My father’s mask was black with silver stitching around the eyes. He had worn it for three decades until his coronary.
He had worn it the only night he spent with my mother. The night of his second championship win, when he bested 30 luchadores in a battle royal. He never knew her last name.
He knew me only as a young tecnico, carrying his bags, learning in the ring, learning more than he knew he taught me. The shadow of a shadow.
I was twenty-five when I put on my father’s mask. He never acknowledged me.
But the crowd would.
“The shadow of a shadow.” I think a lot of us can relate to this, more than most unwilling to admit it though. Nice piece. I sense a little yearning in him, something I can relate to.
Great story! I enjoy, and can relate to, stories about yearning.
Love it!
Shadows and masks and more, good stuff.
Nicely written. I especially liked how you ended the story.
I like the anonymity. His father did not know his mother’s surname, we do not know the names of any of the characters. It keeps us at a distance, and underlines the yearning to be recognised.
A wonderful story. Anonymity, shadows and masks. There is so much packed in here. Great ending.