When the day finally came for a few of us rookies to get our physical exams, I met a local wrestling and boxing celebrity I remembered from childhood in Dr. Bernhard Schwartz. For years Dr. Schwartz had been the ringside doctor at the Olympic Auditorium shows, and be it boxing or wrestling, the announcers put the old fella over like he was this veteran physician, respected by the sports world as well as the medical community. 

As it turns out, he must have also gained major respect in the Wiccan and paranormal community, for Dr. Schwartz was also a psychic. When it was my turn to get examined, he whipped out the physical evaluation form, and to my astonishment, he had already filled out my medical history before meeting me. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I had no prior concussions, and never suffered from limitations like diabetes, vertigo, or neuralgia. He only lacked telepathic power when it came to my blood pressure, so I extended my arm to get it pumped. When he wrapped the device around my arm, this noxious odor oozing from the illustrious physician nearly flattened me. I had trouble deciphering whether the scent was emanating from his body, ratty hair, or unwashed smock. At that moment I knew I was up against a subtle but toxic rival, a man whose mere presence was much more intimidating than Pistol Pete’s shoot session.  

My blood pressure was perfect (what a relief), so I handed Dr. Schwartz my twenty bucks (cash only) and was on my way.   

Pete decided it was time to pin a gimmick on me. The music era of Duran-Duran and Echo and the Bunnymen was dawning, and Pete, with enthusiasm, told me I would be his “New Wave” wrestler. He explained how nobody would pay to see ordinary Kurt Brown, but if they saw this exotic wrestler with spiked hair and pierced ears, they would flock to see him. Maybe at a sideshow in 1930, but in 1983? 

And then it was time for the name. Pete suppressed a grin best he could, and looking at his tag partner Buddha Khan, said “Hey Buddha, I got the perfect name for Kurt: MATT BURNS!” They both bit their lips and stared at me, wondering if I would “get the joke.” I chuckled at the play on words and rolled my eyes. Pete and Buddha burst out laughing. Pete repeated “Matt Burns” to every wrestler who walked through the door that day, and gradually the real punch line hit me when I realized that he sincerely thought he was the first person in pro wrestling history to come up with the “Matt Burns” pseudonym.   

But Pete got serious, and pegged me with my real ring name: Barry Redding. Now, I followed no other pro sports, so when Pete told me “Barry Redding is the name of a popular football star on the L.A. Rams. When they see that Barry Redding is on the show, they’ll pay big bucks.”  Even though I had been placating the guy booking me on my first show, even I winced “no” at that. So we compromised with the name “Jimmy Cyclone.” Jimmy Cyclone was the name of a racehorse that Pete won money on a few weeks earlier. I figured it was okay, doubting that fans would flock to my debut expecting to see an equestrian wonder.   

Pete put together a tag team called The Surgeons, a spin-off on The Medics. Surgeon #1 was L.A. boy George DeLaisa, and #2 was a fellow named Frank who had only a few wrestling lessons. My debut match would be with Surgeon #2. It would be his first match too!

The thought of working my first match with a guy greener than me gave me a case of the nerves. I began phoning what few wrestlers I knew, the most helpful being Ed Moretti and Tom Hankins. I yapped to them how I was freaking over ruining my first appearance. “If you forget your spots,” Moretti told me, “grab an arm bar, and stay there until you clear your thoughts. And if you do screw up, remember: it’s only Bell, California.” Tom gave me similar advice, adding “You’re in a ten minute opening match. You’re the heel, so if you feel lost, take a breather and work the crowd.”  

I’ve made wisecracks about Pistol Pete in these last two columns, and it’s high time I focus on his strong points. Pete booked for a California based indie promotion during a time when you had to do a lot more groundwork due to the commission’s presence. He also did plenty of footwork to acquire auditoriums, plan publicity, and make certain all wrestlers and refs working the shows were licensed. He never bullshit me about my payoffs, nor did he pull the “Lost money on this show, can’t pay you,” line.