Mitch strode off towards the commentary table with a confidence that he did not truly possess. With each step, his limbs grew heavier and heavier. At least Louis took the time to seal the facepaint, so even if he sweat profusely from either the heat or anxiety getting the better of him, nothing would budge.
Since it was a taping and not a live event, the audience was a patchwork of students that had yet to make their debuts and a patchwork, friends and families, and a few local fans that’d been attending since the first Monster Mash show. If Mitch 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.
“Jodie wanted it,” Mitch explained, worried that maybe this wouldn’t be a good idea after all. Who had the intense yearning to deal with an unhinged weirdo 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 snarky anyway. I reckon you’ll just cuss 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. They went over the card, Rod offering pointers on the various competitors and things that he had observed during his time with Monster Mash, 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 suggested.
“Not gonna lie, I will,” Mitch smiled sheepishly.
“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?”
“Easy enough, I think?”
“You’ll get the hang of it. If it’s clunky at first, that’s fine.”
“Cool.” Mitch re-read his notes several times, then cleared his throat. “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 if he ever played poker. “How about I tell you after we’re done here?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine!” Mitch kept his head down, berating himself for the stupid question. He hoped that the nervous energy bursting out of his skin wasn’t radioactive, because if so, it was cancerous for sure.
The lights flicked off and on, signifying that the tapes were due to start in five minutes. People scurried into place, and it was surreal to witness the action all around without being in the thick of it. Jodie’s stress could be felt across the room, growing more potent as she crossed over to the booth.
“Don’t worry about me! Go do your girlboss things,” Mitch attempted a preamble to drive her away, but she frowned at him.
“Did I force you into this? Are you ready? Am I a bad friend?” she asked.
“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, you’re right” 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!” she exclaimed before cheerfully skipped away, and Mitch blinked a few times.
“Did you…did you just fucking neg me?” He huffed a sharp laugh. “You bitch.”
“Love you,” Jodie blew him a kiss, which he caught and shoved into his mouth.
“By the way,” Rod nudged Mitch to get his attention as he mockingly 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.”
“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.”
