....PERSPECTIVES ON WRESTLING....

Book Review: Hot Shots and High Spots

2011-10-21T17:17:00.000-07:00

The name George Napolitano may or may not ring bells with some wrestling fans. While the man has been affiliated with professional wrestling for more than 40 years, he is not someone instantly recognizable as a known television performer or personality.

Breaking into the business as a photographer when it was comprised of smaller, frequently self-contained territories, Napolitano’s extensive career includes authoring and co-authoring nearly a dozen books on the subject. In the grappling industry, he has long been regarded as THE premier professional shutterbug. And I’m here to say that any doubts of that lofty designation are quickly dismissed with the release of Napolitano’s latest effort, Hot Shots and High Spots, available this month online and in bookstores.

The book is large, over-sized as it is with photographic tributes, lovingly presented and identified to unabashed wrestling fans, covering every decade since the 1960s. Limited in text, an abundance of words are not necessary to convey the emotions that go far beyond the ordinary. (That noted, there are also some lengthier passages that enhance the accompanying photography). Both the posed photos and those taken at the height of in-ring action are identified and beautifully rendered without compromise. It’s not difficult to state that any wrestling fan with a true love for the art of pro wrestling will be enthralled with the turn of every page.

Mind you, while most every sumptuous picture will likely cause the reader to experience a reaction, be it a large or small one, the difference mainly depends on where said reader’s wrestling frame of reference is centered. In the case of this reviewer, who discovered the uniquely American art form in 1958, that time period would be the 1960s through the 1980s. As such, there is a wealth of material to capture the eye. Without exaggeration, taking the time to study an image can give one something of the “emotional feel” that oozes from just about all of the images found in this boundless collection.

Divided into 17 chapters, each focusing on a specific individual or topic, the presentation is very well organized. If one prefers to go from, say, Classic Hogan to Hardcore to Tag Teams, the Table of Contents makes it easy to move accordingly. There are a handful of photos that include Napolitano and members of his family, often with brief descriptions of the occasion.

As such, I give this voluminous production the highest recommendation possible. ECW Press, the publisher, has a well-deserved reputation as producers of some of the most complete and professional books on the subject of wrestling. Their long string of successes continues here.

As someone who has been a pro wrestling fan for 53 years (and has been participating in one form or another for 21), I’m occasionally given to grouse about the current state of the business. Hot Shots and High Spots has effectively worked its magic on me. While my opinions haven’t been altered, my feelings of admiration and respect for most of the pictured participants have been greatly heightened. Through this effort, George Napolitano has succeeded in reminding me all of the reasons why I became a fan the very first time I saw professional wrestling. I can think of no greater gift an author can give his readership.

ROH on HDNET

2011-01-14T18:30:00.000-08:00

And so, two years and one month after the Ring of Honor promotion debuted on HDNet, the door will close. Come April 4th, the final episode in "the only weekly national wrestling show worth watching" will signal the end of its television contract.

I, for one, am sincerely sorry to see this program go. Since it hit the air in March of 2009, my enthusiasm for the ROH product has fluctuated somewhat. Oh, it never faltered to the point where I couldn't be bothered tuning in. But, as in the case of most weekly fare of any kind, there were some good shows and some that can best be described with a mild 'meh.' Fortunately, there were also some truly excellent offerings that filled the viewer with hope for the future.

It's true; in some ways, the presentation could have been more captivating, a la Bill Watts' old UWF promotion of the '80s. What made that promotion so compelling was in the very structure of the company and its philosophy; there was a method behind the madness, so to speak. With the conclusion of most every week's episode, the UWF succeeded in creating a sense of 'I've gotta make sure to see what happens next week.' The intelligent wrestling fan anxiously awaited to see how the logic (yes, logic! Relentless logic, even!) would continue to develop.

The ROH program hasn't been as consistently compelling as that. But to give credit where it's due, the beauty of ROH on HDNet has been in the athleticism of the product. With only a few exceptions, the roster is made up of well-schooled wrestlers who know how to actually ply their trade. Every now and again, the TV show gives off the feel of an old-time territorial promotion, at least to one degree or another. Naturally, the more modern aspects, such as lucha acrobatics, have become staples as well.

So, while the TV program has been far from perfect, their Internet PPVs have been amazing in their intensity. Not restricted to the weekly 53-minute time frame, matches are allowed to fully develop and tell complete stories. While the last such PPV (Final Battle, December 2010) gave us two matches that were light years beyond anything I'd seen in a North American company for a very long time, the fact is that the entire card was strong. Now, had THAT been aired on HDNet over a two-to-three-week period (the undercard alone would have been just dandy), I have little doubt that there would have been a healthy buzz coursing through the wrestling community.

BTW, the two matches I mentioned were the final two of the PPV show. First came the title bout between champion Roderick Strong and challenger Davey Richards. No BS ... the fans were aching for Richards to take the strap. The bout kept building in intensity until the unfortunate accident that forced them to go home quickly. (Richards sustained a ruptured eardrum and Level 2 concussion in a bad fall; his vacant eyes and the blood coming out of his right ear made it obvious that he was in trouble).

Following that was the 'non-sanctioned' blow-off to the year-long feud between long-standing partners El Generico and Kevin Steen. The tit-for-tat violence reached the apex that night, with Generico putting up his mask and Steen agreeing to end his ROH career, should he lose. See, what ROH does that WWE and TNA fail to understand, is to create a credible (or at least semi-credible) situation that continues to build until it's finally time to render a conclusion.

Sometimes, the finish comes sooner than at others; the smart matchmaker will keep several top-to-middle storylines moving along seamlessly. As a general rule, one tends to be just a wee bit hotter than the others for a brief period; still, they all are given enough time to take the focal lead.

Done correctly, the results should keep the concepts fresh in the viewer's mind. I'm not suggesting over-the-top nonsense either, but issues that are worthy of our emotional investment. (Again, I refer to Bill Watts' UWF promotion as THE prime example of memorable television. Stampede Wrestling, from the late '70s through 1984, was another).

Anyway, the point is a simple one; there should always be a couple of soon-to-debut stories just bubbling beneath the surface. You don't want to rush anything, but you keep the speed moving as reality would have it. Which means that some will advance faster than others, like the ebb and flow of the tides.

The backstory behind this particular ROH feud was a fairly standard one: Steen, a large and powerful man, had long since been teaming with the masked El Generico. By wrestling standards, Kevin's hooded partner was noticeably smaller and thinner. Together over the years, they'd had some classic matches with the Briscoe Brothers and others of equal ability. The year before, at Final Battle 2009, Steen suddenly turned on his teammate without so much as a warning, attacking and finishing El Generico off with a nasty-ass chair shot to the masked man's face/head.

Insofar as these two were concerned, 2010 was devoted to building up the ongoing hatred between them in such a way that most any fan following the developments couldn't help but become hooked. Sometimes hotter than hell, it occasionally seemed to cool down, simmering in the background but always within a hair of re-igniting. It often did, of course, with Kevin resorting to one fiendish scheme after another, causing 'severe physical and mental anguish' to his former friend.

No kidding ... the back-and-forth stuff all year (with Steen retaining the upper hand more often than not) had to come to a head, and the 'match to end it all' arrived exactly twelve months after the initial breach. The resulting bout at Final Battle 2010 was unbelievably brutal which is, given all that had transpired, what it needed to be.

When the conclusive moment came, a bloodied and weakened Kevin Steen had fallen to his knees in the middle of the ring. His hands clasped together as he begged the equally blood-soaked Generico not to hit him with the chair he was holding so menacingly. The masked generic luchadore paused. He looked directly at the crowd. Slowly lowering the weapon, he appeared to be considering the option of putting it down in an act of mercy. Steen continued to make his plea, as he seemed to be imploring El Generico to 'find his humanity.'

Again, Generico looked to the fans, who screamed for him to gain the tantalizing revenge that had been so long in coming. And then ... El Generico came to a decision. Without any further hesitation, he raised the chair and smashed Steen in the face/head, virtually duplicating the same dangerous form of humiliation he himself had suffered 12 months before. The feud had come full circle, concluding with the same act of brutality and violence that had started it. El Generico had finally avenged his personal debasement, and in the process sent Kevin Steen packing.

Now, please don't be misled. While I've certainly emphasized the more savage aspects of ROH, most of the wrestlers are capable of exchanging holds and counter-holds with the best of 'em. Many bouts held over the years have been top heavy with brilliant back-and-forth chain-wrestling exhibitions that made perfect sense. It was a silent assertion (with complete conviction) that the image was indeed one of a legitimate competition.

So again, without ROH on HDNET to anticipate every week, our pro wrestling television options have shrunk to nil. Well, at least mine have. Sure, The Fight Network here in Canada still offers old school programs from the territorial days, for which I'm eternally grateful. But as far as the modern product is concerned, there's very little on TV that causes this old fool to look forward with any real enthusiasm.

At this time, fingers and other body parts are crossed that ROH will find a home on another channel. As well, they must continue to hold onto a philosophy that pushes the athletic skills of the wrestlers in tandem with some (usually) well-considered booking decisions. And it certainly wouldn't hurt them to look into improving their television product ... maybe see if Les Thatcher, for one, is willing to add his valuable input.

I feel compelled to conclude by posing this question: Why does it feel like I ask too much from what once was so easy to enjoy?

Mark My Words...

2010-08-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I received a large gift. Now, I’d known about its impending arrival for several days; but still, until I actually took possession, the 50 pounds of old pro wrestling magazines, newsletters and what-not that dropped into my lap couldn’t have been anticipated.

To be clear, I need to give a short history of how this sudden wealth came my way. As I’ve mentioned from time-to-time, minutes (and sometimes hours) of an average day for me are spent at the message board of Wrestling Classics.com. Not only does it feature a repository of information by and for wrestling fans, historians and other reprobates, but there are some mighty fine (and often mighty rare) DVDs available for purchase at the site’s online store.

Owned and operated by former pro wrestling announcer Mark Nulty, Wrestling Classics is a beacon of light in a sometimes dank webosphere. Beyond some of the brightest minds to ever grace the wrestling business (and others), you’ll find moderators who ensure that exchanges adhere to a higher standard of expression. You won’t encounter nasty flame-wars on this message board.

Disagreements, sure … there are plenty of ‘em. But “Head Mod,” Crimson Mask, is vigilant in his role. As well as being one of the most intellectually gifted individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading (on almost any subject … the man is scary-smart), he keeps potential miscreants from pushing the boundaries of behavior from crossing the line. Fair but as stern as necessary, CM is a large part of the reason for the success of Wrestling Classics.com.

Anyway, about the magazines … one of the most beloved members of the WCMB community was Mark Markley. (That was his legitimate name, even though it smacks of something created by a brain-weary wrestling booker). While there is a goodly number of writers, artists, joke-tellers and show biz types to be found at the message board (along with professionals of every stripe), Mark was unique. It’s said that only once in his many years as a contributor did he get genuinely angry about someone’s ill-advised and personally directed post. And, true to Mark’s nature, that was resolved quickly and cleanly.

Otherwise, we all enjoyed his frequently funny input. Whether it was about wrestling (he’d grown up enthralled with the Portland, OR promotion), some of his favorite bands from the ‘70s (someone may correct me on this, but I think Grand Funk Railroad topped ‘em all), his beloved son and daughter, or his thoughts on life in general, he inevitably made us smile, chuckle or outright guffaw. Odd though it may seem, the visitor invariably left WCMB feeling better than when he’d arrived. The way he could connect with just about anybody, courtesy of an unexpectedly clever turn of phrase, pithy comment or posted photo, Mark had a positive influence on us all.

In the fall of 2007, when we learned the shocking news of Mark’s sudden passing soon after his 50th birthday, many of us tried to put our feelings into words. A large number of pages (with 39 posts per page) were devoted to tributes, memories and heartfelt goodbyes to our friend. Many of them induced tears among those that had enjoyed the time they’d spent with Mr. Markley.

Those of us living in the Pacific Northwest felt especially aggrieved; we had finally agreed on a time and place not too far outside of Seattle where we all might gather and hoist a cold one. It’s no lie when I state that everybody planning to attend the event was looking forward to meeting the man behind the humor that graced the message board. Sadly, he died just a matter of weeks before the scheduled date. So, Mark’s daughter and her boyfriend showed up. As a couple, they were lovely, delightful people. But nothing could make up for the empty chair, the one where Mark Markley should have been sitting.

Some 10 days ago, I received an e-mail from a woman I didn’t know. It turned out she was the boyfriend’s (now fiancée’s) mother. As it so happened, she was planning on driving up from Washington State to Vancouver to attend a show. Mark’s daughter thought that since I lived in that Canadian city, it might be a good idea to contact me and find out if I’d be interested in acquiring Mark’s wrestling possessions. So, when she made the inquiry, I was perfectly happy to offer a home to my online friend’s collection. We made the arrangements and needless to say, I was pleased when she pulled up right in front of my building with the five large, heavy boxes.

One minor backache later, they were upstairs in my condo. I’ve only just started to weed through them. So far, the oldest magazines I’ve found are from the early ‘70s; the most current date back to the early ‘90s. And as I thumb my way through them, chuckling occasionally at some of the bald-faced fabrications found within, I also feel a slight twinge of sadness.

The man who’d originally purchased them must have known hours of joy thumbing through this literary landscape, one which ranges from the thoughtful to the preposterous. The photos are fun, and the stories, many of which claim to be insider stuff not known to the average wrestling fan, frequently strain credibility to the breaking point. No matter. As a long-time writer on the topic of wrestling, what I’m finding leads me to question and research areas and territories I doubt I would have otherwise considered. One can never gain too much knowledge, can one?

And so, I carry on reading these colorful tales, taking my time to absorb and test them against what I’ve learned and come to believe from the years I’ve worked in the business. But it goes without saying that it would have been so much more preferable to have Mark Markley alive and well, keeping us laughing and regaling us with some of the “whacked-out” stories from these very same publications.

I will continue to miss his presence at the Wrestling Classics Message Board, but will consider the magazines as a personal gift from the man himself. They are now safe and secure in an area I’ve dubbed “The Mark Markley Reading Library.”

It’s the least I can do.

Gene Kiniski

2010-04-14T21:25:00.001-07:00

When the sad news came early this morning that Gene "Big Thunder" Kiniski, “Canada’s Greatest Athlete,” had passed away during the night, I felt a numbness wash over me. Not that it came as a surprise … the former world champion had been diagnosed with cancer years before. And while it was in remission and under control for a substantial period of time, the disease had come back with a vengeance over the past year.

My introduction to Gene Kiniski, other than through the mark magazines of the 1960s, was on a Friday night in November, 1968. At that time, he was the NWA heavyweight titlist, and for the first time in more than a decade, he was appearing in Los Angeles. That evening, Kiniski was defending the belt against the equally large and rugged Bobo Brazil. The match was 2-out-of-3-falls, and the two men fought to a 60-minute draw before a sell-out crowd at the Olympic Auditorium.

While the match itself was relatively slow-moving (some would actually call it ponderous), it was not boring. Yes, it can be said there were more than a few spots that saw each man clamp on a leg hold, a body scissors or a side headlock and work it for minutes on end. We didn’t mind watching with growing interest and tension, waiting to see how much damage had been done in this wearing down process.

It’s the type of wrestling you won’t find much in 2010. In today’s pro wrestling climate, such an exhibition wouldn’t be tolerated by those expecting constant movement and acrobatics. But then, bouts that emphasized tests of strength, endurance and ring psychology mattered to the fans. A crowd appreciated the grueling exchange of holds and counter-holds every bit as much as the faster-paced wild brawls.

Gene Kiniski was recognized by the vast majority of wrestling promotions as the legitimate world heavyweight champion, and he received the respect accorded that lofty title. It meant something! So, on that night in ‘68, with the majority of fans pulling for Bobo Brazil, the champion was also given his due. Even though there was no winner or loser (each man having won a single fall), both competitors were loudly cheered when the final bell rang.

Well, that may not be exactly accurate. Today, a solitary bell is ringing everywhere wrestling fans gather. The memories of the man are bright and vivid, with plenty of stories to be found about Gene’s remarkable skill, both in the ring and when manipulating the media. Many of his interviews are the stuff of legend, whether they were conducted as part of a wrestling program or a mainstream radio show.

And while one can always question Gene’s declaration of being “Canada’s greatest athlete,” there’s no doubting his legitimacy as a top rank pro wrestler and genuine character. The final bell may have indeed tolled, but Gene Kiniski will be with us for a long time to come.

On behalf of the wrestling community everywhere, I offer my sincere condolences to Gene’s family and friends. And a heartfelt thank you to Big Thunder, for providing so many of us with so many nights of excitement. Gene Kiniski was not only a professional wrestler ... he was a true professional in every aspect of the word.

Little People's Court

2009-12-22T17:20:00.000-08:00

I've been doing a very good job of ignoring WWE's RAW program ever since The Jericho Dare concluded this past August (see the two columns below this for details). The fact is, I rarely think about RAW. Contrarily, I make a point of recording ROH on HDNet every Monday. While that show is far from perfect, at least what they're doing for an hour holds my attention. I also don't feel like a chump for watching.

It was through sheer boredom and nothing else that caused me to stumble and fall over RAW a couple of hours after ROH finished last night. It was well into the program. My stay in WWE-land wasn't destined to be long ... truthfully, it was decidedly short. (Given the topic at hand, this turns out to be a really bad pun, something I try to studiously avoid).

When I tune in, the refuse-to-leave-and-never-come-back team of Trippie H and The Windbreak Kid (Triple H/Hunter Hearst Helmsley and Shawn Michaels/The Heartbreak Kid, together known as DX/Degeneration X) is wildly over-emoting in an exuberant display of amateurish acting. They must decide whether or not to go under the ring together. Putting aside the sense of unease THAT mental image creates, it's impossible to dismiss the boys' ridiculous antics. Migawd, the facial expressions and exaggerated performances are so outrageous and beyond the pale that even fans of early slapstick comedy must be demanding that they turn it down several notches.

(Edit: after looking around online, I've since learned the explanation for their dilemma, such as it was. It seems that Hornswoggle, the leprechaun, wants to join up with DX as their mascot. The two men masquerading as teenagers reject him outright, going so far as to nail the Little Lep with Trippie's Pedigree finisher).

Stupidly, I choose to wait and see where this is all leading. After all, when it comes to the "writing" in WWE, anything is possible with no questions asked. Absolutely anything. Just ask Mae Young.

The two stooges finally resolve their hissy fit. Am I wrong, or is Trips always the guy that wants to plunge ahead and his partner is the reluctant one that needs convincing? Eh, who cares?

Anyhoo, having come to some sort of an understanding, DX quickly stoop down low and plunge forward beneath the ring. Rather than banging their fool heads on tables and ladders and stacks of chairs (which always seem to be conveniently housed beneath the ring as a weapons repository), they instead find themselves standing up to their full height in a long hallway. Ah, of course. Why didn't I see that coming?

The "exceedingly close friends" aimlessly wander towards a sign tacked up on a door that reads "Little People's Court." The over-sized and over-cooked hams enter, and I finally catch onto the reason for DX's earlier debate. (Remember, I hadn't read the background story yet).

Continuing to watch just to see where this is going, I gather that DX has incurred the wrath of the little people ... at least the little wrestling people. A jury of six midgets sit in a makeshift jury box. (Is the word midget now considered politically incorrect? I have a difficult time keeping up with such rules as laid down by those that can't wait for opportunities to jump in and smugly tsk-tsk, thus "lending proof" of their own ultra-high levels of sensitivity. It should be bloody obvious that I mean no offense to anyone of any size).

Back to the show: a whole lot of noise, as everybody seems to be talk-shouting at the same time, with the voice of that most evil of leprechauns, Hornswoggle, floating just above the rest. I'm guessing that he's supposed to represent the prosecution or maybe the judge in whatever the case is about, but I'm not sure. Nor do I care one little bit. Hell, I care more about the frog I saw earlier in the day. Squashed flat in the gutter it was, the poor little ex-hopper.

Anyway, my sense of self-preservation kicked in at this point and I don't remember much more, except the two goofballs are found guilty of something or other. They then come sliding back out from beneath the ring. Was the poor edit intentional? Criticize them all you want, but WWE is usually very polished and professional when it comes to production values.

I guess it's a good thing that DX manages to safely escape the "hidden world of little people" ... the same mysterious place we all suspect actually exists, despite our knee-jerk denials.

Seriously, just how much longer will today's wrestling fans be willing to dine at this horse trough? When will it finally be enough for WWE's loyal customers to scream as one, "STOP THE INSANITY! WE SHALL NOT PUT UP WITH THIS CONSTANT DUMP OF STEAMING HOT FERTILIZER ANY FURTHER!"

Just how far does the E need to sink before people stop tuning in and accepting their puerile fantasies as a natural part of wrestling? With the news of a possible return of the New World Order faction to TNA come January 4th, 2010, can the current pro product possibly sink any further? (Former NWO member Sean Waltman has supposed been signed for this purpose).

The sad part is that I recall asking the same question last year. It frightens me, this bargain basement stuff I just saw. (And that was but a few minutes of 2-hour-plus show, the reviews of which have been seemingly unanimous in their scornful dismissal). I'm already dreading the thought of what that head-to-head confrontation becomes on January 4th. Will the two most watched wrestling companies do their best to out-embarrass each other, only to give themselves a hotfoot? The prospects are utterly dispiriting.

And on that joyous note, I want to send out my wishes for a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah and an equally enjoyable and reflective New Year to all who visit one or both of my websites. My gratitude especially goes out to those who have purchased the book, A Fool for Old School ... Wrestling, That is. Some of you have taken the time to send along your thoughts on what you've read. It truly warms this old heart to know that you care enough to honestly and fairly offer your compliments, corrections and critiques.

To put my optimist's hat on (if only momentarily), I want to believe that someday soon, a person or a collective with the necessary background and funding gives us a promotion devoted to the concept of pro wrestling as sport, rather than a comedy/action/grade-school-level TV show. An oasis, of sorts, for the fan who is beyond sick and tired of the non-stop arrogance, the contempt, the ridicule, and the abject stupidity they receive several times a week from the two primary sources.

