It happens. You step inside the ring, and you can and, all too often do, get hurt. We know that, and we accept the risk every time we don our tights, or hot pants, if that's your preference. When injuries occur, we take an almost perverse, and certainly contrary, pride in it. Our battle scars, testament to our membership in the exclusive Cult of Meathead. Although I have no qualms in saying that injuries usually occur doing some sort of wrestling move, but not today, and not for me.
The day dawned with the now usual grey sky and drizzle, which boded well for my Mercedes as it had developed a tendency to overheat, plus a light rain makes the squeaks less audible. We were all ready and were among the first to arrive at Mounties. I chatted and shared a cigarette with Tennille, hung about backstage with the old timer commentary team, in the obligatory old timer dressing room, I warmed up, under Skulls supervision, and by the way, he was rather impressed with my ability perform push ups. Proper ones. Not that on your knees girly stuff. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, I looked great, and I was singing, to the tune of Willie Nelsons "on the road again", my own, slightly reworked version.
In then ring again
Just can't wait to get in the ring again
Smacking chicks that I may never smack again
And I can't wait to get in the ring again.
Yeah, I was having a great time. And then it was our match. Wayne Pickford and Poison Ivy vs Antonio De'Ath and Niki Nitro. The entrance is great and we're all feeling good, the guys start and we're off to what should be a textbook mixed tag, until we hit the tag. I go into the first spot, and as I step off waynes stomach (don't ask, somethings you don't need to know) and put my left foot down, my ankle rolls under me. I felt a snapping pain, white hot and I cursed the rings padding. High density foam, boys, not as spongy and sounds better. In my opinion, the ring is too soft. I wanna know when I hit the floor.
I roll under the bottom rope, back into my corner, telling Wayne that I've just stuffed up my ankle. Across the ring, I seek out my counterparts eyes,and through time honured tradition of mime, I communicate the problem to her. The crowd has quitened a little, so I turn and shout unpleasantries at them, often containing the term peasant, which I only mention cos it's pretty unpleasant.
We're tagged in, and we stuff about and then get back out, giving the boys a turn. Wayne asks if I can do it, and I was sure as shit going to finish what I started. We took it home, Niki got the pin on Pickford, De'Ath laid me out with his trademark move. And I was free to hobble back stage. I got through the curtains and started hopping, sat down and took my boot off, there was already a swollen band across it.
Back to dressing room, having asked some of the guys to get some ice (Dan Damage, champion!) and then went through the laborious process of removing a spandex crop top, lace body stocking, sloggi stockings, cos I only like to give the illusion of being half naked, and hot pants, to get my jeans back on. Niki, no longer Nitro, but co worker, helps me get my jeans on. Skull hands me a beer, I sit on the steps and consume it quickly. Somehow, after the show, I hobble out, with the help my son, Texas, and no shoes to the awaiting car.
Hours later, doped the eyeballs, I'm feeling ok. I did my time at the E.R, and broke free of their clutches to return to the comforts of home and pizza. And I learnt something. Never underestimate the power of beer.
It's a sprain. I'm working on either being fine by next weeks show, or able to convincingly pretend I'm fine. That's the thing with the Cult of Meathead, and I'm unlikely to be deprogrammed. I'm a wrestler. We take our lumps, we take our bumps, and we pull together when it matters. We're Meatheads, and proud of it.
Showing posts with label australian wrestling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label australian wrestling. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Are You Sitting Comfortably?
Are you sitting comfortably? I don't really care, but you're more likely to keep reading if you're comfortable.
There's a moment for every pro wrestler, when you're standing backstage, waiting anxiously for the cue that sends you through the curtains, when time stops, the crowds roar dims, and you seriously leave yourself behind. A dead-mans moment, when you cease to exist, and find yourself held hostage by a character that may not be of your making. I was having one of those very moments. JessieLee departed, and Poison Ivy entered, stage left.
I watched the monitor, and ruminated on how the match wasn't working. The guys in the ring were both blessed with the kind of physique only ego and steroids could achieve, and although they looked the part, they weren't up to standard, and were so lacking in cardiovascular fitness that three minutes into the match they were showing signs of exhaustion. Their clumsiness annoyed me, in fact, most things in the business annoyed me..............
At last, I spotted my badly performed cue move, and as my the first notes of my theme music started, I burst through the curtains, aluminum shovel over my shoulder, paused for the camera, and then sprinted to the ring, rolled in, hit them both in of the back of the head with said trusty shovel, posed for the camera again, and then scarpered just as the comrades and/or sympathizers of the fallen came to rescue them.
