Most of the big professional wrestling stars of recent years have had a relationship with me.
They've all beaten me.
Or, more likely, demolished me. Pummeled me. Annihilated me. But that's OK, I get paid to do it for a living.
You may have caught me on television or in an arena somewhere. They call me Sammy Stardust (at one point, it was Swinging Sammy Stardust) and you've probably seen me get bodyslammed, piledriven, put in the figure-four leglock, etc.
You see, all superstar wrestlers have to start somewhere. They need someone to beat, showing off a powerful arsenal of attack moves.
That's where I come in. I'm the poor schmuck who gets paid to take the fall. On a good year, 250 times in 12 months. On four continents. In jam-packed arenas and trashy little dumps.
It is a Monday morning as of this writing. Texas is one of my favorite states to get beat up in, especially in December when New Jersey in covered in snow. I'd submitted to a Boston Crab in San Antonio on Saturday night and finished off by a DDT in Dallas on Sunday afternoon. Ten matches in ten days, always falling at the end. But, hey, that's my job.
Today's conqueror will be The Asian Assassin, one of the most-hated villains in Global Wrestling Association (GWA). Monday night matches are filmed, so tonight's card in Austin promises to be a sellout.
The masked Asian Assassin (who was a good guy contender, Gentleman Gary Garr, for more than a year until his population waned) is one of the bigger names right now. He's getting a televised shot at the All-American Belt in a couple of weeks (he'll lose) and may even get his own action figure. Any dreams I may have had of getting an action figure seem to be ever-fading.
See, I grew up watching the Saturday morning wrestling shows. Sargent Slaughter, Hulk Hogan, Rowdy Roddy Piper - I remember all the big names. I play-wrestled with my brothers, and I knew early enough that it was all fake, but I was still a big fan.
I dreamed once in a while of being a pro wrestling hero, but I didn't think I would ever end up in the ring as a living. I grew up in New Jersey and figured I'd end up working for my dad in insurance. He had the bad taste to get pegged for embezzling before I finished college.
Still, I was a pretty fair athlete growing up, but I seemed to always play on losing teams. I guess it prepared me for my current job. My senior year at Gardino State, I was a starting two-way player on the football team, the Golden Dragons. Our team went 1-10 that year, which wasn't uncommon.
The year after school, I was working as a personal trainer at Sly's Gym when a friend of my dad stopped by. He was Jim Thorn, proprietor of the Diamond Jim Thorn Wrestling School on Long Island - my dad had insured his institute. This two-time North American Champion wrestler wanted me, of all people, to participate in a tryout.
Nine months later, Swinging Sammy Stardust officially met the world.
On this morning, I wake up at around 10 a.m. Checkout time is in an hour, but I'm just packing and hitting the road. Throw a couple of suitcases under the bedliner of the 1995 Dodge Dakota and I'm on my way to Austin.
Checking in to the Austin University Hotel, I kick back for a few minutes to check out CNN. We're threatening to bomb Iraq again. I guess that means that Sheik Shazzam will be getting a lot of play as the villain the next few weeks.
I make the first meeting at the University of Texas main gym at 2 p.m. I'm up third in the match rundown, which means I can expect to enter the ring around 8 p.m., getting pinned by 8:10. Assuming a couple of early interview segments and confrontations don't run long, that is.
Some people would wonder the toll it takes to lose every night. Hey, it's acting. Some guy playing Macbeth gets killed by Macduff every night, and no one asks him how he feels.
When Swinging Sammy Stardust first appeared, as a kind of Las Vegas lounge performer/wrestler (two occupations that seem a natural match), I was allowed to win some undercard matches against other journeymen just so I could attain a decent enough stature to become worthy of being a fall guy.
The only way I'll occasionally win a match is via disqualification because a heel has gone too far. Most recently, I was called the winner of a match in November when Ralph "The Knife" Moya ignored the referee and hit me repeatedly with a steel chair. Tainted victory in that they wanted me to pretend to be unconscious when the ref lifted my hand in victory.
Back in October, I actually got a two-count on Pete "The Hammer" Hansen - but it was during the period when every match featured his former girlfriend and manager, The Lovely Daphne, distract him during a match. My mother has the comments of legendary announcer "Cowboy" Tex Wrangler on tape for that encounter: "Stardust almost got him. Ya gotta watch this kid, he's got the ability and scrappiness to score an upset." Of course, I didn't, but I can't wait to see the tape next time I'm home.
