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He was a movie star turned president,
not like Eisenhower or DeNiro,
But, I think you know what I mean
Tried to convince us he was heaven sent
With that carny smile and a missile up his sleeve.
“I Think You Know What I Mean” Warren Haynes
Before becoming a full-time, fanatical Razorbacks fan; as a youth, I was enamored with professional wrestling and particularly the Junkyard Dog or JYD, as he was affectionately called. I eagerly awaited 11 a.m. on Saturdaze each weekend and the sweet sounds of bodies smashing onto the spring-loaded mats to burst outta our RCA color console TV set speakers.
My neighborhood friend on the corner had a grandfather who was a judge of some sort. This judge had a friend who sat on the board of the Arkansas State Fairgrounds, and he would get free, ringside tickets for us, when the Mid-South Wrestling bus came to town. We watched many of the greats battle it out – Kamala, King Kong Bundy, Andre the Giant, Porkchops Cash, and the list goes on. All of ‘em in that embarrassing dump of an arena called Barton Coliseum. We sat in the very front row every time and heard their secrets about what move was coming up next.
Aside from wrestling, I saw too many below average concerts there, as well. .38 Special and the like used to perpetually roll through town, up to twice a year, and drag some other usually lamer opening acts around. Skynyrd was scheduled to play one week after the fatal airplane crash that killed the heart and barefooted soul of the band – Ronnie Van Zant. – among others.
My first concert, Billy Squier, opened for Foreigner (spit) and blew them off the stage. There were other memorable shows, but the two best I ever saw in the asbestos pit were Hank Williams, Jr., in ‘83 and Van Halen in ‘84. Those two shows still reside in my list of top 10 concerts seen outta a list upwards of 300 or so total musical performances attended.
I will begrudgingly admit to watching pro wrestling well into my 30s. Vince McMahon’s WWF Monday Night Smackdown would pack giant arenas across the country, and a few of us would gather on occasion and tune in. Usually late into the broadcast, when the chants of Goldberg! Goldberg! Goldberg! filled the air at whatever 25k+ seat arena the WWF had sold out that night. If you don’t know of Goldberg, look him up. I know wrestling is fake and all that, but this guy brought the wood. I mean he’d flat knock you outta your shoes, if you know what I mean.
Over the years wrestling matches got wilder, with more different and zanier props introduced. What started with steel cage matches and folding metal chairs has evolved into brass tacks, nails, ladders, sheets of glass, chainsaws, barbed wire – whatever it takes. The purpose of these props is to give the participants an opportunity to bleed. And boy, once the blood begins to flow, the grapplers sell it hard. The more dangerous their work is perceived to be by the fans – the crazier they go, and the more popular they become.
Professional wrestling has always been scripted (despite all the blood). just like every greyhound race track I’ve ever been to. Winners – humans and dogs alike, are pre-decided before their race/match begins, so it is a theatrical performance more than a sporting event since it lacks any honest competition.
And finally, holy moly it’s hot out there! So during these upcoming dog daze of summer make sure to drink lotsa icy, cold fluids, stick close to your loved ones and get ready for Razorbacks football – it’ll be here before we know it.
WPS!