Lets get this clear, pro wrestling is a hideous bitch goddess, and no good comes to those who worship at her temple. I was a veteran, and had done 18 years hard time as penance for being dumb enough to think it might be a fun thing to try. Which, by the way, it is. Fun, I mean. If you do it right. Otherwise I imagine it may hurt. The debate that has been ongoing since two atoms smashed together and started a chain reaction that culminated in life as we know it, over just how much of what happens in a wrestling ring is real will be put to rest now, by me. Its fake, mostly. But only as fake as repeatedly, intentionally falling down, sometimes from a fairly appreciable height. Take a moment now, if you will, and consider how much of your life you've spent specifically avoiding falling down, particularly from any kind of height, and maybe you can begin to appreciate the peculiar art that is known as pro wrestling.
We call it bumping, but it is the fine art of falling down without catastrophically injuring yourself. You learn, you train and it becomes natural. At least most of the time. Call it what you want- a sham, fake, faux, acting even, there's absolutely no denying that it is inherently dangerous, much more so than working at the supermarket, which I imagine is fraught with its own dangers. But they never ask you to throw yourself over a shoulder high rope, that I'd like to point out is designed to keep you in there, and land on the wooden dance floor at ringside. I've heard it speculated that it's actually padded and is cleverly disguised t look like a hard, unyielding wooden floor, but if that is the case, I must say that the masquerade is so perfect that the floor doesn't even feel padded. Every move is a bump. There's front bumps and back bumps, the occasional side bump, the arse bump and the rolling bumps. Add in some chain wrestling to make it look like you might really know what you're doing and that's basically it. Faces get cheered and heels gets booed, everyone gets paid, some people get the shits, and they all take off their tights and go home.
Except for the times when I wore the tights home. Which were many, because I firmly disliked getting undressed in the back of a truck surrounded by sweaty behemoths that smelled of wrestler, a unique and pungent odor particular to those who chose a career as a cartoonesque figure and then never washed their costume. This was to be one of the nights I wore the tights home, but thankfully it was by choice, and because they looked amazing. I may have been forty, by by god, I still looked good in spandex.
Spandex, as you may know, is a very unforgiving fabric. It's use in pro wrestling costumes is entirely justified because pro wrestling is an unforgiving vocation, and as surely as confused young men are drawn to the priesthood, thus sacrificing many of lifes pleasures, so we wrestlers also sacrifice. We sacrifice our bodies, our psyches, and our bank accounts, because let me tell you, rich wrestlers are few and far between. Conversely, there's an abundance of poverty stricken, injury racked, soon to he crippled workers out there, nursing bruises and waiting for old age and arthritis to do it's wicked form of magic on their aging and sorry carcasses.
My own carcass was feeling the toll. It's no career for a single mother. Do you know why? Being a single mother is a full time job. I was in the game as an income supplement. Cash in hand. And no one needs to know. It wasn't good money, $200 a show, but when we had a run of shows the tune changed. We were just finishing up a run of six shows and I was hoping to celebrate my suddenly cashed up status by getting gloriously drunk, telling some stories that veered between exaggeration and lies, smearing my mascara everywhere, staggering home as dawn broke, sleeping for three hours and then spending the afternoon alternately reminiscing on the evening before and regretting everything.
******************************************
Please note the above work is fiction. Any resemblance to anything is probably coincidental. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Yeah, well, the stupid upload deleted the ending.
There's a moment for every pro wrestler, when you're standing backstage, waiting anxiously for the cue that sends you through the curtains, when time stops, the crowds roar dims, and you seriously leave yourself behind. A dead-mans moment, when you cease to exist, and find yourself held hostage by a character that may not be of your making. I was having one of those very moments. JessieLee departed, and Poison Ivy entered, stage left.
I watched the monitor, and ruminated on how the match wasn't working. The guys in the ring were both blessed with the kind of physique only ego and steroids could achieve, and although they looked the part, they weren't up to standard, and were so lacking in cardiovascular fitness that three minutes into the match they were showing signs of exhaustion. Their clumsiness annoyed me, in fact, most things in the business annoyed me..............
At last, I spotted my badly performed cue move, and as my the first notes of my theme music started, I burst through the curtains, aluminum shovel over my shoulder, paused for the camera, and then sprinted to the ring, rolled in, hit them both in of the back of the head with said trusty shovel, posed for the camera again, and then scarpered just as the comrades and/or sympathizers of the fallen came to rescue them.
