Journals #3

Professional Wrestling teaches valuable lessons

This piece is a work of fiction

2011

Photo by Claudia Raya on Unsplash

I don't talk about wrestling with folks often, which I guess is strange. I did it from the age of 15 to 30. There were some years when I wasn't in the ring, but for the majority of that stretch, I was competing and entertaining fans across Tucson.

There are plenty of reasons I don't chat about my wrestling days, but I always come back to one moment that highlights my entire experience in the business.

I first met Stock Market Steve Schitz when he came to Tucson to manage the Dwarf Prince. I'm not sure how the two of them came up with the gimmick, and I never got around to asking Steve about it, but Dwarfy (as we used to call him) and Steve had one of the best acts in Arizona.

Dwarf Prince was an extremely short Mexican kid, with Steve acting as his de-facto handler. Dwarf would dress in royal garb and strut to the ring, Stock Market Steve would don a suit and tie while he berated the audience for not supporting his royal client. When they got to the ring, rather than Dwarfy climbing the steps like everyone else, he would feign an inability to climb up the side of the ring. That's when Steve would bend down, and with all his power and might, he would push little Dwarfy up under the bottom rope into the squared circle.

The first time I saw it I was behind the curtain, staring out into the arena from the backstage area. I couldn't stop laughing. Stackhouse, my tag partner and "friend" at the time was sitting next to me, an unlit cigarette was dangling out of his mouth.

"Fucking great, right?" he asked.

"I've never seen anything like it. Where did you find these guys?"

"It wasn't me. I think they worked a show with Saul or Tank. They came down in a car with the boys from Phoenix."

I was always out of the loop when I was working. I suppose it was a huge reason why I never got over with different companies. I had to constantly be brought up to speed. I never did the politics thing backstage, or if I did, it was done poorly.

I thought it was bullshit. What should have mattered the most in my eyes was how things went between the ropes. All the other ass-kissing and pandering that went on backstage annoyed me. What I enjoyed most about being backstage was the bullshitting. Hearing road stories or sharing jokes. Those were my favorite parts of every show. Coming up with matches, the finishes, and then making sure I didn't get seriously hurt made wrestling stressful. But shooting the shit and bumming cigarettes from the boys was fun.

It was around this time that I first started tagging with Stackhouse. He was a character, which is saying something in the wrestling world. Everyone's a little off, but Stackhouse was more than most. He was a big guy, probably around 350 during that time. Our tag team had been around for maybe four months when he brought up that Dwarfy and Stock Market were going to be running shows in Tucson and Phoenix.

"Really?" I said. "Didn't those guys just start working here?"

"Yeah, but they got a booker and a crew of guys already. Most of the ones that work Phoenix and some of the Tucson guys. I know they already talked to Mark and Raymond."

We were sitting on my front porch, smoking Marlboros that Stack had brought. We had been talking about a match that was coming up, going over spots and how the flow of it would go. I wasn't used to working for companies outside of High Octane Wrestling, which was the company that I had worked for since I first started wrestling. There were a few places I had landed, but nothing ever stuck. Stack wouldn't shut up about Stock Market and Dwarfy's company the rest of the time we hung out that day.

"Are they looking for guys?" I asked. It sounded organized, and they were paying, which wasn't always the case.

"Well, the first show is already booked. But if you hit up Steve, he may be able to work something out. They're looking for gimmicks though. Not really small, flippy guys."

I tried to brush off the comment. That was another irksome component of wrestling. I was only 5'9 or so, and even though I weighed above average for my height, it wasn't like I was buff or anything. I tried my best to use a more technical and ground-based approach to my matches, but people always saw me as a “high-spot” guy, meaning someone who did a lot of flashy moves but wasn't great at storytelling. Truthfully, after I started working with Stack as my partner and going over the matches with a different mindset, it helped me with psychology immensely. But back then, I still had the stigma of being someone who ran around but wasn't great with storytelling.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing MADA. It's just... I don't know man. What you do is cool, but it's just a masked gimmick. I mean, it's not lucha."

"I'm not going to go in there and do fucking lucha. I can work a gimmick."

"I'll give you Steve's number and you can call him. I'll put in a good word for you. That's probably the best I can do."

I called Stock Market Steve that evening. Steve was confused initially, but after he figured I was looking for a spot, he started giving me the same song and dance that Stack gave me.

