I Think God Can Explain

"E-C-W! E-C-W! E-C-W!"

It was a complement. He knew it. More people chanted it every night, every time Tazz would kick someone's ass in the ring, every time Tajiri nearly took someone's head off with a kick, or every time he screamed, "Gore! Gore! Gore!"

He screamed it every time as though it were the most amazing thing he'd ever seen - for a number of reasons. First of all, it was his job to get Rhyno over. That was what commentators, especially color commentators did. And Paul was a color commentator first and foremost. He had been before ECW ever happened.

This led to his second reason for always screaming when that chant began - he couldn't stand to hear it. The thing that used to make ECW so beautiful, fans screaming orgasmically at the top of their lungs, now made him sick. Where were all you people when ECW was playing bingo halls and Elks' Lodges? He'd think as he screamed.

Then everything would stop - it always would during Rhyno's matches - as Rhyno would gaze around the ring like a rabid animal, his dark, glittery eyes never missing the commentary booth, where he would lock eyes with Paul for mere seconds. Yes, that was why Paul screamed like it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen - because it was true.

He wasn't sure how he even made it out to the broadcast table that first night he was on Raw. He knew that his appearance on camera would be the telling sign to everyone who was watching ECW in its death throes. Paul Heyman on Raw meant ECW was dead. It had been for that reason that he hadn't wanted to go on. He didn't want to go out and confess to the world that he'd failed, that the rebel had been squashed.

As he sat backstage, reading over the notes for the night, trying to psych himself up, wrestlers and other employees wandered past, every one of them doing a double take at the sight of Paul backstage. Paul tried not to look like he noticed them, studying the same line on the production notes over and over. Many times, after a lingering glance, the person would move on. A few, like Tazz and the Dudley Boys, had come over and shaken his hand, telling him quietly that it was good to see him. Their eyes betrayed their words, though. They knew that he didn't want to be there. Paul couldn't fault them, though. He always wanted his "kids" - the stars who got their start in ECW - to go on to big things. He wanted ECW to be the proving ground for the stars of tomorrow. And Tazz and the Dudleys had given freely of their own time, busting their asses to try to help his dream come true when it was faltering the most. But he could see it in their eyes - even they couldn't help him.

He'd known for months that he was beyond salvation. He hadn't wanted to admit it to the boys, even though he fell behind on pay, the number of dates began to dwindle, and production values fell. He didn't want to admit it to himself, either. He'd sacrificed everything for his dream. He had no home - he lived with his mother - and no car, no job without ECW. He'd burned so many bridges with various people in the industry, and he had talked so much trash about the other federations on ECW television that he felt in a way that bowing down to any of them would be hypocritical.

But he'd kept those thoughts close to his heart, and he knew that this appearance would be the final slap in the face to all the boys that he said he'd make stars, that he'd give a chance to, if they would give him a chance. They'd given him chance after chance, and he'd still failed them.

He had actually convinced himself at one point that he couldn't go through with it. Everything backstage had become a jumbled blur - faces, sounds, thoughts - and he knew he couldn't do it. Maybe if he held on until next week something would happen: the TV deal might come through; a windfall of money from somewhere would appear

Storming toward the door to the arena, Paul had given up. He couldn't do this. He didn't deserve success, let alone a lucrative announcing contract with the WWF. So many of his boys had dreamed of making it to the WWF. He would be yanking those dreams right out from under them by going on. What right did he have? What right did he have to happiness?

He opened the door to the arena, prepared to slip out without being seen by any of the McMahons and then calling them once he was on the road. But as he rushed out the door, his body hit something solid. Looking up, his eyes came met two dark, glittering beads of intensity, and he went weak.

"Paul," he said, his voice soft, not the animalistic growl that everyone knew him to speak in. But everyone didn't know the man they knew as Rhyno. Not like Paul did. In those obsidian eyes burned intensity, ruthlessness, desire and love.

