I’ve talked about WWE, WCW, TNA, even ROH, but I haven’t yet talked about…
XLIV. ECW
ECW, like WCW and TNA, began as an offshoot of the National Wrestling Alliance, and originally stood for Eastern Championship Wrestling. Some of its original stars were castoff superstars like Jimmy Snuka, Don Muraco, and Tito Santana, each of whom had at least one reign as heavyweight championship between 1992 and 1993, notably well beyond the primes of their careers. The Sandman straddled this period, too, but perhaps more notable was Shane Douglas capturing the title for the first time, which led to Sabu, which led to Terry Funk, which led back to Douglas, which led, officially, to Extreme Championship Wrestling in 1994.
ECW was the baby of Paul Heyman, who crafted his dream out of a bingo hall in Philadelphia, with a bunch of spare-parts wrestlers he managed to acquire over the years. To hear him explain it, he attained success the Moneyball way, by finding a way to utilizing wrestlers other organizations were underappreciating, mostly by carefully crafting matches to their strengths. Eventually, ECW became known, point-of-fact, as a hardcore haven a style that had developed organically, but was so unique, that alone helped capture the national spotlight.
Still, while all that hardcore mayhem was going on, Heyman really was sticking to his dream, and along the way helped pave the way for a more international style of wrestling to emerge, directly inspiring WCW’s cruiserweight division by bringing in stars like Dean Malenko, Eddie Guerrero, Rey Mysterio, and Chris Jericho. He salvaged the careers of Steve Austin and Mick Foley and helped transition them to WWE immortality. Hell, he even gave us the Dudley Boys (originally a whole Dudley dynasty!).
Still, for some reason, ECW became known for the chants of, well, “ECW! ECW!,” and stars like Sandman, Sabu, and Tommy Dreamer, so-called innovators of violence who bucked the standards of the mainstream, regularly giving Joey Styles the license to craft the catchphrase “Oh my god!” while performing the most insane moves imaginable, all the while shedding buckets of blood. This is what the legacy of the company became.
Early on, though, Heyman realized he needed help to keep his flimsy business model afloat, and turned to an unlikely partnership with WWE for a little added exposure. The original ECW invasion was last millennium, folks. The company did eventually get a national cable TV deal, but it was well beyond ECW’s peak. Eventually, Heyman realized you need real money in order to pay the talent, and by some coincidence, folded his little enterprise at around the same time WWE bought WCW in 2001. Then, of course, the Invasion happened, and not only did WCW wrestlers participate, but ECW competitors as well. It might be argued that Rob Van Dam’s popular career began that year (it perhaps cannot be stressed enough that in the original ECW, he was never a heavyweight champion).
In 2005, Vince McMahon held the ECW One Night Stand PPV, reuniting many of the company’s top stars, in what most people expected to be a one-off event. Little did most people realize that TNA had actually attempted much the same thing, not so long after the Invasion of WWE officially concluded, led by the indomitable and enigmatic Raven, who went on to become, as he had been in ECW, one of its early stars. In 2006, WWE tried it again, but this time had something a little bit more radical in mind. Just as WWE itself was now two brands, Raw and Smackdown, ECW was about to be resurrected as an additional internal promotion, led by RVD, other familiar stars, and a smattering of new faces meant to represent the next generation. The only one of those who stuck it out with WWE was CM Punk, an electric competitor who originally made a name for himself in ROH, where he had a hard time sharing the spotlight with Samoa Joe (hell, even Bryan Danielson couldn’t really do that).
From the beginning, this new ECW was derided as McMahon’s last chance to completely bury Heyman’s dream by subverting the “original hardcore intentions” and watering it down to a third-tier spotlight for aging veterans and newcomers no one cared about. It probably didn’t help that RVD quickly lost both the ECW and WWE heavyweight titles thanks to an incident with the law, and was replaced as the figurehead of the new ECW by WWE stalwart the Big Show. Kurt Angle had been intended to be a star of the brand, but had opted for retirement from the rigors of WWE travel for the light schedule of TNA, which his battered body could better handle. Chris Benoit, a year later, continued that unfortunate trend of truly respected wrestlers being unable to fulfill the ECW commitment a bit more spectacularly, and by that, I mean that he made news in all the wrong ways, nearly sinking the entire sport in the process. Of course, he was dead; what did he care?
Punk graduated to the front of the class, now that all the distractions were gone, but ended up sharing it with the emerging John Morrison, who had at that time been establishing his singles credentials with Jeff Hardy on Raw (it still boggles me that fans were so lukewarm about the Punk-Morrison feud, and that all three had a quasi-reunion on Smackdown a few years later, and still no one cared). The ECW detractors soon enough got what they thought they wanted, when Chavo Guerrero became champion, then Kane, then Matt Hardy, then Mark Henry, each symbols of WWE futility in their own way…Bobby Lashley had been champion in 2007, the “Real Deal” who was supposed to be WWE’s next big thing (if you’ll pardon the expression). People hated him as ECW champion, saw him as a distraction. The next emerging star to hold the intended honor was Jack Swagger in 2009. This was about the time when WWE really started to use ECW as a platform for new stars, including Kofi Kingston. Swagger had been something of an indy sensation, and his elevation into a champion was completely unexpected, but he soon earned the respect of those still paying attention.
When his term ended, ECW gave the wrestling world its final gift. Christian had been a mainstay within WWE until his defection to TNA in TNA, where he believed, rightly so as it turned out, that his talents would find greater respect. Before Kurt Angle went there, he was the first star to truly steal the spotlight from company founder Jeff Jarrett. Yet the siren call of WWE reached Christian’s ears again, and he found himself the newest member of the ECW roster, and soon enough its champion. In fact, aside from Tommy Dreamer having his last moment of ECW glory and Ezekiel Jackson, Christian might go down as this version of ECW’s last and greatest champion.
Anyway, the brand folded in early 2010, replaced by NXT and the returning Tough Enough reality competition, thanks to persistent fan apathy. TNA held another ECW invasion later that fall, which gave birth to EV2.0…by which point even ECW’s biggest fans decided enough was enough. A bald Sabu just isn’t the same Sabu.
ECW’s ultimate legacy? Controversy, innovative wrestling, some of the sport’s biggest stars…All in all, a pretty consistent message, from 1992 to 2010. Not too bad…
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Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Jabroni Companion #20
Now let’s talk about three relatively major wrestlers!
XLI. Chris Jericho
I’ve been a fan of Jericho since 1996, so it’s a little weird for me to list him among “relatively major wrestlers,” too. The thing is, I’m not sure he ever really reached his potential.
As we all know, he received his big break in WCW, where he was initially a part of the cruiserweight scene. The cruiserweight scene was a double-edged sword WWE eventually figured out, a division that both gave smaller competitors a guaranteed spotlight, both also locked them into fighting only certain wrestlers, a glass-ceiling situation that eventually greatly frustrated just about every wrestler who ever competed in it, especially in WCW. In WWE, even at that time (1996), Shawn Michaels, who would have been a cruiserweight competitor, was heavyweight champion. (Granted, Vince McMahon is widely known for favoring when he can, larger athletes.)
Jericho began breaking out of the pack by contradicting the stereotype and developing an outsized personality, which might actually have retarded his development as a wrestler. It might be argued that it was more the personality than the wrestler that WWE came to covet, and while it was often said that Jericho was like the second coming of HBK, he soon enough became known as the first coming of Y2J, and that was a harder thing to figure out than anyone first realized. He was a fantastic wrestler, sure, but one who very often relied on the same sequence of moves (think a weird mix of Bret Hart and John Morrison), who could string a good match along with anyone, but who often seemed to be going through the motions. In addition, his outsized personality naturally lent itself to a heel personality, even though his charisma was on par with The Rock’s (so think a petulant John Cena). All of this combined for an oddly unwieldy superstar, who took far longer to become a world champion than anyone expected (there was actually a tease in 2000, but it didn’t really happen until 2001, even though he’d joined WWE to tremendous fanfare and hype in 1999).
It might actually be said that Jericho was more interesting when he was frustrated than otherwise. In 2004, he engaged in one of his most interesting feuds well outside of world title contention when he, long-time ally Christian, and Trish Stratus ended up in one of the most heated love triangles in wrestling history, an angle that lasted for almost a whole year. In 2005, he helped develop the idea for the Money in the Bank ladder match, and helped launch the world championship career of John Cena, before taking the first of his long breaks from the business, to pursue his rock band Fozzy and other entertainment ambitions. Surprisingly, he decided to come back two years later thanks to a match between Cena and Shawn Michaels. Soon, he developed a persona that more closely matched his best possible style, a cocky heel who thought he was better than everyone. Not surprisingly, he became much more successful in this phase, not only engaging in a much more successful feud with Michaels, but capturing several world championships without anyone wondering what he was doing with them. I would actually argue that this two-year period probably helped salvage his career
Like the next man in this block, Chris Jericho has also begun making his name as a memoirist, having now released two books chronicling his wrestling career from a refreshingly candid perspective.
XLII. Mick Foley
Who else could I be talking about? Mrs. Foley’s baby boy has now written four memoirs, plus an assortment of other literary endeavors (including two novels!), an ambition that helped push wrestling into some of its most mainstream popularity at the start of the millennium. The actual wrestling he has participated in has been likened to Jim Ross’s famous phrase, “bowling shoe ugly,” or in other words generally lacking in finesse. One of the original hardcore icons, and at one time described as a “glorified stuntman” by Ric Flair, Mick Foley is also among the most versatile personalities (Cactus Jack, Mankind, Dude Love) to ever grace a wrestling ring, someone who can connect with the fans by squealing like a pig or going for cheap pop (right here, in Colorado Springs!). It might be argued that without him, The Rock would never have become the superstar he is today, both in wrestling and Hollywood.