This mentally proposed television show eschews pyrotechnics, skits and individuals whose behavior equates the maturity level of a 12-year-old approaching puberty. The unnamed WRESTLING program will be laden with well-developed matches and sensible storylines.

Yes, this WRESTLING company will make sense, dadgum it, relegating ref bumps and outside interference to genuinely surprising rarities. Logic will reign supreme! As a general rule of thumb, clean finishes will become the calling card, while contrived bullshit, nonsensical swerves and meaningless switches back-and-forth from baby-to-heel and vice versa will become naught but a distasteful memory.

I'm really not kidding, folks. In the past, I once took a certain amount of pride admitting to having worked in the business. Now, unless I'm exchanging views with fans and people who have or had been involved in wrestling, my connection remains unspoken. It becomes just too much work trying to explain the differences between what the territorial system of the past was selling (and I include both the good and the not-so-good circuits), as opposed to the pointless and pale imitation dubbed sports entertainment.

For further analysis, consider ordering my book. For now ... I think I'm gonna go egg nog myself into oblivion. And I HATE egg nog!

The Jericho Dare Part II – WWE Monday Night RAW – August 17, 2009

2009-08-23T12:17:00.000-07:00

As in the case of The Jericho Dare, Part I - Smackdown (see article below), I ask for your understanding, should you find the following description of RAW wanting. There were just too many parts of the program that were … uh … let’s call it challenging. Fair enough?

As stated, the episode of WWE Smackdown that I watched last week featured some surprisingly good wrestling. True, it was buried under a mountain of distractions (a very few okay, some banal, others ridiculous and a couple of them crossing the line into the offensive). Still, I came out appreciating that while many of the talented wrestlers were constrained by the preferred WWE style, that style has broadened somewhat since I last tuned in. A very pleasant revelation, that.

So, now it’s on to WWE Monday Night RAW, the TV show that is lauded as the company's flagship. It’s the one that gets the most attention and the highest ratings. It also receives the greatest amount of criticism for going off the rails with exasperating regularity.

Here in Canada, we are “treated” to a 15-minute preview of the night’s show, thanks to “Countdown to RAW.” Countdown begins at the top of the hour, which means everything that follows is a quarter-of-an-hour later than what our southern neighbors are viewing. For my purposes, it's a good thing. Greg Sansone is a typical generic WWE-style host, although he’s actually an anchorman for The Score, the national channel in Canada carrying all WWE programming. He does a good job bringing us up-to-date with the usual hype. The current storylines and angles are highlighted, awash as they are in clips from the recent past. Wowie, looks like we’re in for a humdinger of a show, dadgum it!

One thing that fails to raise my hopes comes with the announcement that this week’s “Guest GM” is Freddie Prinze, Jr. Nothing personal against Prinze the Younger … I’m not at all familiar with his work, but the few times I’ve seen him he seemed affable enough. Besides, I liked his old man back in the ‘70s.

But what’s the deal with a celebrity running the program every week? Okay, we know the real reason is cross-promotion. Other than that, does the gimmick enhance the matches at all? No other sport that I’m aware of allows an outside individual to call the shots. The angle itself is not a major crime in this make believe world, but such stuff makes it much more difficult to suspend disbelief and go with the proceedings. I actively dislike this manner of contrivance.

Anyway, RAW kicks off with a skit featuring Santino Marella and Freddie Prinze, Jr. Like Colt Cabana of ROH, Marella’s a natural comedian with plenty of charisma. That said, the material he’s given is horribly unfunny. Interesting to note that Santino’s thick Italian accent drops completely as he mimics other characters, one of whom is, I believe, from the program “24.” (Is it Keifer Sutherland’s role?) Fortunately, the whole thing was short, over and done before it became truly annoying.

Now, WWE champion Randy Orton joins Prinze in the ring to make it clear he has no intention of working that night, even if Sergeant Slaughter, the previous week’s Guest GM, set up this week’s main event. Tonight, Orton is scheduled to team up with his hated enemy (and the challenger for his title come SummerSlam on Sunday), John Cena. Not only that, they’ll have to face the tag team champs, Big Show and Chris Jericho. Seems to be a lot of talent crossover between RAW and Smackdown. As one might expect, RO doesn’t go for it. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing to discuss.

I dig Randy’s heel work. Unlike most everybody else, he doesn’t bluster and yell. At least, not to this point. Instead, he speaks in quiet and measured tones, which makes his heel personality vastly more interesting and intimidating than the screamers. Huzzah! Then, through his actions, Prinze informs us that he’s got big brass ones, for he lays down the law … the match has been made and Orton WILL appear in the main event. A little bit of back-and-forth and then bang … Orton nails him with his finisher, the RKO. Prinze is down and out on the mat, his subconscious wondering who the hell thought this would be an okay idea. It actually looked pretty good on the replay.

Randy slowly leaves the ring, and again I like how he works. Supremely arrogant yet soft-spoken is a rare novelty in today’s sports entertainment, and for that reason it’s all-the-more impressive. The viewer tends to listen to the message because it’s at a conversational level, a simple act that makes it even more menacing. So, it’s bye-bye and off to the hospital for Prinze, who didn’t even get a chance to hype his latest project (then again, I may have fast-forwarded through it). Interesting decision to pre-sell Freddie’s attendance and then kiss him goodbye within the first 10 minutes. Of course, this can only mean he’ll be back before it’s all over.

And now for something completely different: a match! Kofi Kingston, a highly energetic holder of the U.S. title takes on a nasty-ass Carlito. Haven’t seen Kingston before, but I’m pleased that Carlito seems to be over his apple-spitting phase. Done routinely, it’s predictable, boring and means nothing.

The bout is pretty stiff with a few nice spots, although Kingston’s over-amplified facial expressions don’t help. With the occasional exception, someone trying to convey an emotion by going way over the top relegates it to caricature. It only serves to remind us of what we are unable to achieve ... the suspension of disbelief. I have a feeling it won’t be the last time tonight.

Oh, joy. Just like on Smackdown, we start receiving notices that Degeneration X is coming back. The punch-lines from a series of idiotic skits Shawn Michaels and Triple H had performed over the years as DX are thrown at us lickety split. Like so many of the matches from this company, there’s no build-up … just the pay-off. Lacking genuine humor, it makes me dread the reappearance of two men that are over 40 yet pretending to be teenagers with snotty attitudes. I know each has a large following, but does anyone over the age of 12 find this turn amusing? I may be in the minority on this, but to me it's moronic in the extreme.

WWE wants you to e-mail your vote now! Can Randy Orton & John Cena defeat the team of Big Show & Chris Jericho in tonight’s main event? Hurry! (Nice method of bumping up the hits on the company website, Shane. Actually, it’s pretty clever).

The Miz (anybody happen to know what a Miz iz?) comes out and gives the crowd plenty of snark. Like C.M. Punk over on Smackdown, he’s a recent convert to the heel side of the fence. He’s taking on Evan Bourne in what proves to be mostly a spot-fest. There’s very little psychology to speak of, but the athleticism is certainly admirable. Well, except for a clothesline on Bourne near the finish that sends shivers up my spine. Call me a naïve mark if you want, but over the years I’ve seen too many wrestlers legitimately injured from things just like this. My immediate impression is that Evan has inadvertently landed hard on his neck and/or back of his head. Still, he manages to kick out of a pin attempt. Not so sure about the hardship created by the clothesline now. Bourne continues and soon loses, not showing much of an effect from the bad bump. So I’ll reduce my suspicion to 50/50.

Another DX reminder, courtesy of Jerry Lawler in the arena and a camera crew waiting in the parkade for their arrival. I’m beginning to shake in a combination of nervousness and dread of what’s to come.

And following the break … yep, here they are. Shawn Michaels and Triple H have arrived in all of their crotch-chopping glory. Exiting from a monstrously long limo with DX spray-painted on its side (thoughtfully parked right where the cameras can get an unencumbered shot), they walk with a sense of purpose towards the building. But before they can enter, they must first run a gauntlet of stupid people. (Or, more fairly, people doing stupid things).

First, it’s two girls, one with long blonde hair, acting in the role of crazed fan. Jumping around like she’s got a nest of wasps in her shorts, she continually screeches about DX until Trips empties a rubber trash can on her head, followed by the can itself. The other girl, who looks supremely embarrassed during her friend’s conniption fit, merely stands and watches the entire production. Who the hell writes this stuff and why haven’t they been sedated? Maybe they already are…

Then Santino, once again adopting the Keifer Sutherland role in “24” (if that’s what it is), drops in and acts the fool once again. Even though he himself remains appealing, this pretense is wearing awfully thin for me. One thing the “E” fails to grasp is that when something works, you don’t need to drive it into the ground by repeating it over and over in rapid succession. The surprise factor isn’t there after the first time, and with each replay the alleged humor diminishes. It also wouldn’t hurt to hire writers possessing a sense of humor that resembles an adult’s.

Shawn Michaels hits Marella with a Super-kick to the chin, laying him out. And here, I’ll admit it. I found the final few throwaway lines between the two friends to be genuinely witty, causing me to laugh at both the absurdity and the delivery. Once in awhile, the law of averages tells us they’ll get it right, and they certainly did so at the very end. Kind of an unexpected reward for sticking around.

As we all must be anticipating, DX hits the ring to the insane delight of the crowd. I guess this answers my earlier question … as long as people eat this foolishness up, Vince McMahon will continue dispensing it. The “boys” go into their long-running ego trip and self-congratulatory routine. (No offense to anyone, but my God … is it ever gay! Not that there’s anything wrong with that!) They merrily cavort about the ring until The Legacy (Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase, Jr.) run in to destroy the old-timers right where they prance. As intended, the result is an instant feud, and waddya know … it’s just in time for SummerSlam! Couldn’t see THAT coming.

Our next match is a women’s contest between Diva titleholder Mickie James (who’s put on a hint of flab around the mid-section since I last saw her) and Gail Kim. Remembering both of them as polished professionals, I’m expecting a well worked bout, far above the usual WWE women’s standards. Both are babyfaces, so with neither one needing to play the heel, there should be some decent exchanges.

But something’s wrong here. I don’t know if they’re having a hard time communicating during the bout or what, but it’s dangerously sloppy at times. Kim especially seems particularly loose and semi-lethargic, and I’m getting the feeling that Mickie is becoming exasperated. Still, it continues and I suppose it could be worse. The end, though, confirms my suspicions.

The conclusion is nothing less than a big-time screw-up. Rightly or wrongly, here’s the way I saw it: James accidentally clips Kim in the face with a spinning kick of some sort. It legitimately seems to knock her woozy. Mickie follows that up with a stiff clothesline, a roll-up and the pin. She’s looking kinda pissed off, while Gail lies perfectly still on the mat. She’s not selling a bogus injury and is barely beginning to stir.

So, the ref raises Mickie’s hand in victory, and together they take a quick walk around the ring. James then wanders over to Kim, who is attempting to regain her composure. Mickie’s talking to her, possibly apologizing but more likely reminding Gail that they are both babies and need to confirm as much to the crowd and the TV viewers. That means Kim should be raising James’ hand while both show signs of mutual respect.

But that’s not how it goes down. As Gail Kim regains her feet, she’s shooting daggers in Mickie James’ direction. The top diva grabs her hand and raises it in an attempt to sell their unity. After a couple of seconds, Gail jerks her hand away (or perhaps Mickie throws it down in contempt), with James no longer hiding her facial displeasure. Somebody better get between these two in the back! Or better yet, NOW’S the time for the ever-intrusive cameras to show us what’s going on behind-the-scenes. I dunno what really happened, but it was definitely not scripted.

Michael Cole excitedly informs us that Freddie Prinze, Jr. has now returned to the arena. (Toldja!) We’re then back in the ring with Josh Matthews as he conducts an interview with John Cena. Of course, the discussion centers around John’s challenge to gain Randy Orton’s WWE belt on Sunday. I like Cena’s responses to the questions. He gives credit to his opponent, which flies in the face of modern wrestling practice.

It doesn’t take a college degree to recognize that a man giving credit to an adversary creates the impression that the speaker is a realist. The match between the two will be even-up and compelling, and it’ll be a tough night for both of them. To take the opposite approach by claiming that his foe is beneath him tells the fans that maybe the bout won’t be competitive, and THAT message reduces the I-must-see-this-match factor.

Now Chris Jericho and Big Show arrive and verbally intimidate Cena. Not sure why these guys are interjected when the focus needs to be squarely on Cena versus Orton.

Next match: MVP vs. Jack Swagger. It’s all punch ‘n’ kick for two minutes or so. The ref disqualifies Swagger, whereupon MVP jumps him from behind and they roll around on the mat until it’s time to leave. Nothing particularly good or bad here.

The matches are coming fast and furious now. Chavo Guerrero is slated to face the Irish midget, Hornswoggle for the umpteenth time. (Found that last part on the net). It’s a nothing match, a comedy chase under the ring and into the back. It's too senseless to recount, so I won’t. I’ll simply say that Chavo is a highly talented wrestler who is utterly wasted in a bad burlesque parody. Ugh.

Just-recovered Freddie Prinze, Jr. is still the General Manager for the night, dadgum it! And he decrees that the main event is now going to be a lumberjack match. More so, the ‘jacks are all individuals that have a particular dislike for Randy Orton. Take that!

After a break, we get the final result of the e-mail question concerning whether or not Orton and Cena can defeat Jericho and Big Show in the main event. Oh, right! THIS is why the tag team champs came out to intimidate Cena beforehand. At least it makes sense now. Anyway, 76 percent of the respondents said yes, the duo could defeat the baddies, and 24 percent said no. Not sure what it proves except that people watching RAW are capable of sending e-mail messages when instructed.

After another ubiquitous commercial break, we join the match just as it’s starting. However … at least here in western Canada … there’s no audio. Can we possibly follow the action without yammering heads telling us what we’re seeing?

After several silent minutes, we are suddenly plunged into darkness, then jerked back to the beginning of the bout. Again, there are no announcers, at least not until Cole and Lawler find their microphone’s “on” button. With no explanation forthcoming, maybe the technical misstep was limited to certain areas. In any event, the bout is reasonably well paced, with the crowd loving it every time Orton is sent outside the ring, only to face the wrath of the unfriendly lumberjacks.

Pretty fair exchanges with some decent storytelling taking place. With everything breaking down at the end, Orton decides that now is the best time to sneak up on Cena and hit him with an Attitude Adjustment, thus concluding their temporary partnership for the night. Randy makes his exit up the aisle, and then stops to appraise the damage done from the top of the ramp.

Now it’s the lumberjack’s turn to jump inside the ring, only to be quickly tossed outside by Jericho and Show. However, this gives Cena time to recover, and in the most surprising move of the night, snaps Show’s head off the top rope. The large man tumbles to the floor, so an angered Cena picks up Jericho, airplane spins and slams him hard to the mat, getting the pin. Gotta say, I never would have expected anything resembling an actual finish to the match, and I give props to Chris Jericho for doing the job.

All-in-all, the program wasn’t as horrifically bad as I was anticipating. But then again, it was far from good, or even average. Way too much crap throughout, with nothing to inspire me to tune in to RAW again anytime soon.

But you know what? The next night, and without any pre-planning, I found myself watching one of my Pro Wrestling NOAH discs, all-the-while breathing a sigh of relief. The lesson through all of this was: wrestling can be a fickle mistress. Loud, irritating and extremely immature at times, it's often full of promise while delivering very little. But then again, when performed with consideration and intelligence, it can also be highly rewarding.

RAW Grades:

The Wrestling: D
The Skits and General B.S: F
Combined Grade: D-

Review of WWE Smackdown ... August 14, 2009 ... AKA The Jericho Dare

2009-08-17T02:11:00.000-07:00

A brief explanation: as time permits, I tend to hang out over at the Wrestling Classics Message Board (www.wrestlingclassics.com). One of the regular members, Wild Rover, issued a challenge to yours truly: watch WWE RAW (and Smackdown), then post your thoughts on what you’ve seen. Specifically, Chris Jericho.

It’s Mr. Rover’s contention that Jericho’s current work as a heel is absolutely sublime at this stage in his career. An “intelligent heel,” so to speak. Which, by the way, is the title of a chapter in my book, A Fool for Old School … Wrestling, That is. (I know, I know … nothing but a sneaky insertion of a plug for the book).

We kicked the idea back and forth, with numerous other folks joining in and helping out. Ultimately, the “Jericho Dare” came down to this: I agreed to watch both Smackdown and the following Monday’s RAW. However, I reserved the right to fast-forward as much as I felt necessary (except for anything involving Chris Jericho’s participation). This was a mandatory provision on my part, so as to keep the bile from rising. After a cyber-handshake, the deal was consummated.

So, here’s a full review of Smackdown, which aired two nights ago. Please keep in mind that I did skip past some parts of the show rather hastily, but I managed to see at least parts of everything that took place. Point being, if a few details are missed, out-of-order or otherwise imprecise, I trust you'll cut me some slack. As always, I was hoping to be as accurate as possible by taking hastily written notes, figuring I’d not want to watch the proceedings more than once. Anyway, from my scribblings:

This week’s show is hosted by Jim Ross and Todd Grisham (I presume they’re the regular announcers). After a brief and breathless recitation of the major issues to be addressed at the SummerSlam PPV (coming up in two Sundays), we’re treated to a slick promo for the ultra-violent feud between recently-turned-heel C.M. Punk (who holds the WWE world title!) and the beloved-by-screaming-girls-everywhere, Jeff Hardy. Apparently, Mr. Punk had impolitely beaten the holy crap out of his nemesis the week before, concluding his exuberant display by wrapping a chair with great force around his foe’s head. Then, he rudely ran Hardy, with the chair stubbornly dangling around the victim’s head and neck, into the ring post. Hey, OW!

C.M. Punk starts the proceedings from the ring, and delivers a fairly effective heel rant. After a couple of minutes of this, General Manager Teddy Long interrupts him by strutting down the aisle. (It’s good to see Long still working and in pretty good shape). He interrupts Punk’s speech by confirming that the SummerSlam match between the two would be a Tables, Ladders and Chairs match. Cuz nothing determines who the better wrestler is than loading the ring up with lots ‘n’ lots of weapons.

Long also informs C.M. Punk that he’ll be facing John Morrison (Jeff Hardy’s pal and tag partner, I’m led to believe) in the main event this very night! As Punk rants and displays the usual heel displeasure upon receiving such news, somebody’s entrance music blares out, and C.M. is once again interrupted. (I have the feeling that THIS is why he now has such a nasty temper. He can never complete a thought without somebody interfering!)

Who’s this at the top of the ramp? Why, it’s a Black man! No, wait! It turns out to be Jeff Hardy himself. He only appeared as he did at first, thanks to the combination of multi-colored face paint and the equally multi-colored gel-encased spotlights that illuminated him in the dark.

Jeff approaches the ring as the crowd spunks hard for him. In my estimation, he’s doing a lousy job of selling his neck injury. Yes, I know he was pushing the idea that he was badly hurt from the chair/ring-post skirmish; yet, he would now prove to Punk that he could summon up the strength and come to the ring for a chat. A very unconvincing performance, in my estimation.

Clips of Kane, who apparently abducted the Great Khali’s manager, Runjin (or Ranjin) Singh the week before. I guess nobody except perhaps Khali gives a damn, probably because what follows is cheesy as hell. Kane is verbally terrorizing the man, but at least the victim’s been allowed to keep his nice threads. Goes to show us Kane ain’t all THAT bad.

GM Teddy Long is back in his office. Coincidentally, he receives a phone call right when the camera is there to catch it. (It’s the same deal with Kane and his abduction of Singh. I mean, could no one be bothered to hunt for the missing man at some point over the past seven days? Hell, just follow the cameramen! They have amazing instincts and somehow know just where to set up in case something meaningful occurs).

Anyway, the call that Teddy got was from the head honcho hisself, Vincent K. McMahon. (Before the show started, I wondered if he’d be able to avoid making some sort of an appearance on Smackdown. After all, several years ago, I vividly recall that he was all over RAW). McMahon, still perfectly comfortable in his omnipotent heel role, insists that Jeff Hardy, who has already been acknowledged as “definitely too injured to fight tonight,” would indeed appear in a match. And not your average one-on-one encounter, either. Nope, Mr. McMahon is waaaay too evil for that. Long must serve up Jeff Hardy in a HANDICAP bout this very evening! Hardy will face … the Hart Dynasty! What a fiend!

Clips of Fit Finlay and Rey Misterio, Jr. on a collision course with Mike Knox a week or two before. Far too convoluted … when are the writers going to realize that compelling storylines come from basic emotions, not convoluted soap opera dramatics? The failed TV writers dispensing this stuff don’t have a clue what makes pro wrestling work AS wrestling. Instead, they’re churning out short playlets designed specifically for TV audiences, as opposed to crafting a pseudo-sporting event. The fact is, even granting that this is the way the modern version of grappling is done, their output is embarrassing, insulting and puerile.

This leads us into a match between Fit Finlay and Dolph Ziggler. Never heard of the latter, at least under that name. But the exchanges are sharp and crisp, and for the first time I stop jumping forward and begin watching with interest.

It is indeed a good, solid match that unfortunately has a crappy finish. When Mike Knox arrives to stand at ringside, who among us doesn’t know that he’d become involved? Which is what happens, of course. I give them credit for pulling it off as well as they did … Findlay remains a consummate pro, and Knox looks capable and comfortable in his role. Well done though it was, I hate the failure to use a clean finish as the standard. (I know, I ask for the impossible sometimes).

Now we’re back to the ongoing plot featuring Kane and his captive, Ranjin Singh. More verbal abuse and physical intimidation from the formerly mute-and-masked man. This storyline is ridiculous, unnecessary and distasteful.