"I don't know, MADA," Steve said. He had a thick, East Coast accent and an abrasive tone. I understood why. I'm sure I wasn't the only worker from Tucson hitting him up and begging for a spot in his company.

"What are you unsure about?"

"Well... I mean, you're good. Don't get me wrong. I've seen your matches but... I'm not trying to sound like an ass but I don't know if you'll be a good fit."

I was drowning already. What Steve and Stack didn't know is that I had something up my sleeve; a gimmick that had been sitting in the back of my head for months that had been formulated during late nights alone while writing or reading while Marisol was asleep.

"Well," I said, swallowing my anxiety before starting my pitch, "the thing is... I have something in mind that would be different from the shit you've seen in Tucson. I have another gimmick. One where I'm not under a hood. What about that?"

"Well... Let me hear it."

Half a year before that phone call, Marisol and I had been going to the library to fill up on DVDs and books. This was before we had high-speed internet and Netflix, so the majority of our entertainment came from Redbox and the library. We ended up watching The Big Lebowski one evening, and for some reason, an idea for a new gimmick began to formulate in my mind. Instead of being imposing and athletic like my masked character was, this one would be goofy, and aloof, but also skilled in the ring.

The idea was to take the Dude from that film and mold that into a pro wrestler. What I enjoyed most about that movie was the end, when Lebowski puts together the entire scam even though the whole film he is portrayed as a bumbling hippy. The idea was to enter the ring, convince the audience that I was going to get my ass kicked, and then bust out some of the fancy stuff that I used while wrestling as MADA. This is how Javier Hendrix, the Hardcore Hippy, was born. I relayed this all to Steve, and as I was going over the details, I could hear the excitement in his voice.

"So, what you're saying is you get in the ring, act like you're stoned out of your gourd, and then you light people up? Man... That's great! I mean, we wouldn't be making you world champion or anything, but that's a fun little gimmick, and I can work with that."

"Thanks man! I knew you would love it."

"Listen... We got everything booked for the next show, but maybe we can throw you onto the month after? Record a promo, send it to me and Trip, and we'll see what we got for you. No guarantees though."

I thanked Stock Market and then started to devise a plan.

I did my best to brainstorm over the next few weeks. I knew Stock Market didn't want to overload his card with local guys who just wanted a payday, so I wanted to make sure that everything I did came across as valuable. If I knocked it out of the park with the promo, I knew I would at least get a chance. I recorded it one night using a cellphone. I intentionally made it look grainy and low-quality while doing my best to appear stoned. I had some help because I smoked before recording, but I also played it up as much as I could. It took about three takes, but after I was done, I emailed it to Steven and Trip and waited to hear back.

Stock Market Steven called me back the next day.

"I fucking love it! I'll send you the information for the next show and we'll get you booked."

I was pumped. It wasn't the WWE, but it was something different and it was a chance to flex some muscles to show everyone that I could do something different. Word got around that I was going to be changing my gimmick and working the show, and I got a flood of messages and calls about it. People were confused. Was I going to abandon MADA for this new character? I just told them it was something different and that it wasn't a permanent thing.

I was taken aback by how excited people were getting. Steve had sent the promo to the boys working the show, and it was over with everyone. They were genuinely curious about how things would play out. I was too. As the show approached, I felt the excitement growing not just for the entire event but for my match in particular.

We showed up the night before to get the ring set up and go over things. That was when Steve informed me that I was going to be opening the show, or having the first match on the card, with Stackhouse. He gave us seven minutes and told me to get over the gimmick as best I could. I thanked him, shook his hand, and then rushed over to Stack so we could talk about our match.

"Hey man," I said, "looks like it's us working tomorrow. Exciting, right?"

Stack looked at me like I had pissed on his mother's grave. He was outside, smoking, per usual, when I approached him about the match. He spit to the right before flicking the ash from his cigarette.

"Yeah, they told me."

"Well, that's cool, right?"

"I guess. What did you want to do?"

I was confused. I thought he would be excited, but I could tell from his reaction that he was pissed.

"Just some comedy shit at the beginning. Nothing crazy."

"Did Stock Market tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"That I'm the heel."

"He didn't. But this character isn't a heel, so it makes sense."

Stack shot me a dirty look once again. We went over the match. It was simple shit. I would get the early shine, he would cut me off, I'd get a comeback, he'd cut me off again, and we'd go home.