The irony that some of his signature actions in (or more accurately around) the ring became less important than his increasingly beloved status must not be lost on Mick Foley. The man who was willing to do whatever bump necessary, who’s missing teeth as well as parts of ears because of it, and lives in untold amounts of pain, might never be completely respected as a wrestler (as TNA has discovered, having tried to push him almost exclusively in that regard, and coming up with failure), probably has a surefire legacy all the same.
I remember seeing Cactus Jack on WCW programming, but it was the entrance of Mankind into WWE where my memories truly begin. Mankind was, to put it bluntly, a freak, someone who pulled out his own hair, who was among the first opponents who gave the Undertaker a legitimate challenge (setting him up for Kane, and finally breaking completely free of the supernatural gimmick, even when he finally came back to it). He was such a unique presence, WWE managed to make a star of him, which had proven difficult elsewhere. In time, “Mankind” blended with “Mick Foley,” and we got the Rock ‘n’ Sock Connection (remember that Mr. Socko was originally an extension of Mankind’s Mandible Claw choking maneuver), and eventually just Mick Foley. There was also Dude Love, of course, which was actually Foley’s original idea for a wrestling gimmick, but who really wants to remember that?
XLIII. Kane
Glen Jacobs also portrayed evil dentist Isaac Yankem and the New Diesel, which covers WWE’s original, miscalculated attempts to employ him, but it wasn’t until he became Undertaker’s half-brother (via Paul Bearer!) that he was finally able, under completely ridiculous circumstances, to just be a monster, which was all he ever needed.
Go figure! But he was accepted as a member of the icon scene almost immediately, and rather than being inextricably tied to his “brother,” Kane blended into the rest of the roster pretty nicely, someone who could form a tag team seemingly with anyone (X-Pac, Rob Van Dam, Big Show), offer a challenge to any champion, and who didn’t need to have championship runs more than once almost every decade (a day in 1998, then nearly half a year in 2010, plus an ECW title run). It all sounds so loony, but it really works. Competing under a mask (to hide extensive “fire damage”) in his early years, Kane exposed his face in 2004, and eventually (other than a shaved head and contacts) looked exactly like Glen Jacobs (or Isaac Yankem!), and still easily maintained his monster status. Remember that he was originally mute? Try telling that to fans who marveled at his creepy tirades last year, when he was ranting about the mystery man who attacked his brother, “putting him in a vegetative state,” and then gleefully taking the credit for it, with that cool red lighting.
Still, the knock on Kane is that he hasn’t really evolved his wrestling style, while Undertaker’s been doing that for a decade. But you can’t argue with dependability and success, either. How will posterity remember him? It’ll be interesting when he finally gets to talk about his full career, if he ever breaks the fourth wall while he’s in the ring, or if he waits until the induction ceremony at the WWE Hall of Fame…
XLI. Chris Jericho
I’ve been a fan of Jericho since 1996, so it’s a little weird for me to list him among “relatively major wrestlers,” too. The thing is, I’m not sure he ever really reached his potential.
As we all know, he received his big break in WCW, where he was initially a part of the cruiserweight scene. The cruiserweight scene was a double-edged sword WWE eventually figured out, a division that both gave smaller competitors a guaranteed spotlight, both also locked them into fighting only certain wrestlers, a glass-ceiling situation that eventually greatly frustrated just about every wrestler who ever competed in it, especially in WCW. In WWE, even at that time (1996), Shawn Michaels, who would have been a cruiserweight competitor, was heavyweight champion. (Granted, Vince McMahon is widely known for favoring when he can, larger athletes.)
Jericho began breaking out of the pack by contradicting the stereotype and developing an outsized personality, which might actually have retarded his development as a wrestler. It might be argued that it was more the personality than the wrestler that WWE came to covet, and while it was often said that Jericho was like the second coming of HBK, he soon enough became known as the first coming of Y2J, and that was a harder thing to figure out than anyone first realized. He was a fantastic wrestler, sure, but one who very often relied on the same sequence of moves (think a weird mix of Bret Hart and John Morrison), who could string a good match along with anyone, but who often seemed to be going through the motions. In addition, his outsized personality naturally lent itself to a heel personality, even though his charisma was on par with The Rock’s (so think a petulant John Cena). All of this combined for an oddly unwieldy superstar, who took far longer to become a world champion than anyone expected (there was actually a tease in 2000, but it didn’t really happen until 2001, even though he’d joined WWE to tremendous fanfare and hype in 1999).
It might actually be said that Jericho was more interesting when he was frustrated than otherwise. In 2004, he engaged in one of his most interesting feuds well outside of world title contention when he, long-time ally Christian, and Trish Stratus ended up in one of the most heated love triangles in wrestling history, an angle that lasted for almost a whole year. In 2005, he helped develop the idea for the Money in the Bank ladder match, and helped launch the world championship career of John Cena, before taking the first of his long breaks from the business, to pursue his rock band Fozzy and other entertainment ambitions. Surprisingly, he decided to come back two years later thanks to a match between Cena and Shawn Michaels. Soon, he developed a persona that more closely matched his best possible style, a cocky heel who thought he was better than everyone. Not surprisingly, he became much more successful in this phase, not only engaging in a much more successful feud with Michaels, but capturing several world championships without anyone wondering what he was doing with them. I would actually argue that this two-year period probably helped salvage his career
Like the next man in this block, Chris Jericho has also begun making his name as a memoirist, having now released two books chronicling his wrestling career from a refreshingly candid perspective.
XLII. Mick Foley
Who else could I be talking about? Mrs. Foley’s baby boy has now written four memoirs, plus an assortment of other literary endeavors (including two novels!), an ambition that helped push wrestling into some of its most mainstream popularity at the start of the millennium. The actual wrestling he has participated in has been likened to Jim Ross’s famous phrase, “bowling shoe ugly,” or in other words generally lacking in finesse. One of the original hardcore icons, and at one time described as a “glorified stuntman” by Ric Flair, Mick Foley is also among the most versatile personalities (Cactus Jack, Mankind, Dude Love) to ever grace a wrestling ring, someone who can connect with the fans by squealing like a pig or going for cheap pop (right here, in Colorado Springs!). It might be argued that without him, The Rock would never have become the superstar he is today, both in wrestling and Hollywood.
The irony that some of his signature actions in (or more accurately around) the ring became less important than his increasingly beloved status must not be lost on Mick Foley. The man who was willing to do whatever bump necessary, who’s missing teeth as well as parts of ears because of it, and lives in untold amounts of pain, might never be completely respected as a wrestler (as TNA has discovered, having tried to push him almost exclusively in that regard, and coming up with failure), probably has a surefire legacy all the same.
I remember seeing Cactus Jack on WCW programming, but it was the entrance of Mankind into WWE where my memories truly begin. Mankind was, to put it bluntly, a freak, someone who pulled out his own hair, who was among the first opponents who gave the Undertaker a legitimate challenge (setting him up for Kane, and finally breaking completely free of the supernatural gimmick, even when he finally came back to it). He was such a unique presence, WWE managed to make a star of him, which had proven difficult elsewhere. In time, “Mankind” blended with “Mick Foley,” and we got the Rock ‘n’ Sock Connection (remember that Mr. Socko was originally an extension of Mankind’s Mandible Claw choking maneuver), and eventually just Mick Foley. There was also Dude Love, of course, which was actually Foley’s original idea for a wrestling gimmick, but who really wants to remember that?
XLIII. Kane
Glen Jacobs also portrayed evil dentist Isaac Yankem and the New Diesel, which covers WWE’s original, miscalculated attempts to employ him, but it wasn’t until he became Undertaker’s half-brother (via Paul Bearer!) that he was finally able, under completely ridiculous circumstances, to just be a monster, which was all he ever needed.
Go figure! But he was accepted as a member of the icon scene almost immediately, and rather than being inextricably tied to his “brother,” Kane blended into the rest of the roster pretty nicely, someone who could form a tag team seemingly with anyone (X-Pac, Rob Van Dam, Big Show), offer a challenge to any champion, and who didn’t need to have championship runs more than once almost every decade (a day in 1998, then nearly half a year in 2010, plus an ECW title run). It all sounds so loony, but it really works. Competing under a mask (to hide extensive “fire damage”) in his early years, Kane exposed his face in 2004, and eventually (other than a shaved head and contacts) looked exactly like Glen Jacobs (or Isaac Yankem!), and still easily maintained his monster status. Remember that he was originally mute? Try telling that to fans who marveled at his creepy tirades last year, when he was ranting about the mystery man who attacked his brother, “putting him in a vegetative state,” and then gleefully taking the credit for it, with that cool red lighting.
Still, the knock on Kane is that he hasn’t really evolved his wrestling style, while Undertaker’s been doing that for a decade. But you can’t argue with dependability and success, either. How will posterity remember him? It’ll be interesting when he finally gets to talk about his full career, if he ever breaks the fourth wall while he’s in the ring, or if he waits until the induction ceremony at the WWE Hall of Fame…
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Jabroni Companion #19
Gonna be running through four wrestlers this time around, so once again we’re just going to jump in. For the most part, these are all wrestlers who’ve earned a greater legacy than their actual legacy seems to indicate, in case you’re looking for a theme…
XXXVII. Ken Shamrock
Once known as the “World’s Most Dangerous Man,” it might actually be forgotten today that Ken Shamrock was the original MMA superstar and only successful transplant to the world of professional wrestling. In a lot of ways, he was very much the original Kurt Angle, too, even though he never did reach quite that far in the ring. I’ve been a champion of this guy since his WWE debut, was still hoping for one last great comeback (as a wrestler, since we all know by now that he can no longer compete at the elite level in the octagon).
