Every professional wrestler, especially in the deathmatch world, has likely said the phrase "I'm good; I can go" before, during, or after a match. I have spoken these words, both in English and Japanese, perhaps more than most. 

I found myself commonly using this phrase in my early twenties. I was reckless. Clumsy, even. Still, my reckless, clumsy, 21-year-old self was able to pack up and move across the world to work for Big Japan Pro Wrestling.

Looking Up at the Lights

After seven years spent learning the sport and beginning to gain a foothold in the European independent scene, I was forced to start again from scratch in Japan. Of my three years there, I spent two looking up at the lights upwards of 20 times a month, competing in grueling deathmatches across the country. 

I made numerous hospital trips, got stitched up, and rehabbed with various sports therapy techniques. Living in Japan, I fortunately had access to the country's affordable healthcare. It's no NHS, but it's certainly better than the U.S. healthcare system.

I loved every part of it, but after winning the BJW deathmatch championship twice and being the first foreigner in nearly 10 years to win a deathmatch tournament in Japan, I wanted a fresh challenge. So, I quit.

Alive in America

Before heading back to Japan to join Big Japan's rival promotion, FREEDOMS, I returned to my home away from home in America: Game Changer Wrestling. I had my eyes on GCW's Tournament of Survival for years, and now that the stars had aligned, I could participate in it. With the right combination of struggle, sympathy, and endurance, this performance could cement me as the top deathmatch wrestler in the world.

I had been to America three times in the past, but I still felt like I had a lot to prove in the states. The week prior to Tournament of Survival, I had a deathmatch booked for VxS in Las Vegas, against Arez — an extraordinary luchador who was finally establishing his name across America. 

He was a bit out of his element here, visibly nervous. He had little (or no) experience with glass and barbed wire in the ring, but I still assured him that he was in safe hands. 

I couldn't have been happier with the match: No hack-and-slash bullshit, no cut-off vests, just two athletes exchanging maneuvers with the benefit of glass and violence mixed in. Everything was going off without a hitch, and I had delivered Arez to the safe match I promised him beforehand — until the finish.

Ice Cream Scoop

I use the Kamigoye, a knee strike, with a bundle of light tubes between myself and Arez for added damage. This far into the match, I'm not at 100% and I don't fully break the tube bundle with the knee strike. I reel my leg back, and though I quickly see the remaining broken tubes still taped to the top of the bundle, I'm unable to avoid contact with them.

A sharp edge of a tube had sliced the side of my leg above the knee, near the quad, ice-cream scooping out part of my muscle. I clutch my leg and drop to the canvas as I realize. 

Arez subsequently vomits, and the ref waves off the match. Fuck. Within seconds, I have a belt tight around my leg (thanks to Rob Shit) to stop any bleeding. They call the ambulance, and I'm shipped off to a local medical facility, my leg now complete with hole.

It took three nurses, one doctor, and a lot of morphine for them to put my leg back together. I have no concept of how long I was in there, but I recall seeing a procession of tourists, people struggling with various substance abuse issues, and plenty of others who wouldn't look out of place in a Hangover remake making their way through the hospital.

After the hospital discharged me, I was riding back to the hotel and consumed by the thought of "How the fuck am I going to wrestle in Atlantic City in seven days?"

Tournament of Survival

Days later, I fly back to New Jersey and stay with Jimmy Lloyd. GCW promoter Brett Lauderdale made it clear that I am only to perform if I will not cause any further damage to myself in the process. He ensured that I was under no pressure to wrestle if I didn't feel up to it.

It was deeper for me. Having just left BJW, the world was watching to see what I did next, and TOS was my chance to solidify myself as a top guy in the deathmatch world, so I adamantly affirmed to him that I'd be there.

Days before the show, Jimmy, Brett, and I go out for coffee. I notice Brett closely watching my every move, assessing my condition to make sure I was fit to wrestle. I had ditched the crutches by this point, and though I've made a living by trying to convince people when I am and am not hurt, I couldn't hide some of the pain. Brett asks me, plain as day, "Are you really going to be fit for TOS?” 

"I'm good; I can go."

TOS was rough. Even if I were at 100% under normal circumstances, it takes the human body and mind a lot to withstand three deathmatches in a night, especially if the evening culminates with a win over the living legend Matt Tremont. My leg held up well throughout the night, but the adrenaline left me mentally foggy by the end of the tournament.

In Flashes

A lot of it I only remember in flashes, but I clearly remember the words Tremont shared with me in the ring after the match. I've never repeated the conversation to anyone. They still hold an incredible amount of weight to this day. I'll forever be grateful to him.

I discovered a lot about myself that day. I wanted something so bad that I was willing to push through immense physical pain to prove to myself and the world what I was able to accomplish.

That night in Las Vegas has undoubtedly changed how I wrestle in deathmatches. I still feel for Arez. Initially, I thought that I'd grown more fearful. As the years pass, I realize that it's made me smarter and more calculated in the ring as a better risk-taker. I know that I'll always be able to push forward with the following phrase in mind: 

I'm good; I can go.

Drew Parker is a world-traveled professional wrestler who has competed in promotions such as Big Japan Pro Wrestling, DDT Pro-Wrestling, Game Changer Wrestling, FREEDOMS, and TNT Extreme Wrestling.