Monkeywright vs. World Power Wrestling

Woooooooo!

Every child has his heroes, his field of dreams. The daydreams, the moments spent imagining the last minute drive, the buzzer beating shot, the walk-off home run. My friends were worshipping Joe Montana and John Elway, dreaming of flying like Spud Webb, Dominique Wilkins, and young Michael Jordan, throwing a slider like Roger Clemens or knocking one out of the park like Andre Dawson.

Me? I was in the family room with my brother. He had a towel draped around his waist like a kilt, channeling “Rowdy” Roddy Piper while I Hulked up to defend America. Yeah, we were those kids. The wrestling fans. The ones who would challenge other kids in the neighborhood to wrestling matches. My brother became famous among my circle of friends as “the kid who gave a piledriver to Chuck Barta”.

Blame my father. Our Sunday morning ritual was All-American Wrestling while he polished his USAF-issued size twelves. Lord Alfred Hayes and Gorilla Monsoon’s commentary paled in comparison to the names my dad could make up for the moves we witnessed on screen. But I knew one thing: these were my kind of guys. Living comic book heroes. Koko B. Ware. Hillbilly Jim. Andre the Giant. Hulk Hogan. George “the Animal” Steele and Ricky “the Dragon” Steamboat. My dream was to someday earn a name that could come in quotation marks between my first and last. These brave men defended us against the evils of Bobby “The Brain” Heenan, the Honky Tonk Man, Big John Studd, and the aforementioned Rowdy Scot. Not to mention the morally ambiguous few, the “heels” who were too cool to hate and would eventually turn “face”: Bret “Hitman” Hart, Jake “The Snake” Roberts, “Macho Man” Randy Savage.

The Mania grows...

I’m really marking out here, aren’t I? (Those in the know, know the language: “face”=good guy (short for babyface), “heel”=bad guy , and “mark”=loudly supporting someone regardless of other's opinions of their level of talent.)

It only got worse when we attended our first live event. Most kids fondly remember the first time their parents took them to the ballpark, the stadium, the smell of the grass, the people there to root for the home team. It was the Dome in Laramie, Wyoming. The farthest from home my brother and I had ever traveled to see anything. Was the journey worth it? I would have traveled 1,000 miles at that age to see “Mr. Wonderful” Paul Orndorff and “Cowboy” Bob Orton settle their horrible blood feud. Plus, it was the first time I got to scream at a Frenchman in public (the infamous Rene Goulet, who for unexplained reasons wore a Michael Jackson-style sequined glove to the ring). On the way out, we got a poster advertising a new spectacular coming up: Wrestlemania. All I knew at that point was that both Hulk Hogan and Mr. T would be involved. Super Bowl? World Series? No. This was more, far more...

Wrestlemania, sadly, was a pay-per-view event (the world’s first), and Cheyenne, Wyoming in 1984 was not a technologically savvy city. But shortly after Wrestlemania, an even greater thing happened. The WWF came to Denver. DENVER! The big city. Close enough to drive. Would my parents cave in and take their two screaming kids to what would undoubtedly be a life-changing event?

Of course! And the card was enough to make me the envy of Dildine Elementary school. I would be making the 200 mile journey to watch Koko B. Ware. Demolition, the Hart Foundation, the Killer Bees, Chavo Guerrero, George Steele... And it got even better! I hear you out there. “Michael, how could it possibly get better? Surely, you’ve gotten more than your money’s worth at this point!” To this I say: Main event. Hulk Hogan. “Macho Man” Randy Savage. The one event that could settle a long running argument between my brother and I. We’d know who was the best. We would see it with our own eyes. From the nosebleed section. Special referee? The evil Danny Davis, a turncoat known to take bribes and cheat... Things didn’t look good for the Hulkster. But then, the announcement came...the special enforcer? Mr. T! This confluence of mega-celebrities was so amazing that I was briefly branded a liar at Dildine. Such legendary things and people could not possibly all be in the same place on the same night without making headline news. They taunted. They teased. And yea, I did produce my ticket stubs and they were stunned into silence. It was probably the last time in 20 years that I was truly cool.

So needless to say, I was, am, and will remain a wrestling junkie. Don’t ask me why. Stifle those laughs. I have a Master’s Degree. So there. I can be educated and still like wrestling.

Isn’t Lanny Poffo proof of this? (Lanny Poffo, once known as “Leaping” Lanny Poffo, changed his ring moniker to Lanny “The Genius” Poffo. He would come to the ring bedecked in a cap and gown and read disparaging poetry about his opponent, which would invariably lead to his opponent flying into a rage and kicking Lanny’s ass for the following ten minutes. Lanny, we hardly knew ye...)

And I always had a dream. What if I could get into some kind of cool Hitman Hart-like outfit and kick ass for my legions of fans? What if I could be a professional wrestler? There were things to think about...

Bumps and Bruises forthcoming...

