A tale of blood and khakis
Confessions of a pro wrestling manager
Brian "Too Sexy" Christopher grabs me by the hair, bringing to their feet the 3,500 rabid rasslin' fans in attendance
at the Mid-South Coliseum in Memphis. His beefy right hand, wrapped with a chain tossed into the ring by a
drunken ringside regular, is cocked and ready to deliver the blow that will knock me to hell and back. The
fans scream for my blood. Soon, they will get it. I, Scott Bowden - college student, pro wrestling manager
and all-around heel - am about to receive my comeuppance.
Although the punch misses by a country mile, that doesn't stop me from "selling" it as if I had been nailed by a Lennox Lewis uppercut. I sprawl on the canvas, writhing in obvious pain. I fumble with the razor blade as I nervously prepare to "bust my cherry." I slowly guide the blade to my hairline. The sharp edge breaks the skin - blood erupts like an oil strike. The crimson stream (God, I sound like announcer Jim Ross again, this time from his old Mid-South Wrestling days) quickly envelopes my Polo button-down, Tommy Hilfiger tie, Gap khakis and Timberland penny loafers - all essentials of my evil frat-boy persona. Fans pelt me with trash and saliva as I stumble back into the dressing room, the first man out in the main event: a no-time-limit, no-holds-barred, Hospital Elimination tag-team match.
Though the blood has clouded my contact lenses, I notice Jerry "the King" Lawler waving me over to his dressing room. He commends me on a "great blade job." Coming from Lawler, at that time one of the dozen or so World heavyweight wrestling champions and the same monarch of the mat who feuded with the late comedian Andy Kaufman, I realize this is a huge compliment. Nonetheless, I throw up, steering my head so as not to stain his majesty's crown-adorned boots. With my blood falling like raindrops, I stare at the puddle of vomit and realize that I still have to study for my American History exam the next day.
It is 1994, my senior year at the University of Memphis, and I am eight months into my professional wrestling career.
Old stomping grounds
It was always my destiny, this rasslin' career of mine. I imagine that if had I grown up in a professional-sports city like San Francisco, I would have wanted to be Joe Montana. A casual NFL fan growing up, I don't ever recall Montana swinging a steel chair at an opponent or using brass knuckles or threatening to beat someone like an egg-suckin' dog. Of course, if he had done any of these things, I probably would've been a huge 49ers fan. I seem to recall rooting for the Steelers quite a bit when I was about 8 years old. But only because the Masked Assassins, a local heel tag team, wore black and gold and were rumored to be Pittsburgh defensive linemen who wrestled in the off-season to stay in shape. Hey, that seemed logical to me at the time.
In Memphis, a minor-league sports graveyard, our home team was Lawler, a local who went from being a skinny high school kid to the Southern heavyweight wrestling champion in less than five years. Which, where I grew up, pretty much made you a legend. The home field was a bloodstained mat at the Coliseum that served as a stage to some of the most outrageous antics in the history of the professional wrestling business - which is saying a helluva lot.
In the late '70s, the joke was that if a pro sports franchise were ever to succeed in Memphis, they'd have to present pro wrestling matches at halftime. While short-lived franchises like the Grizzlies (World Football League) and the Rogues (North American Soccer League) folded because of poor attendance, Lawler's battles with the likes of "Handsome" Jimmy Valiant, "Universal Heartthrob" Austin Idol and "Canadian Lumberjack" Joe LeDuc attracted an average of nearly 9,000 fans to the Coliseum every Monday night.
The term "Monday Night Wrestling" was used in everyday conversation to describe any household, schoolyard or workplace ruckus. ("Calm down, this ain't Monday Night Wrestling!") Churches and Boy Scout troops sponsored wrestling events, usually in packed high-school gymnasiums.
A popular theory at the time suggested that pro wrestling was the only way to unite the city's divided population of blacks and whites for a common cause. In fact, wrestling at the old Elis Auditorium in the late '50s was the first integrated sporting event in the city, which came about only because then-top-draw Sputnik Monroe demanded it. Unlike most of the boys, Monroe played to the small section of black fans, who were forced to cheer and jeer from a limited number of cheap seats in the balcony. Steadily, the black audience grew so big that promoters were forced to integrate the seating to accommodate the thousands of blacks waiting to get into the building. And if they didn't, Monroe threatened to walk out.
