By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
They knocked the ref out for good measure, and then Smelly's female sidekick, Looney Lane, dressed in a Catholic-schoolgirl outfit, leapt from the ropes to deliver a flying muff dive to Maddog's face. Evidently no great respecter of virtue, he slapped her down hard.
"Slap the lice off her head!" I yelled, lest someone think I wasn't into it.
The evening wrapped up with the hockey-stick-toting Ballard Brothers returning to battle Team Hardcore, comprising the Hardcore Kid and a fellow named Just Insane. The latter took such a beating that I'm just glad Ma and Pa Insane weren't there to see it.
I used to watch wrestling on TV a bit when I was a kid, seeing folks like Freddie Blassie, Bobo Brazil and the Three Death Missionaries spar at LA's Olympic Auditorium. Even then it was goofy stuff, but they tried to lend a semblance of realism to the proceedings, with maybe 80 percent of it authentic grappling like you see in high school wrestling and 20 percent of it eye-gouging pretense. Now the "sport" has taken on a sub-cartoon quality. Compared with these guys, Scooby-Doo is the hard slap of reality.
Many of the kicks and blows that had contestants reeling at the Galaxy clearly didn't come within 10 inches of actually contacting with flesh. To accept it as real, you'd have to suspend your sense of disbelief so high it's beyond the pull of gravity, yet millions of people do every week. Why? What's really going on here?
Maybe they subconsciously see a model of contemporary American life in the ring. Assume that the wrestlers represent corporations. They are branded. They belong to teams. There used to be good guys and the dirty-fightin' bad guys. Today, some may have a "good" image—meaning they're handsome—but they will all smack ya with a folding chair, which always seems to be at hand.