MeeThinks 10.03.06: Going Old School [Part IV of IV]
Posted by John Meehan on 10.03.2006
Wrapping up a trip down memory lane and saving the best for last!
Welcome back, everybody. Thanks for all your e-mails and contest entries from last week's column! This week, we're going back to the very beginning to wrap up our (surprisingly lengthy) four-part trip down one fan's wrestling memory lane.
Two weeks prior, we looked at the best of the best (and worst of the worst) of Jakks action figures of The Attitude Era
And to start this ball rolling WAY back on August 22, MeeThinks unearthed an archive of "smart" fan wrestling terms that officially marked my "enlightenment" as a wrasslin' fan.
So THIS WEEK, we're taking things back to their roots and probing the very infancy of my fandom. With any luck, it might just help Mee figure out what made Mee a fan of this great sport in the first place, and here's hoping that it encourages y'all to shoot a line my way to share some of your earliest fan memories to boot!
Sound like a plan?
Rock & roll.
Now then...
When I started this little trip down memory lane, I promised that this final installment to the series would be a surprise - something "special" to really cap-off the last two months' (whoah! Has it really been almost two months already!?) worth of nostalgic goodness.
Well, here we are.
And I'm bustin' out all the stops on a MeeThinks-exclusive "Top Ten" list of just a few of some of my fondest (and earliest) memories that have undoubtedly proven instrumental in "staying positive" as a die-hard wrestling fan. No lengthy analysis needed here, more like a ten-helping spoonfull of stories, annecdotes and life-lessons from the wonderful world of professional wrestling.
My First Wrestling Action Figures
No doubt was back in the LJN days. When I was a kid (probably like no older than four), my dad would come home to our one-bedroom apartment in Piscataway, New Jersey, and he'd bring me an action figure every time he got paid. From He-Man to Thunderhawks and every piece of 80's kid memorabilia in between, no doubt my favorite (and most long-lasting) toys from the group were the big twelve-inch WWF LJN wrestlers. Even though these things were nothing more than huge chunks of sculpted rubber with a combined total of ZERO points of articulation, they were AWESOME toys as the likenesses were pretty good (by early standards) and because they were practically indistructable (save for the usual wear-and-tear of paint peeling). Not only that, but I think that there was a tremendous joy for young fans like yours truly in being able to hold these "larger than life" performers in the palm of your hands. No doubt my favorite was The Hulkster, but I was also a HUGE fan of Andre the Giant (MAN was that toy heavy!) and the Macho Man, Randy Savage. Damn, I even played with those things in the bath tub! Nothing like a Randy Savage elbow drop from off of the soap dish and onto a half-submerged Brutus Beefcake below.
Which reminds me...
My First Wrestling Halloween Costume
Whether you actually dedicated a Halloween to your wrestling fandom or not -- I'm pretty sure that just about EVERY hardcore wrestling fan has, at one time or another, donned an outfit in tribute to one of your favorite superstars. For me, that outfit came at just shy of age six, when - for Halloween 1988 - I decided to sport a full-out Macho Man Randy Savage ensemble. Picture that 12" LJN wrestler, if you will... complete with that goofy lookin' headband, oversized sunglasses, and pink tights with three giant white stars on the ass. Yup, that was me. Even though I was a tried and true Hulkamaniac, Macho was most definitely on the top of my list of favorites.
No doubt -- Macho was the shit when I was a kid. Come to think of it... Macho-Madness pretty well dominated much of my early years of fandom.
Take, for example...
My First Item of Wrestling Apparel
I got it when I was like four years old, I believe. My dad and a buddy of his went to a house show taping in and around the north Jersey area, and my folks had left my brother and I to spend the night at my mom's folks house. Not a bad deal, since it entailed plenty of late night Nickelodeon and all the Ramen noodles and chocolate pudding (with the "skin" on top!) we could stomach... but all the better a deal the next morning when dad woke us up with a brand, spankin' new set of WWF t-shirts. For my brother, it was a solid red Hulkamania t-shirt. And for me? The classic lavender "Macho Man" Randy Savage t-shirt. Both of those bad boys were HUUUUGE on our little kid frames (like no joke, we were swimmin' in those things), but damn if they didn't bring smiles to our faces all the same. Believe it or not, I've actually still got that shirt in my closet, actually. Though I'll admit, it doesn't quite fit the same... ;)
Still, as much as some things change (like my size, for one) - there are more than a few things in my fandom that have pretty well remained the same since day one. Kinda' like...
