The Described Wrestling Project 003: Hardcore Wrestling and Happy Nihilism (Script)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kuStEHipBQ

Welcome to April Fools Day of WCW 2000. You may be asking: who on this day might be the fools? The answer is, us watching this, and also, the people in the ring. Because this is WCW Saturday Night, the definition of a C-Show at this point in time, the definition of “hey do you want to watch more wrestling? Are you sure? Really? Well, here you go, here’s what we got.” Me though? I’m happy as I can be, I’m about to swan dive into radioactive coolant runoff, and I’m a mutant- this stuff’s only good for my complexion. Enjoy, suckers! The water’s warm, and also glowing!

Don’t believe me? Well, we’re looking at Bryan Knobbs, one half of the Nasty Boys, wearing urban camo that is almost certainly made to make them look more like an alternative to the Dudley Boys in the WWF. Knobbs is not a guy that’s well liked, known for being a boorish and disagreeable toady to one Hulk Hogan, whose gimmick revolved around Nastiness and he really seemed to embrace that, by being as gross as possible. Y’know, physically and socially, that unfortunate combo of “I’m loud and transgressive before a crowd, and therefore, I am charismatic.” So yeah, obviously the Nasties did have their time and place of popularity with a gimmick in that, it’s just not one looked upon fondly retrospectively. All that said? He has a personality, a look and a career, and this is not something that can be said for the others in the match that’s coming.

Because Knobbs is our WCW Hardcore champion, a belt that exists seemingly in reaction to WWF also having a hardcore wrestling belt. What is hardcore wrestling? Basically, what ECW does, to a degree that’s somehow more performative and yet also less deleterious to the performers. ECW is home to people quite literally breaking folding chairs made of stamped steel over each others heads and backs; WWF hardcore is home to people getting tinfoil trash cans caved in over their faces, bowling balls rolled into their genitals, and pitched in their entirety through candy glass windows. To be real? I kinda miss WWF Hardcore- it was the right mix of violence and comedy, and didn’t frequently cross the line into ‘actual head trauma,’ and as a result, people actually wound up prolonging their careers adopting this style. Turns out, getting swatted in the back with a cookie sheet is a thing that’s way easier on the body than actually hitting the mat.

And how is Knobbs choosing to contest this title? By holding a 6 man title-on-a-pole match, in which the first man to climb a tall pole located on the far left hand-side corner of the ring and retrieve the belt will be the champion.

Dammit, Vince Russo. I can smell you through this digitally preserved VHS.

Anyways, with a voice that’s as big as it is rumbling, Knobbs grabs a mic and entreats that anyone wants to Get Nasty, to come on down to the ring. And when he means anyone, he means anyone.

Folks. Get ready for a parade of losers. Plus Norman Smiley, who is way too good for this match.

Up first is a man who I have never seen in my life. I have watched this match before, and I have never seen this man in my life. His name is Adrian Byrd and he appears to be what occurs when you just press Confirm on a default Create A Wrestler and proceed directly into career mode without adding any personalization or character. Look, I’m sorry dude, your physique looks good, but you are bald, wearing track pants and white sneakers- you aren’t anyone, because you didn’t dress to be otherwise. At least he plays the cymbals with his trash can lids as he walks to the ring, provoking announcers Scott Hudson and Mark Madden- Hudson is fine, Madden is terrible and also a real creep, too -to debate if you can really call it playing the cymbals if you’re using trash can lids. This is the most character Adrian Byrd will exhibit during the match. He will disappear as soon as the bell rings like he’s the frigging Predator, a complete nonentity of a performer.

Don’t worry, though, because he’s not alone in his awkward anonymity, because here comes Dave Burkehead, who I believe may be a WCW truck driver, and not an actual wrestler. The black shirt he’s wearing with his jeans is torn in multiple places, and it might actually be the best shirt this man owns. He seems to not know where he is or to care, and this is a problem; when a man that large and uncomfortably bovinoid is walking with unclear intent while armed with a steel chair, it’s alarming no matter which direction he’s headed. He’s also entering to a scuffed production music-library sound-alike of My Sharona, which gives his appearance in this match an even more thrown-together weirdness- this man is What They Had Available to Send Out at That Exact Moment, no more or less. Though on the other hand, I can at least tell what his entrance theme is trying to be, because Adrian Byrd came out to what I can describe as ‘music of some sort.’

Next comes Rick Fuller, who Scott Hudson states is about 6’6, 330lbs. That’s about as notable as he gets, a very large man in a black and white singlet with THE FULLER EFFECT written across the small of his back, walking out to Ford Truck Days guitar rock. It was considerate of him to bring an appropriate container for this match, as he’s armed with a trash can.