Three divas act (?) the part expertly. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it’s oozing with bitchy attitude. Irritating, at the very least. There’s nobody to root for, as they all come across as whiny and bland simultaneously. Okay, I suppose that takes some skill.

Ah, good. Another actual match is about to take place. It’s the promised bout between C.M. Punk and John Morrison. (BTW, the level of heat Punk receives grows with each piece of footage they show or appearance he makes. Which is what SHOULD occur with a good-to-great heel). Happy to see it.

So, with the background of the animosity between the two explained, I’d call this another highly watchable match. To my surprise, it comes complete with some damn fine psychology. The exchanges go back and forth smoothly and credibly. My only complaint (and it’s a minor one) is that there are a few too many false finishes. Tiny gripe, really, and no big deal. So, that now makes two matches I’m glad I saw. Huh … live and learn.

But, it’s now time for a reality check. It seems that every time I find something to like about Smackdown, the pointless junk factor is inserted to mute my enthusiasm. To wit:

Melina and Layla are now having a match. Mostly punching and kicking, with a few half-decent (and very obviously choreographed) hints of wrestling. No question that these two women are genuine athletes. The finish comes when, for no apparent reason, Melina screeches at a level that causes banshees to recoil in horror. Ross or Grisham mention in passing that it’s a primal scream, an indication that the finish is at hand. Why? It’s a gimmick for sure, but again … why? Is this supposed to enhance Melina somehow? Yuck. Even more irritating than the stupid Kane and Diva stuff that preceded it.

Now, it’s Cryme Tyme’s moment in the sun. They are two Black men (Shad Gaspard and JTG) who look like good athletes decked out in slick urban fashions. Well, they’re either going to be nasty-ass heels who have a problem with White people or they’ll play the street-wise-but-still-babyface gangstas. Stereotyping in the simplest of terms has long been an accepted practice in pro wrestling, likely from the very beginning. The attire and presentation makes it easy for the crowd to identify what an individual or a team represents without a word spoken. In this case, the clothing and wise-guy attitude is all we need to know in order to pigeonhole them.

Anyway, they’re good guys, cuz they slap hands with the fans, smile a lot and act friendly. They then perform a well-rehearsed and highly stylized verbal routine that I found entertaining … once. What with the constant “yo yo” refrain, I keep expecting one of them to yank an old Duncan Imperial out of his pocket and start walking the dog from turnbuckle to turnbuckle, all-the-while not missing a beat of his rap.

After the break, we find that Cryme Tyme is still in the ring, patiently waiting for something to happen. Ah, here we go. A bald Big Show (haven’t seen him like this up ‘til now) is approaching with a surly expression etched on his face. Accompanying him is his partner and fellow tag team champion ... the guy that is the main reason I’m watching Smackdown this week. I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do, Chris Jericho!

Jericho is not wrestling tonight, wearing a nice suit and all, but he’s brought along his mouth. So, co-announcing the match between Big Show and JTG justifies why he’s there. Well, that and probably so he could interfere at some point. When’s the last time a heel came down to “watch a match” without getting involved?

The bout is a bonafide squash that only lasts a few minutes. Big Show is too much for one man to handle, and JTG is disposed of quickly. Chris Jericho, throwing out comments meant to undercut Cryme Tyme, makes it clear that he and Show will be putting their belts on the line against them. Of course, they’ll have no difficulty retaining, Jericho says cockily. Given the destruction of JTG in the one-on-one confrontation, I suppose that means that the underdogs will pull off the upset win to claim the tag title. Isn’t that how it’s usually done in WWE? *shrug*

About Jericho: he did just fine on the mic, talking coherently, primarily selling the championship match to come at SummerSlam, with little bits of sly humor thrown in. Wild Rover is right … Chris Jericho IS an intelligent heel. (Say, did I happen to mention that this was a chapter in my book?) The predictable wild confrontation at the end involving all four participants achieved its purpose leading up to the PPV encounter.

And then … damn it! Another installment in the never-ending serial about Kane and his prisoner. Except this time, Khali has become aware that his manager/brother is in great peril and requires his assistance, if he's not too busy. (What the hell’s the big dope been doing up to now? Why isn’t the FBI involved? Or at least Donald Trump!)

So, Khali wanders into the smallish supply room in the bowels of the building where at long last he finds Runjin Singh. His manager is hanging upside down, courtesy of a chain attached to the ceiling (I think). But, it’s all a big set-up, doncha know. Kane had been hiding in the shadows, only to lunge at Khali as he turns his back to free Singh. Whack! Kane smacks Khali on the back (or perhaps the back of the head) with a metal pipe. The ambushed man loses his balance and looks effectively loopy as he goes down to his knees. With Kane whacking and smacking him over and over again, I decide to move forward. Sorry, but I really don’t like this stuff at all. If you have to go to these lengths to sell a match, then you need to make changes in your creative direction.

Oh, great. Now, one of the most horribly unfunny skits I’ve seen in many-a-year splays out across the screen. See, Triple H needs his old buddy, Shawn Michaels, to return to action and … re-form DX. The performances by all concerned would have failed to make it out of junior high school. And I’m completely convinced that the obnoxious little girl in the piece was modeled after Stephanie McMahon as a child. I’m betting the McFamily viewed this crap as cute and priceless.

Anyway, the skit played as if it was being staged at a burlesque theater in the 1930s. Unfortunately, it lacks the wit and maturity of the original knockabouts. Near as I can tell, the whole thing makes two points.

1: Michaels and Triple H have no problem humiliating themselves before an audience. In that, they were wildly successful.

2: DX is coming back. Tell me … does the idea of two men in their 40s acting like smug, practical-joking teenagers appeal to anyone? I guess so, because WWE knows how to give its followers what they want. Even utter shash.

But finally, my patience is rewarded. The handicap match with the injured Jeff Hardy taking on The Hart Dynasty is ready to go. I was delighted to see Harry Smith (David Hart Smith here, in case someone couldn’t make the connection to his father, his mother and his family background). I was also just as glad to see T.J. Wilson (Tyson Kidd here) as well. During a brief summer visit back in the late ‘80s, I first saw the two young boys, working out and wrestling in Stu Hart’s backyard ring.

The two Stampede graduates are accompanied by Nattie Neidhart. A real sweetheart, she is, even though my introduction to her resulted in receiving a pie in the mush at a Calgary restaurant. Like I said, the girl's a real sweetheart.

I’ve more-or-less followed their development from a distance and know how good they are. Too bad that they look to be severely limited by the WWE style, which discourages the use of clever wrestling holds and strategy in favor of the ultra-boring punch/kick formula. (In the entire show, I don’t recall seeing one collar-and-elbow tie-up or anything like that. One guy kicks the other in the stomach, then follows it up with something equally as banal, like an Irish Whip (excuse me … “The Ride”).

Jeff Hardy did very, very well athletically, although he was clearly out-manned. He got in some impressive offense along the way, eventually succumbing to the sheer onslaught of The Hart Dynasty. Harry is working the strong-man gimmick and TJ is the technician. Both performed admirably despite the constraints placed on them.

Just as before, I had a problem with Jeff Hardy’s selling of his neck injury. It seemed to me that he was touching his neck and grimacing occasionally. But now, in this match, it’s forgotten almost immediately. He’d do one of his spectacular aerial stunts that wouldn’t be possible with the damage he supposedly suffered; after which, he’d remember to touch and grimace for a second or two.

If I’m calling the shots, I’d want Hardy to make like he can barely stand up without suffering greatly. The deeply etched evidence of his pain would never leave his face. Which means he wouldn’t be able to withstand the Hart assault at all. Assuming he comes across convincingly, the crowd leaves with concern for Jeff’s well-being after yet another thrashing. The fans should fear for how he could possibly compete at SummerSlam in his quest to take the title from C.M. Punk.

THAT’S the question the fans should be pondering … ya gotta give people incentive to become emotionally involved. Instead, Jeff Hardy looks like he’s dealing with a minor inconvenience off and on, which depletes the heat factor exponentially.

But I have to say that the match itself is as good as it had any right to be. As soon as the bout is over, C.M. Punk hits the ring to inflict further damage on the just-defeated Jeff Hardy. His intent is clear: put him out of the PPV once and for all. Man, the fans are REALLY hating on the Punker!

After the typical minute or two of pounding without anybody arriving to break it up, Hardy is rescued by his brother, Matt. After researching the story a bit, it seems the two had a falling out over Jeff’s alleged reliance on drugs. Which is reasonable justification for Matt to BURN DOWN JEFF'S HOUSE and KILL HIS DOG! (I know that this event really did take place in Jeff Hardy’s life, although the Matt-as-miserable-bastard part is pure WWE fantasy).

The show fades out with the duo cautiously shaking hands and talking to each other in the ring. Hmmm … if I were keen to project, I’d say they’ll definitely rekindle their brotherly ties. If Jeff takes the belt off Punk, then soon thereafter Matt turns on him again, cuz he wants his shot at the title. Should Punk retain, then it might be awhile before one or the other turns. But you have to believe that it’ll come to pass. Because, as we all know, people go through radical and severe personality changes all the time.

In grading this one episode, I felt it only right to divide the show up into sections.

The Wrestling: B
The Skits and General B.S. : F
Combined Grade: C-

Next up: Monday Night RAW.

God help me.

Well, Heck. It's Only Been 9 Months...

2009-07-25T00:46:00.000-07:00

I send warm greetings to those I've sorely neglected far too long. At last, I've returned to the scene of previous scribblings, and I'm more than happy to do so. In a nutshell, there have been some mighty big upheavals in this old fool's life. Between that and trying to promote the RB book, A Fool for Old School ... Wrestling, That is, something had to give. (You really didn't think I could get through the first paragraph without mentioning the book, did you?)

Right now, I want to express my sincere thanks to everyone that made the purchase, the vast majority of whom reside in the U.S.A. I think it's fantastic that so many were impressed enough to send along their comments, questions and critiques. Without exception, I took all of them seriously, and appreciate the pats on the back and the occasional correction and/or criticism.

Yes, I intentionally chose to make the font size a wee bit larger than is typical of such publications. As I've aged (and I suspect we all have), I find myself more and more appreciative of such considerations. Even with glasses, I find myself squinting a fair bit. A new lens prescription is in the near future, no doubt. But even so, I wanted to present something that was immediately pleasing to the eye.

I take no credit whatsoever for the pictures found within the introductory features and at the beginning of each column. Almost all came directly from the collections of master photographers Bob Leonard and Dr. Mike Lano, with very few exceptions. I remain indebted to them for their tireless efforts that make the book so enjoyable, as quite a few have stated.

I'm also aware that there remains a few typos scattered about. The vast majority of the little buggers have been corrected. (Hey, there really weren't THAT many!) Having said as much, I make no claims of perfection. While some folks that corresponded pointed them out (and I'm grateful that they did), I've done my best to clean 'em up.

Now, on to another aspect of this first effort of mine: in all candor, I was somewhat surprised that sales in Canada haven't been as anticipated. With several of the columns detailing the doings in Stampede Wrestling, coupled along with some mention of other organizations located in the Great White North, it had been projected that a goodly number of sales would occur above the 49th parallel. Such has not proven to be the case.

Not too long ago, I became alerted to what likely is the reason so many Canadians have been hesitant to "pull the trigger," so to speak. And, if true, it makes me angry. Damn angry, actually. Apparently Lulu, the printer/shipper, is charging those of us living in this country an outrageously high shipping price. As in $1.00 less than the cost of the book itself! For cryin' out loud ... I know that would definitely cause me to pause and seriously question it!

Now, I can't state with complete certainty that this is why Canuck wrestling fans are holding off, but it sure as hell shines a light in a direction I hadn't considered. It makes more sense than anything else I've been able to figure out. The book itself is beautifully printed and bound ... credit where it's due, Lulu is supremely professional in that regard.

I was flattered to receive quite a large number of compliments on the look and feel of the tome. While I'll take the bulk of the credit for what's between the covers, it is indeed Lulu that has produced an extremely handsome book. One satisfied individual expressed how nice it looked on the shelf next to his other wrestling-related volumes. Although, come to think of it, he never mentioned having actually read it. Hmmmmm...

So, to make things more equitable, I'd like to place an offer right here and now to my friends in Canada. If you are interested in purchasing A Fool for Old School ... Wrestling, That is at a reduced rate, please drop a line in my direction at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

Fair enough?

I look forward to hearing from all Canadians, from Victoria, B.C. to Cape Spear, Newfoundland, and all points in between! And to the good people to the south of us, I greatly appreciate all the support I've received in this endeavor. It gives me lots of warm fuzzies, it does, which thankfully is NOT due to a medical condition this time around!

Why I’ve Had Problems with the W(W)WF/E for 43 Years

2008-10-22T01:14:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile, someone will ask why I have a tendency to react negatively (and occasionally with volatility) when confronting the initials W(W)WF/E. It’s a legitimate query, and the answer is one that still burns within me. To explain the reason, we need to go back to the year 1966. For that was when this 16-year-old hopelessly addicted pro wrestling fan journeyed from Los Angeles to New York, ostensibly to visit relatives.

I looked forward to spending a month with aunts, uncles and cousins I’d not seen in years. And there was an intriguing aspect beyond that; it was to be the first time I’d ever taken a coast-to-coast trip on my own, and New York was, without question, a very exciting city. So this was pretty heady stuff. But the third reason, which remained unspoken, had been in my mind from the very start. By flying 3,000 miles across the continent, I would finally get a chance to see the wrestlers of the WWWF in action! Probably not live, but their television performances would surely suffice.

We must remember that in the mid-1960s, channels above the standard VHF (2 – 13) were in the early stages of finding their place in the fairly new world of UHF (channels 14 and higher). And since cable television was off in the distant future, we wrestling fans mostly had to content ourselves with watching our local promotions exclusively. We could only read and form our opinions of other territories based on the descriptions in the “rasslin’” magazines.

My two favorite can’t-miss monthly publications were Wrestling World and Wrestling Revue. I’d also buy the others when I found them. But it was the features and the photographs in those two particular periodicals that made me commit to them every month. To raise the money for the $.50 publications, I’d take on household chores, even if it meant resorting to the dreaded chore of vacuuming. That was the one I detested the most, ever since I’d foolishly squeezed a full bag too hard and got a face full of dust, bobbi pins and small thick gooey globs of … something.

But it was the fact that as well as the live weekly two-hour program I faithfully watched (Championship Wrestling from the Olympic Auditorium), the periodicals formed the basis of my early grappling education. Thanks to the dazzling word descriptions, the vivid (and sometime violent) photographs coupled with my own naiveté, the idea of getting a glimpse at the WWWF’s magnificent champion, Bruno Sammartino, grew. Among the names that jumped off the pages and grabbed my attention were other high profile babyfaces, such as Spiros Arion, Bobo Brazil and Dominic DeNucci. The pictures and the accompanying stories created images of men who were strong, heroic and skilled craftsmen at their chosen profession.

The heel side of the fence looked mighty attractive, too. How could you go wrong with names like Killer Kowalski, Dr. Bill Miller and Crazy Luke Graham? From the descriptions I read, their dastardly deeds created havoc for the good guys until the highly anticipated blow-off several months down the road.

By 1966, I’d learned enough about the various territories and their respective styles to think I knew what to expect anywhere in the country. Because of that, nothing I’d read convinced me that the WWWF action was comparable to the thrills that took place in states like Texas and Tennessee. The entire Gulf Coast looked to be as wild as it got. I also figured the northeasterners likely wouldn’t measure up to the realism and excitement that promoter Cowboy Luttrell (and later Eddie Graham) demanded in Florida. But still … the WWWF boys were featured regularly, appearing prominently in something like 50 percent of every magazine every month. To get that kind of press, those guys had to be awfully good, right?

As it turned out, I stayed most of the time in Far Rockaway with my Aunt Tillie (yes, I indeed had an Aunt Tillie, who was just off-center enough to keep me laughing most of the time) and her husband, my Uncle Hamlet (who was somewhat distant but a decent guy. And just a little bit nuts, too). Soon after settling in, I ventured forth and made my pitch. Something like:

“You know I love you both, Aunt Tillie and Uncle Hamlet. And it’s because I know you feel the same way about me, I’d like to ask a big favor. You see, I’m a really big wrestling fan and all I’ve ever been able to see is what comes out of Los Angeles. I’d love to take a look at what goes on here in New York. I’ll bet it’s great … just like everything in New York!” (I had no shame when it came to pandering for my wrestling fix).

My dear Aunt Tillie, who doted on me because we shared the same birthday (different years, of course), said it would be just fine by her. Uncle Hamlet grunted his approval from behind a newspaper and muttered an oath at recently elected New York City Mayor, John Lindsay. All I cared about was that the hurdle had been overcome fairly easily. Now, it was just a case of patience, waiting for the program to take center stage a few nights later.

With each passing day (which rapidly became each passing hour), I found myself counting how much longer it would be until the show’s Friday night 9 p.m. start. My enthusiasm turned into something else: it crossed over into an obsession. Poor Aunt Tillie and Uncle Hamlet listened to stories I related from the magazines, punctuating these tales with moments of high suspense and drama. Tillie typically replied with a non-committal “that’s nice” and Ham would always find it was just about time to head out for his never-ending pinochle game.

Finally … FINALLY … the wait was no more. The night that promised a full hour of WWWF excitement had arrived.

I plopped down on the couch some 15 minutes early and turned on the 18” black-and-white portable television set. To pass the time, I mentally recalled snippets of favorite stories I’d memorized from my beloved magazines. All of them involved the wrestlers of the WWWF. I was pumped to the max and prepared to watch every delicious minute of the upcoming show, including the commercials. I wanted to ravenously devour every last bit of the WWWF sporting experience, so I might gain a sense of what the company “felt like.”

After all, I’d long since adopted the impression that L.A.’s WWA wrestling was generally pretty good and fairly solid, but too constrained for my liking. It was rare when two “enemies” really cut loose on television. Although the southern California style was still somewhat staid at this time, it was undergoing a transformation, gradually loosening up and taking greater risks. A large part of this was due to the introduction of some Mexican luchadors, along with a few tough, brawling good ol’ boys from the southern states.

That said, the WWA was never to reach the heights of wild, unrestrained action and engrossing storylines found in places like Memphis, Amarillo and Baton Rouge. My best guess was that the New Yorkers would offer a hybrid of styles, something between Los Angeles and Texas wrestling. (Geographically speaking, I suppose that would make it either Arizona or New Mexico wrestling).

And then … 9 p.m. arrived! Yes! I was about to wallow in some great WWWF action!

The first indication that this might be something less than expected began with the introduction of the wrestling announcer. It was Zacherly. Now, I’d read a lot about Zacherly in the non-wrestling publications I enjoyed, particularly Famous Monsters of Filmland. Zacherly had become famous as the host of weekend televised horror movies up and down the eastern seaboard. Wearing make-up and face paint (long before wrestlers picked up the habit), he suggested a very cool ghoul; and thus, he was a big hit with kids of all ages.

That was all right with me. But at the same time, I felt that the announcer of a wrestling show needed to be seen as a real person, not a character. Doing so left the impression that this 'oddity,' even if he was very entertaining in another environment, was completely out of place in the world of sports. It irked me.

But the greatest letdown was the wrestling itself. By comparison, learning that Zacherly was the program’s announcer would be a trivial disappointment barely worth mentioning. The 'action,' all of it consisting of TV-studio squash matches out of New Jersey, stunk. L.A. also had a lot of non-competitive bouts, but most of them were more-or-less watchable.

I’d like to interject a personal message to those fans who enjoyed the WWWF presentation a-way back then. Surely you’re disagreeing with my perceptions. I remind you that this is not a “right or wrong” issue; it’s about preferences. To my 16-year-old mind, seeing the WWWF product on TV rather than imagining it based solely on someone’s fanciful yarns was like going to the Empire State Building and finding that it was only two stories high.

All this time, I had been convinced by the magazines that a special high caliber wrestling show was in the offing. It would give the lucky television audience well-paced thrills, including an impressive display of holds and counter-holds. And, thanks to the mags, I’d expected creative booking to be a large part of the mix. To my increasing dismay, what I encountered was the polar opposite.

The first thing I saw was that there was no action, per se. Drawing heat was an unknown concept. By 9:10, the silence from the crowd was so loud that I wondered if there was some sort of city ordinance in place: anyone raising his or her voice would be instantly removed from the premises. Mind you, I never blamed the 100 or so fans that were in attendance. How could I? There really was nothing taking place that might encourage a vocal response.

Around the same time, it became painfully obvious that the wrestlers, the majority of them bearing names I’d never read before, were walking through their matches. I mean this literally. Apathy was the primary emotion most evident from start to finish. I couldn’t believe my eyes when two wrestlers chose to throw caution to the wind and run the ropes. This was executed at half-speed, maybe less. When the inevitable mid-ring collision came, both men slowed up noticeably. As they reached the point of contact, they cautiously bumped into each other, with each man taking an embarrassingly fake fall. Feh!

Incredulous and slack-jawed, I remembered something from earlier in the day. Well, hell! I’d seen a greater impact between several passengers on a subway train as I returned to Far Rockaway from the city that very afternoon!

The crowd in the TV studio seemingly yawned, snored or sat like a group painting, staring blankly at what was taking place in front of them. The one and only time there was anything close to audience participation came when one brave wise-ass directed an insult at a heel. Had the recipient responded in kind, it might have actually generated some honest-to-goodness excitement. No such thing occurred, and the combatants continued on at the same ponderous mind-numbingly slow pace, sleepwalking the rest of the way.

But wait! Suddenly and unexpectedly, there was cause to perk up and pay attention! It was Gorilla Monsoon himself who put in an appearance near the end of the show. Because he was a heel from Manchuria who only growled menacingly (as all Manchurians must), he looked impressive and threatening. Monsoon, whom I’d read about numerous times, was the one bright light that had arrived to save the lackluster affair. Yay, Gorilla!

