This is wrestling

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
If you think you know anything about professional wrestling, you're wrong. This short story, which may or may not be the introduction for a complete book, shows the reality of what it is like trying to be a real professional wrestler. Forget the WWE; that's the lucky few. For the majority, what Nelson writes here is the reality.
You'll probably laugh, probably be offended, and probably think this is made up. It's not. It's just ridiculous.

Submitted: February 19, 2016

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Submitted: February 19, 2016

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“Bomber, what were you thinking?” asked twin # 1, a promoter of Twin Towers Wrestling in Ontario (and yes, this was after 9-11, but nobody tells a wrestling promoter what to do).One of the twin stared at me; I guess he was one of the towers.  At about 5'8". 
“I just never put the two and two together,” I said, backpedalling while coming forward in realization at the same time.  It was true.  I hadn’t put two and two together.  I can be pretty stupid.
“But did you really think that it was a good idea to get the kids chanting that?” asked twin #2.
“Well….”  I clamped shut while I considered the best response.  I was in conflict.  A), I wanted to keep wrestling for the terrible Persian twins, even if their shows were ridiculous and they were doing more than their fair share of killing the business but B), I didn’t want to seem like a complete idiot who could ruin a show in a heartbeat.  Tough bind.  I knew I had to put the heat (anger) on someone else.
“Well, when I went to high school, this guy I knew had a shirt with a cat and a chicken, like Tom and Jerry style, scowling nose to nose.  The cat had a bubble saying “COCK!” and the chicken was saying “PUSSY!” and my buddy paraded this shirt around school all the time.  No teachers ever said anything, so I didn’t see it as being offensive.”
“But this is a camp for Jewish teens!  Why on earth would you try and get the entire audience to chant ‘PUSS-Y, PUSS-Y, PUSS-Y’ at JC Owens?” asked twin number two.
“You said all you saw was a big, sloppy, 400 pound pussy! You can’t say that at a camp for Jewish teens!”
I realized that, until now, I had only regarded the show as a joke anyways, but realized right now that I couldn’t say to these guys “Hey, your show is a joke anyways, so who fuckin cares?” although that was what I was thinking. The whole promotion was a disaster.
Twin Towers Wrestling, a small promotion that was surprisingly busy between 2001 and 2003, was known for ridiculous, awful shows and stunningly bad matches featuring the owners to whom I was now talking.  Neither of them had trained, yet both wrestled on every show they ran.  They were god-awful in the ring.  Every match they fumbled through ended with a climactic wedgy by one twin to the other, then a powerbomb through a table.  It was awful, and every wrestler knew it was doing damage to the business.  But every wrestler also knew that the twins paid better than anyone else and put on shows every month, sometimes twice a month.  So there I was.  In Camp Tamarack in Ontario.  After a year wrestling in B.C. I had boomeranged back hoping to really make a go of wrestling.  Joke of a show or not, I’d probably just burnt a bridge.  This sunk in deep and bothered me.  Like a wedgy.
“Really man, getting a bunch of teens to chant ‘Puss-E, Puss-E’, I don’t get it” said Twin #1 or #2.
“I didn’t know Jews hated pussy so much… ” I replied.  I had said something witty for once, but at the wrong time. Typical.
“It would offend anybody!” said one of them.  Facing them, I still didn’t know which was which and had forgotten which one was angrier.  Time to cut losses.  Meh.  Shrug.  Well, sure is hot out today… gonna stare around this cabin that is our dressing room…
“Bomber, get over here. We gotta go over this match” shouted Jer. 
“Sorry guys” I shrugged, walking away from the twins and over to Jer, J.C. Owens, and J.T. Playa.  We were missing TJ Harley (initials for a name was a thing in 2001) and Tyson Dux.  They were also part of the six-man showdown later, but were busy wrestling.  We could hear the cheers and jeers from the enthusiastic audience of pre and early teens from about 100 feet away.  TJ was just making his entrance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, TJ Harley, THE JEWISH WARRIOR!” 
We all chuckled at the intro, peeking through the window.  TJ loved this kind of shit, the loosely organized clusterfuck called pro-wrestling that we were all part of.  He soaked up the cheers, clapping hands, flexing his then flabby arms, and growling at an awaiting Tyson.  It was ridiculous, but the kids bought it.
A good thing too, because the uneven gravel steps, pine cones, and lack of an entranceway  made for long, weird introductions to the crowd.  We’d pop open the cabin door, stagger back temporarily blinded by the sun, and after about 50 delicate paces down worn-out steps, finally get into the ring.  From there we all enjoyed the view of the swing set and basketball court littered with teens and pre-teens.  This wrestling show was a highlight for the camp, and one little boy was celebrating his birthday, maybe bar mitzvah.
I knew about the birthday because JC and I had been introduced in the mess hall about 2 hours earlier.And JC, even though he was the heel, was commanded by the twins to sing happy birthday to a boy.  Then I, the babyface, invaded, breaking up the sing-song. Somehow this was supposed to make me a hero. 

