From Chapter 6: Rags and Sheets

I never really understood why wrestlers always referred to published wrestling periodicals as “Sheets”, and wrestling magazines as “Rags”, when both terms had such a negative inference. It took me years of watching the workers around me to realize those terms weren’t intended as mockery, rather it was a defense mechanism. It was the only way they could embrace the product without overtly projecting the image they too were a fan, and excited about seeing their name or image in print. And, of course, knowing they would be “ribbed” unmercifully by the boys as being a total “Mark”.

So, I eventually learned that “Sheets” and “Rags” were left-handed terms of endearment, and that you, as the subject in the image or of the print, was expected to act as if it was no big deal. I always felt uneasy about that dynamic, but I think I summed it up best using the 1980s Wall of Voodoo song, Far Side of Crazy, and the lyric, “I follow the example to destroy what I love most, And I remain on the far side of crazy, I remain the mortal enemy of man”. The defense mechanism was to “destroy” what we loved most, by verbally, not physically, shredding its existence using those terms.

In fact, the funny thing was that the locker room was always filled with numerous volumes of Dave Meltzer‘s Wrestling Observer™, or copies of Pro Wrestling Illustrated™, among many lesser-known publications, floating between the boys. And rarely was there ever a lack of “inside” information hovering, somehow, mysteriously beyond the brink of our circle.


From Chapter 10: The Locker Room, The Road, and The Ugly

For most of the guys in our locker rooms there were no inhibitors, because, the sad part of the grappling business, was that most guys never had a solid employment history or dependable vocation beyond the ring. They never were regulated to submit to drug screening or other integrity tests. They were left, much like a roaming mustang on the untamed prairie, to their own vices and devices. Whatever they needed to do to survive, or in some cases, survive the day, they did.

The psychosis of the business was simple: ‘Consider all of the Big Superstars that came back to the Indies after their run in the national promotion was over. They didn’t come back because they missed the fans of a certain area, or they had “unfinished business” in some off-the-wall storyline with a local star. It was for money, and because they had no other options. It was for the money they needed to pay their bills, feed their addiction, or feed their family. The majority had no advanced education to fall back on, no solid vocation to ensure a pension capable of sustaining a family, and their indulgences often prohibited them from moving into a lucrative employment position. Very few ever made a future for themselves from the proceeds of the wrestling world. It was truly a live for the moment business.’

I talked to Nikolai Volkoff about that dynamic, years ago, on one of the WIN cards we worked. Nik told me how a ‘Certain Big League Office’ was like a “snake pit” once they let you go. He said they, [he named some people but I’ll spare that detail], sat around in a conference room and took calls from some of the guys that were let go, who were in desperate situations and destitute times, and laughed and made them beg and grovel for work. He explained that when you were brought back into the spotlight and got television time, your value as a commodity on the Indies went up, therefore, the price that you asked for went up. The further removed you were from the spotlight, the quicker your value as a name diminished, and in turn, so diminished the price promoters were willing to pay. So those men and women were again allowing themselves to be “prostituted”, exploited, and humiliated, just to try and earn a bit of money. I challenged anyone to rationalize that with a working class view.

Sadly enough, the pain that came with the years of physical performance was often left unattended by proper means, and substances of the illicit and illegal vein, were substituted as the coping mechanism. Combine that fact, with the part-time independent contractor label, limited insurance coverage, and the need for money to survive, and you’d start to get the understanding of why our mortality rate capped at about forty.


From Chapter 15: The Chess Game

Beyond any other comparison, I found that a career in the wrestling business was most like participating in a Chess Tournament. The matches in the tournament closely resembled certain stages of longevity; They were truly the games within the game. The landscape was much like the playing board, in that everything was linked, and every space had multiple usages and meanings. The people in the business, from promoters, bookers, workers, media moguls, and even the crew, progressed through stages of personification that paralleled the King, Queen, Bishop, Knight, Rook and Pawn. And you never knew when today’s Pawn would be tomorrow’s King.

Each move was intricate and linked to both risk and reward. It was a loaded field, filled with peril, deceit, trickery, and unfair acts. And it forced you to abide by certain codes of conduct, or in Chess terms, battery of maneuvers, to navigate the playing field. It’s not so much a waged war, as it was attrition and compromise.

People may not understand it, but attrition and compromise were the nature of that business. It seemed sometimes you were manipulated, but the reality was there’s always a trade-off. There’s always the opportunity to take a step back to take two steps forward. That sounded odd, but the truth was that you traded a bit of you, your soul, and your dignity for small steps, sometimes so miniscule that they appeared immeasurable in the business.