The next night, as soon as I started getting dressed, a buzz started building through the locker room. I say the term "locker room" loosely, as this was just the area behind the curtain to the elementary school auditorium that we were wrestling in that evening. That may sound ridiculous to some, but in all honesty, it was one of the better locker rooms I dressed in. Shortly after this show, I worked for a company that shoved us all into a large janitorial closet.

Anyway, the full garb consisted of a singlet, a Jimi Hendrix shirt, some pads, and a bathrobe. To get the distinct, hippy smell onto the clothes, I had let them hang near some burning incense the night before. I also ended up pouring a tiny bit of patchouli oil on it, which brought out a distinct smell.

I put all this shit on and all eyes in the back all turned to me. The best part of the getup was the last part. Instead of going to the ring in my wrestling shoes, I was going to walk up in some slippers, which would then be kicked off and exchanged for my ASICS. One by one, each of the boys came up to me and complimented the gimmick.

"Holy shit, that's hilarious!"

"You're not going to the ring in that, are you? Really? Brother, that's great!"

"Goddamn, MADA, that's amazing."

People were giving me tips on what to do in the ring, or how to work the crowd, but I could tell just from the reaction backstage that it wouldn't be hard to get people into the character or behind it. Hippies are evergreen. No matter what age you are or what era you grew up in, everyone can look at a hippy and know what they are. I wasn't worried about the crowd not reacting.

It was around this point that Sean, another one of the workers who was on the show, came up and asked what the finish was. I told him that Stack was going over, and he made a face.

"Why is he winning?" Sean asked.

"I don't know. That's what they told me."

"Yeah but... I mean. This gimmick is great. I know once you go out there the crowd’s going to love it. And, Stack doesn't need the win. You should be going over."

I didn't know what to say. I had never gone against a booker. It wasn't me. I didn't even think about the stuff Sean said before he put it out there. To me, it was solely my job to get to the venue and do whatever was told to me to do. Sean didn't let it go. He told me to follow him, and he took me right to Stock Market and made his case for me to win.

"MADA should be going over," Sean said. "Stack doesn't need the win. Plus, it'll be a better second round match if MADA wins. Besides, look at this getup. He did a great job. I say you change the finish."

"You know," Steve said, looking between Sean and me, "I guess you're right. I'll let Hendrix here go over."

I thanked them both and then went back to the corner where I was changing. Stack came over, still looking annoyed, and we went over a new match. I hadn't thought of a finish for this character, so off the top of my head I said a diving headbutt from the top rope would be enough. Stack said that was okay, and then we shook hands and got ready.

Since we were opening, I didn't have a lot of time to think things over. I followed Stack after his entrance. He went out, heard the crowd start to cheer, and told them to shut up. It was silent right before my music hit, but when Strawberry Alarm Clock's Incense And Peppermints started blaring out of the speaker, I could hear the buzz start to build from the crowd.

I opened up the curtain, took a step out, and immediately was met with laughter. I fed off that energy, trotting down the ramp and then going to the people who were sitting near the guardrail. I had come up with something the night before, which I knew was going to be well received. I approached the first person next to the entrance ramp, I reached over the barrier and placed my arms around them. I wasn't sure how the crowd would react, but the person sitting there that night returned the hug instantly. I moved on to the next person, and then the person after that. They started standing and embracing me the moment I moved over to them. People were laughing and high-fiving each other. I thought it was glorious. I had the crowd in the palm of my hand, and I hadn't even done a single move.

I got into the ring, flipped off the slippers, sat down in the corner, and started tying up my shoes. Stackhouse did his best to circle the ring and complain to the ref and the crowd. When the kicks were finally tied, I heard the bell ring. Stack and I circled, with me stumbling around and grinning while Stack feigned anger. Or at least, I thought at the time he was faking it. We locked up, he got me in a headlock, and rather than get out the old-fashioned way, which would be to grab his left wrist and break the hold before going under for a hammerlock or a top wristlock, I started bouncing on the balls of my feet before slipping out under his grasp. I pointed to my forehead, like Terry Funk used to, and hammed it up for the audience.