My First Wrestling-Related Reading Material
From the outset, I was ALWAYS "the" reader among my brothers. When Jeremy was hitting Little League home runs and Josh was redefining "intensity" in Warrior Lacrosse, yours truly was pounding down John Grisham novels and brushing up on his Lucha Libre lexicon and Puro knowledge thanks to a healthy crop of grocery-store "Apter Mags."
Though I neither had the means nor money to procure any of those tapes for sale in the classified sections of those books, you can BET that I was as well-read as they come on every "insider" scoop and scouting report that Bill Apter and company ever published. The PWI 500, the skinny on the breakout indy stars of the day (remember when "Reckless Youth" was *the* indy superstar to watch?!), and all the backstage gossip that "The Informer" or any of the other dirtsheets were willing to leak our way... there was absolutely nothing like being "in the know" on your favorite performers and promotions in a business that was still pretty staunchly Kayfabe in those pre-internet days, and it was an invaluable way to keep tabs on those guys who didn't happen to be gracing my tv screen on WWF's weekly "Superstars" broadcasts.
Once pro wrestling really hit it big in the "Attitude Era" of the late 90's, I was able to keep up on the "real lives" of my favorite performers by way of their ("auto")biographies. Mick Foley's first book was what really got Mee hooked (I hammered that one down in just one day of beach reading's time), and I've pretty well plowed through just about every major wrestling book published since then.
On the "worth reading" list?
Anything by Mick Foley (including his fiction stuff!), "Sex, Lies and Headlocks" (though be sure to take that one with a grain of salt), Ric Flair's biography (not all that great, but it's definitely telling from time to time), and Roddy Piper's book (it's bitter, but a great glimpse into a non-edited history of the business).
On the "wish" list?
Pure Dynamite (Tom Billington) and either of Bobby Heenan's books (I've perused both and I'd love to read them more thoroughly). "Walking a Golden Mile" by William Regal (again, a strong book from what I've read) and Eddie's book (mainly for nostalgia, I suppose).
On the "skip" list?
Chyna's atrocity, Rock's painfully ghostwritten "autobiography", the Hardy Boyz book (it's bad, even for a Hardy fan like Mee), Lita's R.O.A.D. (no, no, NO!), and Kurt Angle's all-too-perfunctory "It's True, It's True."
As of this writing, I'm working on WWE's recent "Unscripted" coffee table book. Really insightful and a fun (if easy) read - and for the super-affordable overstock price of just $5.99 at your local Barnes & Noble, it's most definitely worth picking up if you can!
But enough about that "modern-day" stuff... let's get back to nostalgia, yes?
My First Round-the-House Wrestling Memories
Sure, WWE says "don't try this at home" and whatnot... but who among us can HONESTLY say that they haven't attempted the errant wrasslin' maneuver on a friend, family member or unsuspecting visitor from time to time?
Outside of the SWEET Macho costume - I can distinctly remember that I used to dress up like the Iron Shiek (read: with a pair of high-hiked tube socks and a penciled on 'stache) from like the age of 3. I remember mock-wrestling with my dad on the couch cushions, too (conveniently, Dad always played the "Hulk Hogan" to my Iron Shiek. A part he fit to a "t," too - complete with his balding head, shiny gold cross and sweet 80's quasi-Fu-man-chu moustache). Anyhow - I used to revel in playing the rule-breakin' role of the Iron Sheik (from an early age I've always LOVED the heels) as my dad would rock the all-American goodguy gimmick of The Immortal One. And, like all fathers who're willing to indulge their kids' penchant for rough-housing, Dad would always cradle my falls and play-drop me onto the couch cushions with all of his "Dadster" signature moves (like the "Clothes on the Line, Hangin' Him Out to Dry!" which, in retrospect, looked a LOT like a reverse-crucifix powerbomb, if I'm not mistaken). I, meanwhile, would be out there all throwing real punches and headlocks and shit like kids do, and (of course) Dad would sell those things as if he'd been shot with a cannon.
Awesome stuff, I tell ya.
And ever since I was a kid, it was pretty much an unspoken rule that commercials time for television shows equaled "fair game" for middle-of-the-living-room wrestling matches. To this day, the couches that line the walls of my living room still count as "the ropes" (great for breaking a hold, if need be). Couch pillows, of course, serve the dual purpose of makeshift steel chairs... which always makes those Van Damninators a little easier to handle than eating a face-full of steel. Some years ago, I think the couches themselves inexplicably assumed the role of ringposts, as well... so slapping a Bret Hart-esque Figure Four on a sleeping couch-dweller (and yanking his legs over the arm of the thing while intertwining your legs and cranking backwards with your head facing the floor below) quickly became a favorite finishing maneuver to reclaim the coveted couch position from anyone brave (or foolish) enough to attempt to save it by calling "hot seat" or "fives." Oh yeah, and that big plastic jug of pretzel "nibblers" that we keep in our kitchen? Yup, that's undoubtedly as lethal as any belt-shot or ring bell you've ever seen.
