Blackwood and Icarus Shut Off the Lights on the Way Out

Kevin Blackwood vs Judas Icarus Prestige Roseland XIII 2/20/26

When I picture Portland Wrestling, I picture the Portland Sports Arena in 1979 or 1980. I picture Frank Bonnema hosting and Don Owen ring announcing. I picture long 2/3 fall matches given away on live tv to please the sponsors. I picture Buddy Rose and Ed Wiskowski or Roddy Piper and Rick Martel doing interviews between falls.

But most of all, I picture all the fans huddling together to fit in the camera as Bonnema talks about upcoming shows, knowing that they might get to see themselves on TV later. Portland, more than any other old territory, felt like family. Buddy was the cousin you had to put up with. Don Owen was the put upon dad, Frank Bonnema the welcoming uncle. 

In watching the fans huddle around the ring for Roseland XIII, the last Prestige show, Kevin Blackwood's last match, slapping on the mat, chanting the company's name, it felt, as much as anything else, like Portland Wrestling. It felt like watching family gather to partake in something they love one last time. 

Wrestling is best when it combines the real with the mythic. The look on Blackwood's face as he walked to the ring, the emotion charging the air as he exchanged words with Icarus before the bell... as real as could be. But there was something else in the air too. The preceding match had been a Construction Site match, and the ring was covered in dust. With every bump, it flew up as a fog, a mist. As the match passed the 11 PM mark, it created a fanastical, dreamlike atmosphere. The harder they hit the ropes, hit the mat, hit each other, the more surreal and mythic everything felt. I can't imagine they had planned for it, but it created the mood of ships passing into the darkness, of something meaningful leaving this world behind. 

And they did hit hard. They did everything hard. This was a match meant to celebrate Indie Wrestling. They put past encounters, past animosity behind, to create a main event title match that represented the super indie style of the 21st century and just maybe Prestige's place in it.

At first it was clean, quick exchanges, quick attempts, quick counters, but when Icarus ran into a foot in the corner, the tone changed. Everything became chippier, more aggressive, more personal. He leaned in with his chin, but ended up suffering most with his back as he overextended and took a nasty bump onto the apron and to the floor.

Blackwood honed in. In some ways, he felt like a man fighting his own instincts. He wrestled the match hard but clean, not falling to more underhanded habits. He tossed Icarus into the third row with a powerbomb, but then wouldn't sit back and take the countout. 

That was the humanity underpinning the myth, that underpinned the fight both wrestlers brought to the table. When the match ended, Blackwood would end. Prestige would end. Neither wrestler wanted that. It was the structural truth beneath each reversal, underneath each kickout. Icarus refused to quit, refused even to let Blackwood put on a Boston Crab. He refused to stay down even after Blackwood's signature moves. 

As Icarus fought back, Blackwood's back buckled under the pressure as well. They stood and threw shots, staggered, unrelenting. They continued to escalate, leaning on their familiarity, building from their previous matches. 

Down the stretch, they went to the well of moves from hallowed Prestige wrestlers of the past, including one another. I've seen such sequences before. It's a range. Sometimes it's gratuitous. Sometimes it doesn't feel earned or plausible, sometimes it takes you out of the match, feels like wrestlers playing at pro wrestling. On the other hand, when Tanahashi called to the past in his retirement match, it felt desperate in the best of ways. 

Here, it felt natural. They didn't want it to end. They wanted to celebrate it, celebrate each other. They were wrestling for pride, for posterity, to be the last of something that meant everything to them. Once the floodgates were open with Blackwood attempt of Shelly's Shellshock, it made sense to me that Icarus' pride would rise to meet his opponent halfway.

In the end, Icarus survived everything; Blackwood survived almost everything, including a Liontamer. Icarus realized it wasn't going to work and he went to the Bulldog Choke one last time, a move that Blackwood had tapped to before, one that should have gained Icarus a win in a previous match, but didn't due to an oversight, a technicality. Even though the universe was forever slipping out of alignment, even though things would never be the same, and for this crowd, maybe never be right again, at least one thing could be put back in order, as Blackwood did tap for all to see, and Icarus was left, dust in the air, ribbons flying from every direction, a champion as the screen faded to black.

Not long ago, we saw another tap end another career, one that felt like a confusing contradiction at best. This, though? This felt like Blackwood letting something go, setting something free, passing something forward. I don't know if this specific match would have worked in this specific way in another place, on another night, in front of another crowd, but likewise, I don't know if any other match would have worked quite like this in front of this crowd, on this night, in this place.