by D. Grant DeMan
for promoting youthful violence. My commentary:
It’s a mite late in the millennium for profile-raising politicos to attack
professional wrestling as a scapegoat for youth violence. This entertaining
display of muscle, comedy, drama and gymnastics flourishing vigorously since
grandpa wore diapers, lit up mainstream North American television screens
following World War II. I ought to know. My high school buddies didn’t call me
Mr. Wrestling for nothing.
In the early fifties I became such an avid country music fan my speedy dialing finger won a whole string of Radio CKDA “Name that Group...Singer...Song...” contests, the prize being wrestling tickets. Wow! Now I loved Rasslin’ as we then called it, enjoyed the spectacle of Gorgeous George or Mr. Moto cavorting around taunting both opponents and raucous crowds; so every Bay Street fight-night you’d catch me at ringside cheering on the good guys and jeering the sinister, like at those old Rio and York Theater Burlesque shows. For what is wrestling if not Vaudeville? Fans knew troupe members to be best friends, travelling together, sharing tall tales and festive occasions. Some were indeed more festive than others, therefore I became a groupie. Even once performed in an opening bout.
Without too much of a pointy end on the story - for sensitive relatives may still be lurking in Victoria - I became associated with a canvas-thumper whose normal source of employment demanded a navy blue uniform. We somehow took up the practice of tumbling together and a few weeks later he shoe-horned me into a preliminary. “It’s ten bucks!” he told me.
To make a living it’s imperative wrestlers continue fit so one of the prime rules demands nobody get hurt, except for a few bruises from accidents and stiff joints, but the whole point is to make the production comically devastating to the other intregal player, the crowd. I remember one kindly trench-coated Saanich lady whose favorite caterwaul: “Break if off Sonny, and beat him on the head with the wet end!” became famous. “Blood and gore all over the floor, and nary a drop to drink,” was another.
Tammy and her cheerleaders: “Give him the ax! Give him the saw! Leave his torso - Raw! Raw! Raw!” No need to tell you, great fun was had by all. We knew the old trick of “ripping the face with a coat-hanger” and the wide use of blood-red bursting gel caps, retrieved for post-head mashes. The iron chair back-smash. It was all part of the fun, like a periodic tag-team ladies’ event.
But I digress.
Unfortunately for me, my bullish friend had been harboring some family business grudge and covertly decided to make me an exception to the aforementioned rule, so I became shocked when my first - and last - bout did not go exactly as rehearsed. Here I should explain the headlock, a common maneuver in which one wrestler wraps up the head of the other, triangulated between upper and forearm and rib-cage. From this advantage he is then able to execute all manner of repetitive pseudo-excruciating torture. In my case it was the ears that took the grind: over and over and over again, like a never-ending rock’n’roll dance while suffering a migraine. In total humiliation then I got the revelation that my new found buddy wasn’t.
Yep. I retired defeated at the age of sixteen, an extremely non-violent ex-thespian of the ring.
I also learned why many real fighters sported those malformed appendages, cauliflower ears. How they rang! Dingy-dingy-ding-ding! Oooo they smarted, and to apply mercurochrome or bandages would only make the damage more visible. Crimson ears were a definite yesteryear high school senior turnoff.
Unless one subscribes to the sometime-theory of my colleague Professor Lloyd - that youth is sliding downhill in a taco basket, a result of some nefarious conspiracy to drop stupid-pills in their soda - there is little evidence this theater of brawn stirs fellows and girls to violence. Along with most folks kids must be aware professional wrestling is just another big show, a Barnum and Bailey three ring extravaganza.
Yep, we knew all the fierce young thugs of ancient Victoria, most of whom also played soccer, hockey and rugby. The Dragons and Blades carried switchblade knives, pocketed brass knuckles and spent shop time manufacturing infamous deadly zip-guns while sharpening lengths of chain for the next hot-rod rumble against the Duncan Devils or Shawnigan Shivs. We never once saw them demonstrate an aptitude for professional wrestling. And the obtuse idea of those simians playing with little muscle-dolls as a melee-prelude is...well? Think about it!
If you want a gander at real violence, get a load of some avid Oak Bay gardeners a-whacking weeds, bugs and vermin - and the occasional cat - in the family plot.
For safety sake keep your impressionables well clear of them!