Ringman (eBook)

David Dwinell (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
290 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-3948-7 (ISBN)

Life in the surreal world of Pro Wrestling during its Golden Era, the 80's, 90's, and early 2000's, as seen through the eyes of the third man in the ring, referee Dave Dwinell, who shares his thirty-two- year experience with the reader.

For thirty-two years Dave Dwinell led a unique double life, mild mannered accountant by day, and professional wrestling referee evenings and weekends. The book "e;Ringman"e; transports the reader back in time to the 80's, 90's, and early 2000's when the sport was far from the polished product you witness on tv today. Dave provides fans with a front row seat not only in the major arenas like Madison Square Garden, but also the small, smoke-filled venues, where the beer sales far outweighed the ticket sales. During his tenure in the ring the author worked matches for the WWF, NWA, NEW and numerous smaller independent promotions, with over 350 named wrestlers and 45 champions. At the end of his career he was inducted into two pro wrestling halls of fame. "e;Ringman"e; is a book that will be appreciated by wrestling fans of all ages and generations, especially those readers interested in learning more about the history of the sport in what has been billed as its Golden age.

Chapter one: FLASHBACK

THE NORMALLY SHORT SUBWAY RIDE from my office at the World Trade Center to Penn Station seemed to take forever. Dodging the crowd with my suitcase firmly in hand, I climbed the steps up to 7th Avenue, and there it was, the famous Madison Square Garden marquee announcing tonight’s main event:

PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING FRIDAY MAY 27

HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION

MACHO MAN RANDY SAVAGE

VS. THE MILLION-DOLLAR MAN TED DIBIASE

As was the norm for a Friday evening back in 1988, 34th Street was filled with crowds of people scurrying in all directions, racing past the hot dog vendors and program sellers. Noise from the traffic only added to my anticipation. A seedy-looking man approached me and shoved two ducats in my face.

“Hey, buddy, you need a ticket to tonight’s show?”

“No thanks, I already have the best seat in the house.”

In truth, I knew I had the best seat, but I had no idea how to get there, so I approached a police officer who directed me to the other side of “The Garden.” It was several hours before bell time, and passionate fans, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite superstar, were lined up three rows deep behind the steel barricades that led to the employee entrance. As I was walking between the barricades and heading towards the entrance, one fan pointed to me and blurted out to his companion:

“Hey, is that guy anyone famous?”

“I don’t think so, he doesn’t look like anybody,” replied his friend.

“Maybe he’s the Masked Superstar without the mask.”

“Nah, too small.”

Another aficionado noticed my small suitcase and pointed me towards a security entrance.

“Hey, buddy, Penn Station is over there.”

I approached the guard, who cut me off before I could say anything.

“If you’re looking for tickets, it’s sold out, and if you’re looking for autographs, get over there with the rest of the fans.”

“Please check your list, my name should be on it,” I meekly replied.

“Sorry about that,” he said after scrutinizing his clipboard. “Take the elevator over there, up to the second floor.”

Making my way through a maze of TV equipment, cables, and tech people, I encountered the liaison between upper management and the wrestlers Pat Patterson, the agent in charge of the show, who pointed to a large corridor on the left and said, “Your locker room is down that hall, first door on the right.” Entering the tiny locker room, I was greeted by fellow referee Dick Kroll, who at the time was considered the dean of refs with the WWF, and Billy Caputo, an iconic TV ref with long bleach blond hair who had been instrumental in helping me out in the early days of my career.

At this point in my life, I had been a pro wrestling referee for six years and to the uninformed observer, I appeared as a mild-mannered, briefcase carrying, suit-and-tie wearing nerd. But I was more akin to Walter Mitty or Clark Kent; when I ditched my briefcase and street clothes in an arena’s locker room, I became a star of sorts. Donning the uniform of a powder blue shirt and bowtie, I experienced an ego rush like no other I had encountered in my life. This night, my first time working The Garden, filled me with a special pride: I had arrived.

Anxiously checking the assignment sheet on the wall, I discovered that not only would I be opening the show with good friend S.D. “Special Delivery” Jones and The Conquistador # 2 (Jose Luis “Mac” Rivera), but I was also assigned a feature match between Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake and One Man Gang.