This was a sharp contrast from a lot of the boys, who looked upon their adoring "marks" (fans) with disdain. Still, the babyfaces knew how to play to the crowd. Former wrestler and promotion owner Jerry Jarrett's typical babyface formula: a young, good-looking guy who could really work ... and really bleed.
The marks' dedication was never more evident than when the NWA or AWA World champion made a rare appearance to defend against the King in his "backyard." The atmosphere was like the Super Bowl, with a SRO crowd of nearly 12,000 sure to be on hand to cheer on the city's favorite son.
The King and I
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| Jerry "The King" Lawler |
Lawler wasn't the best worker around, but he could brawl and take bumps with the best of them. And he could run his mouth, which, in pro wrestling, is more important. During my early days as a fan in the late '70s/early '80s, he could come across like the hometown boy who had made good or the most vile menace since Darth Vader (who, amazingly enough, also found time to wrestle in Memphis on occasion). No matter the situation, Lawler's microphone work with longtime TV announcer Lance Russell was some of the best in the history of the business. When Lawler was a babyface, the two portrayed almost a father-son relationship on the air. When Lawler was a heel, the two were verbal adversaries, with the King regularly stinging Russell with such nicknames as "Banana Nose" and "Liver Lips." It was when Lawler was at his worst that he was at his best.
When he turns heel on his tag-team partner Bill "Superstar" Dundee in 1979, all my friends side with the "scrappy little Australian." Not me. To show my support for my hero, I adopt a bit of heel persona myself, a combination of Lawler's cockiness and my own father's dry sense of humor. Needless to say, my friends - not to mention my elementary school teachers - are not exactly thrilled with my attitude change.
When Andy Kaufman makes one of his first appearances in Memphis, I am in the audience cheering as Lawler comes to the aid of the fallen Foxy, a woman who had been physically abused by the TV star and World Intergender Wrestling champion. Lawler, of course, goes on to make national headlines when he appears to nearly break the comedian's neck with a piledriver, a move that is considered so dangerous that it's supposedly banned in the state of Tennessee. This is a perfect example of old-school psychology: The fans used to pop bigger for Lawler's piledriver than WWE fans did for Mick Foley's death-defying fall during his Hell in the Cell bout with the Undertaker. After all, if a move is banned in the wild world of Memphis pro wrestling, it MUST just about kill a man.
From mark to smark
As I get older, my appreciation for the business changes. Realizing that it's not a sport - although I desperately hang on to that belief for as long as I can - I want to know more about the inner workings of the business. My freshman year in high school, I start subscribing to "the sheets," newsletters that discuss wrestling storylines like Roger Ebert critiquing a movie. In fact, one sheet, Dave Meltzer's WRESTLING OBSERVER, even rates matches on a four-star scale.
One of my friends introduces me to Kevin Lawler, son of the King, who, along with his brother, Brian Christopher Lawler, "compete" in the Neighborhood Wrestling Alliance (NWA), a backyard wrestling league. Kevin, a tremendous artist like his father, sketches outrageous WWF-style characters like The Ultimate Males, The Skulls, Roadblock, Radical Robbie and the Glamour Boy, and his friends act the parts accordingly in front of handheld home video cameras. About 10 minutes away, in another part of town, my friends and I host our own backyard wrestling federation. Eventually, the two "promotions" merge, with invasion-type angles playing out. (And you thought the WCW vs. WWE was lame.)
Kevin becomes a friend of the Snowman, a former Memphis wrestling star who had feuded with his dad. After a falling out with Jerry over money, the Snowman is relegated to promoting "outlaw" cards - pro wrestling matches not affiliated with the longtime Memphis group. As a favor, Snowman agrees to put Kevin, Brian and other backyard grapplers, including me, on a card. We had finally graduated from our parents' living rooms and backyards.
In front of about 100 people in a community center gymnasium, Kevin and I bumble our way through our first performances in the business. However, Brian and his friend Tony Williams bring the house down with an exciting bout. After all, they had been practicing on each other for years.
After a couple of months, Brian and Kevin nervously show their dad a tape of our outlaw appearances. Instead of being infuriated, Jerry enjoys it so much that he encourages Brian to turn pro. Brian and Tony soon debut as the New Kids on Memphis TV. Brian, a cocky bastard to begin with, eventually turns heel, a role he relishes and plays well.
