looking around. I haven't been here for a long time..."

He cocks his head, says nothing, but looks at me to continue.

"I was here just under twenty years ago. Part of a wrestling show..."

"I remember 'em. All glitzy and showy. Not like yer Big Daddys..."

The show had been in the early nineties, as we escaped the Hogan years and sailed towards the Austins and The Rocks. I remember the home made costume I had, a black vest and trousers jazzed up to look a bit more fancy.

"Yes, it was something a bit different for back then..."

"Why are yer back?"

I pause.

"A reunion show, not here, next year."

He looks me up and down again, perhaps noticing my build for the first time. I'm not a huge guy, not like Shand. I have more of a dancers frame, lightly muscled, lean. It's my stock in trade to be the high flyer, to take the high risks.

"Not much of a fan of that sort of stuff. I'm a Owl, me..."

An Owl. Meaning he supports the local football club, Sheffield Wednesday.

"...but me grandson loves it. You anything like that fella...Cena, I think his name is..."

I laugh.

"No, not really. My background is a bit...different."

I could tell him about the last year. About finding out more and more about my past. The Fish Prince they've dubbed me, after I told the world that my ancestors came from Atlantis. That I was a prince and true heir to the House of Novaar.

I look again at the man and start to open my mouth to say something about that. But something stops me. Now is not the time. This is not the place.

"Well, I'd best be getting on. Nearly me home time."

The man nods farewell and heads off. I slip back to that day, the day I first wrestled here. It's not hard to remember but, somehow, it seems like it happened to somebody else. That it's something I watched on the TV, like the Harts and The Bulldogs. That my memories will be interupted by David announcing a commercial break.

I look around the room again. No, you can never truly come back. Not once you've left. Time won't let you. It'll colour your views, paint you a picture. But it's never truly what you remember.

I pull the coat around me a little tighter and head out into the cold. I have to be in New York by tomorrow so I'd better head off and make my train. As I look back I fancy a see a young guy standing at the door. Dressed in his homemade outfit he nods a hello in my direction. I smile, watching him, then notice the symbol above his head for the first time. It's one from my dreams. It's time to call a taxi...

ooc: I really like that. Excellent stuff.