It was indeed compelling at first. And then, he went and ruined it all by grabbing a wooden chair from ringside and attempting to smack a lower-card babyface over the head with it. The amazingly deliberate swing was so underwhelming and gentle that it looked to be in ultra-slow motion (even before such technology existed). Meanwhile, the recipient of the blow reached up and grabbed the offending chair when it was about a foot above his head.

Okay, maybe he was trying to deflect the object. But it took so long to execute that the guy had enough time to write out his will before contact was made. As a fan for eight years, it was crystal clear that the victim was actually assisting Monsoon in carefully lowering the weapon. When it finally arrived, there was almost no sound to be heard. A tiny 'bink,' perhaps. Then, the guy dropped to the floor, selling it like he’d been shot. His tumble was the quickest anyone had moved in the entire hour … an hour that felt like a week. I was inconsolable.

One week later, I gave the WWWF another chance. Ever the optimist, I hoped that what I’d seen before was a rarity, a bad show that was far from the norm. Well, if it was, they decided to repeat the scenario seven days hence. Most of the program consisted of the same individuals I’d already seen with a few new ones of equal ability turning up. Before the hour was through, I found myself intermittently taking glances while reading a book.

As the second disappointing show headed towards its wind-up, a hard sell pitchman kept insisting we all needed to a local arena one week later to see the hard-hitting contests between all of the big names. By then, I’d become so discouraged that I was crossing the border into a full-blown depression. I decided that the wrestlers were actually training camp recruits, far from ready to be put on public display. I’d seen nothing to convince me the more recognizable wrestlers would be any different. A film clip had aired during that second show, one which included the finish to a recently held main event. It was only marginally better than the TV show had been.

So, that’s why I never enjoyed what the company ever did, no matter what McMahon was in charge. Their entire philosophy, if that’s what it can be called, had nothing to do with creating a credible image of a genuine competition. How is the viewer supposed to suspend disbelief if the product is unrelentingly boring and uninspired?

To be fair, there certainly have been outstanding and memorable W(W)WF/E bouts over the years, with storylines and wrestling displays that generated real interest and excitement. For that, I give them the credit that they earned. But from all appearances, that type of bout had never been the primary goal. And though the style changed occasionally, the mindset remained constant.

Whenever I’ve had occasion to watch a McMahon production, I inevitably find myself shaking my head. From the WWWF plodding display to Hulksterism to the Cartoon Era to Whatever-Came-After-That to the Attitude Era and so on, the basic underlying approach has remained intact. It's never been about firing up the viewer’s imagination by constructing a plausible series of matches. Bouts that made sense and built week-by-week to culminate in a satisfying conclusion was not the goal. With some exceptions, the W(W)WF/E production is all about the moment, rarely with long-term and logical development in mind.

And after 43 years, I still find myself unable to accept that company as evidence of a professional wrestling product.

TAPE TWO

2008-09-09T23:07:00.000-07:00

In my previous column, (Back in the Saddle Again, August 20th, 2008), I explained how I’d taken a hiatus from my two websites due to a personal situation. One of the lessons I re-learned during that trying period was this: it helped me see things more clearly by taking an occasional time out and stepping away from the problems. As crazy as it may seem to some, I accomplished this by looking at pro wrestling tapes that I hadn’t watched in years.

The end result was that my approach to the more serious matters at hand were affected in a positive way. Not spending much more than an hour or so in one sitting, the precious images from the past caused a surprisingly significant improvement in my outlook. Ultimately, I recognized that this method of short-term escape (which is not the same thing as avoidance) allowed me to inspect the more serious set of circumstances from different angles. The act revitalized my vigor. It really was as simple as that and, at least for me, it worked. Winding up the time machine (AKA a VCR) and indulging in a short trip was all I needed to do.

Anyway, I started the journey with some classic OLD old school matches from the 1950s and ‘60s. From there, I ventured into the future, which is to say the 1980s and ‘90s. All of the bouts were promoted by the National Wrestling Alliance (NWA) and World Championship Wrestling (WCW). As most fans know, the two were the same organization with a name change. Watching, I was quickly reminded of how captivating pro wrestling had been when there was a limited number of absurd characters and outlandish storylines. When presented as a pseudo-sport, the primary focus was to draw the fans in through the building of a credible match.

The tape I watched over a four day period was the first “WCW All-Nighter” from 1994. This “overnight pajama party” was hosted by a slightly annoying Tony Schiavone (allegedly in the basement of his home), Bobby Heenan (at this time in his career, he was a damned fine comic with an excellent sense of timing) and Gene Okerlund (in full shill mode). Eric Bischoff was also there. Most of the between-bout skits ranged from hilarious to embarrassing. (Truth to tell, I must admit that some of the shenanigans made me laugh out loud at the sheer chutzpah on display.

Bobby Heenan stood out as genuinely gifted with his constant quips and childlike behavior. Other members of the broadcasting team dropped by for brief interactions. Chris Cruise (who wore a suit the whole time and refused to talk to anyone in a very creepy fashion) stayed in the background. Gordon Solie, who clearly wanted very little to do with the whole thing, arrived and departed in haste. But make no mistake; Bobby Heenan was the standout star, playing the role of selfish inconsiderate boob to a tee. His choice of pajamas was inspired, the sort of humor that dates back to a Max Sennett two-reeler.

The bouts were among the best taken from periodic NWA/WCW specials, known as Clash of the Champions. Clashes were live Pay-Per-View quality cards meant to entice fans to pony up the bucks for just such an upcoming event. As well, the free Clashes were intended to draw viewers away from a WWE PPV, which often occurred at the same time. (This was a practice originated by Vince McMahon, one that had financially hurt his southern-based competition).

Thus, the matches on this first of two WCW All-Nighters came from any one of a number of Clashes, originally telecast live on WTBS between 1988 and ’93. I found most of the selected matches to be fun and exciting. Who won and who lost a contest was paramount. So, at long last, here is the full card I took in along with the results. Comments from yours truly are found in-between the brackets.

1. Sting (challenger) vs. Ric Flair (champion) for the NWA Heavyweight Championship. March 27, 1988.

James J. Dillon, manager of the infamous Four Horsemen (of which Flair was the penultimate member) had stipulated himself into a small wooden cage that hung high, just off to the side of the ring. The 45-minute time limit in this outstanding encounter runs out without a winner being declared, so Flair retains the title. But thanks to the great ring psychology both combatants display from start to finish, Sting becomes a made man in the world of professional wrestling.

[This was a great match. What a way to start the show! Numerous people have dubbed the event as “the official arrival of Sting as a main eventer,” and I heartily agree. Ric Flair does a superb job selling the youngster to the fans in a way that would assure the Stinger a successful future. I have to admit that as Sting’s career unfolded, I respected him but never became overly enthusiastic. Still, there’s no questioning the fact that at this stage he was inspired and very, very good.

Here, he holds his own with modern wrestling’s Grand Master. Generously, Ric gives Sting plenty of opportunities to beat the hell out of him over and over again. This drove home the point that the young man’s time had arrived. Sting’s work is also to be commended when he’s on the receiving end. One of the best Sting matches ever, in my opinion.]

2. Dustin Rhodes & Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat (challengers) vs. Arn Anderson & Larry Zbyszko (champions) for the WCW Tag Team Championship. November 19, 1991.

This match had been built up as Dustin Rhodes and Barry Windham finally achieving a long-sought-after title shot. However, Windham shows up with his arm in a sling and unable to wrestle that night. (I couldn't tell if the injury was worked or not). Therefore, Ricky Steamboat agrees to take his place, which drives Anderson and Zbyszko insane at the news of his participation. (That’s kind of an insult to Windham, isn’t it?) Anyway, in about 12 minutes, the makeshift team takes possession of the belts.

[Not bad, though I found it too short with a somewhat abrupt finish. It also seemed disjointed, too much so to be truly memorable. I was surprised to find the champions appear in the role of semi-incompetents. I suppose the message was that the unexpected entrance of Steamboat threw them for a loop. Still, the titleholders were fine wrestlers, so this aspect just didn’t add up for me. Despite these faults, the fans got what they wanted and were happy. It also looked like the dethroned champs were heading towards a feud, with each one blaming the other for the loss.

3. Ric Flair (challenger) vs. Lex Luger (champion) for the NWA U.S. championship. September 13, 1990.

This took place at a time when Lex Luger was watchable, at least in this encounter. Then again, this was also at a time when it was said Ric Flair could have a match with a broomstick and make it interesting. It ends in a no contest ruling.

[A pretty good match with Luger doing his best to keep up and Flair guiding him along. It all comes to a sudden conclusion when they take it outside of the ring and brawl on the floor. Inexplicably, Stan Hansen decides to join the festivities, as he impolitely takes Luger apart piece by piece. The match is thrown out at around the 20 minute mark. I liked it well enough, but would have preferred a clean finish rather than the outside interference routine.]

4. The Hollywood Blondes (Brian Pillman & Steve Austin) (challengers) vs. Ricky Steamboat & Shane Douglas (champions) for the Unified Tag Titles. January 13, 1993.

The babyface champions hold the Unified Tag Titles. (Yes, Shane Douglas worked as a clean cut baby in his formative years and was pretty good in the role). I have no idea what the Unified Tag Title is supposed to be, but it’s clearly not given the same regard as the WCW Tag Team belts. Anyway, this was an enjoyable match to watch. Well, until the end, anyway. That’s when Austin uses one of the belts conveniently close at hand to smack Douglas in the face, earning the Blondes a DQ.

[These four worked well together for the most part. Seeing this convinced me that the WCW bosses didn’t have the smarts to leave the Blondes together and allow them to grow. There was absolutely no reason that I’m aware of to suddenly disband the team; the meddling by the higher-ups mucked up a good thing in the making. As a twosome, Pillman and Austin blended their skills smoothly, and what could have been one of the better remembered pairings of the era faded away before they were able to really hit their stride.

I also have the sneaking suspicion that whoever booked the match lost interest somewhere along the way. Instead of devising a hot conclusion, they took the lazy way out. The decision to have the Blondes resort to everyday standard heel tactics did not enhance the match or the duo. What they’d accomplished during the bout was largely negated when Steve and Brian wound up looking like every other run-of-the-mill bad guy collective. Ugh. Still, this is a match well worth watching most of the way through.]

5. Ricky Steamboat (challenger) vs. Ric Flair (champion) for the NWA Heavyweight Title. 2 out of 3 falls. April 2, 1989.

Plain and simple, this is a match that ranks among the very best ever. Flair takes the first fall, Steamboat the second and … Steamboat wins the third to become the new NWA heavyweight champion! Well, not quite. It turns out that Ric had his feet under the ropes as referee Tommy Young made the three count. The title was therefore held up and the next encounter in this classic series took place at the Wrestlewar PPV.

[If I was to describe this match with all of its nuances, it would take a book. Since I’m already working on one, I’ll refrain. But, let it be said that the nearly perfect melding of genuine athleticism and ring psychology between two of the best in the business created a match for the ages. (Make that a series for the ages). The mutual respect Flair and Steamboat had for one another is apparent. Anybody tries telling you that sports entertainment is the same thing as wrestling (at least at this level) simply doesn’t grasp the difference. A must see.]

6. Steve Austin (with manager Colonel Robert Parker) vs. Brian Pillman, Grudge Match. November 10, 1993.

Those paying attention knew this would be a brawl. And it is. Some good high risk attempts from both men, but the match is afflicted with yet another crappy finish. Pillman, now a babyface, has the crowd solidly behind him. Nice exchanges between the two former Hollywood Blondes, each man giving the other the opportunity to show what he can do. The bout goes close to 10 minutes and … what’s this? Another controversial conclusion?

Yep. I guess the bosses didn’t believe in the old maxim of giving one man a clean victory then allowing the vanquished a strong return to get his own moment in the sun. Back-and-forth with winners and losers turns up the heat and tells the fans that either man is capable of coming out on top. It creates the best story, because the final result is always in doubt. That means people will buy tickets to see how it all develops. Instead of anything like that, Colonel Robert Parker rudely trips up Pillman as he’s about to fly off the top turnbuckle, resulting in a tainted victory for Austin. Another ugh finish.

[I have to go back to the same comments I made about Match 4. Why oh why did WCW think they were smart by breaking up and feuding The Hollywood Blondes? The duo had charisma a-plenty with loads of talent to spare. Handled properly as a team, they could have been a cornerstone of the company for a long time to come. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize the decision was a major blunder almost as soon as it was made. Idiots.]

7. Cactus Jack vs. Van Hammer, Falls Count Anywhere. January 9, 1992.

Before extreme wrestling entered the wrestling public’s consciousness, Cactus Jack was already a veteran of the style and preparing to show the way. Mick Foley had spent quite some time in Japan, sacrificing his body to barbed wire, tacks, exploding cages and the like. Compared to the extreme stylings about to develop in North America, this match is mild.

Van Hammer, who wasn’t as awful as some would have it, was basically a middle-tier performer. Anyway, these two whack away at one another, with Cactus Foley taking some sick bumps along the way. It all led to a conclusion outside of the arena (I’ll bet the fans inside weren’t too pleased). Luckily for all concerned, a cattle show and rodeo was to take place just beyond the arena's entrance. Cactus and Van Hammer fought all over, including the insides of cow pens, causing the nervous animals to eye them warily. The duo also take it to the top of bales of hay and directly in front of Missy Hyatt, who shows up as an on-the-scene reporter.

[The finish is even weirder than what preceded it. Suddenly, Abdullah the Butcher in a cowboy hat and shirt (!?) appears out of nowhere. From his efforts to get Cactus Jack, we’re led to believe he’s in the Hammer-man’s corner. ‘Ceptin’ his aim with a shovel ain’t too good. He mistakenly smacks Van Hammer hard across the back. Cactus Jack pins the metal-head, but he’s not through yet.

Cowboy Abdullah is waiting for him, and the duo continues the brawl all around the stockyard. Missy Hyatt, whose contributions include squealing and feigning distress at the scene, creates much merriment among the viewers when she is dunked in a water trough, which just happens to be filled to the brim. (Hah!) The whole thing is so weirdly good and bad that it’s highly entertaining. Unfortunately, this type of gimmick match that should have remained as a one-off, pretty much set the tempo for what wrestling would soon become.]

8. The Samoan SWAT Team (with Paul E. Dangerously) vs. The Road Warriors (with Precious Paul Ellering). September 12, 1989.

Decent for what it was, this match ended in a little over six minutes. That’s when Hawk and Animal combine to hit the team’s finisher, The Doomsday Device, with Hawk pinning the SWATted victim.

[The two power teams run through their strongman repertoire in the first few minutes of the match, so this wound up just before it became a yawner. Well, maybe that’s a little harsh. Both squads earn points by displaying quite a lot of agility along with their usual exhibitions of strength. So that made it better than the usual. Yeah, this was pretty decent.

The finish comes when the SWAT Team’s manager, Paul E. Dangerously, tosses his cell phone to one of his boys, who generously passes it along to the Roadies. Demonstrating their ability to think quickly, one of the SWAT boys is rendered helpless while the other one is conked over the head with the phone. He is then hoisted up on Animal's shoulders and Hawk heads for the top turnbuckle.

After squarely nailing him with the Warrior's patented Doomsday Device maneuver, it's a simple matter of pinning the man for the fall. Paul E. Dangerously scrambles inside the ring to protest, only to be socked in the jaw for his efforts. Precious Paul Ellering completes the SWATting by stomping Dangerously’s phone into tiny bits.]

9. The Great Muta & Terry Funk vs. Sting & Ric Flair. Halloween Havoc PPV match, in the Thunderdome cage. October 28, 1989.

A very exciting match involving four top notch wrestlers. In a special cage, no less. And this entry came from a Pay-Per-View, not a free Clash. A hot back-and-forth confrontation that sees the duo of Flair and Sting triumph, although it’s certainly not easy for them. Funk and Muta as a team are just as good, and this match is well paced from start to finish. There should have been more encounters in the series.

[When they were together in the ring (and on the floor), Terry Funk and Ric Flair resorted to in-your-face brutality of the highest order. But in several other sequences, they introduced a fair amount of psychology and subtlety, the likes of which make the best matches so good. This entire bout should be included in chapter one of the “How to Construct a Pro Wrestling Match” manual. I mean no disrespect to Muta or Sting, because they too were outstanding. But it’s the two veterans that make this match so beautiful to watch. I thoroughly enjoyed it.]

10. The Midnight Express (with Jim Cornette) vs. Ric Flair and Barry Windham with (James J. Dillon). December 6, 1988.

Another fantastic match. The Midnight Express, arguably one of the greatest tag teams ever, is obviously in their element. Ric Flair and Barry Windham, two excellent singles wrestlers, don’t have much experience as an alliance. That said, we all know they are more than capable of pulling off an upset. And they do just that, with Flair pinning Bobby Eaton. A wonderful experience for the wrestling fan, although I have the same complaint as before … the lack of a clean finish. Still, this one’s just too good to let that ruin it.

[I’ve always held The Midnight Express in high regard. Bobby Eaton and Stan Lane developed and expanded the concept of working as a fully functioning unit. The result was a seamless definition of what tag team wrestling should be. Another factor contributing to their appeal comes from the always entertaining work of manager Jim Cornette. Forever walking the tightrope between infuriating the fans with his devious tactics and cracking them up with his verbosity, Cornette was truly one of the all-time greats when fronting for his boys.

Cornette’s amazing gift of gab, coupled with the wide array of underhanded tactics he frequently used was unparalleled in this, his ideal role. With Jim (and his ever-present tennis racket) guiding the fortunes of Bobby Eaton and, during this period, Stan Lane, Midnight Express matches proved to be exceptional expressions of creativity. The trio was really that good. Watching Cornette go berserk during key moments in this match are highlights unto themselves. On the other hand, James J. Dillon’s relatively cool demeanor is in sharp contrast to the histrionics of his counterpart.]

11. Ric Flair vs. Terry Funk (with Gary Hart), I Quit Match. November 15, 1989.

And finally the coup de grace. This is the greatest match in the history of our sport! Okay, maybe not the greatest ever, but right up there with Flair vs. Steamboat. The rapidly developing psychology shown by both Flair and Funk needs to be taught to any prospective wrestler before he is allowed to lace up his boots. Ric wins in about 15 minutes after applying the Figure Four Leglock. Funk is forced to scream, “YES! I QUIT!” and the crowd’s reaction is off the charts.

The next sequence sees Terry insisting that he had agreed to shake Flair’s hand, should he lose, and that’s what he's prepared to do. Funk’s manager, Gary Hart, adamantly refuses to permit such an act of contrition to take place. You can palpably feel the genuine respect between the two wrestlers. Seeing this made me proud to be a fan. The eventual beat-down of the two former combatants, courtesy of Hart’s gang, turns Funk into an instant babyface. Just a fantastic way to end the All-Nighter.

[What distinguished this match, which I believe sets a standard (along with a very few others), is among the greatest of the great. It encompasses everything a contest between two rivals should. First, it kicks off with a logical build-up to explain why feelings ran so high between the two. (However, it cannot be ignored that the angle chosen, which saw Funk try to smother Flair by putting a plastic bag over his head, was ill-conceived and potentially dangerous. Children watched this stuff). But the end result was that it worked, which still doesn't justify that approach. The fact that the angle was never again shown after the original telecast indicates that they received enough complaints to ditch it. Still, by bringing the violent showdown to a head in an I Quit match made fans salivate at the prospects.

And these two veterans, having begun their respective journey in the late 1960s, deliver at a level above what anyone had a right to expect. The give-and-take transitions were flawless and believable. The brutality with which Flair and Funk mauled each other may well have convinced some skeptics that at least a few matches were indeed on the level. It was barbaric and it was poetry.

It was a case of two top professionals at their peak, plying their trade with remarkable panache. In this match, they showed the world that those who think the business is all about glitz and gimmicks don’t have a clue when it comes to presenting a pseudo-sport as reality. This show-stopper was an act of brilliance from all involved, including Gary Hart and his gang of cutthroats. Truly among the very best, bar none.]

There are no more matches to describe. I only wish I had something more to add, but even if you’re not sick of my blathering, I am.

I'll take my leave and invite you to visit this website periodically. I hope to have a surprise or two before long.

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

2008-08-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Note: It may appear that what you are reading is a duplicate column, found on both of my websites (Perspectives on Wrestling and Richard Berger’s Point of View). Please be aware that the first three paragraphs are indeed identical. After that, they diverge into separate subjects. I view it as a quick and easy way to get the same point across without re-writing. Others may call it proof of laziness.

Hello to my friends everywhere…

I must apologize. I’ve not been updating both of the websites far longer than I ever would have anticipated. I want to thank those folks that took the time to send e-mail inquiring about the status of my health, both physically and mentally. It’s good to be able to say I’m doing reasonably well (okay, the mental aspects have always been questionable), and I sincerely appreciate the concern people have expressed. In general, things are not bad, and the fact is they could be a whole lot worse. So, there are no complaints from me.

Occasionally, situations of the personal variety will crop up unexpectedly. In some cases, they demand virtually all of one’s attention. Such was the case for yours truly. And while the difficulties appear to be resolved, the circumstances demanded most of my time and all of my patience. Trust me; nobody would have wanted to read anything I might have written during that period.

So, unless the loose ends aren’t secured as well as I’d like to believe they are, these sites will be updated more frequently. And yes, to the few that inquired, I’m still working on the book. An announcement will be made as it comes close to publication, hopefully before year’s end. But for now, let’s move forward.

As mentioned above, it’s been a very trying month or so. Along the way and without realizing it initially, I resorted to the one tried and true method that has always helped me cope when confronting a problem. I revived a habit that dates back to childhood. In those days, I took solace by digging up and indulging in some great old school professional wrestling. (Of course, such things as videotapes and DVDs didn’t exist a-way back in the Stone Age, AKA the 1950s; no, in those days, I would read, re-read and sometimes memorize stories from the wrestling magazines).