Lets get this clear, pro wrestling is a hideous bitch goddess, and no good comes to those who worship at her temple. I was a veteran, and had done 18 years hard time as penance for being dumb enough to think it might be a fun thing to try. Which, by the way, it is. Fun, I mean. If you do it right. Otherwise I imagine it may hurt. The debate that has been ongoing since two atoms smashed together and started a chain reaction that culminated in life as we know it, over just how much of what happens in a wrestling ring is real will be put to rest now, by me. Its fake, mostly. But only as fake as repeatedly, intentionally falling down, sometimes from a fairly appreciable height. Take a moment now, if you will, and consider how much of your life you've spent specifically avoiding falling down, particularly from any kind of height, and maybe you can begin to appreciate the peculiar art that is known as pro wrestling.
We call it bumping, but it is the fine art of falling down without catastrophically injuring yourself. You learn, you train and it becomes natural. At least most of the time. Call it what you want- a sham, fake, faux, acting even, there's absolutely no denying that it is inherently dangerous, much more so than working at the supermarket, which I imagine is fraught with its own dangers. But they never ask you to throw yourself over a shoulder high rope, that I'd like to point out is designed to keep you in there, and land on the wooden dance floor at ringside. I've heard it speculated that it's actually padded and is cleverly disguised t look like a hard, unyielding wooden floor, but if that is the case, I must say that the masquerade is so perfect that the floor doesn't even feel padded. Every move is a bump. There's front bumps and back bumps, the occasional side bump, the arse bump and the rolling bumps. Add in some chain wrestling to make it look like you might really know what you're doing and that's basically it. Faces get cheered and heels gets booed, everyone gets paid, some people get the shits, and they all take off their tights and go home.
Except for the times when I wore the tights home. Which were many, because I firmly disliked getting undressed in the back of a truck surrounded by sweaty behemoths that smelled of wrestler, a unique and pungent odor particular to those who chose a career as a cartoonesque figure and then never washed their costume. This was to be one of the nights I wore the tights home, but thankfully it was by choice, and because they looked amazing. I may have been forty, by by god, I still looked good in spandex.
Spandex, as you may know, is a very unforgiving fabric. It's use in pro wrestling costumes is entirely justified because pro wrestling is an unforgiving vocation, and as surely as confused young men are drawn to the priesthood, thus sacrificing many of lifes pleasures, so we wrestlers also sacrifice. We sacrifice our bodies, our psyches, and our bank accounts, because let me tell you, rich wrestlers are few and far between. Conversely, there's an abundance of poverty stricken, injury racked, soon to he crippled workers out there, nursing bruises and waiting for old age and arthritis to do it's wicked form of magic on their aging and sorry carcasses.
My own carcass was feeling the toll. It's no career for a single mother. Do you know why? Being a single mother is a full time job. I was in the game as an income supplement. Cash in hand. And no one needs to know. It wasn't good money, $200 a show, but when we had a run of shows the tune changed. We were just finishing up a run of six shows and I was hoping to celebrate my suddenly cashed up status by getting gloriously drunk, telling some stories that veered between exaggeration and lies, smearing my mascara everywhere, staggering home as dawn broke, sleeping for three hours and then spending the afternoon alternately reminiscing on the evening before and regretting everything.
******************************************
Please note the above work is fiction. Any resemblance to anything is probably coincidental. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Yeah, well, the stupid upload deleted the ending.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I finally do a good show and, guess what, it's the Aflockalypse!
I've been arduously trudging uphill, in high heels, through what can only be described as an odyssey for quite some time now, and although I'm sure I've looked fabulous all the way, the blisters and assorted foot damage has been hell. I was, therefore, ever so excited when I heard Championship Wrestling Australia was performing at good old Mounties! (mount Pritchard community club, for those who don't know, and probably aren't that interested, but it's good to have the details, isn't it?)
Back in the day, as we tend to say these days, but never said when it actually was back in the day, Mounties was where I performed with ACW (Australian championship wrestling) every school holidays and I was surprised to find I had fond memories of the place. The rickety three flights of stairs, the buzz coming from the auditorium and infecting backstage with anticipatory adrenalin. The checking of makeup and costumes in overcrowded mirrors, running around to sort out who is doing what spots. Larry M and Trevor S, doing their thing, and the regulars, who show up at mounties almost religiously.
