Just Another Friday Night in Fall River

Joe Lindsay

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HE P.A.L.

I arrived at the Police Athletic League hall forty-five minutes late. There was nothing remarkable about the building, solid yellow brick, across the street from two big banks. I walked up the stairs to a pair of thick wooden doors. Three people stood on the stoop smoking cigarettes.

“Is this the entrance to the wrestling event?"

Behind the brick walls, I heard a heavy thump, then a chorus of cheers and applause.

“Yeah,” one of them said, taking a drag.

“Do I pay here?”

He shook his head, tilting back to exhale a streaming cloud of smoke into the air above him.

“Just go on in.” He pointed to the wooden door behind him. 

“There’s a guy selling tickets right in there.”

The door opened into a foyer. A kid in his late teens was sitting on a folding chair, a lock box on the card table in front of him. His hat was backwards; he wore a large, black, Top Rope Promotions t-shirt. He rapped out drum rhythms on the top of the box with his fingers.

“Hey man, can I get a ticket?”

“That’ll be thirteen dollars. The ticket is for general admission, all our ringside seats are sold out.”

There was a large chip missing from one of the kid’s front teeth. Behind him, a set of double doors were propped open; I could see part of the auditorium. 

I handed him a twenty, and he handed me a ticket. King Kong Bundy was printed on the green cardstock. King Kong’s arms were raised slightly in front of him, fists balled. His mouth was contorted into an exaggerated scowl that showed his teeth. His eyes were wide.

The kid handed me my change.

“Enjoy the show.”

I walked through the double doors. The air tasted hot and sweet, a thick transparent fog of sweat and Ben-Gay muscle relaxant. It was at least ten degrees hotter than in the lobby.  The room was dimly lit, and in bad repair. Chipped blue paint revealed large patches of mustard colored plaster.

The ring was the centerpiece of the auditorium. The immense black canvas was pulled tight by four large poles. A black apron provided the trim, hanging loosely to the dusty wooden floor. The alternating red, white, and blue ring ropes provided the structure's only color. The whole thing stood seven feet off the ground.

A fence made of steel rails separated the audience from the show. Behind the fence, aluminum folding chairs were scattered across the auditorium in haphazard rows. The balcony loomed over the ring like a massive horseshoe. An immense, gold-bordered flag hung over the scene.

The audience was a rag-tag band; wrestling fans of different ages, races, and gender. All eyes were fixed on the action in the ring. In the corner, by the staircase leading up to the balcony, were three young paraplegic boys. One of them emphatically and erratically nodded his head in time with the bumps in the ring and the blaring music from two large speakers on the far wall. An old blind woman sat in the front row, apparently playing chaperone to a chubby boy who excitedly ran back and forth from his seat to the steel rail. The balcony was lined with groups of children, their hands wrapped around the thin red metal poles. They sat on the edges of their seats, slowly inching forward, as if the ring had caught them in some sort of tractor beam. Everyone was making noise.

 

The City of Fall River

The outskirts of Fall River are an elaborate network of wharfs and docks that form an intricate maze along the banks of the Taunton River. From there, the city begins to slope upwards steeply, row upon row of houses stacked on top of each other like Legos.  According to the last U.S. Census, Fall River is one of the most densely populated cities in the entire nation. Its residents are working class, solidly blue collar. Many work for the ship yards that dot the banks of the river. The more affluent residents make the twenty-minute commute into Providence.

In recent years, the city has fallen upon hard times. Fall River, along with New Bedford, suffers from one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS infection in the United States. The use of needle drugs like heroin is largely responsible; 58% of HIV positive Fall River residents claim to have used unsterilized needles. Gang violence also plagues the city. The state of Massachusetts has funded gang and drug prevention programs with little to no success.

Far away from the complexity of the streets of Fall River, the rules of engagement in the PAL are simple:

• Three rings of a bell begin the match
• The match ends by a three-count pinfall, a submission, count out, or a disqualification.
• The referee is responsible for all rule enforcement.

 

King Kong Bundy

I found a seat.

