Showing posts with label concussion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label concussion. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Bruised Brain pt3


Overtop crushed stone and some 50 odd years of trash I ran, cold wind shrinking my manhood through a growing rent in my jeans and dew soaking my socks with every stride. I remember it being cold, real cold. I remember beating on the emergency door on the opposite side of the arena, next to the heels locker room and telling whoever opened it “Tell Mozart I forgot the whole f’n match!” I remember running back around the building, but not ever re-entering. All faded to black.

Hamburg Fieldhouse is nothing more than a giant airplane hanger (what airplane hanger is not giant I wonder). I know your thinking it is some grand arena by the legendary names I threw out in part one, and it is in a nostalgic kind of way, but in reality is nothing more than a 20,000 square foot airplane hanger built in the 50’s with a kitchen/concession stand on one end, a small lobby and two locker rooms on the other with bleachers in between.
Don’t get me wrong I love the place, the lighting and sound were perfect as was the crowd, but here is the significance to me giving you such background: The locker rooms were separated by the lobby. That meant no communication between the heels (bad guys) and faces (good guys) once the doors to the public were opened.
“So what?” you say? Well, the key to surviving wrestling and putting on a great show is communication, both before and during a match. Generally speaking I break down pro-wrestling into three type of matches:

A Shoot: Every wrestler comes upon these, as have I. A shoot is every bit as real as the UFC and potentially more dangerous. Shoots usually occur when opponents have genuine animosity towards each other, or one has too big an ego and does not believe he should do the job, or you are put in a match with a complete buffoon who knows nothing of what he is doing and deserves to be taught a lesson before he hurts you. The only difference between a Pro-Wrestling shoot match and the UFC is you try and make it appear as if it is a scripted match. In a shoot chances are one of you is leaving bloodied, battered, and possibly with broken bones. Just follow some of Kurt Angle’s earlier matches in the WWE where every veteran thought to test him.

Spot Fest: This is exactly what it sounds, no story line, no thought, no artistic talent. Basically it is two opponents just going out and doing moves equivalent to a high pace training session with each wrestler trying to get in as many of his specialty moves as possible. This is increasingly common today, especially among the Indies and has developed a whole cult following known as “smart marks.” It is more a backyard style and frowned upon by traditionalists. These wrestlers, though extremely athletic and talented, rarely last long in the business or advance.

Traditional: Here you have a match where you try to get a story across, one that usually follows the standard arc found in most books. You start with an exposition, move to a conflict, encounter complications, hit the climax, find a resolution and then a conclusion. Each match then contributes to another plot consisting of beginning, middle and end. These plots can last a couple of shows or if they are really well done nearly a year. Generally you go in with an outline of what you want to do and alter it as needed on feedback by the crowd. The story is what is important, not getting in all the moves you can and making yourself look good. These types of matches are becoming increasingly hard to pull off as the public’s attention spans are dwindling.

Some wrestlers like to plan out the entire match move for move, sequence after sequence. However, most script only beginning sequences and the finish and call the match on the fly. In other words if we take an 8 minute match the first minute is planned as is the last. The other 6 minutes are made up as you go with an attempt to fill the premise of your story. Ideally if you have anything out of the ordinary you want to include in the match you of coarse let your opponent know ahead of time by walking through it. Again, survival by communication. You do not want to get a broken neck because of lack of communication. Unfortunately this is not always possible.

Both my matches for this show, as are all my matches, were traditional matches. Each had a specific story line set and meant to outline the next several shows spanning over a few months. It was imperative that we fulfill these story lines otherwise find ourselves curtain jerking. In this case we had these matches entirely scripted out due to our inexperience in the business at the time. This was of course a mistake. It is hard enough remembering one match let alone two or three as I never possessed a great memory. A harsh lesson learned.

I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I remember of that night, strange as it might seem. I can tell you the match went flawlessly and it went exactly as we planned several hours beforehand despite my concussion. Several wrestlers, fans, and owners told me it was the best match I had ever had to date. It even received a write up and a picture in one of the magazines. Here is a quote from the magazine that stands out “In the eleventh match, JJ Johnson defeated Mozart Fontaine. Making his singles debut was the pompous Mozart Fontaine who was brought to the ring by the manager of the Box Office, E.S. Easton. Johnson was relentless in his attack on Fontaine and when Easton attempted to get involved his interference backfired and gave JJ the win.”
I guess I did okay. All that training paid off and allowed me to perform to perfection under duress. Of course the majority of credit goes to my opponent Mozart Fontaine who took control of the match and made sure the plot was fulfilled. He could easily have shot on me, but was the ever consummate professional. He might not be the model of physical perfection, but the guy is definitely skilled in the ring. His ability to remain calm in the face of adversity allowed our match to flow perfectly.
As for the final match of the night….I have no idea? All I came home with was a bloody pair of jeans with a giant rip through the crotch. I sure hope I had clean underwear on that night. Still do not know whatever happened to my gym bag and street clothes.

And that my friend is what happens when you get a concussion. Hoped you enjoyed the story, and yes it is true.