That WWE debut was actually during the WrestleMania 13 Bret Hart-Steve Austin match, as a special guest referee, just one of many elements that helped make that one the unofficial main event, or at the very least showstopper (it’s ironic that “Hitman” achieved that distinction on the card Shawn Michaels famously vacated “because he lost his smile”) that evening. Soon after, Shamrock became a full-time competitor, and became known as a submission specialist, not in the sharpshooter or figure-four leg-lock way that wrestling had typically known to that point, but introducing the ankle lock into the popular repertoire (which also makes it ironic that Angle would try and take issue with Jack Swagger over using it, when he took it from Shamrock). He established a gritty style that was perfect for the budding Attitude Era, and a general ring presence that, well, helped make his name as the “World’s Most Dangerous Man”
At WrestleMania XIV, he battled The Rock for the Intercontinental championship, and would have won it if he’d released the ankle lock, and thus was established the reason he’d never go any further with WWE. He was not a vocal figure, but a very good competitor, who could be counted on to be colorful (take notes, Kofi Kingston), help the evening be interesting, do what needed to be done. All this, again, all the more remarkable, because he was basically the face of the early UFC era, the man who could legitimately fight and beat anyone. If this had been only a few years later, if Ken Shamrock had stepped into the ring with Angle or Chris Benoit, he would have been a WWE world champion, beyond a doubt. He would have regularly sat atop the card. Instead, he fought Steve Blackman (another unfortunate underachiever who could’ve done more only a few years later, but was instead relegated to the hardcore division), and ran a brief feud with Chris Jericho, and then vanished.
In 2002, he was the first TNA champion, for a brief period (do you remember that R-Truth held the title a few times, too?). He attempted an MMA comeback (hey, so remember Dan Severn? Tank Abbott?), and got embarrassed. I honestly don’t know why he never attempted a proper wrestling comeback, maybe he just wasn’t interested, or maybe wrestling itself, foolishly, wasn’t. But Ken Shamrock will remain one of my most notable wrestling figures.
XXXVIII. Jeff Jarrett
Maybe Jarrett doesn’t deserve to be lumped into the middle of a pack like this, but there’s little doubt that he never did break through the glass ceiling of fan appreciation, even after successfully helping to launch his own wrestling promotion, TNA. It’s true, he spent a couple of years trying to carry the company’s main event on his shoulders, with about as much luck as he’d had in WCW’s final days (remember NWO 2000?). In the end, the erstwhile “Double-J” might be considered the most successful Southern superstar of the modern era. I mean in the sense that he carried the most traditional aspects of “rasslin” into the 21st century.
No matter your first exposure to Jeff Jarrett, chances he’d already had a ton of experience before it. By his WWE debut in 1994, he was already a seasoned pro. He was a terrific stick man and a technical genius, who lacked the pizzazz of Ric Flair but none of his abilities; in fact, it might be argued that Jarrett did everything he could to be the next “Nature Boy,” without anyone ever mentioning it. His TNA title reigns are a lot more like Flair’s NWA days than Triple H’s were on Raw during the same period, but of course, the fans only saw a couple of heels keeping their respective world titles, and hated them for it, just as they would with JBL, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that any act that draws emotion out of them is a success no matter what they think. That’s the name of the game. Jeff Jarrett was constantly accomplishing that, even if he had to help Chyna get an in-ring career to do it. The ribbon shirt was stupid, let’s face it, and he probably should never have sported long hair (why did no one ever tell Greg Valentine that?), but Jeff Jarrett was a legend before he’d technically done anything to earn the distinction. He made guitars a more acceptable element of matches than sledgehammers, even though neither one has anything to do with any conceivable aspect of wrestling competition.
Jarrett has gone through a lot in recent years, the proverbial rollercoaster, the least of which is earning the respect of Kurt Angle, and has ceded the TNA championship scene to others, all real power within the company, and is still going. Here’re the props you’ve earned, Jeff.
XL. Ahmed Johnson
This one went by a lot of names, but made his WWE mark as Johnson, the first African American to capture a singles championship, after a much-hyped debut matched in hyperbole and flameout only by Bobby Lashley a decade later. I’d like to go on record and state that I wish things had turned out a little better for this one. It’d probable that his body simply wasn’t prepared to handle the rigors of the ring for a sustained period, and that what happened was always bound to happen, but it might’ve be nice if he’d gotten a little farther a little sooner. Maybe it’s just been a long time since I’ve seen an Ahmed Johnson match.
Still. Maybe he was just the new Junkyard Dog, the guy who seemed like he could go anywhere, but ultimately couldn’t. Eventually he helped give Ron Simmons a WWE career, which in itself is a pretty okay legacy (if not that awful “gladiator helmet” Farooq first sported), helping spark the Nation of Domination (and thus the popular career of The Rock), working with the Legion of Doom. He briefly resurfaced in WCW as “Big T,” a replacement in Harlem Heat, with a ton of added weight, was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.
I wonder if Johnson won’t still end up in the WWE Hall of Fame, though, some day, if the company feels like it, if he might still care enough, if that won’t shed some light about his legacy, remind everyone of what might have been, what could have been, what he actually accomplished, in the end.
XLI. Sean Waltman
There was actually a time when it seemed Waltman was going to be a franchise player for WWE, back when he was an improbable sensation (remember his feud with Razor Ramon?), the beanstalk martial artist known as the 1-2-3 Kid (who nonetheless didn’t compete at a WrestleMania until he was known as X-Pac), the babiest of the babyfaces. Probably when Shawn Michaels realized a certain sense of maturity, someone realized they didn’t need Sean anymore. He jumped to WCW and became Syxx, one of the original additions to the New World Order, and began maturing, and then jumped just as abruptly back to WWE and joined D-X as X-Pac, who along with the New Age Outlaws actually made it okay to forget that HBK was ever a member (seriously!). Okay, so his main rivalry was with Shane McMahon, but Shane’s the only McMahon who ever belonged in the ring.
Then, of course, Sean’s career and life completely imploded. I guess he realized he had his own career, that absolutely none of it had made any sense. The truly sad part is that he never really recovered. Oh, he’s back with WWE in a backstage capacity, but Sean shouldn’t be a backstage talent. That’s clearly not what he was born for. Maybe he has an epic comeback in him, maybe he doesn’t. He’s another star due for a reappraisal, though, a little more respect.
XXXVII. Ken Shamrock
Once known as the “World’s Most Dangerous Man,” it might actually be forgotten today that Ken Shamrock was the original MMA superstar and only successful transplant to the world of professional wrestling. In a lot of ways, he was very much the original Kurt Angle, too, even though he never did reach quite that far in the ring. I’ve been a champion of this guy since his WWE debut, was still hoping for one last great comeback (as a wrestler, since we all know by now that he can no longer compete at the elite level in the octagon).
That WWE debut was actually during the WrestleMania 13 Bret Hart-Steve Austin match, as a special guest referee, just one of many elements that helped make that one the unofficial main event, or at the very least showstopper (it’s ironic that “Hitman” achieved that distinction on the card Shawn Michaels famously vacated “because he lost his smile”) that evening. Soon after, Shamrock became a full-time competitor, and became known as a submission specialist, not in the sharpshooter or figure-four leg-lock way that wrestling had typically known to that point, but introducing the ankle lock into the popular repertoire (which also makes it ironic that Angle would try and take issue with Jack Swagger over using it, when he took it from Shamrock). He established a gritty style that was perfect for the budding Attitude Era, and a general ring presence that, well, helped make his name as the “World’s Most Dangerous Man”
At WrestleMania XIV, he battled The Rock for the Intercontinental championship, and would have won it if he’d released the ankle lock, and thus was established the reason he’d never go any further with WWE. He was not a vocal figure, but a very good competitor, who could be counted on to be colorful (take notes, Kofi Kingston), help the evening be interesting, do what needed to be done. All this, again, all the more remarkable, because he was basically the face of the early UFC era, the man who could legitimately fight and beat anyone. If this had been only a few years later, if Ken Shamrock had stepped into the ring with Angle or Chris Benoit, he would have been a WWE world champion, beyond a doubt. He would have regularly sat atop the card. Instead, he fought Steve Blackman (another unfortunate underachiever who could’ve done more only a few years later, but was instead relegated to the hardcore division), and ran a brief feud with Chris Jericho, and then vanished.
In 2002, he was the first TNA champion, for a brief period (do you remember that R-Truth held the title a few times, too?). He attempted an MMA comeback (hey, so remember Dan Severn? Tank Abbott?), and got embarrassed. I honestly don’t know why he never attempted a proper wrestling comeback, maybe he just wasn’t interested, or maybe wrestling itself, foolishly, wasn’t. But Ken Shamrock will remain one of my most notable wrestling figures.
XXXVIII. Jeff Jarrett
Maybe Jarrett doesn’t deserve to be lumped into the middle of a pack like this, but there’s little doubt that he never did break through the glass ceiling of fan appreciation, even after successfully helping to launch his own wrestling promotion, TNA. It’s true, he spent a couple of years trying to carry the company’s main event on his shoulders, with about as much luck as he’d had in WCW’s final days (remember NWO 2000?). In the end, the erstwhile “Double-J” might be considered the most successful Southern superstar of the modern era. I mean in the sense that he carried the most traditional aspects of “rasslin” into the 21st century.