Needless to say, it's a pretty well-known rule around the Meehan house that if Dad says "live in fear!" before a show goes to commercial, you can almost rest assured that your ass is grass come the ad break.
Inevitably, this lead to...
Our First Wrestling "Gimmicks"
In a vain attempt to capture the same swagger, bravado and "larger than life" appeal of our onscreen heros, my brother Jeremy (two years my junior) and I would constantly engage in makeshift wrestling matches whenever Mom and Dad weren't looking. But since the 'rents had made it EXPLICITLY clear that we were not to lay a hand on one another (after all, "laughin' leads to cryin'!") while they weren't around - Jer and I came up with the brilliant idea of pummeling the crap out of our OFFICIALLY LICENSED WWF WRESTLING BUDDIES pillow-warriors in lieu of sending one another to the hospital. Thanks to the pillow equivalents of Hulk Hogan and The Ultimate Warrior (my youngest brother Josh also had one of "Macho King" Randy Savage and "The Million Dollar Man" Ted DiBiase, I believe), the Meehan boys spent plenty of hours of bunkbed-tastic wrestling action scoring five star classics against some of wrestling's best.
And what good is a wrestler without a gimmick, right?
So Jeremy - ever the loyal Hulkamaniac and without a doubt one of the biggest fans of the classic "good guy" if there ever was one - soon became "The Athlete," a blue-chipper babyface who'd dazzle audiences with his high flying antics and unapologetically American made persona. Sure, it was rudimentary... but keep in mind this was at the height of "The New Generation" of WWF when fans were forced to sit through such avant-garde gimmicks as "T.L. Hopper, wrestling plummer;" "Duke 'The Dumpster' Droese, wrestling garbage man;" and "Friar Ferguson, wrestling missionary." So yeah, "The Athlete" might sound pretty suck-tastic by today's standards... but he was a product of his era, you know. And besides, Jer was only like five years old, so at least HE had an excuse for being so simplistic about things... what was *Vince's* excuse, eh!?
While Jeremy rocked the all-American babyface routine, I (being the older, "wiser" brother of the two) thought it best to don the gimmick of "The Tennis Pro" - a cocky, Johnny-Polo-esque prototypical smart ass bad guy who'd ALWAYS score the cheap win thanks to an assist from a handy-dandy Pro-Kennex tennis racket (from Laneco, if I'm not mistaken)! Yeah, "The Tennis Pro" was certainly no better in the complexity department than "The Athlete" alright... but damn if it didn't feel great to absolutely WAFFLE The Ultimate Warrior with a tennis racket!
Speaking of foreign objects...
Our First (and very, VERY short-lived) Wrestling Promotion
The LaSpada Wrestling Federation. Well ok, maybe it wasn't officially-titled "LWF" or whatever... but we held it at Chris LaSpada's house so dammit, that's what I remember it as. The premise was simple - my brother's friend Chris LaSpada would invite everybody over to his house for a major pay-per-view (WWF or WCW, we pretty well mixed it up), and he'd draft up a card of matches (usually borrowed from the actual PPV card itself) where everybody got to play the role of one or two wrestlers apiece for our own mini-card before the event.
Nothing dangerous, and nothing fancy... pretty basic "kids wrestling around on the couch cushions" sort of stuff (though occassionally the brawls would spill over into the swimming pool).
Only problem was -
Though all the moves, props and gimmicks were scripted (breakaway tables made of foam insulation board are MONEY, I tell ya') - the outcomes to the matches were NOT. This meant that while we were all pretty smart and safe about pulling punches, selling submission holds and easing our way through stacks of cardboard boxes - we *weren't* too bright about agreeing upon a finish to the match before we actually got to brawling. And once pre-pubescent pride kicks in, that can pretty well spell doom for ending a match with a mutually-agreeable outcome. I remember one time where Justin Wehrenberg and I "wrestled" an increasingly-realistic submission match to a 25-minute no-contest as everyone else just looked on in horror and begged us to call it quits. As you might imagine, that quickly made a few rounds of Mario Kart a LOT more attractive than watching two of your buddies locked up in a quarter-hour grapevine... and the LWF pretty well folded within six month's time.
