The first 88 percent of Sunday's Florida Championship Wrestlingmatch between former tag partners Richie Steamboat, 6'2", 213#, and Seth Rollins, 6'1", 205#, is rocket hot. (It's finals week, so I am in "statistics mode." Numbers, numbers, numbers.) But I hate the way it ends--one of those "everybody-get-in-the-ring" anticlimaxes that promise raw chaos and wind up only dousing the steadily amassed intensity, a whimper instead of a bang, comparable to my sixth-grade attempts at writing horror fiction, impossibly suspenseful tales I would dully conclude with "And then I woke up!" (The Wizard of Oz has much to answer for.) The match whets my appetite for something monumental--two great looking up-and-comers giving their all, a conflict I might want to see play out to a defining resolution, any resolution so long as it hits the high peak it seems to promise--but then wimps out with this ponderous mess at the end, which typically exists to set up another (often inferior) showdown at a later date. Here in a nutshell is the problem I have with serial angles. Maybe I'm not deep enough for the Tolstoy approach to pro wrestling; I really do prefer the tightly knit Hemingway style of ring story. Rollins and Steamboat have the charisma, grit, and savvy to carry this drama on their shoulders alone--swaying my allegiance at every twist, turning my expectations on end, and giving me everything I need to know about the two players and their motivations in twelve minutes. Instead, I get loud, over-excited muck that makes me feel like I just wasted ten minutes. Had I known, I would have stopped at the 10:45 mark and made up a finish of my own, hopefully nothing involving waking up in Kansas.