No matter your first exposure to Jeff Jarrett, chances he’d already had a ton of experience before it. By his WWE debut in 1994, he was already a seasoned pro. He was a terrific stick man and a technical genius, who lacked the pizzazz of Ric Flair but none of his abilities; in fact, it might be argued that Jarrett did everything he could to be the next “Nature Boy,” without anyone ever mentioning it. His TNA title reigns are a lot more like Flair’s NWA days than Triple H’s were on Raw during the same period, but of course, the fans only saw a couple of heels keeping their respective world titles, and hated them for it, just as they would with JBL, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that any act that draws emotion out of them is a success no matter what they think. That’s the name of the game. Jeff Jarrett was constantly accomplishing that, even if he had to help Chyna get an in-ring career to do it. The ribbon shirt was stupid, let’s face it, and he probably should never have sported long hair (why did no one ever tell Greg Valentine that?), but Jeff Jarrett was a legend before he’d technically done anything to earn the distinction. He made guitars a more acceptable element of matches than sledgehammers, even though neither one has anything to do with any conceivable aspect of wrestling competition.
Jarrett has gone through a lot in recent years, the proverbial rollercoaster, the least of which is earning the respect of Kurt Angle, and has ceded the TNA championship scene to others, all real power within the company, and is still going. Here’re the props you’ve earned, Jeff.
XL. Ahmed Johnson
This one went by a lot of names, but made his WWE mark as Johnson, the first African American to capture a singles championship, after a much-hyped debut matched in hyperbole and flameout only by Bobby Lashley a decade later. I’d like to go on record and state that I wish things had turned out a little better for this one. It’d probable that his body simply wasn’t prepared to handle the rigors of the ring for a sustained period, and that what happened was always bound to happen, but it might’ve be nice if he’d gotten a little farther a little sooner. Maybe it’s just been a long time since I’ve seen an Ahmed Johnson match.
Still. Maybe he was just the new Junkyard Dog, the guy who seemed like he could go anywhere, but ultimately couldn’t. Eventually he helped give Ron Simmons a WWE career, which in itself is a pretty okay legacy (if not that awful “gladiator helmet” Farooq first sported), helping spark the Nation of Domination (and thus the popular career of The Rock), working with the Legion of Doom. He briefly resurfaced in WCW as “Big T,” a replacement in Harlem Heat, with a ton of added weight, was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.
I wonder if Johnson won’t still end up in the WWE Hall of Fame, though, some day, if the company feels like it, if he might still care enough, if that won’t shed some light about his legacy, remind everyone of what might have been, what could have been, what he actually accomplished, in the end.
XLI. Sean Waltman
There was actually a time when it seemed Waltman was going to be a franchise player for WWE, back when he was an improbable sensation (remember his feud with Razor Ramon?), the beanstalk martial artist known as the 1-2-3 Kid (who nonetheless didn’t compete at a WrestleMania until he was known as X-Pac), the babiest of the babyfaces. Probably when Shawn Michaels realized a certain sense of maturity, someone realized they didn’t need Sean anymore. He jumped to WCW and became Syxx, one of the original additions to the New World Order, and began maturing, and then jumped just as abruptly back to WWE and joined D-X as X-Pac, who along with the New Age Outlaws actually made it okay to forget that HBK was ever a member (seriously!). Okay, so his main rivalry was with Shane McMahon, but Shane’s the only McMahon who ever belonged in the ring.
Then, of course, Sean’s career and life completely imploded. I guess he realized he had his own career, that absolutely none of it had made any sense. The truly sad part is that he never really recovered. Oh, he’s back with WWE in a backstage capacity, but Sean shouldn’t be a backstage talent. That’s clearly not what he was born for. Maybe he has an epic comeback in him, maybe he doesn’t. He’s another star due for a reappraisal, though, a little more respect.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Jabroni Companion #18
We’re going to talk about two more wrestling luminaries this time. Let’s jump in!
XXXV. Jerry Lawler
Briefly discussed last time, wrestling’s most enduring “King” had been a notable presence for decades, whether as a wrestler or ringside commentator. Best known in his home territory in Memphis, TN, Lawler had worked with WWE since 1993, longevity that very few others in the company can match.
I first remember him from an intense rivalry with Bret Hart (probably Hart’s finest overall rivalry from that period), culminating in a Sharpshooter the “Hitman” positively refused to let go, one of the first truly notable wrestling acts of my experience. Lawler quickly retreated behind the mic, where he would frequently and bitterly deny allegations that he was the “Burger King,” but it wasn’t until he was paired with Jim Ross that he really rose to prominence in WWE. His boisterous appreciation of the female form became Lawler’s hallmark (and at least one real relationship he found as hard to hide as his connection to “Grandmaster Sexay,” Brian Christopher, who was after all his son). What’s remarkable is that he actually maintained his double life. In WWE, Lawler would watch the gigantic Mabel in the ring, but in Memphis, Lawler promoted him as a star attraction. He rarely competed for WWE, but maintained an active presence in his own arena. Incredibly, it seemed he would never actually compete at a WrestleMania, until this year’s, during a heated feud with fellow ringside personality and decided non-wrestler Michael Cole.
There were feuds with Doink the Clown (which included perhaps the last time midget wrestlers were properly integrated into WWE, quite memorably, at the 1994 Survivor Series, which you need to see to believe), Andy Kaufman (revisited in the 1999 movie MAN ON THE MOON, for which Lawler agreed to personally recreate the famous Letterman appearance where coffee was generously exchanged), world championships with AWA, the crown, the tights with just the one strap, times when he really did feel like a relic when he made that sporadic wrestling appearance, when he called to drop the boom on, say, Brian Kendrick (who had funny things to say about it afterward), times spent away from WWE employment (never for very long), unquestionably the most regular presence on Raw, both before and after the dawn of the brand era…I can’t pretend to be an authority on Jerry “The King” Lawler, but to be a professed fan, who loves the fact that he’s an accomplished cartoonist on top of everything else!
XXXVI. Bret Hart
If only for that 1993 feud with Jerry Lawler that effectively culminated at Summer Slam (though it was supposed to continue into Survivor Series, until Lawler experienced one of his separations with WWE, and was replaced by Shawn Michaels for a Family Feud match meant to springboard a feud with his brother Owen), Bret Hart remains inextricably linked to Lawler in my estimation of the history of professional wrestling. I know, seems a little silly, but in many ways, the two are more similar than you might at first think. Both are hardcore relics of a bygone era, an earlier time when wrestling was more like Bruno Sammartino remembers it, focused on the art of wrestling itself, and the territorial mentality that no longer exists. Whereas Lawler successfully adapted to the modern age, I’d wager the “Hitman,” in many ways, never did, and it’s all thanks to the same family legacy that helped launch his career in the first place.
The Harts are still beyond a doubt the most famous wrestlers to ever emerge from Canada, the slightly more resilient version of the Von Erich clan that dominated Texas in the 1980s. As you may be aware, the Von Erichs tragically imploded, with one suicide after another. True, on the surface, that’s not what happened to the Harts, but like Jack Kennedy before them, both the Harts and the Von Erichs were dominated by a patriarch bent on achieving greater success through his offspring than he ever achieved (a shame that none of them was aware of the Guerrero clan south of the border, but then, the business still managed to kill Eddie). Bret’s older brothers survived and retired from unremarkable careers, but Stu’s shining pupil was fortunate to emerge during WWE’s formative days, rising to prominence as a member of the Hart Foundation before striking out on his own.
By 1992, steroids finally became a scandal for the company, even though it had blatantly driven the original Hulkamania machine, and Vince McMahan frantically sought a different kind of champion. After a brief transition period with Randy Savage and Ric Flair holding the heavyweight belt, the “Excellence of Execution” was finally, somewhat improbably, given his chance, a sort of latter-day Bob Backland, which was all the more appropriate because in later years Backland would actually return to feud with Hart. After setting off on a furious pace of title defenses against every conceivable challenger (including Shawn Michaels at the 1992 Survivor Series, four years before HBK would finally be given his turn, and five before the far more infamous SS encounter), “Hitman” was felled by Yokozuna, a Samoan monster posing as an unstoppable Japanese machine, and fell well off the championship scene for a year, only to collide with Yokozuna and his presumed successor, Lex Luger, in 1994. By this point, Bret and younger brother Owen had developed an intense chemistry in the ring, and together they put on the most notable championship clash of this particular reign at Summer Slam, before “Diesel” (Kevin Nash) claimed the championship for a year.
I wouldn’t blame Hart for getting a little spun around in this whirlwind, but it never seemed to occur to him that he might take his efforts in the ring a little more seriously. He sincerely enjoyed what he was doing, no matter the opponent. He found chemistry with Hakushi (who lost a great deal in the recent natural disasters that struck Japan) in 1995, but that feud went nowhere very fast. He’d rose to WWE prominence in 1992 by putting on a spectacular match with Davey Boy Smith, the “British Bulldog,” at Summer Slam, but rarely seemed interested in developing a reputation for putting on truly great matches, instead focusing on his technique, a few spotlight matches here and there, a few worthy opponents, but rarely when it really counted. It’s a pattern that would ultimately doom his career. I don’t mean to suggest that Bret Hart is not one of the truly notable wrestlers in the history of the sport, but he spoiled his chance to be one of the greats, or “The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be,” as he liked to put it, by steadfastly believing in technique alone. No wonder, too, since Stu’s infamous training “dungeon” featured hours meditating on specific holds. I don’t know how a showman like Owen Hart emerged from that kind of environment, and neither did Owen, who will have his own feature later, so I won’t dwell too much on his now.
