(Back
to CAC home page)
(Click
here for links to ALL the CAC pages)
PRO
WRESTLING : BLOOD, SWEAT, AND A LADY NAMED LINDA
(By Diane Brady, Business Week, January 24, 2000)
Meet the polite power behind racy World Wrestling There's a stone-cold chill at
the headquarters of the World Wrestling Federation, and it's coming from
Chairman Vince McMahon. After discussing ideas such as WWF spaghetti sauce, his
wife, Linda, who is also his president and
CEO, is pressuring him to do a biography. ``I'd kill some poor bastard who's
joined at the hip with me for a month,'' Vince snorts. But, he suggests,
"It would be cool for you to write a book.'' Linda, who sits tapping her
high-heeled suede pumps, can't be budged. ``You're the face that sells,'' she
insists until he finally agrees to talk to an agent. Minutes later, she's
instructing Cynthia Money, her senior vice-president for merchandising, to tell
a delinquent supplier he has one last chance to shape up. Money mentions a
wrestler who's throwing temper tantrums because his T-shirts aren't sold at live
events. "His character has to evolve first,'' Linda says firmly.
While her slick and highly toned husband may be the creative muscle behind the
WWF -- not to mention the Evil Boss who wields baseball bats during
performances--it's Linda, 51, who quietly runs the day-to-day operation. For
much of the past three decades, she has helped balance the books, do the deals,
and handle the details that go into building a sports entertainment empire.
``Vince is the type to walk in and say he wants an office in Nairobi by
Monday,'' says Dusty Anderson, a longtime friend and Raleigh (N.C.) steakhouse
owner. ``Linda would be the one to put it together.''
But the self-effacing half of the McMahon tag team is increasingly stepping into
the ring. Linda has to defend the newly public multimedia company against
lawsuits, growing competition, and the rising number of problems over its racy
content, including Coca-Cola Co.'s decision to pull its ads.
That's besides dealing with investors and playing the role of peacemaker in the
scripted family feuds that are part of the blood, sweat, and muscle drama of
World Wrestling. For McMahon, who has watched her 54-year-old husband smack
aside near-bankruptcy, ridicule, and even federal criminal charges involving
steroids a few years ago, the latest assaults just go
with the territory.
Besides, there's not a lot of time for navel-gazing when you're managing a
business that's extending its franchise to everything from snack food to a huge
entertainment complex set to open in New York's Times Square in mid-January. The
WWF's potent mix of shaved, pierced, and pumped-up muscle freaks; buxom,
scantily clad, and sometimes cosmetically enhanced beauties; and body-bashing
clashes of good vs. evil has spawned an empire that claims 35 million
fans--mostly males between 12 and 34. That's the sort of demographic that makes
advertisers and rivals drool. And these guys apparently can't get enough WWF
tickets, broadcasts, books, CDs, games, and other merchandise. In the fiscal
year ended last April, revenues topped $250 million, and analysts estimate that
they'll reach $340 million for 2000.
Meanwhile, an Oct. 19 public offering catapulted the McMahons to another level
of wealth with an 83% share of stock that's worth about $867 million.
IMMERSION. Seated just behind her
husband at the helm of this raucous ship is the poised and polite Linda McMahon.
She met Vince in a small North Carolina church at the age of 13 when he showed
up because his mother said there was a pretty blonde singing in the choir. Since
marrying him five years later, McMahon has found herself caught up in the world
of professional wrestling. A straight-A student who dreamed of becoming a
pediatrician, she concedes that she never wanted to watch men throw each other
around a ring. "I've come to appreciate it,'' she laughs between bites of a
late lunch of steak and sweet potato in her pink-hued office at WWF headquarters
in Stamford, Conn. In contrast, her husband is a third-generation wrestling
entrepreneur who fought to turn a schlocky "sport'' into mass entertainment
with soap-opera scripts and enough cheeseball villains and heroes to make fans
scream--and reach for their wallets.
McMahon's first forays into the business of wrestling began soon after she gave
birth to son Shane in 1970. While her husband did on-air commentary, developed
scripts, and otherwise promoted Capitol Wrestling Corp., then owned by his
father, Vincent, Linda started handling details like scheduling.
