Little People's Court

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!

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

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

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.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

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

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

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?

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!