FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1999. All Rights Reserved
| Sports by Julie Pithers Stampede Wrestling Before the foul language, racism, scantily clad women and huge American money defamed it, we had something pure and good. Oh sure, it’s still based on the original combination of athleticism and theatrics, but all the fame and glory has somehow cheapened and defiled what we had. No, not ice dance! Wrestling. To be more specific, professional wrestling. When I was a cynical, yet easily led teenager, Stampede Wrestling entered my life. I had a boyfriend who came from a well-to-do family, and until the first Saturday afternoon of our relationship he hadn’t hinted at his first love. When I innocently asked what we would be doing that day, he said, "Whaddya nuts!? It’s wrastlin’ day. You can come over if you really want. But no talking." When I showed up in his living room all his pals were already in their favourite seats regularly leaping out of them to pound one another over their old favorite seats. The only beverage for watching Stampede Wrestling was Labatt 50 (no real explanation was ever given.) One of my boyfriend’s kinder-hearted friends came over to explain the intricacies. "See that folding chair leaning on the time keeper’s table, like some usher forgot to put it away. That’s no mistake. That’s foreshadowing. Someone’s head is gonna bleed." Then ring-a-ding-ding, the bout would begin. Usually there was some horrific slight in the previous matchup, so there was a great deal of suspense as to how this bout would avenge old wounds. And if they announced that this was to be a notorious cage match, it was like watching TV with a laboratory full of chimps. In the ring it was usually a teeter-totter affair. Each grappler coming close to winning or losing, and a ref, with the scruples and eyesight of an NFL referee, would generally hold a great deal of responsibility for the outcome – which I thought sort of watered down the effort, but the boys told me to shut up about it. Finally the day came when the fellows said I could come with them to the grounds on a Friday night and see the show live. When we arrived at the Pavilion I was amazed at the number, and diversity, of people. Old women in fur coats and tiaras, little children, a large Native contingent, bikers, and pumped-up boys like my own escorts, all screaming their heads off at the blatant mismanagement of the ref and the inherent evil of Bad News Allen, J.R. Foley and Abdullah the Butcher. As we settled into our second-row seats, suddenly my boyfriend ducked down and pulled me with him. "Look, here’s what you have to know. When you sit on this side we’ll be on TV. So don’t pick your nose. Don’t smoke if you’re mom doesn’t know about it. And no necking." At which point he stood up and screamed, "Kill the Paki!" at Abdullah the Butcher. (Okay, maybe racism has always been a part of wrestling.) All this may sound sordid to the non-wrestling aficionado, but believe me, Stampede Wrestling was not only a worldwide phenomenon (Ed Whalen couldn’t walk down the streets of Bolivia), but it was a damn sight better family fun than today’s WWF. A cesspool of sexism, homophobia and, especially, shoddy wrestling techniques. If you don’t believe me, ask Bruce Hart, son of Stu, brother of Bret and Owen, and someone who has trained some of the best wrestlers in the world, not to mention having fought them in the squared circle. "I’m disgusted with the direction the business is going," Bruce says. "The WWF doesn’t want good wrestlers or even good actors. They just want a bunch of characters who put on a show that borders on X-rated and belongs on The Jerry Springer Show." That is why there is good news, friends. Dear old Stampede Wrestling will be resurrected in the Pavilion on Good Friday. Bruce Hart has been asked by fans, investors and wrestlers from all over the world to start it up again. "This Friday’s show will be a pilot show for The A-Channel," he says. "We’ll start off running a show per month through the summer and hopefully go back to the weekly format for the fall." Only one thing may be missing: Those turncoats at WIC have a deal with WWF and won’t let Ed Whalen out of his contract to call the fights. (Is it coincidence that after years of flawless hockey broadcasts the mighty Ed mispronounces half the NHL players names and mixes up the "Score and Win" prizes now that Stampede Wrestling’s back in town? I think not.) The first fight night will see the powerful Tatanka vs. Jason "The Sledgehammer" Neidhart, plus Marvin Pope of Calgary Stamps fame vs. Little Dick Butkiss to name but a few heavyweights throwing bodyslams, putting on half-nelsons and double-toe-holds on Good Friday. Also in attendance will be the British Bulldog Davey Boy Smith, Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart as well as guests of honour Stu and Ed. So in the meantime and in between time, get ready for another edition of Stampede Wrestling! |
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