The arena was filled to capacity on that long ago day in the Brownsville section of Florida. We were packed in like sardines around a wrestling ring that took up most of the square footage in the center of the room, with us fans making up the difference to the wall. It was hotter than hell's own furnace inside that building, with a large fan working pathetically to cycle air to the outside while folks inside glanced anxiously at their watches. It was a Sunday afternoon at the Pensacola Wrestling Academy, and we were the gathering of the faithful.That's how I remember PWA. Nostalgically. Sentimentally. Through rose-colored glasses. In my memory and occasionally in my dreams, PWA was perfect. In reality, the PWA arena was a small commercial garage space on Pensacola's Mobile Highway, in Brownsville, an area redolent with strolling ladies of "working" persuasion, gentlemen both selling and seeking illegal substances, and persons without permanent addresses whose daily bread depended on their ability to panhandle on a street where traffic seldom stops. Come to think of it, for sheer texture, character and adventure, no place could have been more perfect.
Bobby Doll was a rocker back then, and a biker, and to outward appearances, one of those free spirit souls that you wish you could be, but know what the odds of survival are. Danny Roland was a go getter, a man acquainted with bull wrangling, cow tending and such hard work in a farm setting that it would have crushed me had I tried matching him on a typical day. Together, they were The Black Sheep, a tag team so on the money that I wondered why I wasn't seeing them on TV somewhere.
Jerry Reiner was The Lightning Kidd then. He wrestled in what he now refers to his "Kermit" suit, a colorful fringed gimmick that shouted "WRESTLING" before he ever uttered a word in the ring to an opponent or "enemy."
The Highlander brought a sword into the ring, more than enough incentive for his opponent (s) to take a powder and then complain bitterly to the referee afterward, decrying how such an obvious rules violation could take place right under his nose.
Maze and Cruze were simply astonishing. They came to PWA after a short sting at Skull Crusher's, The Exotic Adrian Street's wrestling school in Navarre and they began by trying to annihilate each other. So ferocious were their matches that some of us feared for their safety. They bitterly battled to draw after draw until, exhausted, they finally teamed up, an act that posed a serious threat to every other tag team in the PWA.
Kornbred was as tall as a wrestler could be, topping well over 6'6 and, according to introduction was either a parolee, escapee, or work release inmate of The Alabama Institute of Corrections, in Monroeville. The exact details are a little fuzzy, but it was obvious at the time, from the orange jumpsuit to the "Cousin Homer" deadpan look on his face, that this gentle giant had been framed.
Kato Storm was a diminutive martial artist with a flair for acrobatics, Jace Darkhart was a Native American with a fierce war cry and a somewhat well-fed look about him that suggested that many a rabbit or wapiti had fallen before his bow, been cooked by campfire, and subsequently consumed by him right down to the last bite.
Miss Passion was drop-dead gorgeous, and was the love of every man and the envy of every woman.
Mercury McLoud and Sirus hailed from Area 51, Groom Lake Nevada - believably. They fought each match as though John Carpenter's "The Thing" were managing them from the locker room, ready to eviscerate them if they failed to prevail.
Aaron Blaze was a long-haired surfer with a clean cut face and a can-do attitude, ready for singles combat with anyone and everyone.
Fabian was - well - Fabian. Long before Bulldozer Graham, or Gino Galento, Fabian was himself.
And there was Kory Jackson, this half insane, try anything, do anything, wild kid who honestly believed he could take a bump on on solid concrete from a moving helicopter at 500 feet and the get up and dropkick his opponent into the Twilight Zone.
Red Anderson was Panama Red then, an outlaw biker whose intense loyalty to the Harley Davidson brand, and his heel attitude earned him a nickname of "Moped Red" and a chant, which drove him nuts, "Moped RED, Moped RED!" An unfortunate outcome resulted with Red losing a "Dress Match," forever condemning Red to another derisive chant, "Red wears a DRESS!"
Iceberg and Vortex, The Backyard Boyz, were actual backyard wrestlers. Discovered first by me, then by Danny Roland, who was more credible as a "discoverer of wrestlers," These guys were the "Anti-New Era and battled them ceaselessly.
Patrick J Kelly III was one manager of high-quality heelness. Johnny Hollywood was a leather-wearing- wild-eyed, blond-haired manager of babyfaces, who was a celebrity in his own rite.
And N.W. Sasso shared announcing duties with easily the most beloved of all the non-player characters in PWA, Chris Irish, straight-man to the stars.
The day described here was no ordinary day to me. On this day, I presented for the first time, home made gimmicks for sale with permission of the wrestlers. PWA Wrestler Checkbook covers. Envision checkbook covers imprinted with Maze, Cruze, Kidd, Doll, Roland, all the favorites. They went like hotcakes and sold out. Friends of the Disabled got a $45 donation that Monday. Thus was created a new Bob, to be known within the year as "Buttonman," obstensively because I bought a button machine to create and sell better gimmicks to fans in behalf of that single charity I supported.
Personality was a lynch pin of PWA Wrestling. We knew who our wrestlers were, what motivated them to wrestle (Death Row was once Kornbred's room mate in the Big House and several times plankednapped The Big Guy's little wooden friend). There was a back story that explained Kory Jackson's character, "El Guappo." Tyrone Holly once aspired to be a Rockette before turning to wrestling in PWA (OK that was a rumor, but I believed it). And when Dan Delicious and Tyrone formed Culture Club, it was an acknowledgement that "the mean streets of San Francisco produced some dagone tough rasslers who delighted in playing grab a## with opponents, much to their horror and most dreaded homophobic nightmare come true.
We believed. We were caught up. We didn't "suspend" disbelief, we left it in the car.
Today, wrestling fans, ask yourselves a single question. How much do you know about my favorite wrestler's back story. Not the GUY who is wrestling, but his character? What motivates Super Nerd to be so tough. What traumatized Terry Ryker so badly that he destroys every wrestler he touches. Does Milo have a secret academic past that haunts his wrestling career? Why is BTY better than you? Are there two personalities living inside Short Bandit, making him good one week and "bad" the next.
What separates one wrestler from another is story. Who, what, where, when and why. Promoters, do your wrestlers come with a history? can they be profiled by some means other than arm size and weight? If the answer is "no." then you have a job to do.
Every wrestler should be equipped with professional grade photographs and be prepared to offer them for sale. The kid who wants your autograph, wants your picture. Every wrestler should have an origin story, a weakness to be exploited, and a goal beyond just "the belt" No wrestler should come into the ring untrained, unprepared or undressed (without boots and tights of some kind). Doing so makes an impression difficult to undo.
Ask yourself, "Will I be remembered in ten years for my adventures in wrestling today?"
Hopefully the promotion you work for will be remembered as fondly as I remember PWA, and you will grace the inside of some one's head as a man worth remembering.