My fiancée (now wife!) took it upon herself to get me the coolest birthday/Christmas present ever... she was sending me to wrestling school. I was overjoyed. But then I was hesitant... was she trying to bump me off to steal my riches? Was she punishing me for not yet learning how to salsa properly? Or was she illustrating the old adage: “Be careful what you ask for...”

I was being sent to the marketplace in Anaheim, California for a special deal with Martin Marin, owner operator, CEO, head honcho, El Genio of World Power Wrestling. Martin is probably the nicest guy you’d ever meet who could also crush you like a grape. This is where I’d be spending the next six Sundays.

Getting to (not) Know the Guys

Martin was running late, so I got to know some of the other workers who showed up early. I was introduced to everyone by their ring name, and being that I am horrible with names, this is the only way I know how to refer to them now. But hey, if I could get people to call me Catastrophe or Mr. California or Kid Omega in everyday life, well that would just be nifty. So here I was, in a parking lot next to an indoor flea market, staring at a dusty ring that was once used by Ted Turner’s World Championship Wrestling. A ring that may very well have been worked by Ric Flair, Sting, Hulk Hogan, the Juicer, Arachna-Man... okay, I’m being purposely obscure here. (Probably just trying to make my brother laugh.) The point is, this was my equivalent of stepping into Yankee Stadium. This truly kicked ass. And I hadn’t even done anything yet. Martin spent the first day showing me the basics. Proper stance, the difference between Mexican Lucha Libre style and American Pro style, forward rolls, and basic lock ups. Aside from standing properly, I think I managed to mess up every other thing I was taught.

Oh the humanity...

The following weeks were a blur. These are points I remember:

The Bump Lesson
Martin had me squat down and grab the second rope. From there my job was to fall backwards and take a bump across my shoulders. The important point: tuck my chin to prevent concussion. Guess which part of the lesson I forgot midway down on my first try?
I wish I could describe accurately the feeling of taking a bump. It would be something like this: Have someone pat you lightly on the back. Now have them do it a little harder, until you feel it in your lungs. Now imagine their hand is about the size of a large briefcase and that they’re hitting you as hard as they can. It hurts more than that. Mondays after wrestling I would always feel like an old man, hobbling around my apartment.

Running the Ropes
Frequently, matches involve one grappler running the ring, bouncing off of the ropes to gain momentum. This appears smooth, effortless, almost graceful. In reality, the ropes are thick steel cables with all of the cushioning of a thin layer of tape. If you hit the ropes incorrectly, you can tweak your ribs, hurt your shoulder, and bruise yourself without trying. Sounds like I’m speaking from experience, doesn’t it?

This was as far as my lessons got. I could put together a few spots, simple lock-ups, arm drags, hip tosses, and yes, running the ropes. I’d like to pretend I was an ass-kicking, beer-guzzling, finger-waving, S.O.B. like Stone Cold Steve Austin. But I was more like a bruised and hurting little school girl.
I do, however, have a picture that makes me look like I won.

My admiration for professional wrestlers has only deepened. Especially for the guys at WPW. They commute from all over Southern California, in between working real-world jobs, for the chance to wrestle. They will work shows miles and miles from home, finish late, tear down the ring, wake up at 5 in the morning, head out to the marketplace, rebuild the ring, and do it all over again. Some of them have aspirations of going on to the big leagues, and some seem satisfied with being local superstars. They will fight through injuries, they will take the pain on Saturday night and come back for more on Sunday afternoon. They wrestle because they love wrestling.

So, when we look at The Pantheon of Wrestling Heroes in my mind—
Yes. I have a Pantheon of Wrestling Heroes in my mind. You probably have something in your head that people would think is stupid too. It’s your brain! So there! Stop making fun of me! Literary imagery and pro wrestling don’t quite go hand-in-hand. Sue me. Where was I?

The Pantheon of Wrestling Heroes in my mind now has a small alcove, filled with the names of WPW:
Kid Omega, Catastrophe, Chippy Sanchez, L’il Cholo, El Genio, Steve Pain, Infernal, DJ Junior, Mr. California, Markus Riot, Stryker, Preston Scott & Jason Bennett... and on and on. These names are inscribed there because I don’t know any of their real names. But still...but the point is, they kick ass, and WPW is a good way to spend a Sunday afternoon, and my wife is cool.

You can learn more about the SoCal wrestling scene by going to socaluncensored.com. There’s a whole ‘nother story in how wrestling websites always have names that make them sound vaguely pornographic, like wrestlingexposed.com, socaluncensored, etc.

And, of course, you can learn more about WPW at their website!

(ed. note: I built the WPW website shortly after finishing Pain School. I tried to keep up with the wrestlers, but the distance is too great - and nobody from the promo ever emailed me back. I recently found them on MySpace - check 'em out! That's the link above. You can see my website (I was still learning) by clicking here.)

Photos of the monkeywright and Martin Marin
c. 2004 Aleks Bienkowska