On Tuesday night at 10:50 pm, I was quietly screaming at my television and pumping my fist with restrained desperation. I was "quiet" and "restrained" only because my wife was peacefully sleeping next to me, and I did not want to wake her. While words didn't actually escape my mouth, I could feel myself shouting, internally, "To-za-wa!!!". Akira Tozawa was making his "comeback" in a 205 Live main event match against Ariya Daivari. It was a number one contender's match to determine who would face Neville for the Cruiserweight Championship at SummerSlam. So it mattered.
It seemed to me that all of the conditions were right for enjoying some fun, psychologically sound professional wrestling. I had tuned in after a long day at work, and I was winding down towards sleep, reclined in my bed, Tweeting along with fellow viewers, insulated in a warm bubble of pro-wrestling goodness. All was right with the world from my vantage, and Tozawa and Daivari were telling me a reassuring bedtime story about the power of perseverance.
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