And then, a soundalike of Megadeth’s Victory announces this match’s other big name, and folks, I’m not afraid to say: this guy’s one of my favourite wrestlers of all time. Yes, it’s time for Norman Smiley to come out, a dude who is one of the aforementioned wrestlers that extended his career through hardcore wrestling. A man who has had one of the most low-key interesting and unique wrestling careers I’ve ever seen, Norman Smiley is here in a comedic incarnation, wearing football or hockey pads alternatively, both as armour for his hardcore matches, and to get easy pops from the crowd by wearing the local team’s jersey, which is one of the smartest small things I’ve ever heard of for building popularity with an audience. He’s also known for screaming like a terrified chihuahua in hardcore situations, adding to the comedy. All that said? Man is a legitimately trained killer of a pro wrestler, who once coexisted in the same promotion as Minoru Suzuki, one of the most insanely violent no-frills wrestlers to ever live, a direct protege of Karl Gotch. Though they never wrestled each other, the fact that at one time their styles were ever comparable in both technique and execution says a lot about what a classically trained low-key killer Norman Smiley was in the ring.  This man was known as Black Magic for his legitimate grappling background. This man has trained some of your favourite wrestlers. Respect forever to Norman Smiley.

And lastly, and not leastly, because even if it’s a silly character, it’s still a character, is one Al Green, known here as simply, The Dog. What the Dog doin’? Well he’s getting unchained from his collar and sent to the ring like a madman, wearing what I would describe as camouflage apt to blend into a red-brick building that’s currently on fire. So in other words, Hell Camouflage; this man is set to ambush demons in Hell, at least in his own mind, as the Dog is a pretty coked up gimmick and it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s whats in the acting-headspace of such a meth-high of a character. What’s even more messed up? This is a man who would later tell Don Frye that he doesn’t care if he’s “Some Karate.” No, I didn’t misspeak, that’s what he said, and that’s why I’d argue that Dog is a more stable gimmick than the Man, Al Green.

Also, why is his soundalike theme a copy of Owner of a Lonely Heart? What got into the heads of the people in the production truck in this company?

And so, with the man in the orange camo hitting the ring, the bell rings and our match begins. Now, you might be asking: What goes into a match like this, what’s the structure look like, in general? Well, in a general sense, a hardcore match isn’t that much different from a regular match, it’s just that there’s weapons and a no-rules approach taken to the proceedings. With that framework opened up, wrestling then populates the gaps, with wrestlers still setting up spots, still having moves they set up, still having big moments of spectacle that happen at the appropriate time to set the crowd of, and of course, a planned finish, where an appropriate wrestler gets hit with an appropriately powerful move (or weapon) and takes the fall for the appointed winner. You know, exactly how pro wrestling works, just with additional bits of blunt and sometimes sharp matter, for spice.

And then there’s what this match is, which is 6 doomed individuals sent out to fill the final 10 minutes of showtime with directionless violence, largely improvised by individuals trying desperately trying to keep momentum going by grabbing someone and hitting them in a safe spot with something made of metal. Guess what this match is??

Ding goes the bell, and instantaneously, Brian Knobbs is mobbed by the other 5 men in the match, who proceed to disappear him under a pile of metal implements. Steel chairs, trash cans, lids and other items begin to avalanche on Knobbs, and if he planned this, good on him, as it’s pretty much the only genuinely memorable moment of the match. Norman Smiley in particular seems to be taking liberties, swatting him repeatedly with a kendo stick like he’s knocking the dust out of a couch cushion. Knobs sells this like a bug in its unpleasant last seconds in a nature documentary, squirming with a double-time urgency for it that’s definitely being informed by the blows raining down on him. He then powders out of the ring, probably feeling like the full length of his back is glowing like a neon sign.

It is at this moment, that the match devolves into a leisurely mosh pit of men seemingly doing casual violence to each other, a freeform dance of finding someone in the open and then making something metal and loud connect with non-vital portions of their anatomy. Also, if they can get away with taking something foil like to the head? Yeah, headshots ahoy. You have never seen so many bulky men getting hit in the shoulderblades at once as a match like this, so many trashcan lids being deformed over the crowns of skulls, because it’s functionally all this match has for you. That, plus a belt hanging above the turnbuckles of a corner, looking down on the proceedings like a disappointed and powerless substitute teacher.