By the time daughter Stephanie was born seven years later, Linda was totally
immersed in the biz. Vince, a self-described juvenile delinquent who went to
military school as a teenager to avoid a reformatory stint, says he resisted the
idea of having his wife involved. ``From a male chauvinist standpoint, I thought
she would be better taking care of the kids and taking care of me,'' he says.
Linda still cooks Vince breakfast most mornings before they work out in their
private gym, but her days of tending the hearth are long behind her. By 1982,
when Vince bought the company and renamed it Titan Sports Inc., Linda was
helping her man to manage as he branched into pay-per-view events, a TV series,
and products such as action figures.
WALL STREET WORRIES. As the WWF
began to take shape, however, a long shadow fell across it. In the late 1980s,
media mogul Ted Turner bought World Championship Wrestling and soon drew the
bulk of McMahon's talent to his TNT Network. In the midst of the battle with
Turner, McMahon faced an even more dangerous foe: A federal grand jury indicted
him in 1993 for conspiring to supply steroids to wrestlers. McMahon was
acquitted but says the two-year court battle was the low point in the couple's
life.
Then there are the recent controversies that have dragged WWF stock below its 17
initial offering price. Topping the list is Coke's decision to pull ads from WWF
Smackdown!, which airs on UPN, because of violence and lewd content. Add to that
the defection of some top writers to WCW and several lawsuits, including one
filed by the family of wrestler Owen Hart, who died during a stunt at a
pay-per-view event last May.
So guess who's quelling investor fears. It helps that Linda has analysts on her
side who say the stock will be worth at least 30--once buyers realize that the
WWF is such a potent brand. (It closed at 15 1/64 on Jan. 10.)
"The average Wall Street investor is not exactly the demo here,'' says
Laura Martin of Credit Suisse First Boston. Whatever worries Wall Street may
have are clearly not shared by the
fans. Advertising and sponsorship sales increased to $30.1 million last year, a
147% jump over 1998; a CD featuring the theme songs of WWF stars rose to No. 2
on the music charts last year; and a biography by wrestler Mankind (a.k.a. Mick
Foley) topped The New York Times best-seller list.
The company gets one-third of its revenues from merchandise, dealing with 85
licensees who make everything from WWF apparel and greeting cards to toys and
video games. In 18 months, its Web site has catapulted to the top 100,
generating more than 157 million page views per month.
And the McMahons say they're just beginning their tear. "Eventually, with
all the media convergence, we will be programming 24 hours a day,'' says Linda.
Next up: an action-adventure series that she calls "a Miami Vice kind of
thing'' and a late-night talk show featuring WWF talent, which may be broadcast
from the about-to-open Times Square complex. Projects in Australia, Britain,
France, and Japan this year will extend the franchise overseas.
One of Linda's greatest pleasures is seeing her kids in the business. Shane
handles new media. Stephanie works in ad sales. While Shane acknowledges his
father's role in creating the WWF, he says: "Mom is much more
detail-oriented, making plans and setting deadlines. She's the glue of the
organization.''
Both kids have become regular TV characters--Stephanie, 23, recently
"married'' her dad's archrival, launched a coup, and is the new big boss.
Linda makes an occasional appearance as the soothing voice of reason. Vince
thinks his kids are "great hams'' but says that ``Linda is more comfortable
behind a desk.'' So why push her into the act? Because Vince wants her in. After
all, he's still the boss. ``She understands that my decisions are well thought
out,'' says Vince, who calls the WWF his mistress. "Somebody has to have
the final word, and that's me.''
Given the sheer breadth of tasks Linda now has to perform, Vince is pondering
whether to bring in someone else as president to handle more of the operational
details and let her concentrate on the broader public task of being CEO. She
agrees that "there are a lot of talented people
who could do my function, although they wouldn't bring the same kind of passion
or understanding of where this grew from.'' But most say losing her services
altogether would be a big loss to the WWF. Marina Jacobson of Bear, Stearns
& Co. calls her ``extremely smart and a very quick study'' who has convinced
investors that WWF leadership is very professional. That's right, professional.
