The Golden Standard

The Carolinas Wrestling Alliance was one of the last great regional promotions, still clinging to its roots while the industry around it evolved into something sleeker, faster, and more polished. The arena tonight was packed with a mix of diehard fans who remembered the golden age and younger ones who had only heard about it in stories.

The main event? Legacy versus youth.

And at the center of it all was Glenn Sterling.

A crescendo of guitar riffs and triumphant horns filled the air as his entrance theme hit, a song as dated as the man himself but still commanding respect. The curtain parted, and there he was—The Golden Boy. Wrapped in a dazzling gold robe, embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered under the lights, Glenn strode forward, every step deliberate, every movement grandiose. His signature sunglasses perched confidently on his nose, concealing the only truth he refused to acknowledge.

The crowd roared, but it wasn’t the roar it used to be. The cheers still outnumbered the boos, but there was something else beneath them. A murmur. A hesitation.

Glenn didn’t notice.

Or rather, he refused to.

As he strutted down the ramp, he adjusted his lapels and smirked. They love me. They always will.

In the ring, Jake Colby waited. Young, eager, and full of potential, he had been handpicked for this match. It was a chance to prove himself—to prove that he could stand across the ring from a legend and not shrink under the pressure.

Earlier, backstage, Jake had approached Glenn with a mix of excitement and nervous energy.

“Mr. Sterling, I was wondering if we could go over the match?”

Glenn had let out a small laugh, dismissive. “Kid, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. Just follow my lead out there.”

Now, as the bell rang, Jake nodded respectfully, bouncing on his feet. Glenn barely acknowledged him.

From the start, it was clear something wasn’t clicking.

Glenn tried to call the match in the ring, but Jake wasn’t used to it. He hesitated at the wrong moments, reacting a half-second too late or missing cues entirely. Glenn, accustomed to wrestling his way, grew frustrated, his movements stiffening with irritation.

Jake, for his part, had expected a fast-paced, choreographed bout, the kind that got millions of views on social media. Instead, he was dealing with an opponent who relied on improvisation, instinct, and force of personality rather than carefully planned sequences.

The result? A disjointed, awkward match.

The crowd began muttering, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Glenn gritted his teeth. Damn kid’s making me look bad.

As frustration mounted, Glenn fell back on his old bag of tricks—a rake of the eyes, a subtle low blow when the referee’s back was turned. The boos grew louder, but he didn’t care.

Heat is heat.

Finally, Glenn saw his moment—The Golden Standard. He grabbed Jake, setting up for his patented rolling neckbreaker, the move that had won him countless championships. But as he spun, Jake stumbled, his footwork unsure, and the move landed awkwardly, looking more like a slip than a finish.

The audience groaned.

Glenn scowled. That was it. No more mistakes. He hooked Jake’s legs, dragging him to the center of the ring before hitting the Throne Breaker, a sit-out powerbomb delivered with enough force to shake the ring, often followed by a dramatic pinfall, something clearly from the 80’s. Jake laid there still as the refs hands slammed against the mat—the moment was over, sheer relief.

The bell rang.

Glenn rose to his feet, snatching his robe from the timekeeper. The referee raised his hand in victory, but the reaction was mixed. The cheers were there, but so were the snickers.

Grabbing the microphone from the announcer, Glenn adjusted his robe and soaked in the spotlight. His moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you just witnessed greatness!” he declared, his voice booming. “It doesn’t matter how young, how flashy, or how hyped the so-called next generation is—there’s only one Golden Boy, and he’s standing right here!”

The response? Lukewarm. A few diehards cheered. Some booed. Others simply looked away, checking their phones. Glenn refused to see it. He smirked, waving dismissively at the audience like their opinions were beneath him. He posed, arms raised, soaking in a spotlight that was growing dimmer by the second.

A ringside photographer’s flash caught his face, capturing the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, the slight strain in his expression. He didn’t notice the subtle slump in his shoulders, or how his robe didn’t quite fit like it used to.

As Glenn made his way up the ramp, he ignored the younger fans mocking his over-the-top entrance. He didn’t hear the whispers about how his prime had passed. He only saw the cameras, the occasional fan still holding a sign with his name, and the illusion he had built around himself.

The legend lives on.

That was what he told himself.

What he didn’t realize—not yet, anyway—was that in just a few weeks, the pictures taken tonight, the whispers of his decline, would come back to haunt him. For now, he basked in his fading spotlight, blissfully unaware of the reckoning ahead. They’ll always need The

Golden Boy, he thought with a smirk. They just don’t know it yet.