Other than that, I'm allowed to get in a few offensive moves most night before the tide turns and I get pummeled. Being able to get in an occasional shot on a superstar is a perk of being in the business for four years and becoming an expert at being a good victim.
Wrestling the Asian Assassin means I'll have to lie there and let him hit me with his Asian Star move off the top rope. I'm pretty good at taking punishment from people flying off the top rope, so I could be in the league for a while.
Earning more than $200 a match - up to $750 for televised beatings - pretending to be pummeled isn't that bad a way to make a living, although you have to be a good stuntman to not get injured. I've been lucky, just nicks and bruises despite the day-in, day-out punishment. When I was home a couple of years ago, I invested in an internet start-up company some college friends were developing. They're about to take it public, and I stand to make a killing on the initial investment when they do. Good to be making a killing instead of taking a killing once in a while.
The Assassin is practicing speaking his fictitious Asian dialectic when I show up for the walkthrough. "Hey, Sammy!" he says with a Brooklyn accent. "Gary, my man," I say, giving him a high five. He's pinned me a couple of times before, and we hang out in the same group on the road sometimes. If a star wrestler is friendly with you, he'll let you get in some good moves, so I'm hoping to exhibit a decent effort tonight.
"All right, I'll let you put in a few shots," Gary says, stroking his chin. "Dropkick, clothesline, that kind of thing. You done any misses off the top rope lately?"
"Are you kidding?" I reply. "That missed cross-body attempt against the Sheik a couple of weeks ago cost me the chance to knock off the second-most hated guy from the Middle East." We laugh.
Of course, the Assassin is much an Asian as I am a lounge singer. So what is my character about, you may ask.
Diamond Jim gave me the personality of Swinging Sammy Stardust, a Las Vegas heartthrob. OK, whatever. If I used my real last name, Steinbough, that wouldn't work too well. Sharkie Waterman of Global signed me to a one-year part-time contract after I wrestled in Japan and Mexico for some fourth-rate outfits. On the side, I freelanced with the other big organizations and was keelhauled by their top stars. However, I proved adept enough at being a welcome mat in my first year with Global that they signed me up for a one-year, full-time contract in fall. That's as good as job security gets for a journeyman.
I'm considered a "face" or good guy, so generally I receive a nice bit of applause and some sympathy, as the crowd boos whatever unpopular heel is rearranging me. Sometimes I get beat by another good guy if I'm available to do so, but only once in a while. It must be worse to be a bad-guy jobber, getting beaten and booed every night.
Just as I'm getting ready to leave the gym for a lunch break, I spot Sharkie, who has since been promoted director of talent development, holding a cup of coffee and watching some practice falls. I shake hands and then go into the pitch.
"Did I tell you I've developed a finishing maneuver?" I say. He looks a bit surprised.
"A finishing maneuver?" he says, taking his unlit cigar out of his mouth. "Don't you have to finish off an opponent to have a finishing maneuver?"
"I know, but it's a good one," I continue, undaunted by his categorization of me as a one-dimensional fall guy. "The Stardust Sunset. It's a little like a standing guillotine. I take the other guy's head..."
"Sammy...Sammy." Sharkie shakes his head. "Currently, your gig is mostly to make opponents look good, and you know that."
"But you said I'd be able to get some good matches. Maybe some undercards where I could win once in a while."
"The undercards are for gibronis...has-beens, never-weres, Sammy. You're in there with the big boys."
"I'm being beaten by the big boys, Sharkie. I don't want to just be a rag doll."
"Sammy, you know I think better of you," Sharkie said, trying to look a bit insulted. "We're getting closer and closer to developing a lightweight division. I'll need some contenders. If not as Sammy Stardust, we could put a mask on you and pretend you was a Mexican liche lubre."
"Really?" I perk up a bit.
"Of course, Sammy," he says, waving the cigar. "You're a great athlete, you're a great guy. We want you around for a while. I can't guarantee anything. But try to be patient."
I'm a bit confused as I go to lunch with the guys. Is Sharkie serious, or is he just playing me? I know that there's been on and off discussion of a lightweight division, and - at 205 pounds - I'm qualified. Better than taking the splat later tonight from the 290-pound Assassin.