The big break
Around this time, I begin college as a journalism major. As part of an assignment in a magazine writing class, I profile Brian's relationship with his dad. For a month or so, I conduct a series of interviews with the Lawlers and wrestling personalities like Jeff Jarrett and announcer Dave Brown. After a referee suddenly quits the promotion, Jerry asks me to fill in. Figuring that it will be good research for my article, I agree. Afterward, Jerry requests that I stay on, and I reluctantly accept. I flinch only because I imagine that my parents will die of embarrassment.
As a referee for the Memphis promotion - now the USWA - I become known among the boys as a bit of "finish guy," i.e., I can script an ending to a bout with the best of them. My creative input gets the attention of heel "Hotstuff" Eddie Gilbert, at one time one of the most acclaimed bookers (storyline writers) in the business.
Putting my best heel forward
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The "King" throws a fireball
at an opponent. |
Jump to one hot Memphis night in May of 1994: the main event is Jerry Lawler and Jeff Jarrett vs. the Dream Machine and Gilbert. At the time, Jarrett is in his first WWF run as Double J, so the crowd is up to about 3,000. Because my girlfriend and some of my buddies are in the audience, I ask Gilbert to involve me in the finish in some controversial way. What he came up with exceeds my expectations.
Frank Morrell, the assigned ref for the bout, is bumped (knocked senseless), which is my cue to get ready. After Lawler piledrives Gilbert, I make my move down to ringside. I begin to count three as Lawler covers a prone Gilbert. Instead, I rise up and deliver a stiff shot to Lawler's neck with my Doc Marten boot. I place Gilbert on top and register a quick three count. Lawler and I butt heads afterward, which ends with me shoving Lawler on his ass and running for my life. Stunned and suddenly fearing for her life, my girlfriend makes a beeline for my car and ducks down in the backseat.
Fans pelt my car with debris as we leave the parking lot. I love every minute of it - my childhood dream has become a reality - and I'm not about to let go of it.
Live, from Memphis ... it's Saturday morning
When I arrive at the WMC-TV studios for my first heel promo, Lawler and Gilbert instruct me to play an apologetic babyface until Lance gives me the mandate from promoter Eddie Marlin that I'm suspended. I'm then supposed to protest, and Gilbert will come out and argue with Lance as I'm pushed to the background. I'm told that the plan is for me to be a heel for a week or two before Gilbert and the heels double-cross me, and I'll return later as a babyface ref.
Realizing that this might be my only chance to cut the heel promo of my dreams, one that I had practiced in front of a mirror several times as a kid growing up, I decide to play a heel from the start of my interview with Lance. Figuring it's live TV, what can they do?
Instead of apologizing - as I was told to do by Lawler - I begin a diatribe about how Lawler has shoved me around for too long and that during the match, I merely stomped him like the cockroach that he is. I am told later that Lawler was watching on the monitor during my promo and said, "What in the hell is he doing?" I go on to accuse Lance of leaving years back not to go to WCW, but to run Lawler's fan club full-time. I end the interview by saying that Gilbert is my new best friend.
After the show goes to a break, I nervously walk to behind the curtain. Lawler waves me over and says, "That was good. Real good. But next time, do what we tell you to do." My live-TV gamble works: The plans to turn me back are dropped, and I become the main heel manager in Memphis for the next couple of years.
Nowadays
Jerry Lawler is a TV announcer and sometimes wrestler for World Wrestling Entertainment.
Brian Christopher Lawler, a.k.a. Grand Master Sexay, is a former WWE tag champion, now with the Jarretts' NWA promotion.
Kevin Lawler is the owner of Jerry Lawler's Carpet Cleaning Services in Memphis.
Lance Russell is retired and plays a lot of golf.
Eddie Gilbert left Memphis shortly after my heel turn, but not before doing a shoot interview on live TV voicing his displeasure with how he was being used. In 1995 he died in his sleep in Puerto Rico.
The Dream Machine (Troy Graham) died earlier this year. Apparently, he had been living on the streets for a few years.
I am an aspiring actor and screenwriter living in Los Angeles. How novel.
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