With bell time almost two hours away, I felt compelled to check out the main arena. It seemed impossible to believe that soon the 16,000 empty seats would be filled with passionate fans, and I would be performing in the same ring where Bruno, Pedro, Superstar Graham, and Bob Backlund had defended their titles. After returning to the locker room, an imposing figure, wearing a gray pinstripe suite and grey sneakers, approached me. Although having refereed for six years, I had never seen this person before. The man, who obviously knew his way around, smiled and said, “Good evening, sir, how are you?” I responded, “Fine, sir, and yourself?” He answered very politely, “Fine, thank you.” That was my first meeting with WWF owner, Vince McMahon, Jr., who then disappeared into a small, spare, room containing just a desk, two chairs, and a TV monitor. He quietly spent the rest of the evening in that office, closely observing the proceedings and allowing his subordinates to run the show.

After much anticipation, Pat Patterson yelled out: “First match in the ring!” When I bounced up and took my place behind two black curtains at the end of a ramp leading to the main arena, a headset-wearing man standing to the side pointed to the opening in the screen and said, “Referee hit the ring. Go, move it.” It was fast. Primed to see a rumble, the frantic crowd greeted me with a mixture of boos and cheers. Cheers, because they knew it was getting close to 8:00 p.m. and boos because, well, who cheers for a ref?

Pushing through a wall of American and foreign photographers and nodding to color commentators Roger Kent and Superstar Billy Graham, I made my way into the ring, where I encountered legendary ring announcer Howard “The Fink” Finkel, as the house lights dimmed and the large ring lights turned on. Howard then uttered the words “Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” and all 16,000 fans erupted simultaneously. I later found out this evening marked the end of a “Garden” tradition, as it was the final time the famous drop-ceiling microphone would be used at a wrestling event. All future shows were to feature a handheld mic. Since I was assigned the last match that evening which featured Black Bart against Junk Yard Dog I can proudly say I worked the final match involving a Garden fixture dating back to at least the 1930’s if not earlier.

Calling for the bell to start the match, the Conquistador charged S.D. Jones, forcing him into a corner. Attempting to separate them, I caught sight of two boys, about nine or ten years old, sitting ringside with a look of wonder on their faces—the very same expression that appeared on the faces of two other small boys one Christmas day back in 1959.

Under the tree that year was a box with a chord attached to it something my father called a television set. As my brother Gary and I experimented with the three channels, appearing on the screen wearing only bathing suits were two large men standing in the middle of what looked like a boxing ring, beating the crap out of each other, while a stoic audience of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen looked on.

We wondered exactly what it was we were looking at. Since the fighters were not wearing gloves, we ruled out boxing. And why was there a third man in the ring wearing dark work clothes, the kind my father wore to the mill each day, trying to keep order? We became more and more glued to the action. After a few minutes, the man dressed in the white shorts threw himself vertically through the air, knocking the man in black shorts to the mat. The man in the work clothes slapped the mat three times while counting aloud, “One, two, three!”

A man then entered the ring and announced: “The time of the fall, nine minutes and fifty-five seconds, and the winner, with a flying body press, Antonino Rocca.” In the middle of the ring, the man in the work clothes held the winner’s hand up high. Next, a man sitting ringside at a table appeared on the screen, smoking a cigarette and speaking into a microphone. “This is Ray Morgan saying so long for now from the Capital Arena in Washington D.C. And don’t forget to join us next week at this same time for the best in Professional Wrestling, when our featured match will be the Master of the Claw, Killer Kowalski, against the one and only 600-pound ploughboy, Haystacks Calhoun.”

Next Saturday could not come soon enough. Eagerly awaiting the greeting from ring announcer “Friendly Bob Freed,” and hoping that our favorite wrestlers would be appearing on this week’s show, my brother and I were well on our way to becoming wrestling junkies. No one had a greater influence on my early interest in the sport—it was 95% sport and 5% showbiz back then—than commentator Ray Morgan, with his vivid description of such painful holds as “the abdominal stretch,” the “step over toehold,” “hip toss,” and “flying drop kick.” Watching the spectacle was great, but somehow my brother and I wanted to become part of the action.

Growing up in the small central Massachusetts mill town of Millbury, in an era with no video games, DVD’s, smart phones, or Internet, we kids needed to invent ways of having fun. So, in the summer of 1960, Gary and I formed our own wrestling league. Our matches were held on a square patch of grass on our side lawn, with my brother and I taking turns playing the roles of the heel (the bad guy) and the face (the good guy). The fighting was for real and nothing was scripted. Imagine ECW six years before the birth of Paul E. Dangerously. We kept...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	6.1.2021
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Sport
ISBN-10	1-0983-3948-7 / 1098339487
ISBN-13	978-1-0983-3948-7 / 9781098339487

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