Its Part of Life and Life is Real!

The lights were dim. Most of the eyes in the room were on me. Some of the people were drunk, yelling phrases not commonly heard; they were a paying crowd and could yell whatever they wanted to. It didn’t really matter what they yelled because I had the microphone, and I was yelling too. “This is it!” I remember saying with authority, pride and, most of all, confidence. “You don’t get another shot!” I reiterated. I was about to say it one last time, but then Dr. Dre’s, “The Next Episode” suddenly took over the speakers. The song’s hypnotic intro echoed throughout the small building as the men, women and children surrounding me almost unanimously jumped up and began to cheer – no, erupt. I had been in this situation so many times before that the song had burned itself into my brain and I knew what was coming next. His name was Big Daddy Kash. He was no bigger than me but no smaller than me either. He burst through the doorway and charged directly at me. For a brief second, I took it all in: the loud music blasting through the large speakers being drowned out by the even louder screaming fans that had grown to hate me and the Central Canadian Heavyweight Title belt that was around my waist. As Kash approached me with his fists in the air and swinging at my head, I thought to myself, “Is this real?”

Pro-wrestling, or as I have grown to lovingly call it, wrasslin’, is a spectacle that has shaped me into the man I am today. I have been involved with the wrestling industry since I was in high school. A common perception of wrestling is that it is staged, phoney and stupid. Of all the labels given to wrestling, there is one that I dislike more than any other: fake. To me, wrestling is anything but fake. It is very real; real emotion, real competition, real physicality, real pain and real life. Wrestling has allowed me to live moments that were far too real to be associated with the word fake. From near death experiences to life-changing injuries; from inspirational opportunities to death, wrasslin’ has taught me more about real life than I ever could have known without it. Professional wrestling is very real to me.

My dad died of a drug overdose in 1999. Looking back, it was near the same time I had my first professional wrestling match. I had been working with a local wrestling company for three years before that doing odd jobs like ring crew, security and music. I was given free wrestling training in exchange for my dedication and volunteer work. After over a year of being trained how to wrestle by Charley Hayes, Rex Roberts, Todd Meyers and Massive Damage, they finally agreed that I was ready to wrestle in front of a crowd. These wrestlers became my family; at eighteen-years-old, I was lacking any real male role-models aside from my older brother who was dealing with the same problems I was. I looked up to them and always tried to meet their approval.

Years went on, and I was still wrestling. Occasionally, I would travel to Winnipeg or Saskatoon to wrestle a show, almost always paying my own way there and using what little I got paid to get back. The hard work seemed to pay off because I was eventually given an opportunity to make some real money. The Canadian Wrestling Federation (CWF), which was the National Wrestling Alliance’s (NWA) Canadian affiliate, requested some wrestlers to go on tour with them; I would be one of them. This meant a lot to me because the NWA is arguably the oldest surviving pro-wrestling promotion in the world with lineage that stretches back to 1903.

The tour gave me a chance to travel to multiple Northern Ontario reserves in a plane that comfortably seated 12. At the end of the tour, our crew was ready to leave Kitchenoomaykoosib-Inninuig to fly back to Sioux Lookout, where we had driven to catch our first flight two weeks ago, but we still had to make it there. During our take off, I looked out the window and saw the darkest grey storm clouds I had seen all summer long. I asked the promoter, “Are we flying into that?” His reaction was a lot more satirical than I was hoping for, but I decided to relax and enjoy the ride. It wasn’t long before our plane was engulfed by those very same clouds. The rain pelted the windows so furiously it sounded like we were under attack. I could see lightning in the distance – at least I hoped it was the distance. The plane no longer flew in a smooth straight line; instead, it shook nervously like a boiling pot of water that had been pushed to its limits. In an effort to lighten the mood, Baron Von Meaner and Sammy Sadistic to my right began to sing Richie Valens’ “La Bamba”, while behind me Plum Loco and Spyder were yelling at the pilots using their best Joe Pesci impersonations. Suddenly the plane dropped! We weren’t even flying, we were falling. I cannot remember whether we all went silent or screamed brief expressions of fear, but I will not forget that moment. As quick as it fell, the plane levelled out again, only to do this a few more times. Everybody started acting serious. I heard one of the pilots saying “Mayday, Mayday” followed by what I assumed to be our location. Eventually, we did make it back to the comforting dirt runway of Sioux Lookout unharmed but slightly humbled and perhaps better off because of it. There was nothing fake about this experience; it was the reality of a pro-wrestling tour.