The ring was emptying. I had just missed the end of a match featuring the popular tag team, “Chunky But Funky” a pair of fun-loving, overweight, middle aged guys in spandex. I looked again at the surprisingly diverse crowd. A family of five sat next to a group of teens in military fatigues. A tall black man in a white jumpsuit stood in the front row with his young son. Groups of middle school aged boys and girls sat in coed clusters, some with parents, some without. It was October 29th, a Friday night in Fall River, and King Kong Bundy was in the ring.

King Kong Bundy is big.  King Kong Bundy is bald.  King Kong Bundy is white.  Twenty years ago, he was in the WWF ring, broadcast live to thousands only on Pay-Per-View.  On this Friday, King Kong Bundy was standing, live but unbroadcast, in a Top Rope Promotions ring in Fall River.

I stood up as he walked to the ring. Bundy was leviathan. Pockets of fatty white flesh peeked out from underneath his black singlet. His large black boots laced to his knees. He was set to fight single-handedly against a tag team called “The Alden Brothers.” The Brothers had recently appeared on an episode of MTV’s show “True Life: Sibling Rivalry.” The crowd hated them. Boos echoed as the bell rang...

“DING, DING, DING!”

The first blue-suited, redheaded, Alden Brother ran at Bundy. Bundy set his feet, leaned his shoulder forward, and shot Alden down to the mat.

!WHLAP!

The sound of a man’s sweaty back on canvas. The crowd Oohed.

The first Alden struggled back to the ropes and tagged his brother.  The second, red headed, blue-suited Alden ran at Bundy. Again, Bundy lowered his shoulder and powered him to the floor.

!WHLAP!

The crowd Ahhed. The second Alden struggled to his corner. He and his brother exited the ring for a conference, talking quickly between breaths as they attempted to regroup.

Quietly, the Aldens turned and slid back under the bottom rope hoping to catch Bundy while his back was turned. They planned to double team him, but Bundy, a veteran, was a step ahead. He lumbered over to the ropes, bouncing his weight back at the rising Aldens, his big fleshy arms connecting across their necks. The brothers dropped to the mat. Bundy scooped up the first Alden and tossed him over the top rope and out of the ring; his body clattered as it hit the wooden floor. Bundy turned to face the second Alden laying prostrate on the canvas. King Kong Bundy bounced off the ropes and charged.

!WHOMP!

Bundy’s huge white frame crashed over the motionless body. It was over. The crowd knew it; they counted along as the ref slid to the floor. He pounded the mat.

“1,2,3..”

The bell rang.

It was time for Intermission.

 

Pro Wrestling – An American Institution

Professional Wrestling occupies a unique place in American entertainment, combining the raw athleticism of sport with the theatrical drama of the stage.

Pro Wrestling was born in the carnivals and vaudeville shows that crisscrossed the country in the early 1900’s. Wrestlers found that rather than kicking the crap out of each other every night, it was less painful if they just faked it.

By the mid 1900’s, Pro Wrestling had moved out of the carnivals and into auditoriums and pool halls. Instead of being just part of a show, Pro Wrestling was the show. Small promoters began to organize wrestling across the country, booking venues and advertising for the coming shows. Many of these promotions grew to be moderately successful, gaining regional notoriety.

Promoters—and their athlete/entertainers—honed their craft. They were dramatists. They understood that a good wrestling match should tell a story, an ancient story: Good Vs. Evil.  Wrestlers invented elaborate characters for the audience to either praise or persecute.  Heroes were always honorable, rule abiding, and handsome. The villains were always evil, ugly cheaters. There was—there is—Justice.  In the ring, the villain is always caught... and punished.

In the early days, the theatrical business of wrestling was a closely guarded secret. It was essential that audiences not know they were being had. Customers had to believe the characters were real; that the feuds were real; they had to believe that the fights were real.  This code of secrecy is called Kayfabe (pronounced KEI-feib). It comes from car ny slang meaning “protect the secrets of the business.” Like film’s "fourth wall," Kayfabe is the barrier that separates the real world from the world of the ring. Maintaining Kayfabe was (and still is) a top priority. It’s a strategy that grants legitimacy to Pro Wrestling’s unique brand of sport.

 

Top Rope Promotions

Top Rope Promotions is one of hundreds of small, independent wrestling organizations that conduct business just outside the city limits of Mainstream American Entertainment.  Headquartered in Fall River, Top Rope puts on three or four shows a month, in towns like New Bedford, Oxford, and North Adams. Over the years, Top Rope has built a loyal fan following.