Your lesson for this day Grasshopper:
Train to perform under duress.
Train to overcome adversity.
Train not to look good but to perform to perfection when conditions are not perfect.
Train Renegade.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Bruised Brain Pt.2

The puddle of sweat grows outward upon the aged concrete. For some reason it fascinates me, just as it did on the hardwood. There I sit on the narrow bench sucking the blood from a broken lip and staring at sweat.
How would you describe the taste of blood? Think about it.
The foul smell of greasy chicken and pierogis fill one nostril. The stench of passing fast food fills the other along with the cursed smell of Hot Stuff that plagues every locker room. I could get up and flee the foulness, make my way out of the concrete block prison to the curtain like the other wrestlers, but there I sit staring at that damn puddle of sweat surrounded by concrete blocks peeling 50 years of paint. To my right is a sink, a urinal and of course an occupied stall. The stall is always occupied in the locker rooms of sporting events it seems. Before me a shower drips, it is where the doctor usually does his stitching. For once I don’t need stitches, except my pants which are without a crotch. To my left is another bench lined with wrestler’s gym bags, spray bottles of water, oil, and that f’n Hot Stuff! The room is no more than 15x15 and old, real old.
“JJ, Yo JJ” The voice is that of Boogie Woogie Brown. There he sits, all 370 pounds of him, in the center of what has been named the “Faces” locker room on a stool made for a first grader. He is wearing nothing but green weenie benders (yes the same as in the pic) and licking his fingers while juggling a clipboard along with a white Styrofoam carton of chicken and pierogis. I don’t even know what the hell a pierogi is or how to spell it, but Boogie Woogie Brown it is not a pleasant site to behold at the moment. Yet I remember him sitting on that tiny stool clear as me staring at these words I type, just as I remember the pool of sweat and confliction of smells.
“Hey you okay? You need the Doc?” I can’t tell you what I replied but the next words I remember were “Your up next.”
“Next?”
How can the end of match 7 become the beginning of match 10 in the blink of an eye? With a concussion that’s how. Generally speaking the average wrestling match is about 8 minutes long, add in entrances and such and your looking at roughly 15 minutes. Somehow 30+ minutes passed with me just staring at a puddle of sweat and no one asking otherwise. The "Doc" was ofcoarse out enjoying the show.
“Match 11, that’s you brother.”
“Who am I wrestling?”
“Mozart, you sure you okay?” I am only guessing at how the conversation went as my next memory is of me sneaking out the curtain and bolting out the emergency door in a sprint with the hopes of no one seeing….

Oh No! Did our hero succumb to the pressure? Will our hero be named a coward? Where did he go minutes before his match? Did he come back? What happens to a person with a concussion as he confronts adversity?
Stay tuned kiddies your questions will be answered along with some “secrets” of the business in our next exciting episode. Same Bat time, Same Bat Channel.

Ahh Grasshopper did you really read the passage from the ancient Book of Change? I mean really read it? Read it again, contemplate it and then we shall proceed with your training.
“The superior man respectfully appreciates the cycles of increase and decrease…. External ploys will not put an end to the natural cycle of deterioration. Time Will. Nurture your mind and body… Look for wisdom in your acceptance of the times.” I Ching #23

Tune-age of the day: I see no one killed the rooster it is playing on the radio. Good thing, because it is one of my favorites.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Bruised Brain

A puddle of sweat or perhaps it is blood, I can not tell, rapidly turns into a lake beneath my head. It is hot, just like the air I am trying to breathe through lungs that just will not quite fill. My eyes are closed and opening them would only result in seeing strands of hair, my hair, and that pool of blood, but it is still not yet time. Instead I work on getting my lungs to right themselves and envision the stain my soul is forever adding among the thousands of others upon the aged hardwood floor of the Hamburg Fieldhouse. I could be laying just where Superstar Billy Grahm, Nikoli Volkoff, Bruno Sammartino, Zbysko, Blassi, Backlund, Rogers, shall I go on? had once laid. Cool.
“Okay what’s next?” I think to myself running the next several sequences I want to attempt through my head. The pace will be fast, time short. “I really want to get that Russian Leg Sweep and Slingshot Suplex in, but how?After the moonsault? Perfect I will have him throw me in, work me to a corner, reverse and then hit him with the Russian leg sweep. Do I go for a pin or submission with the octopus? What will the fans buy?”
Slowly I open my eyes and stagger to my feet finding my opponent nowhere in sight. That’s good. The hundreds of fans are shouting, urging me on, urging me to turn around. “JJ, JJ, JJ….” This is good too, as they are into the match. We are doing exactly what we wanted. The crowd is in the palm of our hands. I let the drama build, take a few steps like I am drunk before flicking the hair from out of my eyes and slowly turning around. Too late, or just right depending on your point of view. Fast Eddie is already airborne from the top rope. All I see is a blur of black and gold tights, a trace of blond hair and an extremely hairy chest. No one can forget that chest I assure you. I reach outward in self defense and the next image is that of a size 12 boot slamming me in the jaw followed by a flash of light. Downward I travel the hardwood floor meets my skull and another bright light fills the darkness.
I would love to finish, but that is all I remember. That is what happens when you get a concussion. Sometimes you remember bits and pieces, most of the time nothing. I did continue to wrestle and finish the match which remarkably went on for another four minutes. Eventually I did lose thanks to my opponent’s personal groomer/manager Sebastion Night’s interference. I have been told was a phenomenal match, I even have pictures and yes that was “The Moonsault” you see. I guess I have to take their word for the rest of those four minutes. I am sure it was a great finish, with Fast Eddie I have no doubt it was epic.

This blog was inspired by a recent post on Prosource.net pertaining to a CBC medical report on multiple concussions among athletes of which I have had plenty.

But wait this is not the end of the story. Oh no this was only match #7 on a 12 match card. I was also scheduled to wrestle match #11 and #12 too!
Stay tuned kiddies to see how the mighty Ring Crew Guy fared. Did he wrestle? Was he rushed to the hospital? What happened on that night of non stop action? Same Bat channel, same Bat time.

Ahh Grasshopper you have returned for more training. Contemplate this: “The superior man respectfully appreciates the cycles of increase and decrease…. External ploys will not put an end to the natural cycle of deterioration. Time Will. Nurture your mind and body… Look for wisdom in your acceptance of the times.” I Ching #23

Tune-age of the day: AIC, Can anyone kill the rooster?