That's alright, though - we still had our heroes on tv!
My First Wrestling Television Memory
As far as "real emotion moments" in professional wrestling go, though - I don't think I'm being all that cynical in noting that despite promoter's best efforts, these sorts of things are pretty few and far between. It's not the fault of any of the performers or promoters involved, per se - I think it's more like the result of the fact that the "sport" is just so darn hokey (at times) that it's pretty easy to take things with a grain of salt, and so it's often pretty tough to suspend your disbelief to the point of allowing what unfolds on television to affect you on an honest-to-goodness "personal" level.
All that said, however, there are at least a good half-dozen or so instances in my two-plus decades of wrestling fandom that have undoubtedly tugged at the old heart strings and gotten Mee "worked" up over what I've seen on tv. Macho and Liz' dramatic in-ring reunion after WrestleMania VII was one of them. Eddie Guerrero's death was easily another one. The WWE shows from Iraq are always a tear-jerker, too... and I most definitely shed a tear or two when my childhood hero, Hulk Hogan, lost a nail-biter to Warrior way back at WrestleMania VI.
But without question...
My first ever wrestling memory is also probably also my most vivid memory of the entire industry to this day. And heck, I was barely even a four years old when it all went down! Believe it or not... it could very well be my first memory of my entire life!
Piper's Pit, 1987: Piper, Heenan, Hogan, Andre and "the challenge heard 'round the world."
In one fell swoop, The Giant grabbed and tore the shirt from Hulk Hogan's chest - simultaneously ensnaring his mammoth hands around The Hulkster's golden crucifix and hurling it all to the floor. Dumbstruck, the champion stared betrayed as the red and yellow tatters and the symbol of his faith - quite literally everything that the man stood for - lay in ruins before him as the evil Giant and his loudmouth manager cackled and made their exit. Broken and bewildered, the Immortal One was left sobbing on his hands and knees as the show faded to commercial.
Man, i was a wreck.
They just don't write 'em like they used to, ya' know?
My First Pay-Per-Views
Wrestling in my house has always been a family affair. As you can probably tell from reading this column, my Dad was (and is) a HUGE fan and reason for my interest in the "sport," HIS grandmother was the reason why he got hooked, and my brothers have always been willing (if sometimes hesitant) to follow the product and play along with our obsession. Mom, for her part, has always been a real trooper willing to humor our fandom (she's always been a Roddy Piper fan, though she'll add "he looks really old!" of late), and she's been an absolute saint in putting up with the machismo of three boys and a husband all chomping at the bit to watch grown men beat the hell out of one another with steel chairs (one time my Dad actually bought the family pro wrestling tickets for Mom's birthday in lieu of getting Mom the Rod Stewart tickets she'd been asking for!).
But perhaps there's nothing more "family"-oriented than the Meehan Family's first forays into pay-per-view...
As you might have gathered from some of my previous columns, the Meehan family is firmly located in the sun-soaked suburbia of Asbury, New Jersey. No, it's not Springsteen's "Asbury Park" - it's a good 200 miles or so north of there, in a town "with 500 families and five last names."
Anyhow -
As my folks have been comfortably nestled into that tiny little "slice of heaven" known as Hunterdon County, New Jersey, for a good twenty-plus years now -- Cable television was pretty much unheard of when we first moved into town. Some fly-by-night salesman or two were always pushing cable on us (for the "low, low price of just a $1000 installation fee to run the appropriate wiring to our neighborhood!" - I shit you not), but cable was still a good half-decade or so away when we settled into Bethlehem Township in the fall of 1987. And since our lawn wasn't exactly ideal for those trendy new six-foot sattellites... well, we simply had to look elsewhere for Pay Per View events.
Enter Grandma Serido.
My mom's folks were still living in Plainfield, New Jersey at the time - and we were all pretty close. So when Mom asked her parents to let the hubby and the kids commandeer the downstairs television for one of the WWF's semi-annual PPV events, Grandma and Grandpa Serido were always quick to say "sure, why not." Our pay-per-view visits always meant that Mom and Grandma could catch up for a few hours upstairs while we all watched the show in the cellar, Poppy could catch a few Z's in his bedroom while "the gang" occupied his main tv, and Grandma could spoil us with plenty of lemonade and chocolate pudding to go around. A "win, win, win, win" all around - and a bonus opportunity to see the grandparents while we were all at it.
Nowadays, my grandfather is resting comfortably in "that great casino in the sky" while my grandmother resides in a home and suffers from a pretty severe case of Alzheimers - but I will always remember their patience and generosity in putting up with the "Meehan boys" for so much of my childhood, and for that I really can't thank them enough.
