Hutchins is on a seventy-eight match losing streak, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a long build, the crowd still loves him, particularly his entrance, those thunderous horns, which the kids in the crowd march along to, as if they’re part of a parade commemorating the promise of Dave Hutchins…

As Hutchins arrives at the arena, an agent takes him by the arm. Tonight’s the night, kid, he says. The usual set-up, but a false finish, into a flash roll-up: one, two, three. Congrats, Hutch. Thanks, Hutchins says. He goes to catering and eats two chicken breasts, some brown rice and a cup of strawberries. 

A couple of hours later, in gorilla, as Hutchins is lathering himself with baby oil in between sets of pistol squats, the same agent takes him by the arm. Hey kid, change of plans: the same as ever, thirty seconds, he hits the finish, one, two, three. Sorry, kid. Hutchins nods. And by the way, the agent adds, we’ve changed your entrance music. You’re up in ten, nine…

Hutchins centres himself and takes a deep breath. The same thing has happened at the last seventy-eight shows: tonight’s the night, a change of plans, new music. In fact, Hutchins has never heard his original music. He’s only ever read online about those thunderous horns, the kids in the crowd…

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Simon Firth is a writer from Morecambe Bay.