And anyone who's got a problem with that should go talk to Vince.
Linda E. McMahon
BORN
Oct. 4, 1948, in Havelock, N.C.
MARRIED
Aug. 6, 1966
EDUCATION
B.A. in French, minor in Spanish from East Carolina State College, 1969
(now East Carolina University)
CHILDREN
Shane, 30; Stephanie, 23
FAVORITE GIFT FROM VINCE
Three candy hearts with the messages ``I Love You,'' ``Please Be My
Sweetheart,''
and ``Be My Valentine'' (while in college)
OTHER GIFTS FROM VINCE
Jaguar, black Aston Martin convertible
FAVORITE INDULGENCE
Cool shoes
ROLE MODEL
Mother, a budget analyst at a Marine Corps facility
* * * * *
LORDS
OF THE RING: Just when It Seemed Civilization Was Safe, Pro Wrestling Is Back
and Bigger than Ever
(By James
Collins-Stamford, Newsweek, June 29, 1998)
What kind of programming do you identify with cable television? Probably shows
like Larry King Live on CNN and Nick at Nite's reruns of Bewitched, or Biography
on A&E and maybe those documentaries about Adolf Hitler that the History
Channel always seems to carry (this week's is a classic: Hitler and the Occult).
These offerings may seem emblematic of cable, but if you think they represent
its most popular shows, you are very wrong. Cable TV's true signature is not
a conversation between Larry King and Trent Lott; it is a Hell in a Cell
bout between Stone Cold Steve Austin and his archrival Kane.
Remember professional wrestling? That phenomenon of the 1980s you thought
disappeared along with wine coolers? It is back, it is booming, and it is by far
the most highly rated form of programming on cable. Last week, for example,
wrestling shows were ranked 1, 2 and 3. On Monday nights, the two rival
wrestling organizations--the World Wrestling Federation and World Championship
Wrestling -- have shows on at the same time, the former on the USA Network, the
latter on TNT. In the past year, the shows' combined Nielsen ratings have risen
some 50%, and together they are watched in more than 6 million households. Larry
King's audience is about a fifth that size. Taking all telecasts into account,
about 34 million people watch wrestling each week.
Meanwhile, live wrestling events are sold out night after night; pay-per-view
revenues and sales of merchandise (toys, video games, hats, tank tops, temporary
tattoos, backpacks, beach towels, hot sauces, Halloween costumes) are well over
a billion dollars; and celebrities are beginning to make cameo appearances. In
July, for example, Karl Malone and Dennis Rodman, lately of the NBA finals, will
do battle as members of opposing tag teams in a WCW match. There is even a plan
for a chain of WCW theme restaurants, the first of which will open this
September in Las Vegas.
Looking at what goes on in the ring, it's hard to see why all this is happening,
since wrestling doesn't seem very different from what it always was: men with
very large muscles pretend to sock each other while stamping a foot on the
canvas to make a loud noise. But wrestling has changed. No one claims anymore
that the bouts are legitimate; indeed, to reassure families that they will not
see real violence, the promoters now emphasize that wrestling is staged. Then
there is the change in the characters and story lines developed for wrestlers.
In the past few years, these have become darker and more elaborate, and that
largely accounts for the new-found popularity.
In the old days there was a fairly simple distinction to be made between the
good guys, or "baby faces" in the carny lingo of wrestling, and bad
guys, or "heels." Now no one is reliably good.
The emphasis is all on rebellion and arrogance, black leather and shades. At the
same time, the narratives in wrestling have become more complicated than
Icelandic epics. The plots involve different factions of wrestlers in each
organization who are trying to dominate the others, amid constant betrayals.
"We're storytellers," says Vince McMahon, owner of the WWF. "You
can't just throw wrestlers out there to wrestle. That's not what an audience
wants to see."
The wrestler causing the most excitement right now is Stone Cold Steve Austin,
33, of the WWF. Sitting backstage at an event in Austin, Texas--his
birthplace--Austin, who earns an estimated $2 million a year, spat tobacco juice
into a Pepsi can while he talked about the development of his character. A
couple of years ago, when he was known as the Ringmaster and fans were not much
responding to him, he watched an HBO special on serial killers and got inspired:
"I came up with the basic idea for the character. You know, someone who
really didn't give a damn about what was going on. Not that I'm endorsing a
serial killer--it was an attitude thing."