Suffice it to say, but I would have done Bret’s career differently. I would have allowed Owen to beat him, if only momentarily, for the title in 1994. Even if Owen didn’t take his career seriously, it would have allowed fans to, and would have given Bret a more genial profile. Instead, the 1997 Bret who acted like a spoiled brat well before the Montreal Screwjob, convinced both in character and privately that he was an untouchable Canadian institution, ended up happening. Even the feud he had with Steve Austin in 1996 and 1997 could have been taken more seriously. WWE will have you believe that Austin’s push was delayed because the company mistakenly believed he’d work better as a heel than as a heelish face, but if anyone could have seen past that, it should have been Bret Hart, if he understood wrestling as well as he thought he did. Unless he was always looking after his own interests, as he bitterly claimed was the case with Shawn Michaels.
I really don’t mean to open old wounds, but the fact is, Bret Hart remains a fascinating subject. He knew he would be miserable in WCW, and while I certainly can understand and identify with that kind of clairvoyance, it’s not as if he tried all that hard. There were plenty of opportunities, if only he’d tried a little. The onscreen attitude he’d used in WWE didn’t serve him so well in WCW, but either he never understood that, or was legitimately given a chance for something else (maybe it just seemed too authentic by that point). If Hulk Hogan refused to work with him, he had plenty of other options, Sting and “Diamond” Dallas Page being two he half-heartedly embraced (Ric Flair had been unimpressed in 1992, and probably uninterested in 1998). There was the concussion he received from Goldberg, which he blamed for the end of his career, but then, shouldn’t a veteran like Bret Hart have been prepared to handle someone as apparently unpolished as Goldberg by that point? He’d let his apathy literally endanger not just his career, but his life. He was a world champion a few times, in the end, with WCW, but he admits even now that he simply didn’t care. He had plenty of reasons by that point, but perhaps many of them he’d created for himself. I don’t want to revise history, either, but an Owen Hart who had more support from his own brother might not have been hanging around rafters in 1999. I realize that Bret must have had that exact thought a thousand times in just 1999 alone, but still. It was something he barely considered in 1994, let alone the last months of 1997, when he reluctantly switched allegiances, and left his brother forever behind.
Whereas Jerry Lawler is the story of a wrestler who tackled the winds of change and resiliently bounced back from every challenge, Bret Hart is the story of a career that saw every challenge seemingly as an insurmountable problem. If even one of his turning points had been different, if he’d been ready for that first world title, if he’d handled the feud with Owen differently, if the Montreal Screwjob hadn’t happened, if his brother hadn’t died, if he hadn’t been kicked in the head by Bill Goldberg…Still, a remarkable story unfolded in 2010. The “Hitman” actually returned to WWE. Suddenly, that career fraught with peril became a thing of the past, and a new chapter was opened, a chance to get everything right, and that’s exactly what happened. Whodathunk? One of the most troublesome legacies in wrestling history suddenly has a chance for a full redemption. And perhaps greater things still.
XXXV. Jerry Lawler
Briefly discussed last time, wrestling’s most enduring “King” had been a notable presence for decades, whether as a wrestler or ringside commentator. Best known in his home territory in Memphis, TN, Lawler had worked with WWE since 1993, longevity that very few others in the company can match.
I first remember him from an intense rivalry with Bret Hart (probably Hart’s finest overall rivalry from that period), culminating in a Sharpshooter the “Hitman” positively refused to let go, one of the first truly notable wrestling acts of my experience. Lawler quickly retreated behind the mic, where he would frequently and bitterly deny allegations that he was the “Burger King,” but it wasn’t until he was paired with Jim Ross that he really rose to prominence in WWE. His boisterous appreciation of the female form became Lawler’s hallmark (and at least one real relationship he found as hard to hide as his connection to “Grandmaster Sexay,” Brian Christopher, who was after all his son). What’s remarkable is that he actually maintained his double life. In WWE, Lawler would watch the gigantic Mabel in the ring, but in Memphis, Lawler promoted him as a star attraction. He rarely competed for WWE, but maintained an active presence in his own arena. Incredibly, it seemed he would never actually compete at a WrestleMania, until this year’s, during a heated feud with fellow ringside personality and decided non-wrestler Michael Cole.
There were feuds with Doink the Clown (which included perhaps the last time midget wrestlers were properly integrated into WWE, quite memorably, at the 1994 Survivor Series, which you need to see to believe), Andy Kaufman (revisited in the 1999 movie MAN ON THE MOON, for which Lawler agreed to personally recreate the famous Letterman appearance where coffee was generously exchanged), world championships with AWA, the crown, the tights with just the one strap, times when he really did feel like a relic when he made that sporadic wrestling appearance, when he called to drop the boom on, say, Brian Kendrick (who had funny things to say about it afterward), times spent away from WWE employment (never for very long), unquestionably the most regular presence on Raw, both before and after the dawn of the brand era…I can’t pretend to be an authority on Jerry “The King” Lawler, but to be a professed fan, who loves the fact that he’s an accomplished cartoonist on top of everything else!
XXXVI. Bret Hart
If only for that 1993 feud with Jerry Lawler that effectively culminated at Summer Slam (though it was supposed to continue into Survivor Series, until Lawler experienced one of his separations with WWE, and was replaced by Shawn Michaels for a Family Feud match meant to springboard a feud with his brother Owen), Bret Hart remains inextricably linked to Lawler in my estimation of the history of professional wrestling. I know, seems a little silly, but in many ways, the two are more similar than you might at first think. Both are hardcore relics of a bygone era, an earlier time when wrestling was more like Bruno Sammartino remembers it, focused on the art of wrestling itself, and the territorial mentality that no longer exists. Whereas Lawler successfully adapted to the modern age, I’d wager the “Hitman,” in many ways, never did, and it’s all thanks to the same family legacy that helped launch his career in the first place.
The Harts are still beyond a doubt the most famous wrestlers to ever emerge from Canada, the slightly more resilient version of the Von Erich clan that dominated Texas in the 1980s. As you may be aware, the Von Erichs tragically imploded, with one suicide after another. True, on the surface, that’s not what happened to the Harts, but like Jack Kennedy before them, both the Harts and the Von Erichs were dominated by a patriarch bent on achieving greater success through his offspring than he ever achieved (a shame that none of them was aware of the Guerrero clan south of the border, but then, the business still managed to kill Eddie). Bret’s older brothers survived and retired from unremarkable careers, but Stu’s shining pupil was fortunate to emerge during WWE’s formative days, rising to prominence as a member of the Hart Foundation before striking out on his own.
By 1992, steroids finally became a scandal for the company, even though it had blatantly driven the original Hulkamania machine, and Vince McMahan frantically sought a different kind of champion. After a brief transition period with Randy Savage and Ric Flair holding the heavyweight belt, the “Excellence of Execution” was finally, somewhat improbably, given his chance, a sort of latter-day Bob Backland, which was all the more appropriate because in later years Backland would actually return to feud with Hart. After setting off on a furious pace of title defenses against every conceivable challenger (including Shawn Michaels at the 1992 Survivor Series, four years before HBK would finally be given his turn, and five before the far more infamous SS encounter), “Hitman” was felled by Yokozuna, a Samoan monster posing as an unstoppable Japanese machine, and fell well off the championship scene for a year, only to collide with Yokozuna and his presumed successor, Lex Luger, in 1994. By this point, Bret and younger brother Owen had developed an intense chemistry in the ring, and together they put on the most notable championship clash of this particular reign at Summer Slam, before “Diesel” (Kevin Nash) claimed the championship for a year.
I wouldn’t blame Hart for getting a little spun around in this whirlwind, but it never seemed to occur to him that he might take his efforts in the ring a little more seriously. He sincerely enjoyed what he was doing, no matter the opponent. He found chemistry with Hakushi (who lost a great deal in the recent natural disasters that struck Japan) in 1995, but that feud went nowhere very fast. He’d rose to WWE prominence in 1992 by putting on a spectacular match with Davey Boy Smith, the “British Bulldog,” at Summer Slam, but rarely seemed interested in developing a reputation for putting on truly great matches, instead focusing on his technique, a few spotlight matches here and there, a few worthy opponents, but rarely when it really counted. It’s a pattern that would ultimately doom his career. I don’t mean to suggest that Bret Hart is not one of the truly notable wrestlers in the history of the sport, but he spoiled his chance to be one of the greats, or “The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be,” as he liked to put it, by steadfastly believing in technique alone. No wonder, too, since Stu’s infamous training “dungeon” featured hours meditating on specific holds. I don’t know how a showman like Owen Hart emerged from that kind of environment, and neither did Owen, who will have his own feature later, so I won’t dwell too much on his now.
Suffice it to say, but I would have done Bret’s career differently. I would have allowed Owen to beat him, if only momentarily, for the title in 1994. Even if Owen didn’t take his career seriously, it would have allowed fans to, and would have given Bret a more genial profile. Instead, the 1997 Bret who acted like a spoiled brat well before the Montreal Screwjob, convinced both in character and privately that he was an untouchable Canadian institution, ended up happening. Even the feud he had with Steve Austin in 1996 and 1997 could have been taken more seriously. WWE will have you believe that Austin’s push was delayed because the company mistakenly believed he’d work better as a heel than as a heelish face, but if anyone could have seen past that, it should have been Bret Hart, if he understood wrestling as well as he thought he did. Unless he was always looking after his own interests, as he bitterly claimed was the case with Shawn Michaels.
