“Do you think you can make an all-star wrestler out of me?” I asked Sheriff and Shifty at Midwest Pro Wrestling in Maple Grove. They looked me over—I’m 5’ 9” and weigh only 155 pounds—and assured me, “Sure, just give us enough time. Size doesn’t matter anymore.” In fact, Terry Klinger (stage name “Sheriff”) is slightly shorter than I am, so I signed up for a trial session.
“The first six months is wrestling training, then the second six months we work on costumes, talking in front of the camera, and riling up the crowd,” Sheriff told me. How did he get his snazzy name? “I can still remember the day! I was channel-surfing and heard the theme song for Cops. I went down to the cop shop on Hennepin for a uniform and even got a badge with my name on it. The fans love it!”
Shifty, aka Dan Schaffner, chimed in. “There are basically two kinds of characters. ‘Heels’ are the bad guys, and ‘faces’—or ‘baby faces’—are the good guys. If you can’t make people hate you, then you’re a face. You can be a heel for six months, then the fans love you and you become a face. It used to be that the heel would come out and insult the crowd. Nowadays, everyone likes the heels because people like the bad guys better.”
I asked if I could still wrestle if I don’t have an alter ego yet. “You probably don’t want people to know your real name, because then you’re in the phone book and then they show up at your work. That’s no good,” Sheriff told me.
I couldn’t wait to get started. Shifty and Sheriff told me I could begin wrestling in front of crowds at their Sunday evening performances in Maple Grove after six months of training. “We get up to 225 people in here for the shows at three dollars each,” Sheriff said. The matches are then aired on channel 20 in the northwest suburbs and on channel 6 everywhere else, starting in May.
First, I needed to meet my adversaries: The Punisher, Kid Krazy, Joey E. (a cruiserweight champion), The Anarchist (“Right now, he’s a heel, but he used to be a face”) and Joessiah (as in Joe-Messiah, who has his own religion with his Joesciples and dreams of Joetopia). Absent tonight were Chaos, Pretty Boy Delgado, and Ice Cream Man (“He comes out in his white pants and hands out ice cream bars to the fans”). I wanted to shoot some photos of these young wrestlers, but Sheriff stopped me. “I don’t want people to see them without their costumes because the fans will start talking on Internet chatrooms about how they’ve seen that these guys are actually friends.”
Before we started training, I asked Shifty if the rumors are true that professional wrestling is fake. He obviously didn’t like the question and surprised me by breaking into a semantic discussion. “Define the word fake,” he challenged. “Fake meaning it doesn’t hurt, then you’re wrong. Fake meaning it’s a show, then you’re right.”
I got suited up in a dressing room that was wallpapered with WWE posters, swimsuit centerfolds, and 93X banners. Hoping to intimidate my rivals, I donned my “Big Ole” T-shirt, which depicts a viking. Sheriff then introduced me to the wrestlers. “This is Eric. He’s a journalist for The Rake and doesn’t think this is real, or that we get hurt. Who wants to get in the ring with him first?” These motley characters snickered as though they could smell fresh blood. Sheriff stopped them. “Before we do anything, you have to learn how to ‘take a bump.’” In other words, how to fall.
“The floor has a car spring in the middle covered by two-by-sixes and a horse-hair mat,” Sheriff said, as he demonstrated correct landing procedure. I mimicked his moves. My legs flew into the air, and I hit the canvas with a painful thud. The mat wasn’t nearly as soft as I expected; my first ‘bump’ almost knocked the wind out of me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Breathe out before you fall. And tuck your head.”
The next move was “running the ropes,” or taking no more than two steps across the eighteen-foot ring and springing off the garden-hose-covered cables. The goal was to build maximum speed, and thereby reap devastation on my giant opponents. Luckily, they refrained from giving me the “Leaping Neckbreaker Clothesline” as I ran back and forth.
Since neither “taking a bump” nor “running the ropes” seemed to be my strength, the Sheriff suggested I take a “Flying Leg Drop” across my neck. “Lay down in the middle of the mat. And whatever you do, don’t move a muscle or you’ll get hurt.” Joessiah flew off the rope and landed with his enormous right leg across my Adam’s apple. I thought this was surely the end, as the deafening thunk of his body crashed over me. Unbelievably, I was fine. Joessiah miraculously broke his fall with his other leg, which crashed harmlessly near my head.
Unscathed, my confidence was building. Maybe I truly could become a professional wrestler. Joessiah took that as his cue to fly off the ropes and nail me with a punishing “Running Elbow Drop.” Once again I forgot to breathe. As I staggered to my feet, gasping for air, he was eager to demonstrate the “Full Body Slam.” I politely declined.
Tag off! It was The Anarchist’s turn. “Don’t resist! Just relax or you’ll get hurt,” the Sheriff warned me, as The Anarchist dropped me on my stomach and tied me into a submissive pretzel. While my limbs were a limp knot behind my back, he asked if I wanted to see his “finishing move.” At least the questions were getting easier. No, I said.
Instead, The Anarchist showed off his “signature” on another new student named Joe. “Total Anarchy” consisted of leaping from the ropes onto Joe, spinning him like a sack of potatoes, and then flinging him on the mat as if he were a booger.
While The Anarchist was reveling in victory with his back turned to me, I looked around for a folding chair to get in at least one cheap shot. The Sheriff read my mind, though, and said the chairs only come out for the performances.—Eric Dregni
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