So why am I recapping such a directionless and un-recappable match? Because I wanted to discuss why one of he reasons why wrestling companies fail in the long run. See, you’ve heard the term in your life, no doubt, that ‘less is more’. Well a lot of folks didn’t get that memo, or they heard it wrong. Whatever of the message they got, it was misinterpreted by crash TV types from the 90s (yes, this is the year 2000 we are looking at in this moment, but let’s be real, decades last for about 2 years after they’re technically passed, so don’t get it twisted; even if this is 2000, we are still looking the 90s dead in the face). These people heard ‘less is more’ and went AW NO BRO, THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE, BRO, HOW’S LESS GONNA MAKE MORE, THAT’S NO MATH, BRO. BRO? BRO BRO BRO BRO BRO, BROBROBRO?

Look I’m not saying Vince Russo on the booking staff is a sign your company is going to die soon, but I am saying it’s a sign your company needs to go to a doctor and book surgery dates before he does kill it.

Because let it be known, Vince Russo is only one bad booker in a pond. Yes, he’s arguably the worst, and yes, it’s a small pond. But also? Yes, I would be one of the people arguing he’s the worst, he’s not only terrible at his job, but a terrible human being as well, an obnoxious, racist, raging misogynist, whose paint-thinning whine of a voice would be worthy enough of a fist through the eye, let alone the crash, idiotic, senseless ideas he uses it to express.

See folks, see? I merely dislike Brian Knobbs, and will give him credit where due. But Vince Russo? I’m the biggest hater. I hate the way that he walks, the way that he talks, I hate his sense of dress, not surprised his career’s regressed, given the thoughts he liked to express. Fuck him, may he catch herpes of the hands if he ever touches another keyboard.

Wait hang on folks, something happened in the match: Brian Knobbs got back in the ring and sprayed everyone with a fire extinguisher that seemed to desperately need recharging. Probably for the best that they used it for a spot rather than safety, as wrestlers will sell for that little CO2 exiting the nozzle, but a burning wastepaper basket wouldn’t give a shit.

Anyway, back to Russo and his gross influence:

Because not even the commentators can keep his wretched name out of their mouths, though not actually their fault, given Russo’s insistence on being an on-air personality, despite his general look, sound and vibe being one of the biggest instigators folks of turning the channel to WWF I can think of. Scott Hudson straight up says that the tepidly mayhemic flurry of sheet metal and falling bodies in the ring has Vince Russo’s stink all over it, and it’s absolutely the most accurate call in the entire match. No direction but a half-baked idea; live bodies sent into a violence meatgrinder, even if it is a low intensity one, for no purpose other than realizing that half-baked idea; TV time burnt like it’s old newspaper on shallow spectacle and no substance; a goddamned pole, my god, A POLE. For folks who don’t know, Vince Russo loves to have matches where things are on a pole, for no other reason than this man sees some inherent drama in people trying to reach for a thing and pretending they can’t, then brawling over both their own lack of dexterity and a rivalling desire to get the Thing on The Pole. In other words, Russo exhibits the storytelling passion you’d see if a raccoon spontaneously mutated into a completely dislikable douchebag with the New Jersey Stereotype accent, then proceeded to write hack wrestling television. Yes, Russo and Poles is one of those jokes where the dead horse is so beaten, it’s been rendered into bonemeal and worked into the soil, and yet- AND YET -people are still kicking at the dirt where the animal originally expired. Because this man loves poles more than the owner of Magic City; Hussar enthusiasts don’t love Poles on the level that Vince Russo does.

Somewhere in the mess, Norman Smiley begins to press his kendo stick across Ron Fuller’s neck, and either a child or particularly high-pitched woman in the audience begins screaming. Taken in as a whole, the scream sorta makes it seem like Norman Smiley is strangling the life out of a long-haired Ned Flanders.

So the nature of the the match not only ensures that the full content of the match is a ponderous walk and brawl with added props, but also, people constantly have to be watching the corner where the pole is, where the Hardcore belt is hanging. This means that a match that could have potential to have a maniacal, energetic ebb and flow despite it being a series of weapon shots, instead has a stop-start stutter as folks need to constantly either climb the corner and then wait for someone to hit them, or look out for someone trying to climb the corner so they can hit them. Again, WWF Hardcore frequently was a great example of how to do this, hell, Knobbs himself knows how to do this right, as the Nasties versus Harlem Heat in a hardcore brawl was a fan favourite match, despite all four men involved admitting that they were basically slipping around on ketchup and mustard from throwing condiment bottles at each other. And yes, that is a pretty silly thing to say, but also, so are Three Stooges shorts, and that’s why Hardcore as a match format can be so fun: played well, they can hit those same comedic notes, though in a live-improv ultraviolence setting instead of on film.

