Listen up!

Class is in session.

This week, I thought I'd share with the class my favorite night as a wrestling fan.

Podcast: Episode 46

It was sometime in 1986, way before I wrote this little column. I was working as a TV reporter in a town known for its month-too-long winters and brisk summers: Duluth, Minn.

One day, the old WWF blew into town. There would be a show at the Duluth Arena. At the time, Mean Gene Okerlund was the ring announcer for these house shows (it was not a TV taping). But Gene couldn't make it that night. He was out with the flu.

My boss at the time, a friendly (but business-like) fellow named Joel, got a call. The local promoter needed a fill-in -- pronto. So Joe yelled to my desk, "Hey, get in here."

I put out my cigarette (you could smoke in those days), and sauntered into his office. Joel had a grin on his face ... not always a comforting sight to a general assignment hack. But this time, I was tossed a story I would never forget.

"Hey, the WWF just called, and they want someone to be the ring announcer tonight," he said. "Okerlund canceled. Wanna do it? We'll bring a camera -- and you can make a feature out of it."

Twist my arm.

Black Jack
So I show up at the arena. I was told to talk to a guy named Black Jack Lanza, a retired wrestler who was in charge of the show. Lanza, I figured, could be found in the locker room. As I entered, I noticed that some of the performers were killing time by playing cards. No big deal, I thought. Lanza didn't think so. "Hey, what are you doing in here?" he growled. "This is for wrestlers only."

Then it hit me. There was only one locker room, and the good guys and bad guys were sharing it. Lanza was still protecting the notion that wrestling results weren't predetermined. "OK," I said. "I'm just here to do the ring announcing for Okerlund. What do you want me to do?" So Lanza gives me the lineup for the night and runs through some basics of the gig. It was all good.

"So are you going to pay me or do I get it from someone else," I inquired.

"I'll pay you after the show," he replied.

"Seventy-five bucks?"

Lanza paused. "Yep, seventy-five bucks," he grunted.

It wasn't a bad payday for a few hours work -- if he paid me.

Into The Ring
The ring was your standard setup. Red ropes, blue canvas. To the naked eye, it was no big deal. But once you stepped inside -- it was a completely different story. My foot sank down onto what felt like a stuffed mattress. It made sense considering the bumps the wrestlers take night in, night out. I was a bit stunned -- and probably looked like a moron as I gingerly tested the mat with my shoes, marveling at its utter softness.

"Good evening!" I yelled to the crowd. "I'm filling in for Gene Okerlund tonight, who could not make it." The cascade of boos that followed was deafening. This crowd didn't pay to hear from the weenie weekend local TV news anchor. They wanted Mean Gene. Welcome to the monkeyhouse, TV-boy.

After I shrugged off that bit of nastiness, it was time to sit at ringside. There, I not only got to watch the matches but I rang the bell after the ref declared a winner. Let's just say that I wasn't very professorial about that process. Like a dope, I chose to hit the bell on its top instead of on the side. The arena heard a "clunk" instead of a sharp ring. Thank the good Lord that the ref leaned through the ropes and set me straight.

"Hit it on the side," he whispered through the side of his mouth. "That'll make it ring better." Ah. From that point on, everything was ringing true. That is, until Hercules Hernandez hit the ring.

Staredown No. 1
Hercules was about my height, but very wide. Muscles on muscles. On that night, he was playing the heel in a match, and he immediately got into my face for some reason. Why was he picking on me? Did he want to fight? A sane ring announcer would have gone back to his chair. I decided to stare him down. Me and Hercules, nose-to-nose, for about 15 seconds. It wasn't part of a storyline, it was just something I did in my ring-announcer-for-a-night insanity. Eventually, I backed off -- but he could have killed me.

I'd be a liar to tell you that I can recall every second of the card. All I know is that it was fun -- from the opening clunk of the bell to the ending of the main event. Don't ask. I don't remember who was in it.

What I do remember most vividly was my final encounter with Mr. Lanza. As I walked to the back, I said to myself, "I hope he doesn't try to shortchange me." That only happened to rubes.

Staredown No. 2
"Hey, Mr. Lanza," I said. "Can you pay me now? I have to take off."

"Yeah, sure, kid. Here's thirty-five bucks."

"Thirty-five? Uh … we agreed on seventy-five before the show," I protested.

He wouldn't budge: "Thirty-five."

"Seventy-five, and you know it," I said. "Let's go. A promise is a promise."

He stared at me. I stared at him. About 10 seconds went by. In my mind I envisioned this bum lighting his cigars with the $20 bills that were supposed to be mine.

"Fine," he grunted. "Here's the money."

Paid in full, I jammed the wad of cash in my pocket and headed home. Looking back, it was the perfect ending to a perfect night. A former ring villain I used to watch as a kid (Black Jack was a bad guy in the old AWA) tried to rip me off! I guess life does imitate art sometimes.

Final Challenge
That's it. That's my favorite ring tale. Do you have one? Sure you do. So I'm laying down the gauntlet. I want your favorite wrestling story from an actual wrestling show in an actual arena. Send it right here.

What do you get in return? The pleasure of seeing your story in print. I'm not asking for a zillion words, just a few paragraphs to tell a simple tale of your biggest wrestling arena thrill. And please remember that this is a classroom. In other words, write a legible e-mail. The less work I have to do making sense of it, the better.

Want to hear more stories this week? Well, then download the Professor Wrestling Podcast, "Old School, New School." In EPISODE 46, my co-hosts George "The Authority" Schire and Dr. Mike Lano reintroduce themselves to listeners and weave a few whoppers of their own. Don't miss it!

Class is dismissed!

(Professor Wrestling is a masked employee of Internet Broadcasting. Got a question, comment, complaint? E-mail him right here. )