In the past 18 months, McMahon has added much more "colorful language"
and "sign language," as he puts it, to the WWF events. The WWF even
sells oversize foam hands with the middle finger
pointing up. WCW avoids that kind of overt vulgarity, but it still strives for
attitude. The organization's biggest star is Hollywood Hulk Hogan (formerly just
Hulk Hogan), who made millions as a superhero good guy in the WWF during
wrestling's previous surge. After leaving the game for a few years to do movies
and television in the early 1990s, Hogan, now 44, joined WCW. He reportedly
earns $5 million a year these days, but to stay popular he has had to change his
character radically. "Now I'm the worst bad guy around," he says.
"I can't win a match unless I cheat. And people love me."
The WWF and WCW are bitter antagonists. McMahon bought his company from his
father in 1982, and with Andre the Giant and Hogan he lifted wrestling to a
whole new level of popularity. WCW was created in 1988 by Ted Turner, who
founded TNT and TBS, which also carries a WCW program. (Turner is the vice
chairman of TIME's parent company.) McMahon complains, among much else, that
because of his deep pockets, Turner was able to lure away the WWF's best talent.
Talking to TIME, McMahon said, "Here's some sign language for Ted
Turner," and made the appropriate gesture.
A WCW spokesman says the company does not comment on McMahon. The WWF is suing
WCW for misleading the public about the allegiance of two wrestlers; the WWF is
charging trademark infringement, defamation and slander. Last month WCW
responded with a countersuit, charging the WWF with trademark infringement and
malicious business practices.
In fact the rivalry has of late helped both sides. When Turner created WCW's
Monday Nitro nearly three years ago, he invaded a time period that had been
occupied by the WWF's Raw is War for years. Result: the ratings for both shows
went up, with a commensurate increase in ad revenues. "We created
controversy," says Eric Bischoff, president of WCW. "We forced the
competition to produce a better product. And we have to keep producing better
product."
All this success is nice for McMahon and Turner, but what about Western
civilization? The biggest concern is the popularity of pro wrestling among
children. McMahon has a point when he says that wrestling is less violent and
sexually suggestive than much of pop culture; still, it is jarring to go to a
wrestling event and see boys so young that they must be taken to the men's room
by their fathers. Another worry is the use of drugs. Steroids aren't as
prevalent as they once were, but the abuse of painkillers has become a problem.
WCW says it administers both
regular and random drug tests. McMahon says the WWF used to test extensively,
but that became too costly, so it now tests only when there are signs of abuse.
As for the key aesthetic question, Is pro wrestling fun to watch? The answer is:
Not really. It can evince the rude, flimflam energy of its carnival origins, but
as a form of pulp culture, wrestling has far less imagination than a decent
horror movie or comic book. If you're desperate for mock terror on Monday
nights, stick with Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
* * * * *
PROFESSIONAL
WRESTLING: KISS MY ASS
(The
Economist, August 28, 1999)
NEW YORK – When the history of sports journalism comes to be written, Norman
Mailer, Red Smith and Ring Lardner will undoubtedly have to cede some space to
the mostly anonymous chroniclers of professional wrestling. Consider, for
example, this classic account by the World Wrestling Federation of its gripping
bout at the SummerSlam it hosted in Minneapolis last weekend:
In a "Kiss My Ass'' match, Badd Ass Billy Gunn took on The Rock. Mr Ass
brought an extremely fat woman with him to ringside, and said that when he beats
[sic] The Rock, the People's Champ would have to kiss her ass! That woman would
turn out to be a factor in the match. Mr Ass laid out the "Great One'' with
the Fame-Ass-Er and then waved the woman into the ring. Gunn grabbed The Rock
and tried to run him into her, but the "Great One'' reversed it and Mr Ass
got a face full of ass! Mr Ass was dazed, and he ran right into a Rock Bottom.
The Rock dropped the People's Elbow, and pinned Mr Ass for the win.