Top Rope Promotions is owned and operated by a 27-year-old man named Steve Ricard.  He’s a tall, tan guy who wears his hair spiked with gel; the tips frosted peroxide blonde.  Ricard has the air of a very busy, very anxious man; his eyes flit from the floor, to the ceiling, to the door, and then back. I met him after a show in his office/living room.

“I first started watching wrestling on Saturday mornings at my friend’s house," Steve said.  “At that point, I had no idea that independent wrestling existed. One day I saw a flyer for a show by my house and I went. I gradually got more and more involved."

In 1996, Steve began working for Top Rope Promotions. At the time, Top Rope was known as Yankee Pro Wrestling. Steve was active behind the scenes, filming the events and doing graphic design work for promotional flyers. Two years later, he was promoted to the position of Head Booker. A Head Booker organizes the matches—and decides their outcomes.

In 2000, Steve graduated from college at twenty-one and took a leap of faith: he bought Top Rope, outright.

“Well," he said, “I used to be a child model. So I had some money saved up. Coming right out of college I really had nothing else to do with the money, so, financially it made sense.”

On an average night, Top Rope usually takes in a few thousand dollars at the gate. On a great night, the gate may be as high as $5,000 dollars; on a slow night just $500. Some nights Top Rope doesn't make any money at all.

Steve said he could always count on the monthly show in Fall River.

“Here and New Bedford are both wrestling towns. In the Seventies, the old WWF used to put on a show every couple months right down the street.

“Our most successful shows are the ones where we bring in old wrestling legends. We’ve got guys coming to our shows who have been watching wrestling for thirty years. They’re more than happy to shell out twenty bucks to see a guy who they idolized when they were fifteen years old.

“But’s it’s not cheap bringing in a guy like Bundy,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“First we’ve got to convince him to appear, and he gets his cut from what we take in at the gate. On top of that, we’ve got to foot the bill for his plane ticket, his hotel, his transportation, everything. But you’ve got to remember, in his heyday, Bundy was pulling in $20,000 paychecks. I understand his pain; it’s not easy to go from making a five figure salary to barely scraping by on your legacy.”

There is an interesting division between legends like Bundy and the wrestlers who perform every month at Top Rope shows. King Kong Bundy is over fifty years old. His moves look scripted, forced, and fake; his matches are like scenes from an old comic book. The audience knows that Bundy will squash his competitors, but they still enjoy watching him.  Watching—and remembering.

By and large, the majority of independent wrestlers have no legacy on which they can rely.  They instead must learn the craft, and master the art. Top Rope wrestlers are ordinary men and women with jobs, families, and lives outside the ring. They don’t command the same paychecks as Bundy.

“The guys all get a piece of what we pull in at the gate. On average, I’d say it’s probably about forty to fifty bucks a night. Sometimes they get more, sometimes they don’t even get enough to pay for gas money.

“The guys know, the harder they work at the shows, the more people will be attracted to our events.” 

The wrestlers must build a rapport with fans, they must create characters that resonate. For one night, they have the ability to become larger then life.

Steve’s eyes focused on mine.

“Nobody gets involved in this business to make money. The wrestlers love it because it gives them a chance to be celebrities, and in the eyes of their fans, they are celebrities…”

 

The Sport and Spectacle

A standard wrestling match has two competitors. In wrestling lingo, they are called “Baby Faces” and “Heels.” The crowd cheers for the Face, they boo the Heel. It’s a simple, successful formula. What separates a good match from a great match is an athlete’s ability to tell a story in the ring. King Kong Bundy’s match was a cartoonish throwaway. A good wrestling match should pack the drama and intensity of a theatrical performance.

“Notorious, he’s Notorious...

A woman sang the words over a slow, steady synthesized hip-hop beat.

Intermission ended.

The curtains on the stage at the far side of the room opened to reveal Gorgeous Gino Giovanni, a young man of Sicilian descent, with dark hair and olive skin. He was wearing a pair of designer sunglasses and a bright, sequined red jacket. Gino was tailor-made for fans to hate. Microphone in hand, he strolled to the ring. A thirteen year old kid in a black hooded sweatshirt stood behind the barrier that separated the crowd from Gino. He led the chanting:

“FUCK YOU GI-NO!  FUCK YOU GI-NO!”