Though speaking of comedic notes, Brian Knobbs puts his head through the rungs of a stepladder and begins to spin like a helicopter, swatting men aside like he’s doing a high speed variation of the Man with a Board gag. He then carries through with his momentum, spinning, and heaving the ladder off his shoulders to the outside. It lands directly across the forehead of Dave Burkeshead. Dave’s Burkeshead. That probably had to suck, a lot. 

Norman Smiley then hits Knobbs over the dome with a trashcan lid. And there’s Norman Smiley proceeding to hump-dance on Brian Knobbs; don’t mind him, he does that, it’s called The Big Wiggle. It falls distinctly in the category of “anything you can do to get over” and understand: The Big Wiggle is very over. It gets the biggest reaction out of anything out of this match, meaning that a simulated male on male sex act was the most audacious thing on display in his showcase of repeated low-intensity head trauma.

[NOT A BIG WIGGLE! NOT AT THIS HOUR!]

Maybe to this match’s credit, it has something of a finishing sequence, during which a procession of Ron Fuller, Dog and Norman Smiley attempt to get the belt, and are knocked off the turnbuckle by the next in line. Note that Adrian Byrd and Dave Burkeshead are not a part of this finishing sequence, as maybe they felt it’d be minorly delusional to have those dudes near even a secondary title. Whatever the case, the last in line to climb is the one that gets it, and that’s Brian Knobbs, who retains against all odds (??) in one of the hardcore matches of all time. Yeah folks, that’s right, you don’t even get a big move and the catharsis of a pinfall or a submission- you get the thing on the pole, it’s over, no more wrestling, match done, literally show over.

Worth noting: Norman Smiley makes one last play for the belt after Knobbs gets it, and it looks like he legitimately nearly knocks the guy over the ropes, which would have sucked out loud for a guy as big as Brian Knobbs. Even managing to right himself into the ring, it looks like he nearly rolls an ankle or blows a knee- wrestling is really hard folks, and also dangerous at its most basic and unglamourous level.

Because that’s what we’ve just witnessed: a story told by a fool, by people contracted to play out his loose script, executed in a basic and unglamourous fashion, with danger low-key at play in functionally every part. And if you think I’m being dramatic, this is the era of WCW where they changed the logo and people kept tripping over it during their entrance walkout- everything in wrestling is a definite threat if you don’t treat it as a potential threat to begin with, and even then, you’re just reducing the odds of something going wrong, someone getting hurt, or both. All this for a throwaway match for a throwaway episode of wrestling television that clocks in at just under 9 minutes, with the ultimate insult being that this match meant nothing, was nothing, and will ultimately mean nothing, as this is the week before WCW rebooted its timeline and reset all the championships, cancelling all storylines and starting tabula rasa.

Yeah, we’re talking Big Futility Hours here.

And yet, this is sometimes the nature of wrestling: to be there to fill a slot on a television channel. A television channel that has wrestling on it, as part of its ongoing ethos and loyalty to a wrestling company- again, Ted Turner loyally loved WCW, even if the eventual shareholders in the upcoming merger didn’t, and ultimately killed it because of its failing ratings and money-bleeding. And this is how you contribute to the downfall: by putting out an unenthusiastic and middling product to fill time, a middling product that’s also inconsequential because of the whims of the people steering the ship. It’s the sort of thing that’s psychically unpleasant, the bitter backswing of existing in a nihilistic state, of knowing you’re producing something on contract that’s going straight into the garbage as soon as you’re done building it.

If you know you know, and you’ve got the scars from the experience.

But see, the thing is? People who say life doesn’t have a happy ending? Yeah, they’re liars, or else their priorities are more rooted in notions of the eternal, and having a place in it. And like hell if I’m saying I’m an actual nihilist, because I care too much about too much to merge into that lane. But what I’m saying is, if the grim reality of a thing is that Nothing Really Matters, than the joyous truth of the thing is Also That Nothing Really Matters. Did this match mean anything? No, absolutely not, it was drek and weeks later, it basically never happened.

Did this match show me people getting bopped on the head with soft metal, in a format that didn’t waste my time or wear out its welcome? Yeah, it also did that. Small victories in the fallout. “Man, that was fun, I want to go again,” I say at the bottom of a smouldering crater, lighting a joint despite the fact that my clothes are already smoking. Happy nihilism, stemming from a moment of “what the hell was that??” In other words, another rumination about the art, entertainment and industry of mangrappling, from the Described Wrestling Project.