I really don’t mean to open old wounds, but the fact is, Bret Hart remains a fascinating subject. He knew he would be miserable in WCW, and while I certainly can understand and identify with that kind of clairvoyance, it’s not as if he tried all that hard. There were plenty of opportunities, if only he’d tried a little. The onscreen attitude he’d used in WWE didn’t serve him so well in WCW, but either he never understood that, or was legitimately given a chance for something else (maybe it just seemed too authentic by that point). If Hulk Hogan refused to work with him, he had plenty of other options, Sting and “Diamond” Dallas Page being two he half-heartedly embraced (Ric Flair had been unimpressed in 1992, and probably uninterested in 1998). There was the concussion he received from Goldberg, which he blamed for the end of his career, but then, shouldn’t a veteran like Bret Hart have been prepared to handle someone as apparently unpolished as Goldberg by that point? He’d let his apathy literally endanger not just his career, but his life. He was a world champion a few times, in the end, with WCW, but he admits even now that he simply didn’t care. He had plenty of reasons by that point, but perhaps many of them he’d created for himself. I don’t want to revise history, either, but an Owen Hart who had more support from his own brother might not have been hanging around rafters in 1999. I realize that Bret must have had that exact thought a thousand times in just 1999 alone, but still. It was something he barely considered in 1994, let alone the last months of 1997, when he reluctantly switched allegiances, and left his brother forever behind.
Whereas Jerry Lawler is the story of a wrestler who tackled the winds of change and resiliently bounced back from every challenge, Bret Hart is the story of a career that saw every challenge seemingly as an insurmountable problem. If even one of his turning points had been different, if he’d been ready for that first world title, if he’d handled the feud with Owen differently, if the Montreal Screwjob hadn’t happened, if his brother hadn’t died, if he hadn’t been kicked in the head by Bill Goldberg…Still, a remarkable story unfolded in 2010. The “Hitman” actually returned to WWE. Suddenly, that career fraught with peril became a thing of the past, and a new chapter was opened, a chance to get everything right, and that’s exactly what happened. Whodathunk? One of the most troublesome legacies in wrestling history suddenly has a chance for a full redemption. And perhaps greater things still.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Jabroni Companion #17
The next two topics doesn’t concern wrestlers or wrestling itself directly, but they are absolutely integral to the experience as it is known in the 21st Century.
XXXIII. Ringside Commentators
Maybe you don’t always appreciate it, but half the experience of the match isn’t the action in the ring itself, but what you listen to while it’s going on. Naturally, I’m not talking live events here, but what you experience on TV or PPV. Every generation of fans has signature commentators. Gordon Solie was recently enshrined in WWE’s Hall of Fame, despite the fact that very few current fans will have any kind of real experience with him, even though devoted, long-time, or even just plain students of the game will easily appreciate his contributions to professional wrestling. The same goes for Gorilla Monsoon, or even Jesse Ventura, both of whom went through many different incarnations throughout their careers. They’re a part of history now (even Ventura’s political career), but you can’t watch an early WrestleMania without hearing their voices.
During the Attitude Era, WWE fans made the same acquaintance with Jerry Lawler and Jim Ross, both of whom already had long and storied careers well before then, but came to embody so much of that era, it’s difficult to associate them with anything else (besides Lawler with “puppies” and JR with “Stone Cold! Stone Cold!”). Believe it or not, but even Michael Cole will come to be looked on fondly.
I tend to enjoy commentators more often than not (though Mark Maddon and the specific combination of Mike Tenay and Don West did their fair share of irritation), even when they don’t get a lot of respect. I think WCW’s greatest gift to wrestling was perhaps the finest ever lineup of commentators (it’s easily the best perk of WWE’s regular DVD compilations to revisit them), but I’m not sure how widely this opinion is shared. The biggest gamble of WWE’s brand era was the theory that the company could come up with another team that could rival Lawler and JR, but I think Cole and Tazz more than rose to the challenge, establishing a completely different relationship and perspective that both respected the veterans (as Cole is continuously mocked over, concerning The Undertaker) and hyped the fresh talent (Tazz repeatedly shouted “Here comes the pain!” every time Brock Lesnar showed up for a match) for a roster that more often than not needed the attention focused squarely on the talent. Even JBL, when he temporarily joined the ringside team, was a consummate hype man, not so much for the storylines, but to make a big deal about the spectacle (whereas Tenay and West tried too hard to promote TNA itself).
I wish I could spend a lot of time talking about all my fond memories of ringside commentators, but the best way to experience these guys is to actually hear them, so I guess what I’m really trying to say here is sometimes, just sit back and enjoy that chatter. It’s not just tradition, it’s integral to the experience, and more often than not, it’s completely worth it.
XXXIV. Theme Music
More than commentators, one of the signature elements of the modern era is a wrestler’s theme music, something that wasn’t totally common until the 1990s, and not really perfected until the end of that decade. With all apologies to the efforts of WCW, ECW, and TNA, WWE has been the undisputed champion. Some precedents did allow us to enjoy, say, “Pomp and Circumstance” for Randy Savage, and Ric Flair’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” (more commonly known as the theme from Stanly Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey) continued along that trend (which eventually also gave us “Ride of the Valkries” with Daniel Bryan), but “Real American” and Hulk Hogan set the bar, taught everyone how the entrance music can rouse a crowd as much as the actual wrestler, set the tone.
I would actually argue that sometimes, the music can be too perfect, almost overwhelm the star. Ironically, John Morrison has probably been a victim twice in his career, both during his M-N-M days, and when he consciously evoked the legendary lead singer of the Doors. His music is always awesome, his entrance always bombastic, not because of some traditional pyro pop, but because he immediately stands out. I would argue if the company really wants to put him to the next level, they need to come up with another awesome theme. WWE has done several memorable themes for individual stars. That’s the way it works. (On the flipside, it almost never works when they try to tweak a perfected theme, rather than outright change it. The Rock and Steve Austin were victims of this. Rob Van Dam’s actually got better over the years. Edge, meanwhile, kept the same basic intro, but had his theme improved, too, when his character got stronger, with an outright change. WWE’s version of the Goldberg theme, however, was another miscalculation.)
Maybe this is another thing you need to experience to really appreciate, maybe just pay attention a little more, rather than gloss over a familiar element. TNA has been improving its set in recent years, after many generic and abysmal efforts. I’m glad that Mr. Anderson seems to have the best of that lot. Remember that Raw a couple of weeks ago, when CM Punk and John Cena dueled at the end of the show, hoisting their titles to get their particular themes played? Yeah, it might have seemed a little ridiculous, but it was also pretty awesome. That’s how important theme music can be.
XXXIII. Ringside Commentators
Maybe you don’t always appreciate it, but half the experience of the match isn’t the action in the ring itself, but what you listen to while it’s going on. Naturally, I’m not talking live events here, but what you experience on TV or PPV. Every generation of fans has signature commentators. Gordon Solie was recently enshrined in WWE’s Hall of Fame, despite the fact that very few current fans will have any kind of real experience with him, even though devoted, long-time, or even just plain students of the game will easily appreciate his contributions to professional wrestling. The same goes for Gorilla Monsoon, or even Jesse Ventura, both of whom went through many different incarnations throughout their careers. They’re a part of history now (even Ventura’s political career), but you can’t watch an early WrestleMania without hearing their voices.
During the Attitude Era, WWE fans made the same acquaintance with Jerry Lawler and Jim Ross, both of whom already had long and storied careers well before then, but came to embody so much of that era, it’s difficult to associate them with anything else (besides Lawler with “puppies” and JR with “Stone Cold! Stone Cold!”). Believe it or not, but even Michael Cole will come to be looked on fondly.
I tend to enjoy commentators more often than not (though Mark Maddon and the specific combination of Mike Tenay and Don West did their fair share of irritation), even when they don’t get a lot of respect. I think WCW’s greatest gift to wrestling was perhaps the finest ever lineup of commentators (it’s easily the best perk of WWE’s regular DVD compilations to revisit them), but I’m not sure how widely this opinion is shared. The biggest gamble of WWE’s brand era was the theory that the company could come up with another team that could rival Lawler and JR, but I think Cole and Tazz more than rose to the challenge, establishing a completely different relationship and perspective that both respected the veterans (as Cole is continuously mocked over, concerning The Undertaker) and hyped the fresh talent (Tazz repeatedly shouted “Here comes the pain!” every time Brock Lesnar showed up for a match) for a roster that more often than not needed the attention focused squarely on the talent. Even JBL, when he temporarily joined the ringside team, was a consummate hype man, not so much for the storylines, but to make a big deal about the spectacle (whereas Tenay and West tried too hard to promote TNA itself).
I wish I could spend a lot of time talking about all my fond memories of ringside commentators, but the best way to experience these guys is to actually hear them, so I guess what I’m really trying to say here is sometimes, just sit back and enjoy that chatter. It’s not just tradition, it’s integral to the experience, and more often than not, it’s completely worth it.
XXXIV. Theme Music
More than commentators, one of the signature elements of the modern era is a wrestler’s theme music, something that wasn’t totally common until the 1990s, and not really perfected until the end of that decade. With all apologies to the efforts of WCW, ECW, and TNA, WWE has been the undisputed champion. Some precedents did allow us to enjoy, say, “Pomp and Circumstance” for Randy Savage, and Ric Flair’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” (more commonly known as the theme from Stanly Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey) continued along that trend (which eventually also gave us “Ride of the Valkries” with Daniel Bryan), but “Real American” and Hulk Hogan set the bar, taught everyone how the entrance music can rouse a crowd as much as the actual wrestler, set the tone.
