Then he sat there a long time, listening to the crowd thin out, the janitor’s broom sweeping popcorn from the concrete. On the wall, a black-and-white photo of the old Von Erichs—six boys in matching robes, their father in the middle, all of them smiling. None of the six were still alive except him. None except Kevin.
Kevin didn’t stop to look. He never did anymore. The Iron Claw
The moment passed. The lights came up. Kevin climbed through the ropes and walked down the aisle without looking back. In the locker room, he sat on a metal folding chair and unwrapped his hands. His knuckles were raw. His knees ached. His phone buzzed: a text from his wife. Kids are asleep. They asked when you’ll be home. I said soon. Then he sat there a long time, listening
He thought: Tomorrow I’ll teach the boys to ride. Not to wrestle. Just to ride. None except Kevin
“I’ll call Mom,” he said, and hung up.
He thought: Maybe that’s enough.
He stood up. He pulled on his jacket. He walked out into the Texas night, where the stars were bright and cold and didn’t care about legacies. The parking lot was almost empty. His truck waited under a single yellow lamp.