ROLLER MAYHEM!

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)

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!

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!

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

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

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

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!