I would actually argue that sometimes, the music can be too perfect, almost overwhelm the star. Ironically, John Morrison has probably been a victim twice in his career, both during his M-N-M days, and when he consciously evoked the legendary lead singer of the Doors. His music is always awesome, his entrance always bombastic, not because of some traditional pyro pop, but because he immediately stands out. I would argue if the company really wants to put him to the next level, they need to come up with another awesome theme. WWE has done several memorable themes for individual stars. That’s the way it works. (On the flipside, it almost never works when they try to tweak a perfected theme, rather than outright change it. The Rock and Steve Austin were victims of this. Rob Van Dam’s actually got better over the years. Edge, meanwhile, kept the same basic intro, but had his theme improved, too, when his character got stronger, with an outright change. WWE’s version of the Goldberg theme, however, was another miscalculation.)
Maybe this is another thing you need to experience to really appreciate, maybe just pay attention a little more, rather than gloss over a familiar element. TNA has been improving its set in recent years, after many generic and abysmal efforts. I’m glad that Mr. Anderson seems to have the best of that lot. Remember that Raw a couple of weeks ago, when CM Punk and John Cena dueled at the end of the show, hoisting their titles to get their particular themes played? Yeah, it might have seemed a little ridiculous, but it was also pretty awesome. That’s how important theme music can be.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Jabroni Companion Special - The PWI 500 2011 Edition
Wow, so by now, everyone who cares ought to know that The Miz took the top spot in this year's PWI 500. It's a fairly reasonable selection, certainly better than dean Malenko (1997) and Rob Van Dam (2002), though it doesn't say a whole lot of the general quality of professional wrestling during this particular grading period. The Miz put on some innovative championship defenses, even if he's not nearly the quality competitor the ideal PWI 500 headliner should be. (In that respect, Malenko and RVD are certainly superior.) He's more than pulled his weight as an ambassador, though, more than anyone not named The Rock.
If I've got problems, it's elsewhere on the list. At #5, Japanese star Takashi Sigiura sounds like a far more interesting wrestler than his general lack of US exposure would indicate. That's part of my problem with PWI. On the one hand, it certainly makes good business sense to concentrate on the market your audience with most be familiar with, but on the other, you have an incredible platform, and media like YouTube, that could finally explode the full scope of wrestling to its widest potential. There's no reason why I should have been surprised by Sigiura's listing, other than my lack of interest in reading about him elsewhere in international roundups that've consistently made stars like Hiroshi Tanahashi and Satoshi Kojima sound more compelling. I get that the Japanese audience probably is more complicated than I can appreciate, but when you describe Takashi as arguably the best wrestler in the world, your case falls apart when he ranks below someone like Randy Orton, who despite serving a couple terms as world champion during the grading period, sleepwalked throughout all of it, and only recently came alive again thanks to the efforts of a hungry rival like Christian.
To make matters worse, PWI also makes Daniel Bryan's year sound like a failure, even while it spends a lot of time apologizing for the fact that lately, The Miz has looked anything like someone to get behind. Bryan had a remarkable fall, and even found himself slated for a championship match at WrestleMania against a former world champion. Just because that match was pulled for time (with very little build-up, this match would have come off as filler if it'd been short, no matter how much people genuinely like the guy), doesn't mean he's completely lost the momentum that made Bryan one of the biggest stories of 2010. Just ask Shingo (#86) what a short memory can get you. A year ago, he and Bryan put on a match of the year candidate before a very small audience, and PWI gobbled it up. A year later, that match isn't even mentioned in either write-up. What gives?
Every year, PWI finds some excuse to say TNA underachieves, even last year, when AJ Styles became its first star to capture the top spot in the PWI 500. Time to find a new tune, PWI? I'd think so, anyway. Instead of catering to lack of general appreciate, why don't you recognize how incredibly versatile, say, Styles was over the past twelve months? He didn't have world title gold, but he was undoubtedly one of the company's most important wrestlers, as he's been since the start. He's only gotten moreso. There's a reason why he was the signature "name" at Destination X.
I don't want to dig around too much, but that's the general idea. When ROH can get a spot in the top ten during an incredibly lean period (do you honestly expect Eddie Edwards, ultimately, to compare to CM Punk, Samoe Joe, or Desmond Wolfe, who was sadly listed as inactive?), you know there's some fishy reasoning in the editorial pool. It's normal. Nothing's perfect, not even the son of Mr. Perfect. But shoot for something greater.
If I've got problems, it's elsewhere on the list. At #5, Japanese star Takashi Sigiura sounds like a far more interesting wrestler than his general lack of US exposure would indicate. That's part of my problem with PWI. On the one hand, it certainly makes good business sense to concentrate on the market your audience with most be familiar with, but on the other, you have an incredible platform, and media like YouTube, that could finally explode the full scope of wrestling to its widest potential. There's no reason why I should have been surprised by Sigiura's listing, other than my lack of interest in reading about him elsewhere in international roundups that've consistently made stars like Hiroshi Tanahashi and Satoshi Kojima sound more compelling. I get that the Japanese audience probably is more complicated than I can appreciate, but when you describe Takashi as arguably the best wrestler in the world, your case falls apart when he ranks below someone like Randy Orton, who despite serving a couple terms as world champion during the grading period, sleepwalked throughout all of it, and only recently came alive again thanks to the efforts of a hungry rival like Christian.
To make matters worse, PWI also makes Daniel Bryan's year sound like a failure, even while it spends a lot of time apologizing for the fact that lately, The Miz has looked anything like someone to get behind. Bryan had a remarkable fall, and even found himself slated for a championship match at WrestleMania against a former world champion. Just because that match was pulled for time (with very little build-up, this match would have come off as filler if it'd been short, no matter how much people genuinely like the guy), doesn't mean he's completely lost the momentum that made Bryan one of the biggest stories of 2010. Just ask Shingo (#86) what a short memory can get you. A year ago, he and Bryan put on a match of the year candidate before a very small audience, and PWI gobbled it up. A year later, that match isn't even mentioned in either write-up. What gives?
Every year, PWI finds some excuse to say TNA underachieves, even last year, when AJ Styles became its first star to capture the top spot in the PWI 500. Time to find a new tune, PWI? I'd think so, anyway. Instead of catering to lack of general appreciate, why don't you recognize how incredibly versatile, say, Styles was over the past twelve months? He didn't have world title gold, but he was undoubtedly one of the company's most important wrestlers, as he's been since the start. He's only gotten moreso. There's a reason why he was the signature "name" at Destination X.
I don't want to dig around too much, but that's the general idea. When ROH can get a spot in the top ten during an incredibly lean period (do you honestly expect Eddie Edwards, ultimately, to compare to CM Punk, Samoe Joe, or Desmond Wolfe, who was sadly listed as inactive?), you know there's some fishy reasoning in the editorial pool. It's normal. Nothing's perfect, not even the son of Mr. Perfect. But shoot for something greater.
Jabroni Companion #16
Wrestling is a strange, strange business. No, just take my next topic for example:
XXXII. Steve Austin
It may be hard for the current generation to fully appreciate, because even I only have about half his career that I was fully able to appreciate, but here’s a guy who literally broke all the rules, rising from a greatly-respected wrestler to full-blown superstar. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen, either historically or in the present. Unless of course you count CM Punk. I have a feeling that when I get around to talking about Punk directly in a couple months, he’s going to be even bigger than he is now, but let’s get started with his unprecedented precedent.
Austin was indeed an admired, underappreciated competitor in WCW for about half of the 1990s, spending time as a tag team wrestler and mid-card title holder (a model for many other wrestlers I can think of, come to think of it). He didn’t have “it,” so the brass had concluded, and so he was going nowhere fast. Transition to ECW for a few months, and he mostly spent his time venting on the mic. Even when he was signed by WWE in 1995, most observers hardly took notice. Austin became known as the “Ringmaster,” and served as Ted DiBiase’s protégé, even got to be the second officially recognized Million Dollar Champion. He still had hair during this period, I might add.
A feud with Savio Vega followed (if I were Vega, I’d still be peeved that Austin’s most notable angle prior to explosion was never revisited), “Stone Cold” was adopted as a nickname, and the 1996 King of the Ring went down in the history books with the phrase “Austin 3:16.” Should I note here that the “Texas Rattlesnake” won the tournament by defeating Jake Roberts? Can you even fathom how Steve still basically had to wait two years for the company to rebuild itself around him?
It’s true! To be fair, CM Punk has benefited a lot from WWE actually allowing him to get away with previously taboo things completely on purpose. “Austin 3:16” came about as perhaps one of the last great unscripted adlibs in wrestling history (not that I know the history of unscripted adlibs; it may well be the greatest, and probably is). It took time to figure out how to present this new character in its entirety, and the masterstroke of giving this heelish face a corporate boss to play against was simply unheard-of in 1996 (in contrast, Eric Bischoff joined the New World Order with very little fanfare, and was promptly swallowed whole; imagine how things would have been different if that one’d played out differently). Bret Hart did a lot of things, both intentionally and otherwise, to help the Steve Austin era to begin. First, there was perhaps his greatest match ever, at WrestleMania 13, and later on in 1997, the infamous Montreal Screwjob, which very publically exposed Vince McMahon as more than just a color commentator prone to describing every single piece of action as a “maneuver.”
