The idea was for Frank to outshine me as a wrestler, thus I would be frustrated into going all out heel on him. Problem was, Frank really had nothing more than a simple headlock and armbar in his repertoire, and I had a hard time letting him shine as the superior wrestler. I eventually went off kicking him and raking his eyes for the hell of it, which got really good crowd heat.

But the combination of my sheer nervousness and the seamy air in the gym led me to another obstacle. Now, I’ve heard the expression "so exhausted my tongue was hanging out of my mouth" before, but I was so blown up, my mouth so dry, that I felt my cotton-mouth tongue protruding from my mouth! I was so parched I could hardly even swallow, so I raspily said "Frank, come back, hit me."

Frank threw a half-baked punch, but I sold it like a cannon, and took a bump through the ropes and onto the apron to catch my breath. I stood up on the apron with my back to Frank, hoping he would give me a knee from behind. Green as he was, he did just that, and I flung myself into the second row like a rock star looking to bodysurf. As I laid between two fans, I looked around me for a fan holding anything liquid; a stray coke, a beer, an abandoned beer that was now mostly backwash….hell, an abandoned beer that was now mostly backwash with a soggy extinguished cigarette in it, anything to hydrate my mouth!

I grabbed a cup from a lady, took a swig (it was Coke), and hit the ring. I was still blown up, and told Frank to keep coming at me. Totally clueless, Frank threw nothing but heel moves on me, which confused the crowd. He was choking me on the ropes, and at this point I thought to myself "Damn, five minutes is a long time when you’re winded! Isn’t it about time the ref tells us to go home?"

It turns out the referee, instead of telling me it was time to go home, told Frank while I was looking for fluids in the crowd. And Frank, knowing that I would lead the finish, just assumed the ref also told me at some point.

And as babyface Surgeon was choking Jimmy Cyclone the heel who sold like a total babyface, the bell rang out of nowhere. The time limit had expired. All three of us were utterly confused. Frank at least knew to put up his fists and dare me to come back for more, and I knew to revert to my rudo ways and back off in a cowardly fashion. The crowd ---Mary, Buddha & Krishna bless them--- were booing me and cheering Frank! Pete took the screw up in stride, and told me I did much better than he expected.

Second match was Dario Romero (L.A. fans will remember him as jobber "El Negro") vs. Harry Hell, another one of Pete’s students. This match was an example of both Pete’s perceptive and delusional qualities. Harry was a nice guy, but one of the most clueless workers I ever met. Pete dressed Harry up in army fatigues, dyed his hair multi-colored, and dubbed Harry "The Punk Rock Wrestler of the 80s." Harry looked more like a transient wearing a rainbow wig, and had he entered any of L.A.’s punk clubs back then in that get-up, he would have been stomped into oblivion by a hundred steel-toed boots owned by mohawked angst-ridden teens. Pete thought that this gimmick would boost both Harry and the promotion into stardom.

On the other hand, Pete recognized just how limited Harry was in working ability. So Pete ran the match with Romero being introduced first, in nonchalant jobber fashion. He then had Harry make this long, drawn out entrance to The Ramones’ "I Wanna Be Sedated." After lots of showboating and fan-baiting (which Harry actually did quite well), the bell rang. Harry and Dario locked up, Harry clinched a headlock… and Dario suplexed and pinned him, done in less than thirty seconds. The crowd popped bigtime and had a good laugh. Romero humbly went back to the dressing room while Harry Hell pouted and protested his loss.

Next match was another longtime local called White Terror (another TV jobber who was known as Bengali) versus another Pistol Pete newbie named Ken Thompson. Ken had the heel cowboy goatee, did decent matwork, but really didn’t catch on to the concept of working the crowd. Pete kept the match simple. Bengali led Ken through a good display of matwork, a few simple high spots, and finished Ken off with the Cobra Clutch.

The three opening matches on this show is an example of Pete’s strength in booking a show. He really understood that his students had more weaknesses than strengths, and knew to keep the matches short instead of pressuring us to put out arena quality matches that we were incapable of. Like many rookies, everybody wanted to imitate the elbow smashes and suplexes they saw on TV, but Pete gave them a solid list of what they could and could not do. "Okay, you want to use the Cobra Clutch like Sgt. Slaughter? That’s Terror’s finisher! Don’t give the fans the same moves in every match!" The reason I bring this up is because I’ve seen so many California indie promoters ---80s, 90s, and today--- who do virtually no booking other than telling the wrestlers who "goes over." What they get is a show with matches going way too long, same storyline, same high spots. On one show I saw the same exact screw finish twice.

And with the high-impact highspots wrestlers execute today, I get uneasy when I watch some of the indie rookies. It’s not unusual for a promoter to book kids who are inadequately trained and are merely imitating high risk moves they see on TV. I really can’t blame the rookies personally; they don’t know any better because there’s no booker in the dressing room to lay the law down. The kids try to blow everybody’s minds with multiple topés, flying DDTs and moonsaults in an opening match. There’s no pacing, no psychology, and only mild pops from the crowd. Not knowing how to base themselves for the moves, they get a lot more sprains, gashes and breaks than necessary. Believe me, when trained correctly, you get enough of those injuries as it is.

Well, I never dreamed I would spend a whole column describing three opening bouts on an old Southern California indie show. 

NEXT MONTH: 

I promise I’ll wind up the rest of this saga (the remaining Azteca matches and how they were booked to get prime heat) in the next column, and move onto more diverse pieces of Southern California Wrestling Lore! Take care Compadres!