The summer of 1999 marks a new high for the alleged sport of pro-wrestling.
Other sports may be more athletic. Those where the outcome is sometimes in doubt
such as baseball, football and basketball still attract wider audiences. But the
itinerant wrestling circus now manages to fill stadiums around the country and
it dominates much of national cable television, especially pay-per-view events.
An initial public offering of shares in the WWF beckons. The flotation should do
well. In its most recent financial year, the federation clocked up pre-tax
profits of $56m on revenues of $251m. A theme cafe in Times Square is also
planned.
Meanwhile, Jesse "The Body'' Ventura, the ex-wrestling governor of
Minnesota, returned to the ring in Minneapolis to referee the bout which
followed last weekend's "kiss my ass'' epic. Jesse not only misses the the
sweat and the applause, he is looking for audience support. He is now being
touted as a serious third-party candidate for president.
How exactly the homoerotic sport of lithe young men in ancient Greece should
come to be a vehicle for overweight, overdressed middle-aged politicians is
something of a mystery. The kindest explanation is simply that it is a well-run,
highly competitive entertainment business, fought over by the WWF and its arch
rival, Ted Turner's World Championship Wrestling.
Vince McMahon, the chairman of WWF, is the man credited with turning wrestling
from a series of local franchises into a national sport--with national
television audiences (in most other sports, the main audience is still local).
Wrestling events provide viewers not just with a spectacle (baseball players
merely hit a round object; wrestlers get to throw lightning) but also with a
soap opera. The wrestlers choreographed antics provide them with characters as
vivid and memorable as cartoons but with the added attraction of colourful
private lives--feuds over girlfriends and personal grudges are regular tabloid
fodder.
Another explanation is that pro-wrestling is the first post-video-game sport.
Technology has helped viewers pretend to be all sorts of sportsmen at home.
However, nobody really thinks that they are Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa. Badd Ass
Billy Gunn, lumbering through a rehearsed script, is a more realistic model for
geekish young couch potatoes.
However, as Mr Ass's antics also indicate, there may be other, more disturbing
draws: sex, violence and occasional racism. Outside heavy metal music (which
usually provides the sound effects), there is no area of American life that is
less politically correct than pro-wrestling. ``I have heard of buns of steel,
but those are buns of cinnamon'' was one of the more gentlemanly comments made
about the large lady who featured in Mr Ass's defeat. Brendan Maguire, a
sociologist at Western Illinois University, argues that the latest scramble for
TV ratings has raised the temperature: a recent mock ``sacrifice'' of one young
woman being a case in point.
Two recent lawsuits indicate that wrestling may be pushing the edge a little too
far. One, which has been settled, was brought by a female wrestler who refused
to have her gown pulled off in a match. The other relates to the death of Owen
Hart, a WWF wrestler who died when the cable lowering him from the roof for
another TV spectacle broke.
Mr Maguire points out that wrestling's popularity has tended to wax and wane. It
was popular at the beginning of the century until audiences discovered that it
was rigged. It enjoyed another spurt in the 1950s despite the fact that by then
everyone knew it was rigged. After that it retreated to the margins, until its
recent explosion in popularity. This history might imply that the WWF has timed
its flotation well--and that Mr Ventura should make his run for the White House
while the mat is hot. Even if he fails, he can console himself with another
honour. A bedroom in a brothel in Nevada that he once frequented has just been
named after him.
* * * * *
OUR
MAN GOES TO THE MAT
(By John
Leland, Newsweek, February 7, 2000)
Cliff Compton, as he is known professionally, stands 6 feet 1½ inches, weighs
215 pounds and owns his own gym--on the whole, not the sort of guy I'd choose to
tussle with. But on a cold morning in January, the two of us square off in an
unheated cinder-block hangar in south Jersey. "Come on, NEWSWEEK,"
taunts an onlooker helpfully. "It's time to get slammed."