It'd been ten years or more since I'd been in that auditorium, and it felt like I'd never left. Years fell away. Sure, in true clubland manner, they've refurbished, they've glitzed the joint up, and added some new fancy-pants technology, but the heart of it was the same. Same faces, in and out of the ring. Just imagine what a trip it was to look into the audience, and see the women who, ten years ago were teenagers, and now they're women, with children of their own, and they're still coming. Free entertainment, you just can't beat it.
So after a minimum of fuss and bother, I went out there and did a match with Niki Nitro, and FTW!, I really enjoyed the match, and I'm not afraid to say that it's the first one that I've really enjoyed doing in, geez, I don't know how long. Sure, there was room for improvement, but we fulfilled our brief, and left happy. If anyone who was on that show should happen to glance upon these words, I thank you. I cant say if it was the venue, the people I was working with, the day or the crowd (and what a crowd! woohoo!), but I had an amazing time from beginning to end.
So I left on top of the world, and trudged off to the bus stop. Yeah, didn't want to bore you earlier with tales of woe and broken down Mercedes, and the bus just doesn't come. After an hour i can feel my back burning in the blinding urban sun, so I call a cab, and ask to be delivered to cabramatta station. All is going to plan when I reach the station and discover that there ARE NO TRAINS! Kinda defeats the purpose of a train station, doesn't it? All was not lost however, and I got a bus to parramatta, changed to a west bound train, and then got another bus, all of which doesn't sound like a big deal, but, when I finally got home and saw the news! Hundreds of birds dropping out the sky? Dead? Hello? Just a bit spooky?
Sure, you can blame it on fireworks, or natural causes, or even alien interference or bird suicide pacts http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/world/mysterious-bird-deaths-in-sweden-add-to-unexplained-finds-in-us-new-zealand/story-e6frf7lf-1225982852074, but if you ask any right wing nutter worth their salt, they'll tell you. Its a sign that the end is near, its the AFLOCKALYPSE! and just when I'd had a good show.
Back in the day, as we tend to say these days, but never said when it actually was back in the day, Mounties was where I performed with ACW (Australian championship wrestling) every school holidays and I was surprised to find I had fond memories of the place. The rickety three flights of stairs, the buzz coming from the auditorium and infecting backstage with anticipatory adrenalin. The checking of makeup and costumes in overcrowded mirrors, running around to sort out who is doing what spots. Larry M and Trevor S, doing their thing, and the regulars, who show up at mounties almost religiously.
It'd been ten years or more since I'd been in that auditorium, and it felt like I'd never left. Years fell away. Sure, in true clubland manner, they've refurbished, they've glitzed the joint up, and added some new fancy-pants technology, but the heart of it was the same. Same faces, in and out of the ring. Just imagine what a trip it was to look into the audience, and see the women who, ten years ago were teenagers, and now they're women, with children of their own, and they're still coming. Free entertainment, you just can't beat it.
So after a minimum of fuss and bother, I went out there and did a match with Niki Nitro, and FTW!, I really enjoyed the match, and I'm not afraid to say that it's the first one that I've really enjoyed doing in, geez, I don't know how long. Sure, there was room for improvement, but we fulfilled our brief, and left happy. If anyone who was on that show should happen to glance upon these words, I thank you. I cant say if it was the venue, the people I was working with, the day or the crowd (and what a crowd! woohoo!), but I had an amazing time from beginning to end.
So I left on top of the world, and trudged off to the bus stop. Yeah, didn't want to bore you earlier with tales of woe and broken down Mercedes, and the bus just doesn't come. After an hour i can feel my back burning in the blinding urban sun, so I call a cab, and ask to be delivered to cabramatta station. All is going to plan when I reach the station and discover that there ARE NO TRAINS! Kinda defeats the purpose of a train station, doesn't it? All was not lost however, and I got a bus to parramatta, changed to a west bound train, and then got another bus, all of which doesn't sound like a big deal, but, when I finally got home and saw the news! Hundreds of birds dropping out the sky? Dead? Hello? Just a bit spooky?
Sure, you can blame it on fireworks, or natural causes, or even alien interference or bird suicide pacts http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/world/mysterious-bird-deaths-in-sweden-add-to-unexplained-finds-in-us-new-zealand/story-e6frf7lf-1225982852074, but if you ask any right wing nutter worth their salt, they'll tell you. Its a sign that the end is near, its the AFLOCKALYPSE! and just when I'd had a good show.
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