In total, I must have talked to just short of 10,000 kids about the importance of goal setting and drug-free lives. During these tours, a group of wrestlers would go into the schools before the wrasslin’ shows to talk to kids of all ages; some of these kids were in desperate need of role models. There were times when it would get quite emotional as we wrestlers would talk about personal experiences that we felt were beneficial to the kids. One community had just experienced the death of some kids after they had gotten drunk and fallen through a frozen lake; another community had just had a gang-related murder, we even cancelled a trip to my home reserve, Peguis because of snow-mobile related death. We went to a place called Kashechewan that was featured on the news shortly after we left because the children were getting diseases from the water; luckily we knew to never drink the water at these communities. Sometimes being a role-model to these kids was a little too real.

I have been told by specialists that I no longer have an anterior cruciate ligament in my knee and that my medial collateral ligament is partially torn with some damage to the cartilage surrounding the knee. This happened while defending the tag team belts with my partner, The Screaming Eagle. I was fortunate he was there to help carry me out afterwards. The pain was excruciating but the promoter and I felt I had to wrestle one more time to lose the tag belts so I could get some time off. One month later I wrapped up my knee and endured the pain for the good of the wrestling promotion. I would return a few months later, never fully healed.

The reality is that pain and wrestling are inevitably linked. It is the job of your opponent to do everything he/she can to minimize that pain; however this is not always the case. Many wrestlers are very aggressive and feel the need to punch and kick for real. Some guys are simply too big to control their power. I have wrestled the seven foot, 360 pound Titan Tower many times, and he is not delicate. He hits very hard and needs to be struck back the same way in order maintain realism; the bigger the man, the bigger the swing. I wrestled a massive steroid induced man named Rock Jaw Radcliffe who knew nothing of the word fake. Even though pro-wrestling is a cooperative performance by two or more professionally trained people, it is a live-action portrayal of violence that includes real contact, much more than it is often given credit for.

I’ve hit the ditch in the middle of the night during a white-out somewhere between The Pas and Moosimin. I’ve toured some of the most beautiful parts of Canada. I’ve been rescued by a man on a snow mobile from an isolated frozen forest after a day of stone-cold fear; we almost lost two guys to the cold that time. I’ve seen wrestlers have to fight off angry fans that have jumped into the ring to attack them. I’ve met wrestling legends who have more booze in their gym bags than anything else. I’ve been in communities where we wrestlers were seen as iconic and the kids were crying just to meet us. I’ve been beaten with a chain that I wished was fake and I’ve been smashed through tables that I incorrectly thought were meant to soften the blow. I’ve been on the receiving and giving end of injuries. I’ve heard wrestlers’ stories of their experiences in the business, some of which are far more surreal than mine – a first-hand version of the murder of legendary Bruiser Brody at a wrestling show in Puerto Rico is just one example. I’ve had conversations with wrestlers that have died shortly afterwards due to the enormous stress and abuse induced by the wrasslin’ business. I’ve watched close friends age much more rapidly than they deserve. I’ve seen and been part of real fights breaking out between opponents while performing. I’ve been one half of amazing displays of athleticism and showmanship during matches that are already locally remembered as classics.

Pro-wrestling is not just a hobby, or a sport, or even a job; pro-wrestling is a way of life. It evokes passion from those who are fortunate enough to be involved in it. It demands a certain willingness to accept that wrestling is a part of life and that life is real. Wrestling is as real as the hockey player that plays through the pain because he loves the game; wrestling is as real as the high school football team that is forced to take the long, silent bus ride home after a tough defeat; wrestling is as real as the sweat stinging the eyes of a tennis player as it drips off his forehead. I’ve been wrasslin’ for ten years and this is all very real to me

.