The kid extended his middle finger over the barrier and waved it in front of Gino’s face.

“FUCK YOU, GINO! FUCK YOU, GINO!”

Gorgeous Gino Giovanni was undeterred. He made his way down the ramp slowly, glaring at the audience the whole way. Once in the ring, he climbed the turnbuckle and raised his arms high. Eyes grey and smoldering, he lifted his head to look at the faces in the balcony. He hopped down and raised the microphone to his face.

“It’s great to be back in SCUM CITY, Fall River, Massachusetts!” he shouted to a chorus of boos.

“And I can see that the PAL is once again filled with you dirty, disgusting, no-washing spic bastards!”

I spotted a middle aged guy sitting in the front row. He was livid, his face bright red. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled,

“Go home! Get outta here! We don’t want you here!”

“SUFFOCATION!  NO BREATHING!  DON’T GIVE A FUCK IF I CUT MY ARM BLEEDING!”

The music blasted through the heated auditorium, shredding eardrums. On cue, Giovanni dropped his mic and in a panic, whirled toward the curtain. There stood his opponent, The Nightmare Nick Steele. The Nightmare was standing stock-still, glistening with sweat; a giant statue come alive. He had a large, round head, a protruding jaw, broad shoulders, barrel chest and no neck. He strode down the aisle as the crowd shouted encouragement.  He entered the ring and stood solidly in the middle, feet set shoulder-width apart. The Nightmare grinned at Gino. He was a giant, fearsome, bald boulder; built to break bones.

Gino’s face took on the expression of a man who’d just noticed he was standing in the path of an avalanche. Gino took one more quick look at The Nightmare... then turned and ran out of the ring.

The crowd assaulted him.

“FUCK YOU, GI-NO!  FUCK YOU, GI-NO!”

The referee somehow managed to coax Gino back into the ring. Steele took a step forward; in a flash Gino was gone again, only this time, the Nightmare was in hot pursuit. This game of cat and mouse continued until the referee became fed up. He informed Gino that he had to stay and fight, or he would face disqualification.

Understanding the inevitable, Gino nodded and stared defiantly into Nick Steele’s hard, mean eyes. Quick as a cat, Gino reached out and slapped Nick Steele in the face, then scampered away. It’s never a good idea to bitch-slap a boulder.

To his horror, Gino discovered he’d fled directly into the corner of the ring. He was now at the mercy of Nightmare Nick Steele. For the next 2 minutes and 20 seconds, Steele kicked the crap out of Gorgeous Gino Giovanni. The crowd was riveted, cheering as Steele slammed Gino over and over, cheering even louder as Gino howled in pain. The man I’d noticed in the front row was bouncing up and down in his chair, recoiling every time Gino hit the mat. In the blink of an eye, it was over, Gino tapped out. The excruciating pain of Steele’s submission hold was too much to bear.

As Gino was helped out of the ring by Top Rope staff, Steele took the microphone.

“Yo, Gino!” he said in a Boston accent, “Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash!”

 

At the end of the show, the crowd made it’s way to the exits while a group of three teenagers sprang into action. They rapidly tore down the ring and, just as quickly, packed its parts into a van that was double-parked outside the building. In the locker room behind the curtain, the wrestlers changed clothes. Some of them were headed to a bar for a couple of drinks before going home to their wives and families. Tomorrow night, Steve and company would take their show to North Oxford; on Sunday, they’d finish up in New Bedford.

I found Steve standing in a back hallway. He looked tired but satisfied. I asked him what was the best part of the job. He closed his eyes for a moment then he smiled.

“It’s the look in people’s eyes, they’re just so excited to see the guys. I just think to myself, ‘Oh my God, it’s paying off.' I run a business, out of my house, operated by all of my friends, and every show we get an opportunity to do something that means something to someone else. We make someone’s day. We make someone’s world.

Just another Friday night in Fall River.

 

Photo Credits:
All photos in this story, Mike Jas, courtesy of Steve Ricard , Top Rope Promotions.