Cliff and I circle each other warily, then tie up in the center of the ring--our
arms locked at each other's necks and elbows, bodies torqued in opposition. With
a nod for me to jump up, Cliff lifts me off the mat, raising me horizontally at
chin level. Then, like the man says, it is time to get slammed. For an instant I
am in free fall, until wham! the concussive thump of a 40-year-old back slamming
flat against the dirty canvas. I take inventory of the damage: nothing I can't
walk away from. Let's do it again, from the top. Tie-up; lift; wham! So goes
another lesson at the Monster Factory, a place that gives full meaning to the
phrase, School of Hard Knocks.
In the world of professional wrestling, some men are born to cartoon greatness.
But most learn it in institutions like the Monster Factory, one of a couple of
dozen schools across the country where guys like Cliff learn the fine art of
making it look real. For $3,500, "Pretty Boy" Larry Sharpe, a former
top pro himself, molds able bodies into what they hope will be the next
generation of WWF superstars. The lessons usually take about six to eight
months, but Larry and his deputy, Ed Atlas, have agreed to run me through a
four-day crash course, or as long as I can hang. I'm down for pain, I say, but
not lasting injury. Ed smiles at the first part.
Larry has trained some of the top names in wrestling, including the Big Show and
King Kong Bundy, but on this day, a half-dozen lesser mortals pace the ring:
beer distributors, security guards, bodybuilders, schoolteachers. We start with
the basic "bump": fold your arms across your chest, tuck in your chin
and fall flat on your back. And again. Most rings have a coiled spring under the
center to absorb some of the impact, but this one relies on the natural give of
the plywood, which is covered by an inch and a half of foam padding. The goal is
to land flat, distributing the shock over as broad an area as possible. It is
the wrestling student's first act of faith. Like fledgling actors or musicians,
my classmates believe unshakably that from this humble tumble lies the road to
stone-cold greatness. "I'm positive that I'm going to do it," says
Ryan Miller, 19, a butcher who has emptied his savings to pursue this dream.
"I met Ravishing Rick Rude when I was 7 years old. I said right then, 'I
want to be a wrestler'."
Larry offers a frank assessment of my prospects. At 49, he has bleached hair, a
giant cigar and a shiny Cadillac. Because of a run-in with the gout, he drinks
only champagne. "You're not going to walk out of here and get a job with
the WWF, that's for sure," he says in his flat south Jersey accent. After
decades as a "heel"--the guy fans love to hate--he communicates in the
broad, expressive gestures of his profession. "If you concentrate, work
hard, I can teach you how to wrestle. You would wrestle part-time and make your
money back." After this counsel, it is my turn to inflict some damage. I
fling Jack McFadden, 31, an interior designer, against the ropes (he helps),
then guide him through an aerial flip over my hip: my first hip toss. As he
crashes to the canvas, "selling" the pain with a so-so paroxysm, I can
see how guys get hooked. Jack whips me wrenchingly against a turnbuckle, to Ed's
withering appraisal. "That's better, NEWSWEEK," he yells. "It
still sucked, but it wasn't ridiculous." This is the nicest thing he ever
says to me, and I take it as a compliment.
Larry and Ed work on the basics: always twist your opponent's left arm; two
squeezes on your hand signal that it's time for you to take over; keep your
posture theatrically upright to play to the cheap seats, even in a side
headlock. If you hurt your opponent for real, he might "get a
receipt," or return the favor. "It's like a waltz," yells Ed,
counting off a one-two-three rhythm. "Your opponent is really your
partner."
Though it is premature, Larry agrees to steer me toward my gimmick, or ring
persona. A good gimmick exaggerates one facet of a wrestler's real personality.
Larry sizes me up as a heel. This is good news. Heels generate the emotional
energy, or "heat," in any match, and are usually the "ring
generals," directing the moves (most wrestlers plan their opening and
closing sequences, improvising in between). "With you," says Larry,
warming to the subject, "your personality is slightly introverted; your
posture is not outstanding. You could be a sneak or a tricky guy that would hide
gimmicks. You could take a beating, then every once in a while pull something
dirty and sneaky and underhanded. Maybe a thumb to the Adam's apple, or hiding
brass knuckles or a roll of dimes in your tights." Who wouldn't love this
game?
By the fourth morning, however, I reassess the damage. My ankles are on fire, my
calves cramped. My right temple throbs from an inadvertent kick. My ribs hurt
when I inhale, and I have to lift my head with my hands to get out of bed.
