Batista Unleashed

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Authors: Dave Batista
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headlining WrestleMania. What does that tell you?
    I wonder how much talent he chased out of there. The goddamn WCW went under not too much longer after that. Maybe there’s a connection.
    In my opinion, Lance had a lot more potential than I ever had. Except for his nose. But Sarge and the experience at the Power Plant stifled Lance’s wrestling ambitions for a long time. He still has a dream, believe it or not, of being a pro wrestler, but he hasn’t made it yet.
    Hey, Sarge, if you’re reading this—I think about you every day, you fuckin’ piece of shit.
    Yeah. You’re a fuckin’ piece of shit.
    On the one hand, though, maybe Sarge did help me, because he pissed me off enough to say, “Fuck, I’m going to make it.”
    On the other hand, that sure wasn’t what he was trying to do. He was trying to humiliate us, and he pretty well did that.
    On that day, when I went home, I wasn’t feeling like I was going to show him up or prove I could make it in WCW’s rival or any other wrestling franchise. All I was really feeling was heartbroken.
     

    Photo 3

On the Road 2/4/07
SOMEWHERE IN ILLINOIS
    More nights than not, I’m the last one out of the locker room. Which is a pain for the security guys, because they can’t move on until I’m out of the building.
    They’re patient tonight. By the time I’m done, the truck has already been packed and is heading up toward Urbana, Illinois, and tomorrow’s show. It’s past midnight; they have a couple of hours of driving ahead of them.
    So do I.
    It’s started to snow and the Lincoln is covered with a light frost. I brush it off and get into the car. I’m real lucky tonight—not only did a friend of mine start it up for me so it’s nice and warm when I get in, but none of the boys played with the seat or the radio. A lot of nights I get into the car and my knees are slammed against the steering wheel and country music is blasting in my ears.
    I like all kinds of music, but not that. Not at one in the morning.
    Or is it two?
    The GPS system gives me directions and I head out of the parking lot toward the highway. Sixty seconds later, I’m stuck in a back alley behind a utility building, squeezed tight against a fence and a stack of cement blocks.
    I can see the highway, at least. I back out, fishtail around and ignore the one-way signs, and finally find the road.
    Most weeks, our shows are at night, and I can sleep late the next day. But tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday. To make it easy for people to see the game after our show, we’re starting early, at one o’clock in the afternoon. Because of that, I had to change around my hotel reservations. I know from experience it will be best to get up to Urbana first and then sleep; the hotel is only a mile or so from the arena, and even if I get to bed late it’ll be easier to get up in the morning and get there on time. But it means driving when I’m exhausted, at the end of a long day.
    I break the long, post-midnight run from Carbondale with a stop at a Denny’s somewhere in the dark Illinois countryside. A young waitress who says she’s just working the midnight shift to bring home a little extra money for her family shows me to a table in the back. She looks at me kind of funny as she hands over the menu.
    “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Batista?” she asks, ducking her head a little bit as if she’s trying to poke her eyes under the brim of the cap I’ve pulled low over my face.
    “Man, I am so tired of hearing that,” I say. Partly that’s a joke, and partly that’s a plea to get away unrecognized.
    She seems to think I’m serious and goes away. Truth is, with my cap and street clothes and heavy winter coat, I don’t really look like the World Heavyweight Champion who was strutting into the ring just a few hours ago—at least I don’t think I do.
    But the fans know. It’s dumbfounding—and humbling—but they sure do know. It turns out that the waitress really did know but was trying to be

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