When it comes to pro wrestling in the 2000s, technology has given us options beyond written words and photographs. We can study actual events sharply and clearly, having the choice between normal or slow speed. In some cases, we have the option of listening to the original announcers or an alternate soundtrack. All the while, we repose on a comfy couch, getting away from our concerns for just a little while, enjoying it all with an unencumbered view on a 40” widescreen HDTV set, replete with surround sound. Whatever fond memories we may have of “life in the good old days,” they cannot begin to compare with today’s digital accomplishments.

So, after rooting around in my oversized and disorganized videotape collection, I chanced upon a couple of gems. The first appealed greatly to the old OLD school wrestling fan in me. Many years ago, some kindly soul sent a tape featuring complete matches from the ‘50s and ‘60s, the majority of which originated with the Fred Kohler promotion out of Chicago. For the most part, the audio/video quality was very good, and the black-and-white footage occasionally sparkled. The matches went like this:

1. (NWA Title) Hans Schmidt vs. Lou Thesz (Champion) - 2 out of 3 falls.
2. (NWA Title) Don Leo Jonathan vs. Lou Thesz (Champion) - 2 out of 3 falls.
3. (NWA Title) Gene Kiniski vs. Lou Thesz (Champion). This is the St. Louis match where Thesz dropped the belt to Kiniski. Highlights only, no audio.
4. Pat O’Connor vs. Bob Orton, Sr.
5. Dick the Bruiser vs. Bob Orton, Sr. (This was lots of fun. Both men were despised heels, and the crowd initially seemed unsure who to back as their favorite, if only for one night. Somewhere near the halfway point, they began cheering for Orton, which is the only time I ever saw him in the role of babyface. Man, they hated the Bruiser!)
6. Dick the Bruiser & Karl Karlson vs. Wilbur Snyder & Verne Gagne – 2 out of 3 falls.
7. The Legend of Bruno Sammartino (I haven’t seen this yet).

I couldn’t help being reminded of two very noticeable differences between wrestling then and now. All of these matches had two elements in common, no matter what decade they came from.

First, there was little in the way of high-flying and acrobatics. Sure, there was the occasional well-executed Flying Head Scissors or Drop Kick, but that was the extent of the aerial stuff.

The second visible difference was that there was nothing to be found that came close to what can only be termed “death-defying stunt work.” No chairs were used (except for sitting purposes) and there wasn’t a cheap shot to be seen. Also missing from the action were the repetitive and boring outside interference and ref bump spots. In other words, the game was an entirely different animal from another, simpler time.

None of the usual trappings found commonly in today’s modern promotions existed back then. At the risk of irritating the sports entertainment fans, I maintain that the industry was far the better for it. Most of what took place was on the mat, and given the route pro wrestling has taken in recent years, it was positively refreshing to watch.

How joyful! What a delight! These men practiced the art of telling stories and communicating to the fans through their actions and behavior instead of taking the easy route via excesses. By today’s standards, the heels would get a massive yawn from the fans for their trivial dastardly deeds. The holds and counter-holds the wrestlers applied appeared to be legitimate, at least by comparison. It was not too hard to believe the performances were those of an actual competition.

Next time around (and I promise it’ll be sooner rather than later), I’ll delve into the second gem I discovered in my search through the ‘Dusty Bin o’ Rasslin’ Vids’. For those keen to guess, here’s a hint: it’s of the recent-enough-to-know-the-wrestlers-involved-but-old-school-in-the-presentation variety.

And by the way … it’s nice to be back.

OT: You Are Invited

2008-07-16T21:59:00.000-07:00

For those who might care to take a look at my new website, it's now available for viewing. It will contain articles, columns and the occasional rant, all of which have nothing to do with pro wrestling. All's you need to do is click here:

Richard Berger's Point of View

Thanks for your attention.

Who's Embarrassed?

2008-07-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

Most wrestling fans that have studied their history or followed the business for more than 10 years are familiar with the infamous WCW debut of Fred Ottman as “The Shockmaster.” The unscheduled tumble he took as he crashed through the wall only to fall flat on his face, is considered by many as the quintessential screw-up on live TV; at least, among those that took place outside of the ring.

There isn’t a person over the age of five that hasn’t experienced embarrassment in one form of another. As we get older, we are naturally going to accumulate more events of this type. Upon reflection, they will cause us to wince. Eventually, when we relive these episodes after enough time has passed, we can wind up laughing and shaking our heads … just what the hell were we thinking? In most instances, the “pain” is fleeting and we carry on, hopefully having learned something along the way. What’s the point in making the same foolish mistake again and again?

So, even though that momentary sense of humiliation was definitely unpleasant, it’s just one of life’s many reminders that none of us is perfect. I'll go so far as to proclaim that we actually NEED them occasionally. Why? Because when we take a pratt-fall, we gain something valuable that we should remember and apply when next confronting similar circumstances. Ideally, we’ll be more informed by those lessons we've already experienced.

So, I ask one and all not to ridicule Mr. Ottman but to give the man a break. Unfortunately for the former wrestler, his mortification took place in front of a million or two viewers. Even worse, his brief act of buffoonery has been preserved on tape and can be viewed anytime on YouTube. Still, there comes a point when the humor has passed and cruelty sets in.

The fact that I've just written the above has very little to do with me. Having now picked myself up after dozing off in front of my computer, causing me to come a-crashing down to the floor (the back of the chair banging me on the top of my head during the journey), I’m already starting to accept that I’ve just received a valuable lesson.

Well, I will once the excruciating embarrassment wears off…

Be back soon!

The "Jig," As They Say, Is Up

2008-07-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase an old saying, when a relationship runs its course, it's time to take the high road and move along.

My connection with The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling has now come to an end. I would like to publicly express my appreciation to John Pollock, Mauro Ranallo and everyone else at the network who had a hand in this venture. Their guidance and cooperation during our one-year partnership was invaluable.

I also want to convey my sincere gratitude to everyone who read my weekly offerings. At this time, I must send along a special acknowledgment to thank those who wrote with kind words of approval and enthusiasm. I include the folks that corrected me whenever I took a misstep, along with the people who disagreed with my positions. Whether or not you concurred with my beliefs and opinions, I am more than thankful that just about everybody who sent a message did so respectfully and with an open mind, for the most part. Can't ask for much more than that!

For now, I'm going to devote my efforts into putting together a soft-cover book. While it's still in the the earliest of early stages, I'm hoping to make it available by the end of 2008 or early in 2009. The format has not yet been finalized, but it will likely include selected (and corrected) RB columns, along with some never-before-published articles, musings, interviews and photographs. More information will be posted on this site as the project continues to develop. Most of the published columns will now be unavailable at this website, possibly temporarily or perhaps permanently.

I'd also like to invite one and all to visit this site periodically, as my plan is to post short pieces, random thoughts and what-not once or twice a week. For now, I'll simply say for the record that the readers who have dropped by from just about every country in every corner of the world have made writing these columns a joy for this old wrestling fan. Having the opportunity to share ideas, as well as receiving your input from various vantage points, has certainly done wonders in furthering my education.

I am gratified for the kindness you have shown. Thank you!

= Richard Berger =

THE ORIGINAL SHEIK

2008-05-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

In 1921, Don Albert and his Orchestra released the pop song, “The Sheik of Araby,” using the colloquial reference to all things Arabic. The tune was the very first to be banned from commercial radio, a form of mass communication that had only hit the airwaves one year before. Why was the song suddenly yanked? For the simple reason it contained a repetition of the line “with no pants on,” a playful jab at the type of clothing supposedly worn by Middle Easterners.

Five years after the song’s release, Ed Farhat was born in Lansing, Michigan, one of 10 children who would be raised by parents originally from Lebanon. Although no one could have predicted it at the time, he would begin training to enter the world of professional wrestling in 1949, making his debut as “The Sheik of Araby” in 1950. And just like the song itself, he would face banishment (along with fines and disciplinary action) during the course of his career. Minor setbacks aside, the penalties he incurred worked in his favor, for the controversies served to elevate his status as one of the uncontrollable wild men of the mat. Along with other early hardcore advocates Bull Curry and Abdullah the Butcher, (see Two Wild Men of Wrestling), The Sheik provided a reason to wonder if perhaps the mayhem he spawned was on the level.

Ed Farhat took his career as The Sheik very seriously. (He dropped the “from Araby” attribute after a few years). In looking back, it’s possible to trace a direct link between his behavior, both in the ring and behind the scenes, with the eventual rise of an ultra-violent style of ersatz combat. What made a handful of wrestlers from the 50s through the 70s, like The Sheik, Dick the Bruiser, Abdullah the Butcher and Bull Curry so menacing and frightening to both children and adults, is that they remained in character and were believable at all times. Never did they drop the pretense of their respective gimmicks. By incorporating acts of violence that went far beyond the pale, they scared the living hell out of wrestling fans, including those watching on television from the safety of their homes. Interestingly, the more honest viewers admitted that they got a special thrill out of seeing those “crazy bastards” cross the line without restraint. Reprehensible as their actions were, there was something appealing about men who knew no boundaries and wouldn’t hesitate to go the extra mile to achieve the appearance of all-out warfare.

Of course, when a heel successfully makes a strong visceral impression by taking excessive liberties, attendance will grow as fans anticipate the day when good finally triumphs over evil. There’s an art to successful storytelling, and Ed Farhat recognized that the best way to create interest in The Sheik was to go beyond the standard heel conduct of merely cheating. By brandishing sharp objects secreted in his trunks to carve up the foreheads of hapless opponents, he outraged the paying customer. The majority of Sheik matches were gory affairs; and while some would loudly disapprove of the liberties he would take, the man himself would just as frequently finish his matches every bit as bloody and maimed as his opponents.

When he first entered the business, The Sheik was an instant heel. His actions were that of a bad guy, to be sure, but nothing too far beyond that of other baddies of the day. It’s also worth noting that in the 1920s, the first wrestling sheiks were presented as babyfaces. Then, as now, promoters capitalized on just about anything that was at the forefront of entertainment, regardless of where the source originated. In the case of wrestlers that were portrayed as having arrived from Arabia, Syria, Lebanon and other Middle Eastern countries, they originally came into being to exploit the dynamic Rudolph Valentino and his movie “The Sheik.” The silent epic had swept the continent and captivated the movie-going public, especially women. 30 years later, the flipside of the sexy Sheik would emerge.

Another important factor that determined the direction Ed Farhat would take was by virtue of the fact that he knew his wrestling skills were somewhat limited. Never one to challenge the masterful technical manipulations of the elite grapplers, The Sheik resorted to brawling. As he honed his style over the years, Farhat added bits of business that were to push him beyond the typical villain, until he comfortably resided in the “will-do-just-about-anything” category.

Without a doubt, the most hair-raising stunt that shocked the fans was when The Sheik would rub his fingertips together and shoot an honest-to-goodness fireball into an adversary’s face. The story goes that Farhat learned how to perform that “trick” from a professional magician. Again, because he may well have been the very first to utilize that conceit, it was powerful. Seeing the flaming fireball strike his opponent right square in the face horrified and infuriated the fans, especially when the recipient did his job by selling his “injury” for all it was worth.
As The Sheik developed his brand of ferocity through the 50s, he advanced the crazy quotient as he traveled around the country. Before the decade ended, he would add his wife, Joyce, who appeared as Princess Fatima. In some instances, the jabbering Sheik would pace and babble his gibberish before television cameras and, in moments of unbridled insanity, strike her numerous times. Wrestling fans of both genders found themselves choking back their rage at the display of an uncontrollable madman’s cruelty.

As the 60s came into focus, Joyce began appearing less and less. Eventually, Fatima faded out of the picture in favor of a male manager. Initially, it was Ernie Roth who adopted the persona of the excitable Abdullah Farouk. Again, it was a wise move on Farhat’s part, as The Sheik spoke no English (or any known language, for that matter). To make the verbal point, Farouk would issue threats and register complaints on behalf of his charge. It was also not unusual for the manager to get physically involved in a match by distracting a referee or passing a weapon to The Sheik; yet, he would loudly proclaim they were the wronged parties, having been the victims of unfair persecution. (In later years, the same Ernie Roth would be known as The Grand Wizard).

Still, a perceptible buzz would quickly spread around town as word circulated that the Sheik was on his way. Supported by magazine stories and photos that spotlighted his barbaric behavior, and aided by carefully chosen clips from his matches on local TV wrestling shows, box office sales would pick up with the news of his impending arrival. Surely, the fans thought, our top favorites would be able to handle this certifiable lunatic, just as they had other characters that strayed from the straight and narrow.

While that was the usual scenario with an invading heel, The Sheik was an entirely different matter. As time passed, his matches became increasingly wilder, frequently ending with he and his rival counted out of the ring or disqualified, sometimes under near-riot conditions. Only a very small number of Sheik encounters concluded in a clean decision. And again, that made sense from a business standpoint; it kept babyface and heel strong and hot, setting the stage for a rematch. Each successive bout added a new stipulation that upped the ante, stoking great anticipation that this, finally, would be the one to finish off the despised foreigner.

Once Ed Farhat took control of the Detroit office in 1964, he focused on building his own wrestling empire in the Motor City. The opponent that The Sheik faced more often than any other was the iconic Bobo Brazil. The two would come into conflict over and over again, many times with the United States Heavyweight title on the line. Each man won his fair share of matches. As was the case with most of The Sheik’s encounters, a DQ was the typical outcome. And so was the ever-increasing intensity, to the point that new attendance records were set in cities everywhere The Sheik and Brazil were scheduled to meet.

Meanwhile, The Sheik continued to work all around the U.S. and Canada. (Later, in the 1970s, he enjoyed an amazing winning streak in Toronto’s Maple Leaf Gardens that exceeded 120 matches). Prior to that, he went to Japan. The Japanese fans had never seen anyone so out-of-control, as The Sheik utilized his hardcore style before such a thing had been given a name. While fans in the Land of the Rising Sun had reacted strongly to “Vampire” Freddie Blassie’s assaults on their heroes, The Sheik took their shock and disbelief to a whole new level. By the time he departed, Japanese puroresu would be changed forever.

In 1968, The Sheik had a good run in the WWWF, fighting Bruno Sammartino for the title and, predictably, losing by disqualification. Here, he employed the services of Eddie “The Brain” Creatchman as his manager, who fulfilled the same duties as Abdullah Farouk had before him. It was during this stay that he was banned from the territory for his savage conduct. Taking virtually the same stance as Dick the Bruiser when he was suspended by the New York State Athletic Commission in 1958, The Sheik never contested the decision. Being highly in demand everywhere and with his own company to run, he never believed he needed to break kayfabe to meet with the officials that could reinstate him.

The truth is, this was something he might not have been able to bring himself to do, even if he’d needed New York desperately. Ed Farhat lived his gimmick to the extreme. He WAS the wild man, the crazy Middle Easterner whenever he appeared in public, and even beyond that. Stories handed down through the years (and they may well be more than apocryphal) suggest that when anyone called him at home and asked for “Ed,” he would yammer away in gibberish and hang up. Some have claimed he would speak a pigeon English, intoning, “No Ed here” before slamming down the receiver.

Unfortunately, while Ed Farhat was a good businessman that was at the helm of a healthy territory for nearly two decades, he ultimately ran it into the ground. Because The Sheik would virtually never lose a match except by disqualification, fans became disgruntled with the product and drifted away. Years of frustration had been building; in essence, the faithful got tired of waiting for a babyface victory that never came. And so, in 1980, The Sheik’s Detroit office shut down, although he continued to work anywhere in North America that would meet his price.

In 1994, at the age of 68, he made an appearance for the upstart ECW organization. In an odd sense it was a homecoming for him, as the independent company headquartered in Philadelphia was in the process of adopting hardcore wrestling as its primary style. The use of weaponry, the broadening of violence that included leaps out of the balcony through tables below, barbed wire ring ropes and baseball bats … all of it had a direct lineage to what The Sheik had been doing his entire career. Finally having his last match in Japan at the age of 72, Ed Farhat returned home and officially retired.

But he still wasn’t done. He trained numerous wrestlers-to-be, the most well-known being Rob Van Dam and Farhat’s own nephew, Terry Brunk (Sabu). Both developed a cult following in ECW and beyond, with Sabu especially being an advocate and an innovator of the hardcore style. Even though he himself no longer appeared in the ring, The Sheik took personal pride in what his charges were doing. They had followed in his pioneering footsteps and kept the “crazy wild man” aura alive.

In 2003, Ed Farhat passed away from heart failure. His legacy is assured of continuing for years to come, and it can be seen every time a wrestler uses a table, a chair or any otherwise innocent object for a violent purpose. Whether that wrestler knows it or not, he is paying homage to The Original Sheik.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

ROLLER MAYHEM!

2008-04-11T10:02:00.000-07:00

This week, we’re taking a short break from the world of professional wrestling to cast our eyes in the direction of another worked sport. Once upon a time, Roller Derby and Roller Games rivaled pro wrestling in some areas when it came to drawing a large and passionate following. From the early 60s into the 70s, the two leagues drew healthy attendance figures, ordinarily from 800 to several thousand per show.

Originally conceived during the 1930s Depression Era, Roller Derby came about as an idea from Chicago movie theater owner Leo Seltzer. An offshoot of the dance marathons (which were a sometimes deadly form of endurance-entertainment in and of themselves), Roller Derby first began as a race between couples. Over time, it would become a more stylized form of competition between teams of men and women, with rules and a method of scorekeeping.

In its original incarnation, the first Roller Derby contests saw a man and a woman working together as a twosome. Because so many people were out of work and desperate for money during the Great Depression, Seltzer had little difficulty finding couples willing to enter his competitions. The “Transcontinental Roller Derby” was what he called it, and the concept was not hard to follow. For as many as 12-hours-per-day, the pairs would skate around a large indoor track until one of them became the first to complete the equivalent of a 3,000 mile journey, quite literally from coast-to-coast.

While it was permissible for one member of a team to take a short respite occasionally, both individuals leaving the track at the same time meant disqualification. The first such competition took place in Chicago in 1935, reportedly lasting a full month, with crowds of paying customers and curiosity seekers coughing up the admission fee of $.15 to $.25 each time they came to watch. As word circulated that the finish was approaching, the assembly grew, which assured the venture would be a highly profitable one. The winners of the grueling race received the sum of $2,000 (which was more than the average annual income for 1935 of $1,518.00, according to Arthurdale Heritage, Inc.)

As the end of the decade loomed, such challenging and barbaric exhibitions came to a close. Still convinced that there was money to be made from selling admission to watch people race against one another on skates … after all, it was a known fact that skating was a very popular hobby for all ages … Seltzer went about creating a prescribed contest. Before long, he hit on a formula that made it easy for trackside fans to follow the action. This early version of Roller Derby as a sport, featuring teams of men vs. men and women vs. women for specific time periods, made inroads in cities throughout the country. That came close to ending in 1942. With the U.S.’s entry into World War II, the country’s interest turned to more serious matters. At that point, the game nearly faded away for good.

Still, Leo Seltzer wasn’t going to walk away from his brainchild. In the mid-1940s, with the troops coming home and a robust economy on the horizon, he again began promoting the game in earnest. Just a few years later, in 1948, Seltzer got the break he’d been looking for. With the sport finding a spot on network TV, Roller Derby began developing a larger and more devoted following. It may have been relatively small at first, but with the American public becoming more aware of and excited by the promise of television, the new technology and Roller Derby were a perfect fit. RCA, Zenith, Admiral and other TV set manufacturers wanted programming that showed their product in the best light. The thinking had it that most anything that featured a lot of movement would impress the consumer’s eye and lead to greater sales. From Seltzer’s standpoint, it meant greater publicity for his game, which translated into higher attendance figures.

In 1949, ABC was the newest of the four U.S. television networks. Unable to compete with the shows on NBC, CBS and DuMont, the upstart company was happy to take whatever it could get if it stood a chance of drawing a few curious viewers to their programming schedule. ABC saw that Roller Derby’s initial foray the year before with a weekly game on CBS had potential. Making Seltzer a better offer to move the sport over to their network proved to be so successful so quickly that ABC joyfully began televising games three nights a week.

The focus of attention was placed squarely on the babyface team, the New York Chiefs. Taking on such rivals as the Brooklyn Red Devils, Chicago Westerners, Washington Jets, the Philadelphia Panthers and the Jersey Jolters, viewership grew. While all but the Chiefs worked in heel mode, by future standards they would be considered as rough but far from evil.

After a two year run, Roller Derby was overexposed, and in 1951 ABC cancelled the contract. Moving his base of operations from east to west, Leo Seltzer set up shop in California, where Roller Derby did reasonably well without exactly setting the state on fire. In the late 50s, Leo’s son, Jerry, took over the company with his father’s blessing.

Centering the Roller Derby League around the babyface San Francisco Bay Area Bombers team, Jerry went about rebuilding the business. By the time 1961 rolled around, his father’s creation was once again showing a steady profit. Meanwhile, down the road in Los Angeles, businessman Bill Griffiths, Sr. organized his own league based in southern California. Roller Games, it was to be called, with the Los Angeles Thunderbirds taking on the role as babyfaces.

Those that were already familiar with Roller Derby couldn’t help but notice that there was a substantial dichotomy in the philosophy and approach between Griffiths’ upstart product and that of Seltzer’s. While the rules of the game they both followed were much the same, Griffiths ramped up the showmanship factor on the track. His vision made Roller Games distinctive with its blend of genuine athleticism, never-ending conspiracies against the T-bird team and a higher level of violence.

By comparison, the original Roller Derby adhered to a slower and more languid pace. To be sure, there was excitement to be had, what with the clear demarcation between the babyface San Francisco Bombers and their heelish competition. But the antagonism was, with occasional exception, substantially more restrained than what was taking place in L.A. Compared to what Roller Games was doing down south, the confrontations were milder, the action less frenetic.

While Roller Derby and Roller Games may have mirrored one another on the surface, points were much harder to come by in the Seltzer version. A jammer (scorer) would break out of the pack and skate around until he or she arrived at the back end of the group. From there, every opponent passed would result in a point. In the Derby, a typical “jam” would conclude with anywhere from 1 to 3 points being scored.

