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When I was little, professional wrestling was tits. All I needed to make my life was a bag of Keebler’s Pizzaria’s Pizza Chips, my mish-mash collection of Ninja Turtles action figures, and a few fat hours of AWA Saturday morning wrestling… or NWA, or WWF. I wasn’t picky. I had my favorites in every federation.
The Hulkster was the greatest, but Sting wasn’t far behind. The Road Warriors could have probably stomped both of them to death, or at the very least, spiked them unapologetically with their Mad Max shoulder-pads.
My uncle Randy—who spent his days peddling wares to indigent folk at Avenue Rentals—used to tape all of the programs fit for viewing, and I’d come over on Saturday evenings and watch Nick Bockwinkel put Verne Gagne in a cross-face chicken-wing while I pored through stacks of Pro Wrestling Illustrated, gaping in terror at gore-rific photos of Abdullah the Butcher with a fork stuck in his head, or Bruiser Brody howling at an invisible nemesis in the sky, his forehead a travelogue of scar tissue and feigned insanity.
One night—years after my notions about the Ultimate Warrior’s true strength had been dispelled and crushed like so many skulls underneath a steel folding chair—I got drunk and ordered some vintage issues of Pro Wrestling Illustrated from eBay. Continue reading →