My First Time Meeting a Professional Wrestler
In my day, I've met more than my fair share of professional wrestlers. From former world champions like Ron Simmons, Taz, JBL, Booker T and Rob Van Dam to big-time backstage personalities like Linda and Shane McMahon and "Big" John Gaburick all the way down to the lowest of the lowly curtain jerkers (Rosie comes to mind) and the "legends" of yesteryear like Hillbilly Jim.
But NONE of my encounters with those performers will ever be able to match the same level of sheer enthusiasm, confusion and excitement at meeting...
THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR.
And we're not talking "old, broken-down, right-wing-nutty-out-of-his-mind" Warrior, either. We're talking The ULTIMATE Warrior - at the height of his initial run with the (then) World Wrestling Federation, just prior to his classic "Retirement Match" against "Macho Man" Randy Savage of a certain WrestleMania of not so many years ago.
But yes, by luck or providence, the Meehan family had landed in a spot to meet The Ultimate One himself, as a WWF promotional tour through northern New Jersey had placed our favorite neon-banded Superstar into a one-night-only appearance on one night in mid-March at an Unclaimed Freight ("Unnn-claimed FREIGHT!!!") not too far from our house. Unfortunately for my dad, he had to work late that night (I'm guessing it was a Thursday, as he used to work late on Thursday nights), so my Mom piled my brother Jeremy and I into the car and we made the hour's drive to this overstock furnature superstore to wait the arrival of WWF's latest breakout star. We were pretty early in getting there, too - something like three hours or so - which meant that we were just about 30 people back from the front of the store's meet-and-greet line, conveniently located WAYYY in the back of the store (it would eventually spill out of the store and wrap all the way around the block, which totally sucked for them as it was March and CRAZY cold outside).
Anyhow -
For a good three hours or thereabouts, the Meehan clan waited in a line beside a boatload of wrestling fans in the vain hope that we might catch a glimpse of this larger than life personality that was scheduled to appear before us. I have to give my mom some serious credit, too, as it was early in 1991 (making me no more than 8 and Jeremy no older than 6) and pretty darn late in the night before The Warrior finally showed up some two hours late. To everyone's dismay, his late arrival meant a last-minute proviso that he wouldn't be able to sign any autographs... but he'd still be willing to shake hands and say "hi" just the same.
When he DID show up, however...
It was quite the wake-up call for the family Meehan, as this "larger than life" character before us was actually quite... well... human... when removed from the confines of a whacky promo and the colorful guise of his neon face paint. No blaring entrance music, no brightly-colored strobe lights, and no Howard Finkel introduction... quite on the contrary, this "Ultimate Warrior" was actually pretty normal by "regular people" standards and he appeared face-paint-less before us wearing your average-joe Oakley sunglasses and a "hey buddy, can I borrow a dollar?"-style denim jacket, standing just a half-head or so taller than my Mom (she's 5'0, even, tops!).
Now you might recall that Warrior was billed as standing 6'2" by the kind folks at WWF. Sorry to break kayfabe, folks, but even at age 8 I could pretty well have told ya' that SOMEBODY up in Titan Headquarters had been yankin' our chain. My Dad is 6'2" (give or take), so I know 6'2"... and if the guy who we met at Unclaimed Freight in March of 1991 was, in fact, the man I recognized him to be -- The Ultimate Warrior was *definitely* not 6'2".
Lies about the man's height and inability to arrive on time or sign autographs not withstanding, I remember walking away from the meeting still feeling pretty darn cool that I had been given the chance to meet the guy who'd eventually go on to put my longtime favorite in Randy Savage out of the business "for good" (or so I thought) just a few short weeks later. In a way, it made me feel like I'd met the guy who'd been "passed the torch" from The Macho King (little did I know how long THAT one would last)... but more importantly, I think I took some great deal of satisfaction in knowing that I was one of a priveledged few "in on the secret" that this painted-up muscleman on the grandest stage of them all was no taller than 5'6", tops... and that my 6'2" Dad (or heck, maybe even my 5'0" Mom!) could easily whoop his ass for having stolen a win from The Macho Man.
Ooooh yeeeeeeeeahhhhh, dig it!
And With That, I'm Outta' Here
Thanks again for reading, all. I'd love to hear from you regarding your own memories, experiences and early stories of fandom - so feel free to shoot Mee a line for next week's column. Till then - take it easy, enjoy this week's round of football games (the DOLPHINS!? HA! See what we did to the Bengals, Cook?!), and always stay positive!