Not so in Roller Games. Passing everybody on the opposing team for the full five points was commonplace. Sometimes, two jammers on the same side would successfully lap the other team for a 10 point payoff! It was not unusual for Roller Games to conclude with scores in the lower 100’s; in Roller Derby, the point total was half as many. (In the last few years of Roller Games’ existence, they modified their approach somewhat, and games ended with aggregate scores in the 70s and 80s).

The most obvious difference between the two leagues was in the level of intensity. To draw a pro wrestling analogy, it was as if Roller Derby was WWF and Roller Games was ECW. It wasn’t a question of skill. There’s no arguing that both leagues had some truly outstanding athletes. The San Francisco Bombers had Joan Weston leading the women’s team and Charlie O’Connell at the forefront for the men. She was a highly talented blonde of Amazonian proportions, eventually becoming a local celebrity for her heroic exploits on the banked track. Weston came out on top more often than not against any one of her chief rivals. The fur particularly flew when she faced Ann Calvello, the deeply tanned heel with the multi-colored hair. Ann was as gifted in her role as a “mean and tough old broad” as Joanie was in her babyface portrayal.

For the men, Charlie O’Connell was a fluid skater for the San Francisco team. Any opposing player that foolishly attempted to take liberties with him or any of the Bombers regretted it, as heels Bob Woodbury, Don Rixman and others were to learn time and time again over the years.

When Bill Griffiths, Sr. first organized Roller Games, he wanted something wilder and more off-the-wall than Roller Derby. To that end, the individual and team battles were given a greater emphasis, with one jam after another often concluding in chases and fisticuffs. Storylines were constructed as the babyface L.A. Thunderbirds found themselves forever being brutally attacked by the Texas Outlaws, Detroit Devils, New York Bombers, Chicago Hawks, Hollywood Stars and other evil squads. Having arrived at an agreement with local station KTLA to televise a Game-of-the-Week live from the Olympic Auditorium, Griffiths made certain that the fans had plenty to howl about.

While the rules were indeed identical to that of Roller Derby, the Roller Games style of play was faster and fiercer with a more frenetic pace. The heels were truly bad guys in every sense of the term, not just a little bit shifty as the Derby would have it. Before long, the Olympic Auditorium was drawing larger and larger crowds for the TV contest every Tuesday night, with the untelevised Saturday night game receiving a heavy push. To whet the appetite further, heels, either men or women or both, would often commit a dastardly act. Ultimately, the befouled T-birds would issue a challenge for a Saturday night match race, telling their fans that crowd support at the event was paramount. Many a ticket was sold based on that premise. (As with Roller Games, Roller Derby also conducted match races during a halftime break. But again, while they were also exciting, there was greater restraint when it came to the appearance of uncontrolled mayhem).

With Roller Games, the most enduring and popular figure to skate for the T-birds was “Little” Ralphie Valladares, the 5-foot 4-inch Guatemalan flash. His ability to weave in and out of danger, often causing heel teams to flail about helplessly as he darted by, was thrilling to see, especially when time was expiring. The Roller Games heels were among the best to be found in any worked sport, whether or not it had wheels. Leroy “Bad Boy” Gonzales started countless near riots with his vicious attacks on L.A. men AND women, always staying just a tantalizing step ahead of any T-bird hell-bent on retribution. Terri Lynch was the redheaded captain of the Thunderbird women who had countless clashes and match races against the supremely hated Shirley Hardman (who would one day become a beloved T-bird herself).

All-in-all, for most of its existence, Roller Derby gave its followers a well orchestrated if somewhat placid presentation. The path chosen by Roller Games depended more on high drama and violence. Towards the end of its run in 1973, the Derby attempted to spice things up with more frequent altercations, but it came too late to turn things around. A decline in attendance coupled with an increase in the expense of running the operation caused Jerry Seltzer to pull the plug. In what must have seemed like cruel irony at the time, he sold the Roller Derby rights to Bill Griffiths. Unfortunately, he too began running into the same financial difficulties and wound up shutting down Roller Games within two years of the acquisition.

Since then, there have been numerous attempts at reviving roller sports. Rollerjam! was one, which faltered on and off for several years in northern California. Roller Games was reborn as the one-word RollerGames. Relying upon outrageous gimmicks to attract an audience, such as using a Figure 8 track, a brick wall and an alligator pit (!!), it limped along for just over one season.

Currently, numerous cities throughout North America have seen the birth of all-women roller leagues. While burdened by limited resources, some of them are making a go of it, if on a very small scale. When all is said and done, roller sports by any name has provided fans with an exhibition of great talent and athletic skill in what many have called “wrestling on wheels.” The Fight Network currently airs an abbreviated one-hour version of Roller Games from its final years in Los Angeles. As cheesy as the commentary and the 70s clothes are, one can’t help admiring the high level of athletic dexterity and gamesmanship. Despite its obvious flaws, the performances and expertise on display are certainly worth a look.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

DVD REVIEW: WRESTLING GOLD (SPECIAL EDITION)

2008-03-07T10:55:00.000-08:00

Are your TV wrestling nights cold and empty? Are you so unhappy with what passes for pro wrestling nowadays that you’ve considered taking a couple of hungry cats, dressing them up in gaudy outfits, placing a bowl of tuna between them in a small, makeshift ring and then calling the action yourself? Be honest have you gone so far as to give some thought to surprising the two furry combatants with a third cat run-in?

Well, if you are missing your pro wrestling fix to that extent, then save yourself and the fightin felines the aggravation. For fans of old school regional rasslin', "Wrestling Gold (Special Edition)" is a must-have collection of matches from Kit Parker Films and VCI Entertainment. Bouts from many different territories are included throughout, with well known participants to be found in each of them. For those that weren't following the sport prior to the WWF/WWE takeover, these matches will come as an eye-opening revelation.

To discuss everything in depth that the viewer will encounter would take several columns. After all, the collection includes five discs, each of which runs for just over two hours. All told, there's a good 10 hours and 30 minutes of old school wrestling to enjoy, with one delightful remembrance after another along the way. It's a journey that fans who watched in the 70s and 80s will recall with increasing enthusiasm. It's heavy in joyful nostalgia with a small tinge of sadness, for this kind of performance art has given way to another type that is indeed a very different animal.

Disc 1, which concentrates to a large extent on action from San Antonio's Southwest Championship Wrestling of San Antonio, is labeled "Busted Open" for no apparent reason other than the title was direct and dramatic. (There doesn't appear to be any more bloodshed here than on the other four discs). But what it does have is some great memories. Right off the bat, we see Sherri Martel in her first professional match, taking on veteran Judy Martin. That's followed up by a very (make that VERY) young Shawn Michaels. At this early stage in his career, he couldn't have been in the business for more than a few months. Here, he is facing Ken Johnson. For fans of The Heartbreak Kid, this match will be something of a revelation. While his style is steeped in the traditions of a young babyface, Michaels already gives us more than a few hints at the heights he would attain after further seasoning.

There are other remarkable bouts to be found as "Busted Open" continues. For those that never had the chance to experience the charisma of Gino Hernandez, there are several samples included herein. In fact, he and Tully Blanchard were tremendously watchable as teammates and as opponents. (Two matches in particular put their considerable talent on display in both settings). If wild brawling is your preference, Bruiser Brody vs. Abdullah the Butcher is in the spotlight, along with "Dirty" Dick Slater against The Mongolian Stomper. A title match between challenger Bruiser Brody and Nick Bockwinkel closes out the first disc, and it's a honey. (Bockwinkel is managed by the always entertaining Bobby "The Brain" Heenan; no less than Lou Thesz handles the referee chores).

Disc 2 is "The Maim Event," and it floors us with an opening match that shook the wrestling world when it occurred. From Memphis, Tennessee, The Rock 'n' Roll Express (Ricky Morton & Robert Gibson) take on the Poffo Brothers (Randy Savage and Lanny Poffo), with their father Angelo in their corner. It's off the charts, and the fans never stop screaming for their teenybopper heroes. But what makes this match historic is a spot that takes place at the conclusion. On the concrete floor outside of the ring, Randy Savage attempts to set Gibson up for the dreaded Piledriver. Morton makes the save but is waylaid by Angelo, who unceremoniously tosses the mulleted grappler onto the announcer's table.

Savage then accomplishes something that was considered unthinkable at the time. He jumps up on the table and hoists Ricky into the Piledriver position. After a moment's hesitation (you can almost hear the crowd holding its breath), the twosome come crashing down through the table, Morton going head first. The resultant furor has to be seen to be believed, and old school fans denote this occurrence as a landmark in hardcore violence.

Other bouts on Disc 2 also originate in Memphis, along with San Antonio, Indianapolis, Detroit and Toronto, featuring names such as The Sheik, The Crusher, Jerry Lawler, Bruno Sammartino, Dick the Bruiser, Ernie Ladd, Ted DiBiase, Baron von Raschke, Rick Rude and on and on. Without exaggeration, it's a wrestling Who's Who of the day.

We move on to Disc 3, entitled "We Like to Hurt People." Again, there's more tremendous action to be seen, with many of the featured stars from the first two discs as well as some we've not yet encountered. Again, we're witness to crazy antics from Tennessee, and if you ever wanted to see an angry and embarrassed Rick Rude wearing a dress, this is where you'll find it. A definite high point is the "unscheduled" bout between Terry Funk and Mark Lewin that takes place in a Detroit television studio. It's a great confrontation, for it gives the small gathering of fans and the viewers at home a display of wrestling holds, counter-holds and beautifully orchestrated ring psychology, all within the framework of a personal grudge between the two men. After seeing this match, you may find yourself wondering how those living in the area that didn’t run out and purchase tickets for the Cobo Arena blow-off could rightly call themselves true wrestling fans.

Disc 4 is "No More Mr. Nice Guy" and it picks up where Disc 3 leaves off. Again, there are more top flight bouts from the various territories. Perhaps the most interesting from a wrestling standpoint is the title match from Memphis between challenger Jerry Lawler and champion Nick Bockwinkel. These are two pros that understand how to build a match in such a way that the fans can't help but become emotionally involved.

Some may find two of the gimmick matches included here to be of equal appeal. Stand back, PETA members, because Terrible Ted, the Wrestling Bear, can be seen overpowering his trainer (Gene DuBois), a referee and a preliminary boy or two that foolishly don't move out of the way quickly enough. The heyday of bears being used in the business was coming to an end, and this may be the last known bit of evidence, in the context of a full and complete match, that such an attraction ever existed.

Somewhat safer, although probably not by much, is a match from Detroit between Chief Jay Strongbow and Bulldog Don Kent. What makes it unusual is that their battle is held in the middle of the ring … inside of a shark cage. It’s akin to wrestling inside of a phone booth made of wire and steel. About as good as can be expected, given the confines of the cage and the participant's lack of mobility, but it's hard to understand just what the point was. Still, as a one-off, it's different and kind of fun, leading to an interesting conclusion.

The last disc in the collection is "Beat Me If You Can." Like the ones that preceded it, the matches are engrossing. Among the 12 bouts listed, this grouping gives us an intense fight from San Antonio between Chief Wahoo McDaniel and Tully Blanchard, a Toronto mud match between long-time rivals Tiger Jeet Singh and The Sheik, and a Memphis encounter between two legends, veteran Jerry Lawler and a young, brash Eddie Gilbert. This last one is of particular significance, as Jim Cornette informs us that it was the realization of a life-long dream for the up-and-coming grappler. As a child (and the son of wrestler Tommy Gilbert), he'd idolized Lawler. To face "The King" was, to him, confirmation that he had a place in the business. It meant everything to young Eddie, who went on to a stellar career both inside the ring and as a creative force outside of it.

And yes ... you read it right. Jim Cornette is indeed a welcome addition to the set. As if the matches with the original commentary aren't enough, there's an alternate soundtrack that features words of wisdom and humor from the encyclopedic mind and mouth of the former manager, currently a TNA employee. Complimenting Cornette with his own thoughts is none other than The Wrestling Observer's equally knowledgeable Dave Meltzer. Both do an outstanding job of providing insight by describing how matches were once constructed, as well as offering inside information and biographies on the wrestlers and the territories.

When one takes into consideration the age of the source material, the audio/video quality is surprisingly superb. As a collection, this is an absolute must for any serious old school pro wrestling fan. I simply cannot recommend "Wrestling Gold (Special Edition)" highly enough.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

BOOK REVIEW: THE WRESTLECRAP BOOK OF LISTS!

2008-02-01T09:37:00.000-08:00

For any pro wrestling fan not yet familiar with the highly popular Wrestlecrap website (Wrestlecrap: The Very Worst of Pro Wrestling), a visit is long overdue. Be sure to bring along your sense of humor and a desire to wallow in some of the most enjoyably inane and mind-bendingly hilarious gimmicks and angles ever spawned under the pretense of sport.

Wrestlecrap.com, created several years ago by R.D. Reynolds and Blade Braxton (which really should have been names used in a tag team somewhere in time), is devoted to the frequently funny, sometimes bizarre and all-too-often stupid concepts found in both good and bad wrestling promotions. More power to the two writers. It’s a risky business to spend countless hours constructing such a book without questioning one’s own sanity. From all reports, both Reynolds and Braxton are still reasonably sound of mind and not to be feared any more than usual.

Published by ECW Press, The Wrestlecrap Book of Lists! is a fun-filled read. Similar in design to R.D.’s previous work, Wrestlecrap: The Very Worst in Professional Wrestling, the Book of Lists! is just as engrossing. Someone not accustomed to the vagaries of the sport may have a difficult time believing that a promoter, a man allegedly in business to make money, would give his approval to proceed with the nonsense illustrated in these pages. Those that follow pro wrestling, especially in the sports entertainment era, will recognize the vast majority of examples cited. Depending on an individual’s tolerance for the illogical and the absurd, one may find himself either laughing raucously or shaking his head in disbelief. Either way, the journey is a lively and rewarding one from front-to-back.

The book begins with a short introductory chapter that sets up what is to follow. Pro Wrestling is Dumb, claim the authors, and they make a good case for such a declaration. Proving that they are hopelessly dedicated fans (as are most wrestling historians, analysts and journalists), it is this very admission that gives them their sharp perspective on what qualifies as Wrestlecrap. In describing the insoluble and inexplicable that is found between the pages, they write, “You see, this stupidity opens the door for not only obsessed fans, but more importantly, for some downright bizarre folks in front of the fans and behind the scenes. It leads not only to insanity in the ring, but backstage as well. With so many weirdos competing for such a small spotlight, comedy ensues.”

It surely does. Within each of the nine chapters of the book, there are categories of every size and shape. While they will vary in appeal depending upon the reader, all are presented with a strain of humor that the originators of the gimmick, angle or storyline only wished they’d possessed. For instance, in the chapter Tell Us a Story, Uncle Vince, one discovers the category “The 6 Crimes For Which We’d Hope Kane and Undertaker Would be Arrested if They Lived in Our Hometown.” Number 4 on the list is a cautionary tale that many wrestling fans will recall:

Concreticide: You probably just looked at that word and thought, “Waitaminute … concreticide isn’t in the dictionary!” Heck, even Microsoft Word would agree with that assessment. But you know what? Maybe you can’t use it in Scrabble, but there’s really no other way to describe Undertaker’s actions on June 27, 2004, at the Scope in Norfolk, Virginia. Undertaker’s manager, Paul Bearer, was locked up in a glass case as per a pre-match stipulation. Idling next to said case is a cement truck. The stipulation is that unless Undertaker agrees to take a dive, Bearer will be encased in concrete. Apparently, this type of wagering is legal in the state of Virginia. Although his mentor of over a decade will perish should he prevail, Undertaker fights valiantly and wins the match. He then proceeds to personally pull the lever to bury his pal. Some career advice to aspiring pro wrestling managers: never agree to manage Undertaker.

Moving along to the chapter Those Poor, Poor Promoters, we find the hilarious category entitled “The 3 Worst Tony Schiavone Comments Ever.” Anyone that bore witness to the final few years of the floundering behemoth, AKA World Championship Wrestling, will recall the ridiculous excesses of that company’s lead announcer. Number 1 on the list, and deservedly so, is…

This is the Greatest Night in the History of Our Sport: This is the wrestling equivalent of the riddle of the sphinx; how could one man think that every single Nitro, Thunder or pay-per-view was the greatest one he’d ever seen? We can only assume Tony must’ve been suffering from an undiagnosed case of Anterograde amnesia, a disorder that renders a person unable to remember anything that occurs after his attention is shifted for more than a few seconds. Well, if you’re going to be diseased, we suppose it could be worse. After all, every girl you make out with would feel like the first time. And that Stevie Ray vs. Bunkhouse Buck match on WCW Saturday night? Greatest thing since sliced bread – or at least since WWF Ice Cream Bars. On second thought, diseases are never funny, nor was hearing about how great every single Nitro was … especially when they weren’t.

One more example: in the chapter Wrestling … You Know, Actual Wrestling, the category is “The 8 Most Needlessly Complex – or Just Downright Stupid – Matches in Wrestling History. And Number 2 on the list is …

The Dog Poo Match: We’ve kind of veered off the path of intricate matches to talk about just plain stupid ones. And no list of idiotic bouts could leave out this bout, in which the Rock and Davey Boy Smith attempted to throw each other into dog feces. Do you really need more description than that? We didn’t think so.

The only reservation I have in recommending this book is that occasionally the authors’ own humor descends into unnecessary vulgarity. Hitting the mark far more often than missing, there are at least a few instances of the writers’ attempts at low humor that may cause the more sensitive reader to wince and perhaps even feel slightly embarrassed for them. In those instances, it would have been better to simply let the subject’s crude behavior speak for itself.

Small quibbles aside, I applaud The Wrestlecrap Book of Lists! for the reminder of what did and mostly what didn’t work in pro wrestling. There are hundreds of delightfully ludicrous memories to be relived here, covering most of the major promotions that registered on the grappling landscape, from old school to sports entertainment. Simply stated, the book is entertaining and the source of numerous belly-laughs.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

DYNAMITE!

2008-01-25T08:59:00.000-08:00

Last week’s column received a very positive response, and I want to thank you for taking the time to write with your comments, thoughts and personal stories. To answer the question that many brought up … yes, timekeeper Tim Wilson and referee Kevin Jefferies are alive and doing quite well. And both are glad to be far, far away from the clutches of “Strangler” Steve DiSalvo! For those that have yet to read this particular column, you may do so by clicking here: http://www.thefightnetwork.com/news_detail.php?nid=6009

For now, I’d like to relate an incident that remains just as memorable to me. Again, this occurred while I was employed by Stu Hart’s Stampede Wrestling in the mid-1980s. Having been an unabashed pro wrestling enthusiast since 1958, to come to work in the industry was about as thrilling as anything I’d ever hoped for. Along with a few other perks, I was afforded the opportunity to meet and get to know some of the most famous professional wrestlers of their day.

For instance, Mike Shaw, AKA Makhan Singh, was an interesting individual. “Mercurial” is how I’d describe him. Away from the ring, the large man with a face full of beard had a pretty fair sense of humor and was usually friendly; an all-around good guy. But on occasion and without much warning, he could be nasty, sarcastic and a little bit of a bully. Fortunately, that was not the case too often. But sometimes, he was hard to figure.

Gama Singh was an excellent wrestler and the leader of the heel faction known as “Karachi Vice.” He was also a gentleman in every way. I liked and respected Gama, who was and remains an intelligent man. His son, Gama Singh, Jr., is a standout performer in the current incarnation of Stampede Wrestling, and I understand dear old dad is bursting with pride over his boy’s accomplishments.

There were others, too many to mention at this time. However, to get down to this week’s harrowing tale of Stampede wackiness, I’d like to relate an incident that took place at Vancouver’s International airport. It involved one of the world’s greatest wrestlers, The Dynamite Kid, and it’s a story that will stay with me forever.

No one could have predicted the rather bizarre outcome when I accepted the call from the Calgary office late in 1985. I’d been doing the advance work and advertising for upcoming wrestling events in southern British Columbia for a few months by then, and everything for the show that night was in good order. So, when I received the request to pick up The Dynamite Kid at the airport prior to that evening’s proceedings, I was only too happy to do so. Excited, even.

Just about anybody that is a wrestling fan is aware of the Kid’s place in the history of the business. Simply put, the Englishman was a unique and amazing athlete. Although small by pro wrestling standards, he captivated the fans by utilizing the dangerous high-flying acrobatic style he had developed and perfected. In his prime, long before he put on too much muscle mass for his (undeniably) successful WWF run, Dynamite was among the most breathtaking wrestlers to ever lace up a pair of boots. It can be said of only a very rare few that they were true innovators. The Dynamite Kid was one of them, and for several years in western Canada the Kid thrilled fans with his impossible aerial energy and original style.

One of the elements that made his performances so outstanding was that he never lost sight of the credibility factor. (His snap suplex, for instance, was executed with such clinical precision that it made both Dynamite and his opponent look like a million bucks). Through the course of his matches, he’d save his one-of-a-kind maneuvers for just the right moment, ensuring that they would have the greatest impact and mean something.

And oh, how The Dynamite Kid could sell! Taking crazy bumps (again, making his adversary look fantastic) was an equally important part of his repertoire. Those fortunate enough to possess pre-1984 Stampede Wrestling tapes will verify just how phenomenal the still-somewhat-skinny Dynamite Kid was in his youth. His series of bouts against Tiger Mask in early 80s Japan provides further proof of his superior wrestling skills and acumen.

Thus, when I got the call requesting that I go to the airport to pick him up some 90 minutes prior to bell-time, what could I do but comply? Absolutely! With pleasure! The very idea of having this wrestling pioneer in my car for 30 minutes as we made the journey from airport to arena appealed to me greatly. To be able to pick his brain would only further my own education in fully understanding the intricacies and nuances of the business.

