Freddy Lamb
Melbourne, Australia
View profile →
June 30, 2026
Concussion Protocol
The camera catches the corridor outside the medical room. The door is still open a crack. Inside, a man in a polo shirt with a Spinebuster PRO lanyard is packing up a small penlight and a clipboard. Freddy Lamb is leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, staring at the floor. He's in his gear. Black sleeveless shirt. Blue tights. Boots laced. Ready to go. Except he's not going anywhere.
He heard every word.
The medical man steps out, doesn't make eye contact, moves off down the corridor. Freddy watches him go. Doesn't move. Just breathes. The camera holds on him. He knows it's there. He doesn't care.
“Two weeks.”
He says it like he's tasting something bad.
“Two weeks. That's what he said. Two weeks and then we'll reassess. Two weeks and then we'll see how you're tracking. Two weeks.”
He pushes off the wall. Rolls his neck. The tattoos on his arms catch the corridor light. Sheep and wolves. Red, white, blue. He looks down at his hands like he's checking they still work.
“I drove fourteen hours to get here. Well. Flew. Fourteen hours in the air, couple more in a car, and I'm standing in a corridor in Baton Rouge in my bloody wrestling boots being told I can't wrestle.”
He laughs. It's not a happy laugh. It's the laugh of a man who has had worse news delivered in worse corridors and survived all of it.
“You know what the funniest part is? The move is called Concussion Protocol. That's the finisher. That's the thing I do to people. And now the actual concussion protocol is the thing being done to me. Someone up there's got a sense of humour, I'll give 'em that.”
He leans back against the wall again. Slower this time.
“I've been away from this a long time. Longer than I should've been. Marriage. The drinking. The divorce. Four years sitting in front of a computer fixing other people's problems for a living. You know what that does to you? Not the drinking. Not the divorce. The IT career. That's the one that nearly killed me.”
A beat.
“I came back because I had to. Not because it made sense. Not because the timing was right. Because if I didn't come back now I was going to spend the rest of my life being the bloke who almost was something. And I can't do that. I won't.”
He looks directly at the camera now. Blue eyes. Flat and certain.
“So they can have their two weeks. Fine. I'm not going anywhere. I'll sit here in this building if I have to. I'll watch. I'll wait. And when those two weeks are up and they clear me, whoever is standing in that ring is going to find out exactly why I came back.”
He straightens up. Pulls the black shirt flat across his chest. His name across the front. Freddy Lamb.
“Two weeks isn't a setback. Two weeks is a countdown.”
He walks back toward the medical room door, reaches out, and pulls it shut with a quiet, deliberate click.
Then he just stands there in the corridor. Alone. Boots on. Nowhere to go. Not yet.