Stack did a great job of stomping around and showing he was frustrated. We did a couple more spots, with each escape leaning more toward comedy than skill. Stack got me in a full nelson, and to break this hold, I reached down under my right knee and stomped hard, causing Stack to lean forward and break the lock he had behind my head. The crowd laughed harder. I circled and locked eyes with House, signaling that he was going to cut me off and start getting his heat. We locked up, and Stack kneed me in the ribs, hard. I doubled over, half selling/faking and half feeling the air escape my body.

I got on all fours, and I distinctly remember thinking, That's odd, Stack is usually never stiff in the ring. As soon as that thought was completed, I felt House's boot connect with the cartilage between my ribs. I rolled away from him, hoping I could get a second or two before he continued his assault, but he cut me off before proceeding to kick the living shit out of me while I was prone in the ring.

I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I looked up and saw a mask of anger on his face. It was intense. The worst part was I wasn't sure why he was going so hard. I guess he wanted it to look good for the crowd, but Stackhouse's offense was never intense. That night he was throwing live rounds like we were in the Tokyo Dome.

"Hey," I whispered to him as he picked me up, "lighten the fuck up."

"DDT," was his only response.

Stack wrapped his arm around my neck and held me in a front face lock. I braced myself, and because I wanted the move to look good, I decided I would plant myself on the top of my head when I took the maneuver. It's a parlor trick that smaller guys do. The key is you have your forearm help brace the impact, and your head doesn't touch the canvas. The problem with this night was that Stack tightened up his grip so hard that when I went down and tried to soften the blow, it was impossible. The top of my dome hit the ring and I felt a small pop in my neck. It was disorienting, but not enough to ignore the kickout when I heard the ref count to two.

I didn't know what to do. There was a bit more heat planned for the match, but my head felt fuzzy and my neck felt strange. I sat up and took my right hand and started rubbing it. I saw Stack approaching and this time I was able to make it to the corner, allowing the ref to get between us and allow me some time.

I looked over at Stack and shot him a death glare. He kept on trying to get past the ref, and when I got a moment of him being distracted I came off the middle rope with a dropkick right to his shoulder. Instead of the goofy stomps I had planned, I laid in some heels to his shoulder and then dropped an elbow to his back. I waited until he got back to his feet and then hit him with another dropkick, followed by a third. If Stack wanted to play that game, I could do the same thing, but instead of throwing fucking potatoes like he did, I was going to do something else, blow him the fuck up. He was barely able to get to his feet after the third dropkick, which was my intention. He was staggering on his feet when I came off the second rope with a huge forearm that caught him square.

"Let's go home," I said.

He looked like he was going to say something, but he just nodded and then I told the ref this was it. I jumped to the top, looked out to the crowd, screamed out, and flew. My forehead caught him on the right shoulder, and I grabbed the far leg before the ref counted three. The crowd cheered, and after my hand was raised, I followed the same path as before, except backward, and hugged everyone a second time before going back through the curtain.

The boys were all standing there, clapping their hands and wailing as I walked in. It felt great. Not only had the crowd loved it, but everyone backstage had caught a little glimpse and they all seemed to love it. People kept on coming up to me as I changed out of my gear and told me how much they liked the gimmick. But my neck was starting to feel like shit. There was this strange heat that started to rise near my shoulder blades. I went to the back of the school we were working at and Mark and Raymond smoked me out. My neck didn't feel as shitty after a couple of bowls. Soon after we finished, Stackhouse came to the back and offered me a smoke while lighting his own.

I waited a few minutes before asking him what happened out there.

"Dude," I started, "you just started stiffing the fuck out of me. What was that?"

"I did?"

"Don't fucking play dumb. What was that?"

"I don't know what you're fucking talking about. That was fine."

"What? You stomped the shit out of me and kicked me like I was a damn soccer ball. You don't work like that with everyone else. What the fuck was that about? I'm being serious."

Stack looked at his cigarette ash before flicking it off and taking a long drag. "I don't know... I was pissed, I guess. I didn't wanna work heel, because this is my town, and the fans love me. Then, they come and fucking tell me I'm doing the job to, and no offense MADA, because I love you, but to some new wrestler that no one has ever seen before? I don't know... I guess I was just mad."

I was flabbergasted. I didn't know what to say. I look back on this day now and realize that I went into a state of shock. I couldn't believe that a guy I considered a close friend would say something like that, but there we were.

I finished the cigarette and went back inside. I didn't talk to Stack the rest of the night, but we ended up tagging for a year and a half after that event. Goes to show I wasn't very smart with who I let in back then.