For a split second, we all thought “Skyflyer” Jeff Tyler was dead.
His opponent, the dastardly, man-bun-sporting Michael Allen Richard Clark, had rolled out of the ring, taking refuge with his paid-bodyguard, V.I.P. Tyler had climbed the turnbuckle and, throwing caution and himself to the wind, he’d launched his body at the villainous duo with a moonsault.
For those who don’t know, a moonsault is a wrestling move wherein the moonsaulter leaps at the moonsaultee by jumping backwards and rotating their body so their chest collides into their enemy. It’s a tricky move to do inside of the ring, not to mention from the top rope onto an unforgiving gym floor.
But that’s exactly what Tyler did. He moonsaulted in the air, seemingly brushing against the rafters. He fell on Clark and V.I.P., landing on the floor with an audible smack. The crowd gasped.
My group of wrestling fans were stunned. From our vantage point, it looked like Tyler’s face had plummeted straight onto the floor. They murmured and clutched their invisible pearls. One friend asked if Tyler was okay. Everyone was quiet.
Tyler scrambled to his feet and dragged Clark back into the ring. We collectively exhaled and resumed cheering/mocking the wrestlers.
Live wrestling is usually like that: A rollercoaster of irony, excitement, and genuine concern. It can give you whiplash.
As I mentioned in a previous column, I’m a big wrestling fan. But there’s a difference between watching Wrestlemania (the biggest professional wrestling spectacular in North America) and attending an independent promotion’s show. “Indies” (as hip/insufferable fans call them) may lack world-renowned stars and high production values, but they make up for that deficit with raw energy and enthusiasm. Everyone who attends an independent wrestling show, from the wrestlers to the fans, is excited. It’s a live-wire experience.
Last week, I attended High Impact Wrestling’s show at Sacred Heart’s gym. It was a rare instance of my work intersecting with my hobby. As luck would have it, a couple of my friends were at the event, so I sat with them and snapped several hundred photos of headlocks, dropkicks, bodyslams, and, oh, so many chest slaps.
Like all subcultures, independent wrestling shows have their own bizarre customs and rituals. For indie fans, particularly the group I was with, wrestling shows present an opportunity for endless inside jokes. My gaggle of friends rattled off a parade of wrestling jokes and memes that would take too long to explain. While their constant refrain of “Sweet” after every near-fall makes little sense to outsiders, it never failed to crack them up.
Another ritual of indie shows is to bombard the wrestlers with random questions and gags in the hopes of making them break character. My group of friends constantly rained down non-sequiters on the wrestlers, looking for a crack.
I got involved, inadvertently. Near us, a pair of fans heckled V.I.P. by calling him “cheeseburger.” Since V.I.P. was a rotund fellow, my group took exception to this insult, rallying to V.I.P.’s side to defend him from fat-shaming. I, being the quick-wit that I am, said cheeseburgers are good (that’s why I’m paid to write, not speak).
V.I.P. looked at me askance. He held his fist near my face and said if I like cheeseburgers so much, he’d give me a sandwich...a knuckle sandwich.
I, once again using my razor-wit, said, “A burger isn’t a sandwich.”
V.I.P. walked away in disgust, never to return with his promised meal. Afterwards, my friends and I debated the merits of my argument and we realized that a burger is, in fact, a sandwich.
So, V.I.P., wherever you are, I’d like to apologize for my careless comments. If the offer’s still open, I’ll gladly take your sandwich.