Critics of professional wrestling scoff that the daring feats are all bogus, but
wrestling fans buy into a trickier illusion: that a man can tumble headlong onto
a table from 10 feet above and not be hurt--because everyone knows wrestling is
fake. In fact, that man is in pain. For my last day, I decide, I will just
watch.
As they run through the moves, Ryan takes a nasty header onto his face. A
student named Anthony aggravates a separated shoulder. A rope comes loose,
nearly spilling everyone onto the concrete. Larry offers bags of ice (everybody
has already signed a release waiving his right to sue) and sympathy. "You
gotta love the pain," says Ronnie Koreck, a beefy insurance adjuster from
Pennsylvania. Though he is 37, Ronnie assures me that he has lined up sponsors
to help him reach the next level, wrestling in gyms and VFW halls for small
paychecks en route to the top.
It is this faith that offsets the day's pains, and the next day's as well. No
one teases me for wimping out. I say my farewell, but I will long remember my
days in the squared circle. Every time I get out of bed.
* * * * *
HEY,
FORGET REAL SPORTS; GIVE US PRO WRESTLING
(By
Tommy Trujillo, Santa Fe New Mexican, February 3, 2000)
With all the bad news transpiring in what we consider to be legitimate,
traditional sports, maybe it's time to briefly direct some attention to a
calmer, less violent and problematic sport.
So let's put aside the NFL's Ray Lewis, alleged to be a double murderer;
suspended Atlanta Brave John Rocker, alleged to be a racist; Arizona
Diamondbacks pitcher Bobby Chouinard, alleged to be a wife beater; NFL standout
Derrick Thomas, an alleged reckless driver; and Charlotte Hornets teammates
David Wesley and Bobby Phills, alleged to be drag racing when Phills lost
control of his car in the process of losing his life.
With all of them out of the way, now we can put our short attention spans on the
wrestlers, along with Kimberly, A.C., Spice, Chae, Frye, Tygres and Storm,
better known to aficionados as the World Championship Wrestling's Nitro Girls.
Their stories and others within the wrestling realm are rife with controversy.
Though not a fond fan of wrestling, it may be time to reconsider. Why? Because
every bad act that happens on WCW or World Wrestling Federation telecasts occur
either in the ring or around the arena.
There are serious problems, even in the world of the non- wrestling Nitro Girls.
In the ring and outside it, there are vicious beatings, backstabbings,
jealousies, volumes of violence and other not-so-pleasant story lines with the
legions of interchangeable wrestling personalities.
As bad as it is, however, it ends when the lights are turned off and the cameras
stop rolling. It doesn't extend to the real world, and it doesn't affect the
observers. There are real exceptions, like the accidental death of Brett Hart's
wrestling brother during a live production, but sometimes accidents do happen,
without someone directly influencing them.
The best part is that it's all fake and we know it is. It's a pleasant
alternative to what's happening in the real sports world around us.
And when you pick a favorite wrestler you know that if he's one of the bad guys,
eventually he'll be one of the good guys and vice versa. That's a known
quantity, unlike some other unpredictable sports heroes. We don't have to pin
our alliances on someone who's going to eventually let us down hard. Instead, we
know what to expect.
So instead of being brought down by the Super Bowl sideshows, it's time to zero
in on the Super Brawl.
The Super Bowl, known for its worldwide viewership, has had several accompanying
storylines the past two years. Last year it was Atlanta Falcon Eugene Robinson,
winner of some humanitarian award, arrested only days before the Super Bowl for
allegedly soliciting an undercover police officer dressed as a prostitute.
This year it was Lewis, an all-pro member of the Baltimore Ravens, who was
charged with two counts of murder following a post-Super Bowl fight.
These are the subplots professional sports do not need.
It may take time to adjust to the new atmosphere of professional wrestling,
there are new heroes to identify, new bad guys to despise. There will be sides
to be taken and plots to catch up with.
But in the end, a peace of mind will be achieved when you know that when the
show ends, so does everything else.
* * * * *
(Back
to CAC home page)
(Click
here for links to ALL the CAC pages)