By the time I grabbed my seat in the Barclays Center, I had been awake for 22 consecutive hours.
I'd woken up at 2:30AM UK time, and driven to Newcastle airport. I very quickly drank two pints of reasonable grade IPA to take the edge off, and sank another on the connecting plane to London. After another beer, intended to subdue myself for the flight, the sheer, stiff physicality of the seat went over my groggy body. I didn't sleep. Relaxing music, counting sheep, laying out Triple H and Batista's 25 minute 'Mania match: nothing worked. I was condemned to sit there, drowning in an uncomfortable and unyielding pile of beer piss.
The eight-hour long-haul flight felt like forever.
After walking for an age inside of the NY subway system, refreshed by stories of my WhatCulture comrade and perfect roommate Andy Murray spotting Atsushi Onita in full gear near Times Square, I took my seat.
The seat itself was in the upper deck of a very steep arena. That edge returned, almost literally, as vertigo and insomnia double-teamed my delirious mind.
NXT TakeOver: New York needed to deliver, else I was going to involuntarily pass out.
NXT TakeOver: New York, thank God (Triple H), was an incredible and special pro wresting show.