Heading out to the Vancouver airport that evening, I became embroiled in the usual rush hour traffic, arriving at my destination a little later than intended. After parking, I rushed inside the busy terminal and confirmed that, sure enough, the Kid’s flight had landed right on schedule. It also seemed as if every plane was coming in from every city in the world, and they all had conspired to choose this same hour to land. The result was a massive crush of people in the terminal, hundreds of them bustling about to and fro. Trying to find The Dynamite Kid wasn’t going to be easy.

Having no luck initially, I stood on top of a bench, scouted around and … by God, there he was! I could see the man across the terminal, a good 60 feet or more from where I stood. Even worse, he was walking away from where I was positioned.

I’d like to interrupt the narrative at this point to offer a brief word of advice. Should you ever find yourself in a crowded and congested public venue, wherever it may be, do yourself a large favor and suppress the urge to yell. It will only get you into trouble. Trust me on this one.

Keeping in mind that this whole thing took place some 16 years prior to the horrors of 9/11, there was still no excuse for acting as I did. Fearing that he’d walk further away from where I was standing, I began shouting loudly.

“Dynamite! Hey, Dynaaaamite! DY – NA – MIIIIIIITE!”

This gets back to what I was just saying. To move at a rapid pace while bellowing about explosives in an airport never was and never will be a good idea. Frankly, it’s dumb. The five security guards/policemen that rushed towards me with seriously stern expressions on their faces and guns in their hands made it abundantly clear that they weren’t amused. The outright stupidity of what I was doing suddenly dawned on me, and I brightly decided to shut up right then and there. It was too late, though.

In the name of accuracy, I should correct myself. Only two of the cops had actually drawn their weapons; the other three had their hands on their holsters, for whatever difference it makes. As soon as they got close enough to encircle me, I began babbling that hey, I’m sorry, there’s no problem, really, very sorry, I’m just picking up the guy down at that end of the airport and I don’t know his real name … really and truly, I’m not here to cause any trouble, honest-go-God I’m okay, and by the way I’m REALLY REALLY SORRY!

I couldn’t blame the police for being sore. Nor for frisking me roughly and verifying my identification and asking lots and lots of questions. Meanwhile, a large segment of the airport crowd was watching as the scene played out. They all parted to let us through when I somehow managed to convince the officers that the guy I’d come to pick up would certify that I was in reality just an innocent fool who only had good intentions.

As a small group, they walked me over to Dynamite, who had stopped his wandering ways after becoming aware of the disturbance. Because I didn’t know his legitimate name (which had been the source of the problem to begin with), all I could give the policemen was the appellation by which he was best known: The Dynamite Kid. I silently wished that any one of the officers would out himself as a Stampede Wrestling fan, someone who would instantly recognize the star’s name and want nothing more than the esteemed grappler’s autograph before sending us on our way. Of course, it didn’t work out like that.

When we caught up to the wrestler, the airport officials asked him for his name. The Kid replied, “Tom Billington.” They inquired if he had any other. Inwardly, I found myself fervently praying that he’d play it straight. Although I’d not met “Tom Billington” prior to that moment, I’d heard all the stories about his love for the swerve. This was hardly the time or place to get playful and creative, and I desperately wanted him to play it straight.

He did. He told them that in some circles he was known as Dynamite. When asked, the Kid mentioned that he was a pro wrestler, confirming what I’d already said. They believed us, the cops did, and two of them must have been so impressed with our funny little misadventure that they walked the both of us all the way out to my car. At that time, I received a stern warning not to “screw around in airports,” something that seemed eminently reasonable. I had no problem agreeing to this demand and only wanted to get to the arena and far away from anything with an airplane in it.

Naturally, Tom wanted to know what had just occurred. When I told him, he laughed at the confusion his name had caused. I then told him, “I’m just glad you’re not known as ‘The Bomber.’ They’d have shot me on the spot.” We both chuckled at the thought, although my mirth was heavily laced with relief.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. When you accepted employment in the world of pro wrestling, at least as it was once conducted, it served you well to expect the unexpected. As I continued in that capacity over the next few years, I learned to be prepared as much as possible for situations that someone in a more traditional field of endeavor would never be likely to encounter.

Leastwise, my accountant never mentions them…

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

THE TWELVE WRESTLING DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

2007-12-21T09:17:00.000-08:00

It is perhaps only a little bit surprising that wrestling fans, like many other people, have wives and girlfriends (and sometimes both). The following spoof is therefore intended as an expression of empathy and appreciation for long-suffering spouses and significant others. As such, we offer this variation on the traditional carol, “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” as sung by the befuddled wrestling fan:

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A stripe-shirted blind referee

On the second day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the third day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Four kicks to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the seventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the eighth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Eight Canadian Destroyers
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the ninth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Nine World Class wedgies
Eight Canadian Destroyers
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the tenth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Ten Garvin stomps
Nine World Class wedgies
Eight Canadian Destroyers
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Eleven cobras clutching
Ten Garvin stomps
Nine World Class wedgies
Eight Canadian Destroyers
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Twelve grudge matches*
Eleven cobras clutching
Ten Garvin stomps
Nine World Class wedgies
Eight Canadian Destroyers
Seven Atomic Noogies
Six chairs a-breaking
Five Fingerpokes of Doom
Four knees to the groin
Three choke holds
Two eye gouges
And a stripe-shirted blind referee

* Grudge matches to be determined by wife/girlfriend as any two of the following three:
(1) flaming ladders in a toxic mud pit,
(2) piranha attached to electrified barbed wire baseball bats
(3) exploding chain-link tables while blindfolded and wearing a coal miner’s glove scaffold match

~A very large thank you to Cindi Augustine for providing the inspiration and for her substantial contributions in the creation of this silly little parody.~

Happy Holidays to one and all!

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

BOOK REVIEW - PAIN AND PASSION: THE HISTORY OF STAMPEDE WRESTLING

2007-11-23T10:57:00.000-08:00

To get directly to the point, the title says it all and this book delivers. Author Heath McCoy, a pop culture writer for The Calgary Herald newspaper and a young man that grew up watching the Stampede Wrestling promotion as a fan, presents an affectionate and fair-minded look at both the Hart family and the company they operated for decades. McCoy’s take on the Stampede Wrestling circuit places the reader directly inside any one of Stu Hart’s old vans as the boys hit the road on a seemingly endless number of challenging (some would say brutal) tours.

On the plus side, the book is much more than a collection of amusing anecdotes. Rather than taking the lazy man’s approach by simply gathering and retelling old stories from the road, the author has done an excellent job of capturing the essence of what made Stampede Wrestling singularly exceptional in the grappling world. Of course, the story begins and ends with the promoter, along with his special and unique family.

As a child, Stu Hart grew up under the harshest conditions imaginable. Given his background, it’s not difficult to understand how the youngest member in a family of five would become a hard-nosed wrestler, then a promoter. When he was a child, Stu’s father stubbornly consigned himself, his wife and their three children to live in tents on the prairies through several harsh Canadian winters, thanks to a property dispute. How Stu would eventually raise his own family and run his wrestling business makes for a fascinating read. (Naturally, he took a very different approach from his old man, although there were hardships during some lean years). It’s fair to say that even those that are familiar with the tale will find more than enough rich detail, all of which serves to flesh out the picture.

But just what was it that made Stampede Wrestling so meaningful to so many wrestlers and fans? Different people will come to different conclusions, and none will necessarily be off base. It all began with Stu Hart’s vision of the sport. To him, professional wrestling had to appear as a competition. Having been trained by Jack Taylor, a legendary shooter in the business, Stu became a highly respected practitioner of his craft everywhere he went.

The author goes into this aspect of Stu’s early life in wrestling in a way that draws vivid word pictures without overstatement. Every bit as vital as the story of Stu’s travels within the business, his meeting and marriage to the beautiful Helen Smith is touching. Cynics that don’t know otherwise might proclaim their personal story as little more than a romantic fantasy. While they’d be wrong to dismiss the couple’s partnership in such general terms, in a sense it can be rightly said that Stu and Helen enjoyed a tender relationship amidst a world of brutality, ersatz or otherwise.

The stories that comprise the bulk of the book focus on the years of successes and occasional failures on the circuit Stu came to shape into Stampede Wrestling. They are sometimes shocking, frequently funny and unfailingly entertaining. As well as producing a viable wrestling product, Stu and Helen also believed in the maxim to be fruitful and multiply. The result was 12 healthy and beautiful children, 8 boys and 4 girls, and every one of them became involved in the world of pro wrestling through direct participation or marriage.

But it’s the wrestling lore and the well-documented narrative that invites the reader to join in, to become involved and share in the triumphs and defeats, the joys and the tragedies that comprise the Stampede Wrestling story. In its strongest years, the circuit typically featured outstanding, even breathtaking wrestling, thanks to an influx of talent from around the world. Just as well remembered are the never-ending series of pranks, some of which went beyond the pale to border on near-criminal acts. It’s all recounted on these pages with no punches pulled.

If it wasn’t obvious going in, it becomes abundantly clear that the rough humor which is invariably a part of the wrestling trade was a key element in the fabric that made Stampede Wrestling what it was. In fact, one comes away with the distinct impression that the Calgary company was Swerve Central. Once, two of the Hart brothers, Bruce and Owen, conspired to pull off a beauty on Brian Pillman. Brian had recently graduated from the Hart training camp and was now appearing with Bruce as one-half of Badd Company, the North American tag team champions. Lodging for the night in a sparse hotel in a small town, Brian met up with a lady acquaintance after the matches.

Having little else to do and feeling frisky, the Hart boys found a mangy stray dog and decided to feed the animal, then dress it up in Pillman’s Badd Company outfit (which included such accoutrements as sunglasses, leather jacket and bandana). Struck by a shared sense of inspired lunacy, they placed the dog under the sheets in Brian’s bed, where it promptly fell asleep. Before leaving the room, the duo put the finishing touches on the prank by removing all of the light bulbs, guaranteeing the shock effect would be heightened at such time as when Brian returned.

Pillman finally arrived in the early hours of the morning. The ensuing howls from both the surprised wrestler and the newly ordained Badd Company pooch awakened everybody on the floor. A mad dash followed, as Brian tried to escape down the hallway from what must have appeared to him as a crazed and rabid fan-dog. The mutt, no doubt having been startled by an unknown assailant, ran after the wrestler. Others stuck their heads out of their rooms to see what all the fuss was about and some of them too joined in the chase, forming something of an informal line of dog and running athletes.

But amidst all of the rough humor and great athleticism that characterized Stampede Wrestling, there is an all-pervasive sense of sadness and tragedy that is very much a part of the chronicle. The passing of those who died far too young figures into the account; fortunately, Heath McCoy relates this without descending into morbidity. The facts are discussed in an honest but sympathetic manner, especially the tragic death of the youngest member of the Hart family. As wrestling fans are more than aware, Owen fell to his death during a WWE show while performing a stunt he hadn’t wanted to do. The sobering story and its aftermath is not glossed over in the telling, nor should it be.

There are small quibbles to be had with some of the portrayals and perceptions found in the book. Most are of the trivial and unimportant variety. It’s to be expected in any endeavor where many different people are involved in relating their version of events, and personal accounts will undoubtedly vary. Nevertheless, “Pain and Passion: The History of Stampede Wrestling” by Heath McCoy and published by ECW Press, is a well-researched book that invites anyone, be they a confirmed wrestling fan or not, to gain an understanding of the people in the business on a very personal level. The reading experience is engrossing and rewarding. It’s fair to state that this entry is far more substantive and provides greater depth … and heart, no matter how you spell it ... than many similar attempts in the field of wrestling journalism.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

THE DICK THE BRUISER VS ALEX KARRAS AFFAIR

2007-10-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

One of the all-time most memorable battles to ever take place in wrestling may or may not have been a work. While it definitely occurred in 1963, the memory remains as vivid to long-time wrestling fans as if it took place yesterday. For those who may not be familiar with the Dick the Bruiser - Alex Karras encounter, a little background is in order.

Dick the Bruiser, who was born William Afflis, had been a disciplinary problem all his life. This is not to suggest he was completely incorrigible, as he successfully attended the University of Nevada, Reno. While not a scholastic standout, he did well enough to stick around and establish his name on the football field. However, as was to be the case for the rest of his days, it was a lack of self-control that caused Dick’s difficulties in the “real world.” Before he was done with college, he changed his first name from William to Richard, as his football eligibility had expired under his original name.

There was little doubt that Afflis would enjoy a stellar career in the world of pro football. He became the defensive captain for the Green Bay Packers and attained a reputation as one of the toughest and meanest players in the history of the sport. So much so, that his famous gravelly voice came about thanks to a cheap shot on the field; he was the recipient of a vicious elbow-to-the-voice-box from an opposing player.

When Dick Afflis entered pro wrestling in the mid-1950s, it was an ideal fit. Because he was a powerfully built tough guy with a reputation that preceded him from his exploits in the NFL, and because he already was in possession of the aforementioned gravel voice, he was a natural. The Bruiser-to-be trained hard and learned the intricacies of wrestling, then never looked back as he brutalized his way through the business.

The man was a walking riot waiting to happen. Dick the Bruiser made a grand total of one tour of the New York area, in 1958. A tag team match was signed in November, with Dick teaming up with the equally despised Dr. Jerry Graham. Their opponents were the beloved babyface duo of Antonino Rocca (one of North America’s first wrestling high flyers to hit the big time in New York) and his partner, the talented and equally acrobatic Frenchman (via Montreal), Edouard Carpentier.

The day after the bout took place, newspaper reports circulated around the country about what had occurred. On that infamous night, Madison Square Garden erupted into a full-scale riot at the conclusion of the bout, due to the highly charged actions of a certain Mr. Afflis. Because the New York State Athletic Commission tightly controlled wrestling in the state at that time, they had a long-standing edict that nothing “too wild” would be tolerated.

Dick the Bruiser took such rules as a personal affront. Whether or not it was pre-planned or spontaneous, he went out of his way to administer as much damage on his adversaries as possible. Focusing his ceaseless attack on the beloved Rocca, he grounded the flying Argentinean and mauled him badly. The fan’s outrage built to a furious roar, but Bruiser only increased the intensity in a relentless pursuit of inflicting as much damage as he could.

Finally, the overflow angry crowd couldn’t stand it any longer and surged towards the ring. When all was said and done, more than 300 people (including several police officers) were injured in the ensuing riot. The New York State Athletic Commission acted quickly, and Richard Afflis was banned indefinitely from appearing in New York again. It was his choice never to appeal the decision or attempt a return to the northeast region.

One might think the guy would have learned something from that outcome and pull back a bit. It only made sense that by using a certain amount of restraint in the future, Dick’s own career would flourish. After all, even the greatest wrestler in the world would minimize his career opportunities if he was to continue facing suspension and/or banishment. Still, such realities failed to deter a man hell-bent on brawling. Psychiatrists would undoubtedly have had a field day with him, but the fact is that Dick the Bruiser took rules in any form as a personal offense. As a result, it became a point of honor for him to push codes of conduct as far as he could, obliterating them whenever possible.

Undoubtedly, the “highlight” of the Bruiser’s wild career was his confrontation with Alex Karras. The talented Greek was a high profile football player with the Detroit Lions, and would go on to make a name for himself as an actor (Paper Lion and Blazing Saddles are but two in a well-established film career). Karras, who was a very tough competitor on the NFL gridiron, possessed a good sense of humor and was equally well liked and respected by teammates, and even those he faced on the field. Still, everyone knew not to push Alex too far, as he was an extraordinarily powerful man that would respond in kind when challenged.

It was in 1963 that a confrontation between the Motor City hero and the man with no use for rules came to pass. In retrospect, since Karras was the reigning football star in town and the Bruiser had recently invaded Detroit, it was probably inevitable that their paths would cross. That’s exactly what happened, although as in most things having to do with Richard Afflis, it didn’t take place in the usual manner.

As the story goes, Bruiser decided to come a-calling in person. He went to a local bar that was partially owned by Karras, knowing he would find him there. At first, the two sat and talked about sports and their respective careers. Then, Alex made a comment that riled Dick. Although eyewitness accounts varied, it was virtually unanimous that the remark was mild and not intended to provoke.

Still, that was the opening Dick the Bruiser sought, and he challenged the footballer on the spot. Karras instead offered to meet Afflis in a wrestling ring, and Dick responded with something like, “How’s about right here, right now?” Within seconds, they were throwing punches. Alex’s buddies tried to intercede, but even with all that manpower the police had to be summoned. Before Karras AND his friends AND the police could finally subdue the crazed wrestler, the bar had been virtually destroyed. The brawl spilled out into the street and, according to official reports, several innocent passersby became involved. The only thing missing was a large group of enthusiastic people chanting, “EC-DUB! EC-DUB!” three decades before Extreme Championship Wrestling came into existence.

When it was all over, many of the participants, including several policemen, had received their fair share of injuries while attempting to calm the fighting mob down. Local promoter Johnny Doyle knew a dream grudge match when he saw one. He called each of the protagonists into his office (separately) and made an offer for a one-time-only bout. The deal was signed, and on the night of April 27, 1963, Detroit’s Olympia Auditorium was packed to the rafters. So great was the interest that reports were filed in newspapers all around the country.

The match was as one might expect. It offered violence of the type that was atypical of its day. With no hold being too vicious and no act too sadistic, it was brutality in its purest, most basic form. At one point, Bruiser received a nasty gash above his eye that continued to bleed heavily for the remainder of the match. Even as a one-eyed madman, Dick the Bruiser managed to defeat the valiant but overmatched Alex Karras in just under 15 minutes of wild action. They never met again, either in or out of the ring.

There are but a handful of grueling, memorable matches that remain etched forever in the minds of those that saw them. Bret Hart facing off against Shawn Michaels in a 60-minute Iron Man Match at Wrestlemania XII in 1996 is one of them. Of course, Mick Foley’s attempt at suicide in 1998’s Hell in the Cell Match, seen at WWE’s King of the Ring PPV, is yet another. But it would be wrong to neglect the Dick the Bruiser vs. Alex Karras match, which should be included in this same rarified category and considered as a forerunner to hardcore wrestling.

To this day, the question remains: was the bar room brawl worked, as some claim? Was promoter Johnny Doyle really smart enough to dream up the bar room confrontation and then convince both Afflis and Karras to comply with the concept? Or was it actually a case of a brawling hothead instigating violence on his own?

Personally, I’ve talked to many wrestling veterans and none claim to know for sure, although most of them have opinions one way or the other. And frankly, after so much time, it would now be almost disappointing to get the definitive answer. The story has been a part of wrestling lore for so long that it has taken on mythical proportions. Perhaps it’s best to simply leave well enough alone and be satisfied with the story itself. Suffice it to say that in this case, we don’t really need to know for sure.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

2007-09-28T11:47:00.000-07:00

This column is dedicated to the memory of Mark Markley, a perfect pro wrestling name if ever there was one. (It was legitimate). Mark passed away unexpectedly in his Lynnwood, Washington home on Sunday, September 23rd, one month after celebrating his 50th birthday. Among his many and varied interests, Mark was a knowledgeable wrestling fan that grew up an enthusiastic supporter of Don Owen’s Portland, Oregon promotion from the time he discovered it in the 1960s until the company shut down in the early 1990s. In the 80s, Mark became a standup comic, primarily in the Northwest region, and once opened up for Jerry Seinfeld. He enjoyed a close relationship with his family, and is survived by his sister, Lisa, his daughter, Sarah and his son, Steven. The wrestling community has lost a close friend who always found the upside of life and infused it with his own special and unique sense of humor. With Mark in mind, let’s take a close look at one of his all-time favorite wrestlers, “Playboy” Buddy Rose.

Tucked away neatly in the frequently moist upper left corner of the United States, the Pacific Northwest has always held an allure for those with a love of nature, a spirit for adventure and a sense of community. In 1925, when Herb Owen became the boxing and wrestling promoter in the territory, he introduced a style that spoke directly to the people that lived there.

In 1948, his son, Don, purchased the territory, an act that would be duplicated in the northeast by the father and son tandem of Vincent J. and Vincent K. McMahon four decades later. But Don Owen (and his brother Elton, who co-promoted) had no designs on expansion; they were satisfied keeping their pro wrestling empire limited primarily to Oregon and Washington state. Once television became a reality in the 1950s, the promotion (NWA Portland was the official title) never looked back, resulting in a loyal following that grew steadily and rarely faltered. Because he knew his audience and what they wanted, Owen managed to stay one small step ahead by offering them action that was athletic and exciting, sprinkled with unpredictable dramatic developments and a quirky off-the-wall humor. Portland Wrestling never became dull or routine.

Perhaps the one name that stands above all in association with the territory is that of “Playboy” Buddy Rose. To look at him, Rose was not physically imposing, especially as the years went on. Ultimately resembling a close relative to the Pillsbury Doughboy, Buddy was actually in tremendous cardiovascular condition, as well as a consummate professional between the ropes. A talented heel, the fans jeered him for his underhanded tactics, while quixotically expressing a certain amount of grudging affection, considering him to be their own version of Peck’s Bad Boy. Rose would find a way to tip the scales in his favor every chance he got by applying underhanded trickery, protected as he was by an entourage that ran roughshod everywhere they went. His most prominent partners in crime included Ed Wiskowski (later to become known as Colonel DeBeers), Rip Oliver and briefly, The Dynamite Kid.

Proving that a bodybuilder’s physique wasn’t essential when it came to making a large impact, Buddy Rose was inevitably involved in some of the more memorable moments in Portland. And, according to those that observed the proceedings at the time, one of the memories that has remained among the most vibrant was, after years of infuriating the crowds, Rose turned babyface!

But, before we get into that story, Buddy Rose explains the secret to his success as a heel wrestler. Through the courtesy of his website, Playboy Buddy Rose, he writes:

It's a mixture of ring psychology, charisma, and being able to do the unexpected. If you know how to work that into your own character, you will always be successful. Not everyone gets it. A select few understand how to incorporate themselves into a promotion, and they have the best chance of working their way to the top. You have to be able to see the big picture, and be realistic with how you fit into it.

