And Another Thing: Wrestling Behind Closed Eyes

Posted by Hyatte on 11.13.2000

I dreamt that I was at a comic book shop, bitterly arguing with a friend whom I haven't seen since the eighth grade over the Freudian overtones used during Peter David's run on The Incredible Hulk and how the "Superman" character was obviously created as the ultimate advertisement for Nazi propaganda when the conversation abruptly turned to Professional Wrestling.

I had a nightmare the other night.

Oh, okay... maybe it wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it was certainly a dream... a very disturbing dream.

My friend from the eighth grade, (whose name I cannot remember), was not "Internet Savvy" in the ways of pro graps... so I came off like a real big shot spilling all the details of Scott Hall, the WWF Buy-Out of WCW, Vince Russo, TNN, Viacom, Lawsuits, Bret Hart, Mandalay.

And especially the Steve Austin situation.

I told him all about Austin. His neck surgery, how he got it from a bad Owen Hart piledriver, the Car Assault, and how he is coming back slowly. My friend said that he noticed that since his return, Austin has done next to nothing in the ring, save for a few kicks, a lot of punches, and one good Stunner. "When will he let Rikishi punch him back?" my friend asked. I told him that they are carefully testing Austin's ability to take decent bumps, building his confidence and endurance. He seemed to accept that.

Next thing I know, I am in a record store, arguing with the same friend from eighth grade over who was the luckiest drummer alive, Charlie Watts or Ringo, as well as completely agreeing with each other that Van Halen's Balance was the single most putrid piece of Top 40 crap a rock band had ever put out when, naturally, the subject of wrestling came up again.

My friend asked, "How come Austin still hasn't reacted to one single blow yet?"

After correcting him by replacing "reacted" with "sold", and explaining the difference... I weighed in all my "Insider Knowledge" to this non-net commoner and explained that it's still a work in progress with Steve. They will carefully observe his performance and run his neck through a series of rigid tests and evaluations after each match. "Relax," I told him, "The Rattlesnake knows that the fans want a good show. I bet he can't wait to pull out all the stops and take some unbelievable bumps!" I quickly added that Austin will probably never take a risky spot like a Piledriver, a Tombstone, or anything else that puts pressure on the neck. My friend said, "Well, he better start soon or...". Then things got fuzzy.

Next thing I know, I am at a Star Trek Convention. My eighth grade friend was dressed as a Klingon. I turned around and tried to run away, fast. Unfortunately, for as long as I can remember, whenever I run in my dreams, it always feels like I'm slogging my way through quicksand. In short, I wasn't going anywhere. My Klingon friend stuck one of those funky bladed weapons at me and screamed, "Why isn't Austin selling any moves!! Why does he just run out and swing like an idiot until the match ends!!" I remember screaming "I swear to Kaliss, he will start working hard again!! I swear, Austin will start acting like Austin again!! This is just a work in progress!!" My friend dropped the blade, then said, "I'm going to go get Frank Gorshin's autograph!" I told him to go have fun.

Next thing I know, my friend from the eighth grade and I are in an empty playground. Although the only sound I heard was a soft wind, I had a feeling that the playground was once filled with other eighth graders like me and my friend, only they grew up and became adults. We were the last two standing.

Naturally, our talk turned to wrestling. "I've had enough, man", my friend whispered, "I've had enough of Austin starting and ending his every match without selling a single punch, absorbing a single bodyslam, or doing anything even remotely fun or cool anymore. He used to be a real fun guy to watch, but now it's just the same thing every single match."

I sighed deeply, breathing in the crisp autumn air. Dead orange leaves danced across the barren lot. Winter was coming. I looked at my friend whom I haven't seen in real life in over sixteen years and said, "I'm sure one day, Austin and the WWF will..."

"Naah, they won't," my friend interrupted. "Y'see, you and I have seen this before. Ten years ago, with Hogan. All his matches ended the same way too. He coasted on his two or three standard moves before calling it a match. Remember what happened when we got sick of the WWF back then?"

I paused for a second, my friend from the eighth grade was starting to look familiar. I answered back, "Yeah, we stopped watching."

"Yeah we did. Now it's happening all over again." The young boy whom I haven't seen in over sixteen years, not even in the mirror, started to walk away.

I tried to call back to him, but couldn't. I could only watch a fresh face, innocent boy who knew nothing about egos, contracts, censorship groups, corporate mergers, or IPO's walk away. All he knew was that Austin was getting boring. Just like Hogan did ten years ago

And just like the Hulk Hogan of yesterday, whichever path Steve Austin goes down, the WWF will tend to follow.

Then I woke up... with a startle.

I jumped out of bed and took a quick assessment. Yep, it was just a dream. I was still thirty, I still had rent due, I still needed to shave every other day, and I still needed to get my oil changed. Mark Madden was not elected President, Tiffani-Amber Thiessan still hadn't agreed to give me all her money and become my sex slave, WCW still sucked...

... and I was still a wrestling fan.

I don't remember any of my dreams much, but I think I'll remember this one for a while. Not the specifics, just certain details.

Like how lonely an empty playground can be.

This is Hyatte too.