SINCE WE ARE TALKING ABOUT 5TH GRADE HORROR STORIES pt. 2
In the late 80’s, I was the Encyclopedia (of Alton) Brown of Professional Wrestling. I could tell you who Don “The Rock” Muraco won the Stampede (or Canadian) Heavyweight Championship from both times or all of the Intercontinental Champions back to the two time reign of Pedro Morales (who beat Don Muraco for it once just so you know). I was a walking talking Wikipedia page waiting to happen and it was the Golden Age of Wrestling. It was my shit.
At recess during the Golden Age, rough housing came with nicknames, finishing moves and probably a couple of titles per person. (In Boy Scouts, among my many belts, I held the obscure Florida International Belt which I must have won while playing video games in the basement arcade of the Continental Hotel at Disney World. Otherwise I don’t remember going to Florida any other time.) On the battlefields of Howe- Manning Elementary, the most esteemed title I held was the Tag Team Championship with Chris Richardson, the heir to the Richardson dairy fortune. His family owned no less then three quarters of my small town. He was as popular as you can get in a class of 30 where everyone was your friend sort of. Still to have him as my tag team partner was none the less a huge step for me and together we formed Demolition (pre Crush) and we took on all comers and had them smoted.
The day of the Pumpkin Festival, I was not in a wrestling mood. Instead I had taken to a poor anarchist’s version of rugby. This style involved chasing around someone who had a deflated basketball and tackling them. At this point the person would give that ball up to someone they liked and the game would continue. There was no goal line or endzone. The only direction was away from the mob chasing you.
It was in the middle of one of these massive of scrums of ten year old body parts that I noticed something amiss. I looked further down the field and heard the gruntings of my partner. He was in trouble. He had been cornered by Leith Campbell and Ben Maxfield. They liked to be the Road Warriors, but at the time were going as the Hart Foundation because the finishing move did not require an actual ring. Seeing this, I immediate broke from the game (I was never like enough to get the ball anyway) and made a bee line straight for Leith Campbell. Now, Chris definitely could have handled the two future stoners by himself, but I, if nothing, have a strong sense of loyalty and although Ben and Leith were fellow Cub Scouts, the bond between partners is greater.
In today’s flashy big budget production WWE, I would have gotten fireworks preceding me, while my run up to the ring was on a 40 foot jumbotron and Tony Schiavone yelled, “Oh my God that’s Justin’s music!”
Now mind you in fifth grade, I was still a bit of a porker. I wouldn’t start playing baseball ‘til the spring and I had run a 15 minute mile that year and I had no control of my body what so ever. So when you run directly at someone and throw your body at them there is an 87% chance something bad is going to happen and you will not be the beneficiary. But I had Leith Campbell locked on like an enemy fuel tank in Zaxxon. At least I did, until he moved and then I was fucked.
In the late 80’s, I was the Encyclopedia (of Alton) Brown of Professional Wrestling. I could tell you who Don “The Rock” Muraco won the Stampede (or Canadian) Heavyweight Championship from both times or all of the Intercontinental Champions back to the two time reign of Pedro Morales (who beat Don Muraco for it once just so you know). I was a walking talking Wikipedia page waiting to happen and it was the Golden Age of Wrestling. It was my shit.
At recess during the Golden Age, rough housing came with nicknames, finishing moves and probably a couple of titles per person. (In Boy Scouts, among my many belts, I held the obscure Florida International Belt which I must have won while playing video games in the basement arcade of the Continental Hotel at Disney World. Otherwise I don’t remember going to Florida any other time.) On the battlefields of Howe- Manning Elementary, the most esteemed title I held was the Tag Team Championship with Chris Richardson, the heir to the Richardson dairy fortune. His family owned no less then three quarters of my small town. He was as popular as you can get in a class of 30 where everyone was your friend sort of. Still to have him as my tag team partner was none the less a huge step for me and together we formed Demolition (pre Crush) and we took on all comers and had them smoted.
The day of the Pumpkin Festival, I was not in a wrestling mood. Instead I had taken to a poor anarchist’s version of rugby. This style involved chasing around someone who had a deflated basketball and tackling them. At this point the person would give that ball up to someone they liked and the game would continue. There was no goal line or endzone. The only direction was away from the mob chasing you.
It was in the middle of one of these massive of scrums of ten year old body parts that I noticed something amiss. I looked further down the field and heard the gruntings of my partner. He was in trouble. He had been cornered by Leith Campbell and Ben Maxfield. They liked to be the Road Warriors, but at the time were going as the Hart Foundation because the finishing move did not require an actual ring. Seeing this, I immediate broke from the game (I was never like enough to get the ball anyway) and made a bee line straight for Leith Campbell. Now, Chris definitely could have handled the two future stoners by himself, but I, if nothing, have a strong sense of loyalty and although Ben and Leith were fellow Cub Scouts, the bond between partners is greater.
In today’s flashy big budget production WWE, I would have gotten fireworks preceding me, while my run up to the ring was on a 40 foot jumbotron and Tony Schiavone yelled, “Oh my God that’s Justin’s music!”
Now mind you in fifth grade, I was still a bit of a porker. I wouldn’t start playing baseball ‘til the spring and I had run a 15 minute mile that year and I had no control of my body what so ever. So when you run directly at someone and throw your body at them there is an 87% chance something bad is going to happen and you will not be the beneficiary. But I had Leith Campbell locked on like an enemy fuel tank in Zaxxon. At least I did, until he moved and then I was fucked.
posted by J. Bob. at 8:22 AM
5 Comments:
Man, that's the biggest scam ever. One time a guy took me for $20 when I was in the men's room of the Philadelphia Amtrak station at like 4 in the morning. I didn't really believe him but I figured I'd have a better chance of not being murdered in the men's room of an Amtrak station if I gave him the money.
Hey Tierney: way to be cool and change your font and use colors. Scrub.
i know! its the joint
and ill do it again
Way to call unnecesary attention to yourself. You're the Jerry Porter of this blog.
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