Actually, when you really think about it, you do kind of scratch your head at just how convoluted a lot of the things that came to define the rise of “Stone Cold” really were. Almost every single relevant development in his first year as champion came from his rivalry with McMahon. His notable opponents in the ring included “Dude Love,” the most ill-conceived identity Mick Foley adopted during his career, Kane, and Undertaker, who kept battling him and failing to make any kind of reasonable impact as rivals. Everyone wanted to see Steve Austin, and then an embarrassed Vince McMahon. Ironically, the very wrestling skills that had once gotten Austin noticed were reduced to one of the most limited repertoires since Hulk Hogan. Plenty of that had to do with increasingly limited mobility, thanks to a neck injury we won’t get into here, plus bad knees that only got worse. As a result, the concept of the brawl became so exaggerated it almost made more sense to keep the action anywhere but in the ring. No, Steve had very few worthy opponents in those days.
It got so bad that The Rock was elevated to the world title scene, during Austin’s hottest year, 1998, which set the stage for a record three WrestleMania matches, the only time WWE has counted on the same pair of wrestlers on its biggest card so many times (only Kane and Undertaker have a chance of meeting that total). The Rock was such a perfect foil that even when Austin wasn’t around, a completely different star (Triple H) had to be concocted to keep the ball going. In the fall of 1999, Steve finally had surgery on his neck, which put him out of action for a year, and by the time he returned, all his momentum had effectively dissipated. As I’ve tried to suggest, it was the Invasion angle that brought Steve Austin back to relevance, even if no one seemed to appreciate it at the time. Soon after, probably because of that very fact, he saw his opportunities dry up, and decided to bring his active career to an end, more suddenly than anyone had been expecting, in early 2002.
Another fact that many fans don’t seem to appreciate about Austin is that he had become such an iconic personality, that he could literally keep his character going and stay mostly retired (with a last official match occurring at WrestleMania XIX; as if you have to ask who his opponent was), and he did just that during 2003, and on a much more sporadic basis afterward, realizing perhaps too late that he could transition into movies (which is not to belittle his current career so much as suggest he could have been more successful if he’d started earlier).
Anyway, my point may have gotten away from me. Suffice it to say, “Stone Cold” Steve Austin is a formula that probably no one else could have figured out, except Austin and Vince McMahon. CM Punk is indeed very similar, but the remarkable thing about this particular career revision is that Punk is at a point where he can literally still dazzle in the ring both on the mic and in action. Austin’s revelation came too late, and caught the company completely off-guard. Shawn Michaels was supposed to be the breakthrough champion of 1996, and as it turned out, that was basically the only time he would ever have to shine in that capacity. Bret Hart stole 1997, with only a little rub given to Austin in the process, which he himself never seemed to appreciate (imagine how things could have played out differently for everyone if he’d played his little hissy-fit against a rebellious, don’t-care-about-anyone-else’s-opinions “Rattlesnake,” and not against, say, The Patriot; maybe he’d’ve stayed in WWE, and the other Hart I’m not mentioning by name could possibly have had a different fate, too…).
Austin didn’t have a chance to develop the kind of presence in either WWE or wrestling in general that, to a certain extent, Hulk Hogan still enjoys. Wear-and-tear shortened his career considerably; while it could be said that he burned faster and brighter than anyone else for a couple of years, it’s difficult to imagine that a guy who appeared as a minor figure in “The Expendables” amidst a gaggle of way-past-their-prime action stars can truly be absolutely pleased with his legacy. Then again, for a brief period, he was literally a legend in his own time. Wrestling attained mainstream success during that era, a credibility it hadn’t known for decades, and quickly lost the moment he vanished for that neck surgery. A wrestler who waited almost his whole career for vindication, who won it just at the moment where he was barely able to continue wrestling, well, it could certainly have been worse.
I don’t know. Steve Austin is another topic that absolutely will continue to fascinate me. That’s not such a bad fate.
XXXII. Steve Austin
It may be hard for the current generation to fully appreciate, because even I only have about half his career that I was fully able to appreciate, but here’s a guy who literally broke all the rules, rising from a greatly-respected wrestler to full-blown superstar. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen, either historically or in the present. Unless of course you count CM Punk. I have a feeling that when I get around to talking about Punk directly in a couple months, he’s going to be even bigger than he is now, but let’s get started with his unprecedented precedent.
Austin was indeed an admired, underappreciated competitor in WCW for about half of the 1990s, spending time as a tag team wrestler and mid-card title holder (a model for many other wrestlers I can think of, come to think of it). He didn’t have “it,” so the brass had concluded, and so he was going nowhere fast. Transition to ECW for a few months, and he mostly spent his time venting on the mic. Even when he was signed by WWE in 1995, most observers hardly took notice. Austin became known as the “Ringmaster,” and served as Ted DiBiase’s protégé, even got to be the second officially recognized Million Dollar Champion. He still had hair during this period, I might add.
A feud with Savio Vega followed (if I were Vega, I’d still be peeved that Austin’s most notable angle prior to explosion was never revisited), “Stone Cold” was adopted as a nickname, and the 1996 King of the Ring went down in the history books with the phrase “Austin 3:16.” Should I note here that the “Texas Rattlesnake” won the tournament by defeating Jake Roberts? Can you even fathom how Steve still basically had to wait two years for the company to rebuild itself around him?
It’s true! To be fair, CM Punk has benefited a lot from WWE actually allowing him to get away with previously taboo things completely on purpose. “Austin 3:16” came about as perhaps one of the last great unscripted adlibs in wrestling history (not that I know the history of unscripted adlibs; it may well be the greatest, and probably is). It took time to figure out how to present this new character in its entirety, and the masterstroke of giving this heelish face a corporate boss to play against was simply unheard-of in 1996 (in contrast, Eric Bischoff joined the New World Order with very little fanfare, and was promptly swallowed whole; imagine how things would have been different if that one’d played out differently). Bret Hart did a lot of things, both intentionally and otherwise, to help the Steve Austin era to begin. First, there was perhaps his greatest match ever, at WrestleMania 13, and later on in 1997, the infamous Montreal Screwjob, which very publically exposed Vince McMahon as more than just a color commentator prone to describing every single piece of action as a “maneuver.”
Actually, when you really think about it, you do kind of scratch your head at just how convoluted a lot of the things that came to define the rise of “Stone Cold” really were. Almost every single relevant development in his first year as champion came from his rivalry with McMahon. His notable opponents in the ring included “Dude Love,” the most ill-conceived identity Mick Foley adopted during his career, Kane, and Undertaker, who kept battling him and failing to make any kind of reasonable impact as rivals. Everyone wanted to see Steve Austin, and then an embarrassed Vince McMahon. Ironically, the very wrestling skills that had once gotten Austin noticed were reduced to one of the most limited repertoires since Hulk Hogan. Plenty of that had to do with increasingly limited mobility, thanks to a neck injury we won’t get into here, plus bad knees that only got worse. As a result, the concept of the brawl became so exaggerated it almost made more sense to keep the action anywhere but in the ring. No, Steve had very few worthy opponents in those days.
It got so bad that The Rock was elevated to the world title scene, during Austin’s hottest year, 1998, which set the stage for a record three WrestleMania matches, the only time WWE has counted on the same pair of wrestlers on its biggest card so many times (only Kane and Undertaker have a chance of meeting that total). The Rock was such a perfect foil that even when Austin wasn’t around, a completely different star (Triple H) had to be concocted to keep the ball going. In the fall of 1999, Steve finally had surgery on his neck, which put him out of action for a year, and by the time he returned, all his momentum had effectively dissipated. As I’ve tried to suggest, it was the Invasion angle that brought Steve Austin back to relevance, even if no one seemed to appreciate it at the time. Soon after, probably because of that very fact, he saw his opportunities dry up, and decided to bring his active career to an end, more suddenly than anyone had been expecting, in early 2002.
Another fact that many fans don’t seem to appreciate about Austin is that he had become such an iconic personality, that he could literally keep his character going and stay mostly retired (with a last official match occurring at WrestleMania XIX; as if you have to ask who his opponent was), and he did just that during 2003, and on a much more sporadic basis afterward, realizing perhaps too late that he could transition into movies (which is not to belittle his current career so much as suggest he could have been more successful if he’d started earlier).
Anyway, my point may have gotten away from me. Suffice it to say, “Stone Cold” Steve Austin is a formula that probably no one else could have figured out, except Austin and Vince McMahon. CM Punk is indeed very similar, but the remarkable thing about this particular career revision is that Punk is at a point where he can literally still dazzle in the ring both on the mic and in action. Austin’s revelation came too late, and caught the company completely off-guard. Shawn Michaels was supposed to be the breakthrough champion of 1996, and as it turned out, that was basically the only time he would ever have to shine in that capacity. Bret Hart stole 1997, with only a little rub given to Austin in the process, which he himself never seemed to appreciate (imagine how things could have played out differently for everyone if he’d played his little hissy-fit against a rebellious, don’t-care-about-anyone-else’s-opinions “Rattlesnake,” and not against, say, The Patriot; maybe he’d’ve stayed in WWE, and the other Hart I’m not mentioning by name could possibly have had a different fate, too…).
Austin didn’t have a chance to develop the kind of presence in either WWE or wrestling in general that, to a certain extent, Hulk Hogan still enjoys. Wear-and-tear shortened his career considerably; while it could be said that he burned faster and brighter than anyone else for a couple of years, it’s difficult to imagine that a guy who appeared as a minor figure in “The Expendables” amidst a gaggle of way-past-their-prime action stars can truly be absolutely pleased with his legacy. Then again, for a brief period, he was literally a legend in his own time. Wrestling attained mainstream success during that era, a credibility it hadn’t known for decades, and quickly lost the moment he vanished for that neck surgery. A wrestler who waited almost his whole career for vindication, who won it just at the moment where he was barely able to continue wrestling, well, it could certainly have been worse.
I don’t know. Steve Austin is another topic that absolutely will continue to fascinate me. That’s not such a bad fate.
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