Then, even though he was supposed to bring cheer, as a villain, JC made fun of everyone as he plodded to a table.  I had come shirtless into the mess hall to threaten JC Owens.  And even though I was only 223 pounds, the ring announcer stood by the cake and billed me as 280 pounds, a huge leap for anyone’s imagination.My first match and cake showdown done, I now doubted my future with Twin Towers Wrestling as I creaked across the cabin floor.  I’d gotten off easier than TJ Harley though.  I hadn’t been billed as “The Jewish Warrior”. 
“Bomber, what’d the twins say?” asked JC.
“Meh, they’re mad at me for yelling “Pussy” into the mic. I don’t think it was that bad” I said.
“Well, I thought it was pretty dumb, Bomb,” said JC.
“Suffer the little children, JC” (no, I didn’t say that, but it woulda been awesome).  I said nothing but was starting to feel genuinely stupid.
“It’s a twins’ show,” interjected Jer, “who cares. Let’s figure this out.”
We started discussing spots; I was going to take the heat in the main event, a six-man tag, and it was simple.  We were all plotting little pieces, planning hope spots and comebacks.  I glanced out the window and saw Tyson snap “The Jewish Warrior” TJ Harley onto the mat, then clamp his hands around TJ’s Chin. TJ was sitting there getting ready to fire up the crowd.  In a few seconds he'd be stomping his foot and shaking his fists in a blatant Hulk Hogan rip-off.  We’d all done this exact thing dozens of times.  Same old nonsense.  Meh.  I turned back to look at Jer sitting on a stool, the rest of the boys squatting around him.
Jer began explaining how he envisioned the hot tag.  We listened as he painted the high-spots and emphasis out in images dancing over our heads. Jer was great at envisioning a match.  We were listening, looking at him, then he stopped.  Stuck?  He locked eyes onto me.
“Bomb, you hear that?”
“Yeah, I heard you, bump n feed, blind tag to me then I’ll splash off the top.  Why--”
“No, not that” said Jer.
“You mean what we’re doing for the cut-off?” asked JT Playa.
“Shhhhhhh, not that,” said Jer, pointing to the window, “that.  What is that?”
We looked at each other, tilting our heads, cocking our ears.  What was the crowd yelling?  I knew the words, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning.  I looked outside.  TJ Harley, from his seated position, was fighting back, shaking his fists, stomping his foot faster and faster. Tyson, with a loose hold on TJ’s neck from behind, shook his head in disbelief, tucking his chin into his chest to hide his laughter.  We all knew they had good heat, but this was unbelievable!  Electric screams belted out of the audience as TJ surged upwards.  And the crowd swelled louder and louder with each chorus, each full-bodied yell of three hundred Jewish teens chantin;
“JEW….. BOY!  JEW… BOY!  JEW BOY, JEW-BOY, JEW-BOY!” 

It had to be a first.  TJ Harley, a devout lover of bacon, their hero, their idol, their saviour, was coming back from the dead! 
“JEW-BOY JEW-BOY, JEWBOY!” the crowd cried out in perfect synchronicity with TJ’s stomping foot.  Enough was enough! This Jew was not going to take this sitting down!
TJ Harley hulked up, bashing Tyson with a series of furious blows.  First, a closeline “YEAH!” Then an elbow-smash “OHHHH!”  Followed by a running Elbow of the ropes “YEAHHHH!” TJ Harley windmilled his arms around before a last, gigantic hammer-smash and finally, Tyson collapsed from the onslaught.  To the audience, Tyson was shaking in pain.  To us, he was clearly shaking with laugher.  TJ Harley kept it together, dishing out an ass-whooping while laughing and clapping along to the swelling chants.  It was magical.  It was pro-wrestling at its simplest.  Its finest.  Its most honest.  And also its most fucked up.
“JC, what the fuck is going?” asked Jer.
Not even JC had anything to say.  Instead, we all laughed.  We had witnessed another first in pro wrestling.  A terrible, great, definitive first.  I don’t know if it has ever gotten better than that.It wasn’t what I dreamed life as a pro wrestler would be like.  It was much, much shittier.  But thank god for that.


© Copyright 2020 ben nelson creed. All rights reserved.

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