A simple statement, yet an eloquent one. Buddy Rose, through his ring experience, his use of psychology and his native intelligence, knew how to present himself as someone greater than his physical appearance suggested. After all, there were plenty of overweight men in wrestling that went no farther than their girth would allow. Buddy went well beyond that, to the point where his size was almost ignored, it becoming a minor sidelight unless he himself made it an issue. He took charisma (something he possessed in abundance) and blended it expertly with a ruthless cunning and a dash of seeming cowardice, all of which became the very definition of the Playboy. Combined with his wrestling technique and skill, he caused Northwest wrestling fans to reach varying stages of apoplexy countless numbers of times over the years.

According to long-time Portland wrestling fan, Ben Foxworth, “Buddy Rose was fat. If you saw him, you know what I mean. He wasn’t obese. Just fat. But that didn’t matter because he was exciting in the ring. He could credibly work a 60-minute match and keep you wanting more. No, the rage you felt for him was due to his stuff on the microphone. Unlike many heels, he wasn’t representing the authorities that put us down. He was that jerk you worked with, or went to school with. He always seemed to win and stay on top. When I started watching, Rose was in a blood feud with Roddy Piper. Like almost every feud that involved the Playboy, it started with Rose double-crossing his partner. The matches were brutal and tight, with the interviews being legendary for Northwest fans. Rose did it so well, and he was beyond hated.”

Taking a breath before continuing, Ben went on to say, “Everyone I knew hated Buddy Rose. Like I said before, he was the irritating asshole in your life that made things hard. He was the co-worker that screwed everything up that you had to fix, and yet he still had a job. He was the obnoxious neighbor that made your life hell. He was, just simply put, a real asshole. He seemed to be rich, yet he was a fat, lazy coward. And you just yelled at every fool who teamed with him, ‘He's gonna turn on you!’ And he always did! Buddy Rose kept the heat machine going by teaming with Roddy Piper, then betraying him, bringing in The Sheepherders and then betraying them. He would never go away. Don Owen would bring in hot, viable talent and somehow, always in some freaking way, Rose would run them out.”

So, when someone is so universally despised AND making money for a promotion, why turn him babyface? Isn’t that running the risk of killing the golden goose? Not in the case of Buddy Rose, who showed how it to do it properly, making it a welcome change of pace for both the fans and for himself.

Rose had reached the stage where he was splitting his time between Portland, Japan and the WWF, where he wrestled Bob Backlund in Madison Square Garden. In his absence, Rip Oliver, who had been Rose's favorite partner in the northwest, had taken on the mantle of top heel, and he was a great one. His interviews were lucid, his swagger wordlessly proclaiming that he was the cock of the walk. Oliver openly stated that his goal was to cripple his opponents, and his actions were nothing short of diabolical. As Rose had before him, Oliver formed a protective group, which he dubbed “The Clan.”

Close by his side were the hyperactive and dangerous masked Assassin and the maniacal Sheik Mohammed, a short, evil, violent and hairy man who in reality had probably never been any closer to Iran than Spokane, Washington. These three men never hesitated to storm the ring at the slightest provocation, real or imagined, and took over Portland wrestling like a street gang.

Cue the music! The time had come for the heroes to enter the picture. Curt Hennig, who was young, curly-haired and inexperienced but with a bellyful of fire, and Hack Sawyer, the youngest Northwest champ of all time, fought the good fight. And, of course, Billy Jack (Haynes) was a vital factor, too. Fans immediately responded to Billy, who was an explosive force from the first day he appeared. His body builder’s physique and his humble demeanor melded perfectly with his street fighting skills. His feud with Oliver was intense, bloody and seemingly never-ending. What made his occasional victories all the more fulfilling was that in Portland, the good guys didn’t always win. Sometimes, plain and simple, Rip kicked Billy's butt. But Billy Jack got his licks in just as much.

So with the focus squarely on the feud between Billy Jack and Rip Oliver, Buddy Rose’s position had been relegated to number two, maybe even three. Oh, he still had designs on creating another super-group like he’d done in the past, but it never quite jelled for him. He was still a force but had clearly taken a back seat to Oliver, with whom he had an uneasy truce. While they had stopped teaming together, Rose would pretty much stay out of Oliver's business and vice versa.

One week, Buddy happily announced to the world that he was bringing in a new partner. Not just a partner, but someone tremendously respected all over the world; indeed, he would soon be introducing the one man that would help Buddy Rose reclaim his rightful position on top of the northwest wrestling scene. That man was The Dynamite Kid.

Rose made it abundantly clear that bringing in Dynamite was a huge financial burden for him. But the time had come for him to make his move, and if opening up the purse strings demanded it, then the investment would surely be a worthwhile one. The Kid was just what the doctor ordered. Sure enough, a few weeks later, the supremely talented little Brit with a huge chip on his shoulder arrived. Buddy Rose was on his way back to the top, baby!

Well, maybe not. Their very first tag match was a surprising loss, and a visibly angry Dynamite displayed the disgust he felt towards his benefactor by retracting any agreements they had between them. Even more troubling was the fact that almost immediately, he accepted an offer to join Oliver’s crew. Rose, now desperate for the stability he might have by belonging to a group, tried to ingratiate himself by helping Oliver in a match later on that same night. His good intentions backfired, costing Rip an important win. The Clan glowered but did nothing.

The next week, Buddy verbally expressed his frustration with Dynamite going over to Oliver's clan. After all, it was he who had paid the man’s way overseas. The clan viciously attacked Rose and beat him severely, The Dynamite Kid joining in with relish. Not one wrestler came to save Rose, because for so many years he’d taken delight in doing the same sort of thing to them. It was the old adage come to life, the one about chickens coming home to roost. This was proof positive that when you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Nobody wanted any part of Buddy Rose, given his long history of turning on people. The bloody and beaten man finally limped off, barely conscious, to lick his wounds and consider his options.

Later on in the same TV program, Billy Jack and Curt Hennig took on Rip Oliver and The Assassin. With each team having won a fall, the third was interrupted when The Dynamite Kid hit the ring to make it a 3-on-2 beat down. And then … Buddy Rose hit the ring! His head was taped from crown to chin, creating an immediate association with Boris Karloff in the original 1932 movie, “The Mummy.” And damn if Rose didn’t turn the tide by helping Billy Jack and Curt Hennig drive The Clan away. Buddy then completed his shocking turn-around by using the microphone to apologize to the fans for his years of rule-breaking.

Again, a man that witnessed the event, Ben Foxworth, fills us in. “Emotional fans ran to ringside and even began climbing into the ring, where it soon filled up. As referee Sandy Barr and matchmaker Dutch Savage tried to stop the rushing wave, with no luck whatsoever, the fans took over the whole show and it was Buddy ... BUDDY F’N ROSE … who had facilitated it!”

Buddy Rose was a true original. He was, and he remains, a highly intelligent man that understands professional wrestling only as someone who has lived the life could. Still active in the business and approachable via his website, Mr. Rose is a reminder of a time when professional wrestling was fun to follow. He was a talented individual with an aptitude for constructing a personality that was simultaneously infuriating and endearing. All of which paid big dividends to the thousands of fans that watched weekly to see what “Playboy” Buddy Rose would do next.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

WRESTLING WORTH WATCHING: PRO WRESTLING NOAH

2007-07-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

Last week, we took a look at Ring of Honor and how it presented something of a hybrid, by blending an old school wrestling philosophy with modern-day sports entertainment action. As in the case of ROH, if you’re someone who enjoys pro wrestling that puts aside over-the-top silliness, nonsensical characters and inane skits, then Pro Wrestling NOAH is the place you want to be. This Japanese organization, which came into existence in 2000, convinces even the most jaded viewer of its legitimacy by relentlessly offering the appearance of a genuine athletic competition. NOAH is the epitome of realism, and any effort required on the viewer’s part to suspend disbelief is minimal, if at all.

What may appear to be a Johnny-come-lately outfit actually has ties to a promotion with a long, storied history. In 1972, “Giant” Shohei Baba formed a company in his homeland, known as All Japan Pro Wrestling. Because he had a well-defined vision along with a philosophy of how to present professional wrestling credibly, All Japan quickly earned great respect for its hard-impact and no-nonsense attitude. It’s not an exaggeration to state that All Japan Wrestling, along with Antonio Inouki’s New Japan Wrestling, were regarded as the two top promotions in the country. They were similar in their respective presentations, although each had his own name for it. In All Japan, it was King’s Road Style, while in New Japan it was known as Strong Style. But no matter what it was called, the image was that of a genuine and true competition.

When Shohei Baba passed away in 1999, the proprietorship of All Japan was left to his wife, Motoko, while the planning of the company’s direction remained with top wrestler and booker, Mitsuharu Misawa. Before long, he became disenchanted with what he believed were poor business decisions, entertaining grave doubts about where the company was heading. His increasing unhappiness caused him to look at the possibility of starting his own promotion, and that’s precisely what he did in mid-2000.

Taking all but a very few members from the All Japan roster, Misawa announced the formation of Pro Wrestling NOAH. Nowhere else in the history of pro wrestling had such a mass evacuation occurred, and it left All Japan reeling in its wake. And, true to his word, the first pro Wrestling NOAH champion was crowned in April of 2001. It was Misawa himself who became the first titleholder, defeating long-time rival Yoshihiro Takayama after a grueling tournament. He held the GHC (Global Honored Crown) heavyweight title for three months before losing it to Jun Akiyama in a great bout at Tokyo’s Budokan Hall.

The name of the company itself is evocative of the mass departure from All Japan. According to Wikipedia, “The promotion's name alludes to the Biblical story of Noah, in which the people and animals in the ark survive the flood and make a new beginning in the world, a story which was seen as a parallel to the wrestlers’ departure from All Japan. NOAH's promotional symbol, an ark with a dove holding an olive branch, refers to this.”

Now, in 2007, Pro Wrestling NOAH is among the strongest and most respected wrestling organizations in the world. Featuring a stellar roster of Japanese and foreign talent, NOAH pays homage to its lineage by adhering to the philosophy of realism. On occasion, two combatants will wander outside of the ring and even resort to the use of a chair as a weapon, but it’s done sparingly and without prolonged exaggeration. Otherwise, it’s all about the testing of skill, strength, strategy and wrestling acumen.

Along with everything else, it’s fair to say the action is not limited to mat work alone. There are plenty of high flying maneuvers to be seen, especially among the junior heavyweights. But they, too, adhere to the NOAH demands of believability while simultaneously displaying death-defying aerial acrobatics. Consequently, the vast majority of bouts become increasingly exciting as they are built to powerful and well-executed climaxes.

We here in Canada are fortunate. Pro Wrestling NOAH can be seen every week on The Fight Network. Adding to the proceedings is The Fight Network’s own Mauro Ranallo, a man with a long history as an announcer in both pro wrestling and Mixed Martial Arts. His easy-to-follow fluid call of the matches is beyond reproach, and one can’t help admiring how comfortable and fluent he seems to be with Japanese terminology. His color man, Dan Lovranski, has been a favorite as host of the weekly radio program, Live Audio Wrestling, and he too knows his stuff. Together, they comprise a refreshingly solid and informative two-man team.

In talking with Mauro, it quickly became clear of his dedication to what he views as one of the best wrestling companies in business today. “Frankly, I’m in awe at much of what I see in Pro Wrestling NOAH. When I’m given to shout, ‘Mama Mia!’ at some of the action, it’s not your typical wrestling hyperbole. It’s because what has just taken place is truly astounding from an athletic standpoint. I’ve seen the best there is in combat sports, and as far as I’m concerned, Pro Wrestling NOAH has reached the pinnacle when it comes to wrestling. The standard that Misawa and company have set would be very hard to top.”

Pro Wrestling NOAH is indeed an oasis in the professional wrestling landscape. A new episode can be seen every Wednesday night on The Fight Network, debuting at 8 p.m. EDT and repeated again at 3 a.m. Thursday. It is also televised several times over the next six days.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

WRESTLING WORTH WATCHING: RING OF HONOR

2007-07-20T09:17:00.000-07:00

This week, we'll be taking a look at TV wrestling as it currently stands. If you’re a wrestling fan who finds WWE programming to be, for the most part, silly, uninvolving and frequently insulting, there are several programs The Fight Network has to offer that will cause you to rejoice. In no particular order, they are Ring of Honor, Pro Wrestling NOAH and Superstars of Wrestling: Past, Present and Future. We’ll look at all three of them over the next few weeks.

In view of the fact that the very first Ring of Honor pay-per-view debuts on Viewer’s Choice Friday, July 20, it only makes sense to start with them. If you enjoy professional wrestling and watch it on The Fight Network, then chances are good you’ve long since discovered Ring of Honor for yourself. If you haven’t, please consider this to be a gentle but firm nudge in that direction. What you’ll find is a throwback to a time when the action in the ring told a compelling story that rivaled a great movie or, dare I say, literary work.

ROH is quite different from the stuff WWE churns out. The first thing you’re apt to notice is that the matches aren’t rushed. In ROH, it’s not about a couple of “superstars” hitting their signature moves and going home in 3 – 5 minute exhibitions that lack development or cohesion.

Unlike other sports entertainment programming found on Monday night television in Canada, ROH provides a genuine sense of excitement and creativity by building matches to satisfying conclusions that aren’t always predictable.

All of this conspires to invite the thinking wrestling fan to mentally and emotionally jump right in and partake in the proceedings. Yes, there’s actually a sound, rational reason for most everything that takes place, and it’s usually done very, very well. What a radical concept!

Ring of Honor places the accent where it belongs. Often, we’ll find mat wrestling displays that are fluid and beautiful in the same way figure skating can mirror ballet. Frankly, the only obvious difference is that ROH is a hell of a lot more butch!

With ROH, the application of holds and counterholds is their primary strength. That’s important, for that is where both the art and the skill of wrestling are to be found. When properly presented, such exchanges create a breathtaking spectacle to the viewer and, as a result, are captivating.

The knowledgeable ROH fans in attendance, rather than restricting themselves to cheering and booing based on preposterous story lines and angles, respond in the same way as do the educated Japanese wrestling fans. Their exuberant approval (and vociferous disapproval) is based on the aptitude, athleticism and timing on display. It is precisely those elements that earn the fan’s respect, regardless of whether or not the individuals involved are portraying themselves as babyfaces or heels.

Ah, but don’t be misled by that description alone. There’s far more to be seen in ROH. The hardcore fan will have no problem finding the excesses that are so prevalent in modern pro wrestling. Thanks to the triumph of ECW, which launched in the U.S. in 1993 and over time became a cult favorite by imitating Japan’s FMW furniture-smashing style, it’s now standard operating procedure in most promotions. For better or worse, ROH is anything but shy when it comes to using chairs, tables and other miscellaneous accessories on a semi-regular basis. The trick, and ROH generally succeeds, is to keep it within a reality-based context. (This is a subject we’ll place under the microscope in the near future).

In Ring of Honor, there are engaging characters to be found that don’t, as a rule, transcend believability by too great a margin. When someone with an obviously outrageous gimmick does appear, it’s usually for the purpose of mocking the absurdity inherent in the guise. The fans instantly recognize when something or someone is extraordinarily silly, and they will react by hooting and ridiculing it or him in a raucous but good-natured manner. This, of course, is precisely what ROH intended.

But that’s all window-dressing and the mileage varies. Where ROH truly shines is in their ability to tell the story of a match in a believable back-and-forth, give-and-take manner. Yes, it really is that simple. To depend upon juvenile antics and foolishness that adds nothing but an unnecessary distraction would be to mimic WWE.

Somebody’s girlfriend gets caught cheating on him. Perhaps a zombie-like figure has come back to life. Or take any one of a montage of moronic backstage skits that removes any chance for the willing suspension of disbelief. You may see that sort of thing on Monday night, but they’re not happening in ROH.

Instead, viewers are invited to settle in for matches that run, on the average, between 10 minutes and an hour. And when the bouts are over, if you’re one to appreciate encounters that have all the appearance of a genuine contest, you’re likely going to feel exhilarated at the tremendous display of athleticism. After having witnessed demonstrations of in-ring storytelling and wrestling performances designed for people that don’t enjoy being told that they’re idiots, you shouldn’t be too surprised to find yourself hooked on ROH for good.

One last aspect of Ring of Honor will likely impress you to a very large degree. Happily, there are many matches that don’t depend upon a “hate-filled issue” to give them purpose. While the action doesn’t become muted in those instances, nor does the use of heelish tactics disappear completely, it’s more about showing one’s ability to wrestle from start to finish. And when all is said and done, it’s not uncommon to see handshakes, accompanied by a show of respect with the raising of the victor’s hand by the vanquished.

By presenting wrestling in such a realistic fashion, the organization lends authenticity to the proceedings. Again, the ROH philosophy of what constitutes pro wrestling gives us permission to suspend our disbelief despite the worked atmosphere. While it may take a misstep every once in a while, ROH understands what it is selling and avoids insulting the viewer’s intelligence. Compared to things like RAW, it is refreshing and proof positive that wallowing in a preposterous WWE fantasy-land is unnecessary.

Ring of Honor is a company that knows how to sell its product with agility, wit and panache. Professional wrestling is at its best when it’s about who wins and who loses, and of how close one can come to acquiring the championship. To that end, ROH gets the job done by seamlessly blending entertainment with muscular expertise. And while showmanship is indeed a vital part of the mix, it is rarely, if ever, the point.

Programming note: A new episode of Ring of Honor wrestling debuts every Monday on The Fight Network at 9 p.m. EDT and repeats at 12 midnight. It is shown intermittently over the next six days, with the final airing Sunday night. Previous episodes of ROH can be seen during the week at various times.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!

WILL CONGRESS INVESTIGATE PRO WRESTLING?

2007-07-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

Before jumping into my second column for The Fight Network, I’d like to extend a large thank you to the folks that responded to my debut effort.

As you might expect, putting together an article about Chris Benoit a few days after the tragic event had occurred was difficult and not at all where I was planning to start. Your positive feedback and comments regarding the piece were very much appreciated, and I encourage you to drop a line anytime the mood strikes. You’ll find my e-mail address at the conclusion of this column.

As I write this, it appears that the U.S. Congress may consider holding hearings as a direct result of the Benoit tragedy. Good on the U.S. Congress and all that. But I'm also old and cynical. Putting aside any praise for turning Congressional attention to an industry that has long needed investigating and regulating, it’s difficult to expect much to come of it. Sure, there'll be a few headlines here and there when somebody says something particularly "news-sexy" and provocative. Great! And then what?

Will Congress actually have the desire and, just as importantly, the testicles to look beyond the surface? Will the legislative branch find the courage to peel back the layers and dig to get at the deeply-established and far-ranging roots that comprise the very structure of the industry? How well will it be able to avoid indulging in self-serving political opportunism by limiting its focus to buzz words like “steroids”? Will Congress have the jam to inspect the entire culture of pro wrestling and sports in general? And finally, will it have the wherewithal to call upon knowledgeable people that are not beholden to the one man who has a stranglehold on the entire industry?

Like I said, I'm old and cynical. I also know better than to pre-judge something that hasn't yet occurred. Perhaps what you are reading right now will prove to be 100 percent wrong and some long-term good will result from the hearings, assuming they even take place. But until that comes to pass, color me skeptical.

Based on the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, there’s a very real potential for a "steroid witch hunt" that may ensnare a few middle-to-lower level employees and possibly a couple of names that are either on the downside of their careers or pretty much out of the business altogether. Meanwhile, the REAL problems could once again be swept under the carpet and life as it currently stands will carry on. Well, at least until the next tragedy takes place, when the outcry is ratcheted up once again and the whole dog-and-pony show is trotted out for an encore.

It’s hard not to recall how Major League Baseball was placed on the so-called "Congressional hot seat" back in early ’05. It was good theater, watching Rafael Palmiero wave a reproving finger at Congress while vociferously denying any manner of drug usage, only to expose himself five months later as a hypocrite and a liar. Same deal with Mark McGwire, who flat-out refused to cooperate with investigators when it came to discussing his possible indulgence in enhancement drugs. The members of Congress were so busy falling over themselves in fan-boy fashion that they happily accepted his and other player’s non-explanations without pressing further. And what was the upshot of the whole thing? What meaningful changes have since been enacted? Exactly.

The thing is, in wrestling, as in all forms of athletics, steroid abuse is a very real problem. But it’s only one part of the big picture. The question of how to fix a corrupt system is something that supersedes any one facet, be it in a worked or shoot sport. And if Congress, with all of the resources it has at hand, focuses on the drug aspect alone, then it'll have missed the point entirely.

We also can’t ignore the fact that steroid abuse is a high profile issue in the public consciousness, and 2008 is an election year in the U.S. Hmmmm ... what’s the sum total of 2 + 2?

To reiterate ... forget about any long-term affirmative consequences if the subject of steroid offenses becomes the primary fixation. Should Congress launch an investigation into professional wrestling with the goal being to catch and punish those that indulge in or supply drugs, and then refuses to take the probe any further, only one piece of the problem will have been exposed. The opportunity for real revisions and restructuring, to incorporate changes that would have a positive, profound and permanent impact will have been bypassed. Sadly and predictably, it'll all just fade away once the TV people find the next hot topic and rush away to position their cameras elsewhere.

Did I mention I'm old and cynical?

Whether you agree or disagree with what you’ve just read, don’t hesitate to voice your thoughts directly to me. I’m always interested in exchanging views with sports fans whenever they care to express themselves. I look forward to our next visit right back here at The Fight Network.

Richard Berger is a freelance writer and editor with an extensive background in professional wrestling. His career includes media production for Stampede Wrestling, ring announcing, regular columns for WOW Magazine and IGN.com, and special feature work for other publications. Between June, 2007 and June, 2008, he wrote a weekly column for The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. To discuss Richard’s articles or just about anything else, contact him at: WriterGuy1A@hotmail.com.

The small sampling of his work found here was originally published at The Fight Network and Live Audio Wrestling. The majority will appear in a soon-to-be-released book along with new material. Stay tuned for information as it becomes available!