He wouldn't look away when he saw it was Paul. He didn't duck his head and offer his apologies. He'd stayed true until the end, not accepting the contract the WWF had offered him until Paul had forced him to take it. The look he'd had in his eyes was virtually the same Paul saw in him at that moment. The same intensity, the same desire, but also incredible faith and undying love.

There's a lot of things I don't understand
And there's a lot of things
I don't want to know
But you're the only face I recognize
It's so damn sweet of you
To look me in the eyes

Bankruptcy court was the worst. Having to face everyone who ECW owed money to, to admit that he had no money, no car, no savings, nothing more to give, was absolutely humiliating. To be called a failure, to have his dream thrown to the floor and shattered into a million pieces, and then to have those pieces examined under a microscope was nearly unbearable. After every court date, Paul would leave the courthouse wondering how he could go on. How could he go from this to sitting next to Jim Ross and shilling Combos? He knew he had to, though. Not only because the money he was being paid - most of which went back to creditors anyhow - was sorely needed, but because the exposure to the action, the drama, the fans, and the wrestlers was something Paul's soul needed. It kept him sane.

And the wrestler that everyone called insane - the man-beast, Rhyno - he knew this best of all. That was why he wouldn't let Paul walk out of that door that night. It had been a struggle, endless words exchanged, going round and round. Finally, he had tired of Paul's endless self-depreciation and - in his own words - Paul's need to martyr himself. It had all ended then. It ended in a kiss.

It's all right, I'm O.K.
I think God can explain
I believe I'm the same
I get carried away

It's all right, I'm O.K.
I thing God can explain
I'm relieved, I'm relaxed
I'll get over it yet

Paul hadn't known how to react at the time. They'd been through so many things together, and had vowed to each other that they would never abandon the other. Paul never felt he had been abandoned; there was an opportunity, and the man he loved deserved it more than anything. He had been the ECW World and Television champion, and had paid more dues than half of the WWF roster. He had also been Paul's rock and salvation, holding him for endless nights when Paul would silently stare at the wall, the war of what to do with his dying dream raging within him, yet Paul refusing to let it out.

He never pushed; never made demands; never threatened. He never gave ultimatums. He just was there. Paul could never figure out what he'd done to deserve such unwavering commitment. He would hold him from dusk until dawn, until Paul fell into an exhausted, fitful slumber. Even then, Paul knew, he wouldn't leave. He was loyal, he was faithful, and he was the best thing that had ever happened to Paul.

He had shown him love like he had never known. It was patient, it was sweet, and it was accepting of all of his flaws - even if Paul was not. When he was in his arms, Paul felt that time would stop, and that their hours became years. Nothing mattered when those strong hands would possessively stroke his back for hours as he loved away Paul's worries. The man-beast would return at times, as soft, passionate growls punctuated the thick air of the room, leaving Paul helpless beneath him as their bodies moved slickly as one. Paul knew he was safe. He knew that in his arms, it was as though nothing else existed. He needed nothing else.

The scent of Vaseline
In the summertime
The feel of an ice cube
Melting overtime
The world seems bigger than both of us
Yet it seems so small
When I begin to cry

It was that belief in him that made Paul get out of bed in the morning. Of course, those strong, secure, warm arms made him never want to get out of bed, but the unconditional belief that he had in Paul made him even more determined each day not to let him down. He showed it by screaming enthusiastically during every match Rhyno wrestled, showing in his own strange way how much this man meant to him. He wanted people to feel the surge of love and pride that welled up within him each time Rhyno conquered someone, standing triumphant and proud.

Paul was strong too. The strength Rhyno showed in the ring was magnified infinitely within his heart and soul, then reflected in Paul. The reflection might be a little flawed in places, but it was there, bright and powerful. His confidence to persevere, to grow, to change, and to live, it all began and ended in him - this Paul knew. But through their love, it was amplified and purified. ECW would not go on. But Paul Heyman would.

I'm so much better than you guessed
I'm so much bigger than you guessed
I'm so much brighter than you guessed

I'm relieved, I'm relaxed
I'll get off of your back

I think God can explain