We find a nice bar and grill and the six of us put some tables together. My future assailant, Gary the Assassin, Pete the Hammer, his wife Donna (a.k.a. Daphne), the Sheik (actually a guy named Don from Indiana), Handsome Hal, and I get some looks. Some women come over and ask if we're wrestlers. They ogle us, Donna gives them an evil stare. A couple of fans recognize Pete and Hal, since they don't wear masks or anything. No one IDs me as Sammy Stardust, but no biggie.
Pete and Hal are at the bar, signing autographs and discussing their tag-team match with The Enforcers, when The Highlanders saunter in. They are current Global Tag-Team champions, allegedly from the hills of Scotland (actually Nova Scotia, but close enough). As they receive the lion's share of attention, we slip out. I go back to the hotel for a quick nap.
I'm showered, shaved (like I said, I'm a "face"), and back at the gym by 5:30. It's all set up, ready to go when the gates open at 6:30. Gary and I take a few minutes to go through the walk-through on the mat. "Looks great," Pete The Hammer yells. "Now get out of the way so we can have a match people care about." He chuckles as he stands with Handsome Hal and The Enforcers, as they still need to finish their choreography.
"Which one of you is hitting him with the steel chair tonight?" I ask The Enforcers. One raises his hand. "Do us all a favor and knock some sense into him." That gets a nice laugh. Pete and I vaguely tolerate each other, so the next match we have he'll probably hit me a little harder than he normally would.
I go to wardrobe to pick up one of my robes. A pair of dice - ironically showing a lucky seven - sit between the words "Sammy" and "Stardust" on the back of the gaudily sequined thing. Each of the robes are fairly pricy, which is a compliment. I suspect that without pro wrestling, the satin and sequin industry would face a business downtown.
Back in the workout area, I ride a stationary bike to loosen up a sore hamstring. Gary, the Asian Assassin from Brooklyn, has agreed to let me have two mini-flurries tonight, so I need to stay loose. If I'm just going in to get straight-up mauled, I don't need much prep time.
The Highlanders kick off the broadcast at a little after 7 p.m. by whipping a couple of rookies who are probably on the jobber track. Then The Enforcers come out for an interview where they basically say a bunch of bad things about Pete "The Hammer" Hansen and Handsome Hal. My favorite line, uttered by one of the Enforcers, is: "We're gonna beat 'em so bad tonight, they won't be able to get jobs as chopped liver." Hard to believe that we have people who write this stuff. Of course, no one ever wants to interview Sammy Stardust, so I don't need writers.
Up next, Dirty Dan and his rival, The Mysterious Stranger, have one of those Pier Six Brawls (what exactly does that mean?) where they end up in a double countout, almost fighting among the crowd. They've been doing this to each other for a week now...there are some side bets as to how long it will be until Sharkie and the other suits let one of them actually win one of these encounters.
Since I've seen this all before, I've decided to get dressed. There is an occasional bout of butterflies, especially for televised matches because you can't fix it if things go wrong. I wait through a rebuttal interview from Pete The Hammer and Handsome Hal. Then, on cue, The Enforcers come dashing out and beat them up in the ring while the crowd boos. This, of course, serves to add drama to their main-event bout toward the end of the night.
Pete and Hal come through the curtain, looking disheveled. Once they reach the other side, they straighten up and make a right turn toward the hospitality room. I stretch out, knowing my introduction comes at any minute.
Gary comes over, readying his mask. "Good luck!" I tell him.
"Ooogalooga!" he replies in his gibberish dialect.
It comes over the loudspeakers, and I burst through the curtain to moderate applause. "Introducing first, from Las Vegas, Nevada...weighing in at 205 pounds...Saaaammy Stardust!" A few women scream from the audience. A few pockets of cheers made me feel a bit heartened. As could be expected, there's always one heckler calling me a loser. I'd just assume yell out: "I make more than you do, trailer park!" but, since I'm a good guy, this would be out of character.
I toss the robe over the ropes to the ring attendant, so now I'm standing in my silver trunks that say "Sammy Stardust" on the butt in cursive with my silver boots that have the lucky seven dice roll on each foot. This character is an eternal optimist, I figure, since he's much more likely to throw snake eyes at the crap table.
"And his opponent..." Gary appears in his full garb and evil-looking mask to a chorus of boos. "From the Orient...Weighing in at 295 pounds, the Asian Assassin." The Assassin comes into the ring and steamrolls into his hapless opponent, as we discussed earlier. He rams me into the turnbuckle a few times, and I pretend to look woozy. Then he whips me into the other corner. He rushes in, but Sammy is too fast and steps out of the way. I dropkick him and he rolls out of the ring.
