SIMMONS WINS! SIMMONS WINS! SIMMONS WINS!
Author’s Note: The following essay is about wrestling. So if you typed in my illustrious web address: www.rantnravewithjohn.com, to read my pithy remarks about Daughtry or my fawning remarks about We Were Promised Jetpacks, I sincerely apologize. If you are an attractive lady who is all “Wow, this John guy can write, I totally want to date him,” I swear to god, I am not as nerdy as this essay suggests. OK, maybe I am…but I can name every member of KISS in chronological order. That counts for something right? Right?!
I am going to see live professional wrestling tonight. It is a ritual I practice every couple of months. I sit in the same ringside seat, say hello to the regulars and get a hotdog at intermission. I am such a regular that the entire locker room knows me, and have broken character to acknowledge my presence.
The wrestling snob inside of me says that I go to see the young indie talent. They put on great matches for very little money and little recognition. I love the local guys, but sometimes it’s all about the Polaroid. This probably makes me sound like a hopeless mark, but I’ve gotten to meet so many heroes from my childhood. It’s like going to a Star Trek convention and getting to shake hands with William Shatner.
Ron Simmons is the big star this time around. To younger fans, he is nothing more than comic relief. Whenever something outrageous happened, he would show up, look around and say “DAMN!” before disappearing. To me, he is the “All American” Ron Simmons. Wait, that doesn’t sound right.
“THE ALL AMERICAN” RON SIMMMONNNNNNNNS!”
Thank you Gary Michael Capetta.
(Side note: Gary Michael Capetta is my favorite ring announcer of all time, although it used to bug the hell out of me when he would introduce Lex Luger’s bodyguard, Mr. Hughes, as “The Bodyguard” Mr. Hughes during his singles matches.)
When the definitive history of professional wrestling is written, 1992 will go down as World Championship Wrestling’s greatest year. They had found the perfect balance of wrestling and WWF-style showbiz. They had heroic babyfaces like Sting, “Flyin’” Brian Pillman and Ricky Steamboat, but they also had a fantastic roster of heels like “Ravishing” Rick Rude, Cactus Jack and “Stunning” Steve Austin.
All of these men played their roles to perfection, but Big Van Vader put them over the top.
I was seven years old in 1992, and still a firm believer in the magic of kayfabe. I believed that Hogan was a decent human being that didn’t take drugs, that the Mountie’s stun gun was real and that it was perfectly normal for grown men to carry snakes and birds wherever they went. However, I never really believed in the WWF’s monster heels. Earthquake was a good wrestler, but I never bought him as a threat to Hogan or the Ultimate Warrior. He was like Juggernaut; just a goon for the smarter heels to unleash upon plucky babyfaces.
Big Van Vader was different. He first made his name in Japan, so his work was very stiff. Every blow connected with a loud smack or thump. He made his American debut at the 1990 Great American Bash, where completely dismantled Tom Zenk. For the next year and a half, he bulldozed through the ranks, Harley Race in tow. A title shot was inevitable.
If anybody could stop Vader, Sting could. The WCW Champion was the pluckiest babyface of them all. He was a master at beating heels at their own game, and had a fantastic match with Cactus Jack at Beach Blast. He also had an army of Little Stingers behind him, and we had helped him come back many times before.
Sting didn’t stop Big Van Vader that night. He didn’t even come close. Vader beat the tar out of him and broke his ribs. In the words of Gorilla Monsoon, Vader was an immovable object.
Vader destroyed every single contender that came his way, until one night in Baltimore MD. He was going up against Ron Simmons, and it seemed like it would be another massacre. Simmons was a powerful guy, but beating Vader was impossible.
At first it looked like Vader was going to vanquish another foe, but Simmons ducked a clothesline. He bounced off the ropes and caught the champion in a huge powerslam. He quickly covered him for the three-count. Simmons had won the WCW World Title. I’ll never forget the joy on Simmons’ face when the ref’s hand hit the mat for the third time. The win meant so much to him. The camera panned the crowd, and many people were crying. It’s was the kind of emotional investment that makes wrestling so great. The other babyfaces hoisted the new champion on their shoulders as a gesture of solidarity. The evil Vader had been vanquished.
Vader regained the belt five months later, but Simmons’ reign still felt significant. The World Title didn’t change hands very often, so such an unexpected win felt really special. Today the belt is a prop, but at one time it meant you were the best in the world. That night in Baltimore, Vader learned that you don’t step to Ron.
