Original title: Hulks Wrestle For Big Crowds. From October 26, 1988. – JDW
The Animal. Bam Bam. Honky Tonk Man. Hacksaw. Ultimate Warrior. The Rock. The Anvil. Junk Yard Dog. The Million Dollar Man. Right, you guessed it. This is either a list of our Mayor’s campaign advisors or a group of professional wrestlers.
The World Wrestling Federation came to town and I went to the Memorial Coliseum. Actually paid my twelve dollars – the fifteen dollar seats sold out long ago – with an open mind. I remember pro wrestling from the black-and-white television of my childhood.
Today, professional wrestling is big business and a major cultural phenomenon, and what does that say about our society? We must have something better to do with our money, Maybe not. If wrestling helps this audience find some entertainment and forget their troubles for a couple of hours.
It’s certainly better than drugs and no worse than soap operas, The WWF will gross nearly a half billion dollars this year. There must be ten thousand (10,000) fans at this show. Times must be tough.
I reach my seat just as Mr. Perfect is roundly booed for defeating a cowboy named Sam Houston. Obviously, Mr. Perfect ain’t so great.
The ropes of the ring are red, white and blue. A dozen spots light the stage, the rest of the arena is dark. Probably best you don’t know who is sitting next to you. Some people have brought along their children.
The next fight is a tag team battle between the Conquistadors, with a combined weight of 464 pounds, and the Rockers, a pound slimmer. Clearly villainous, the Conquistadors are covered in gold lame’ from head to toe. The Rockers resemble David Cassidy from the Partridge Family in a couple of Cher’s lounging pajamas.
The floor of the ring is tuned like a tympani drum. With every punch, the slugger stomps his foot, so the sound effects signal a potentially mortal blow, even to Section 18 Row N Seat 8.
Of course, even from that vantage point, I can see many punches to the jaw land atop the shoulder. It looks fake, staged, almost as choeewographed as a presidential debate. But, alas, these guys don’t appear smart enough to follow a script.
Even the good guys cheat, but that’s okay by this crowd. The good shall inherit the earth and their fans want it now.
As a Conquistador’s head is pounded into a corner post, the crowd counts out each blow, “eight…nine…ten!”
The match is declared a draw as time runs out.
Another cowpoke, two-hundred-and-ninety-pound Outlaw Ron Bass shows up in a white duster, cracking a bullwhip. His opponent is Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake, dandily attired in electric magenta, looking like Prince on a bad day.
Indeed, Brutus looks more like a crossdresser than a fighter, and you can tell him I said so.
In moments, however, The Barber is crunching Outlaw’s face into the mat and the crowd chants to fifteen. Bored with that, Beefcake lifts Bass overhead and slams him down, then drops a knee into his opponent’s, ummm, family jewels. My jaw tightened – now, that looked real.
The Barber thrusts a fist in victory, jabbing the air like Jimmy Connors after hitting a forehand winner past Lendl.
Somehow – could it be a miracle? – Outlaw rises, grabs his whip and uses it to strangle Beefcake. Things look quite dark for The Barber. The crowd is distraught. I hear a worried fan holler, “Somebody do something, please!” Another screams, “Kill him!”
Just then, like the cavalry late in a John Wayne movie, the Rockers rush from the wings to rescue Brutus. There’s something very comic going on here. It’s like watching a dozen Road Runner cartoons right after another. Pretty soon, you couldn’t care less whether the damn coyote lives or dies. The violence becomes meaningless.
The taunts and boos for Ravishing Rick Rude begin long before he reaches the spotlights. He disrobes to the tune of “The Stripper.” The man does have a great bod.
His opponent, Jake Roberts, is no slouch himself. Jake is known as “The Snake,” but Damien, his boa constrictor, apparently missed his wakeup call. Jake does have his wife, Cheryl, with him. He gallantly gets a chair for Mrs. Snake and she sits at ringside.
Almost immediately, Jake is trapped, tied up in the ropes, and Rick chases lovely Cheryl from her seat, making obscene pelvic gestures. Jake escapes and so does his wife. Noticably irritated by this breach of decorum, The Snake pins that big Rick. Mr. Rude then proceeds to sucker-punch Jake, throw a referee through the ropes, drag Cheryl by her hair back into the ring and kick the stuffing out of her prostrate hubby.
Everybody’s happy.
I spend the entire intermission praying I don’t see anybody I know or ever dated. Terry Taylor and Jumpin’ Jim Brunzell open the second act.
Maybe it’s the lack of impressive nicknames, but these two just don’t possess the requisite star quality to turn on the crowd. Don’t tell them I said so.
Jim Powers’ opponent is Sandy Beach, a surfer-type with a blonde punk haircut and outsized sunglasses. I have seen Brian Bosworth’s future, and it is pro wrestling.
Actually, I am disappointed by the show’s ethnocentricity. No blacks, no Asians, no women, no Native Americans, no midgets. Just a bunch of white dudes, looking like all the fat bullies I remember from grade school recess.
And now. What you’ve all been waiting for. The Main Event.
Seriously balding, over six-feet-six and three hundred pounds of bronze muscle, Hulk Hogan is the biggest star in the business. Even my mother has heard of him.
Hulk’s designated victim is Big Boss Man, who is listed at three-hundred and fifty ponds and look every ounce of it. Sporting a brush cut and a demonic goatee, the Big B.M. is so ugly the snakes on Medusa’s head would stand straight up if she looked at him. He dresses like Jackie Gleason in one of those “Smokey and The Bandit” movies this audience never misses.
Hulk is trailed by his manager, Slick, an obsequious, sniveling slimebag, if ever I’ve seen one. But then maybe I’m being too harsh.
The match, The Main Event, scheduled with a one-hour time limit is over in just twelve minutes.
Nobody else seems to feel cheated. Hulkamania lives.
The entire crowd lifts to its feet, and roars its approval. Hulk Hogan gestures to his worshippers and the roar grows louder. No one leaves. He does some body builder poses. More noise. He dances to the music. Oh, the cheers. The cheers thunder back and forth.
I left.
Next month’s extravaganza pits Champion Macho Man Randy Savage against Andre The Giant. Who is about the size of a UPS truck.
Don’t go alone.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gQ0hYGY5F8