While I hold up my arms and acknowledge some encouragement. The Assassin feigns anger at some ringside fans. This is part of the show, and Gary enjoys the chance to be rude as much as the fans love the interaction. He comes back in the ring. We grapple, then he throws me down by the hair. The referee - whose role is even more powerless than that of the journeyman wrestler - pretends to admonish him. The Assassin threatens him. Some people in the crowd cheer. If there's one thing they like seeing almost as much as watching the bad guys get their just desserts, it's watching the referees get manhandled.
But there will be no referee bashing (at least not until the sixth match tonight). I leap up and throw a few punches at the Assassin, before he stops me with a head butt. Followed by a body slam, clothesline, and an elbow drop. Then the Assassin bellows at the crowd to rile them up some more. Next he throws me outside the ring. Now he slams my head into a ring railing. Next up, he sends me into the ring steps with a loud thud. The crowd winces. It's not nearly as painful a move as it looks, but I am going to be very sore tomorrow.
The Assassin tosses me back into the ring then threatens the crowd some more, much to their delight. He leaps into the ring and runs off the far ropes to administer a flying head butt to Sammy Stardust as he writhes on the mat. But, again, Sammy is too quick. The scrappy underdog hits him with a European uppercut, backs him up, then whips him off the ropes into a clothesline. The Assassin looks a bit dazed as he struggles to his feet. Coming off the ropes, I knock him down with a nice dropkick. I go for the cover.
The ref gets down. "One...two..."
The Assassin kicks out with authority. A few fans sound genuinely disappointed that I don't get the upset. I've always wondered if it's possible to accidentally pin someone, or try to intentionally pin someone you're not supposed to. I suspect that's a quick way to find yourself bartending somewhere.
I put the groggy Assassin down again with a double ax-handle. I point to the top rope. Some of the crowd cheers. Sammy Stardust shouldn't listen to the crowd; he knows full well this dive from the top rope will mix and he'll lose again for the umpteenth time, but he is unfazed and, some would say, unintelligent for missing the same move so many times.
Sammy Stardust tries to fly off the top rope, but the Assassin slips out of the way. I land face-first on the canvas, a move I've learned to well enough to make me a valuable commodity to my employers.
The Assassin is on top of me, dealing me a couple of quick blows. Then he picks me up over my head and drops me like the proverbial sack of potatoes. He slides his fingers across his throat, the sign that he's about to finish off an opponent. He climbs to the top rope.
I lie there, eyes open a bit to expect the impact. He's up...I brace for the impact. Then wham! He's landed the Asian Star and goes for the cover. The referee counts to three and calls for the bell. "Ladies and gentleman," the announcement blares. "Your winner...The Asian Assassin." The crowd boos and hisses.
When a referee is done with a bout, he often has the task of walking the "wounded" loser back to the dressing room. "Thanks, Jack," I say when we get to the other side of the door. "Let's hope you never have to really help me limp home."
"Not unless it involves a bottle of rum, right?" says Jack the referee, a guy who can easily outdrink any of us. He gives me a fatherly wink and goes back out to ref the next match.
I take a long, hot shower in the locker room. Few matches of mine go this long. But Gary's a friend, so any face time he can get me can only help my career.
Changing back into my street clothes, I head into the hospitality room to have a drink. The Highlanders, having finished their night early, are into their third or fourth round.
Gary comes in and I hand him a beer. "Did you call Gina?" I ask, referring to his girlfriend back in the Big Apple.
"Yep, she says 'hi.'" He takes a swig. "You owe me, Vegas-boy, for letting you get a two-count."
"I'm grateful," I say, offering him a silent toast. "Let's find a bar to catch the Monday Night game. Jets-Bills, should be good."
"Sure," he says. "I'll even let you buy the first round this time." He won't, of course. Tradition states that the winner always buys the first round.
"Hope we don't get mobbed by people saying, 'hey, who's this guy buying the fabulous Sammy Stardust a drink," I say to the not-so-masked, not-so-Asian Assassin.
"Dream on," he says.
And to think tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. New Orleans this time. Great city, not much time to party. I'll be too busy letting some opponent knock me flatter than Bourbon Street too enjoy the place much.
But, like I say, it's part of the job.