The first thing Hito made me do was take 500 back bumps in a row. I was numb after the first fifty, but I kept going. This was true Japanese wrestling training and I wanted a taste. After about 300 bumps I started slowing down from the fatigue and when Hito told me to speed up, I said, “No problem.”
Hito threw his hat at me and yelled, “Yes, there is problem! You are problem! Just do what I tell you and no speak!”
I shut up and continued training with Hito and his students for the rest of the week and taking around 3,000 bumps in the process. I learned different wrestling holds and techniques that I’d never seen before and I had highly intense practice matches with the Japanese guys. The highlight of the week arrived when Stu shuffled down the stairs and hung around the ring watching like a predator. I sensed the danger and with Jesse’s words of warning echoing in the back of my head, I tried to stay inconspicuous. Stu was in his mid-seventies, but he still got off on stretching guys the same way that his son Keith got off on stretching me. Thankfully Stu never put his hands on me but he did stretch the shit out of the one Japanese kid who made the mistake of shaking Stu-San’s hand. After the greeting, Stu held on to the guy’s hand and said, “Let me show you something.” He pulled the kid closer and stuck one arm on the kid’s head and the other under his chin. As Stu applied the pressure, I realized where Keith learned the hold that he’d locked on me during my first day of camp. But this kid didn’t contain his screams like I had and his cries of pain joined the legions of others that already haunted the Dungeon.
PART FOUR MEXICO
CHAPTER 14
THE WORST BALL-HUGGERS EVER
After finally experiencing the legend of the Dungeon, I felt that I’d gone as far as I could go working in Calgary. My career had been in a constant state of one step forward, two steps back and I’d grown stagnant working in the same places against the same guys. If I was going to get better, I needed a change of scenery and a change of style. I put together a promo tape filled with nonsensical high spots and flashy moves performed in front of twenty-five fans in high school gyms, and sent it to promoters around the world. I’d received bupkus in response and it was getting discouraging.
That’s why it was such a blessing to get a call from Mike Lozanski asking me if I wanted to go wrestle in Mexico. Mike had gotten the opportunity to work for a company based out of Monterrey and since Mexican wrestling was based around tag team matches, the promoter wanted Mike to have a permanent partner.
I jumped at Mike’s offer, and a few days later we bought our own tickets and flew via Mexico City to Monterrey, in the northern part of Mexico.
The promoter, Carlos Elizondo, didn’t have work visas arranged for us, so when we went through customs in Mexico City, we were to claim that we were on vacation. Of course, if anybody pushed the issue and checked our duffel bags filled with wrestling gear, it would’ve made things a little hard to explain. I guess I was supposed to use the Jedi mind trick to deter any official questions if asked. When I got to the front of the customs line I had to press a big black button that was attached to a traffic light. If the light blinked green, I was free to go. If it blinked red, it was plastic glove time. My finger shook slightly and a bead of moisture formed on my upper lip as I pressed the button. It flashed green and I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to claim that my fancy spandex tights were for a cabaret. The Jedi mind trick was saved for another day.
Monterrey was a fairly modern city with cool, dry weather, nestled in a scenic mountain range. The wrestling business was booming there and Elizondo’s company ran four shows a week, the biggest of which took place in a 10,000-seat bull fighting arena called Plaza Monumental every Sunday. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to work in front of that many people and I wondered how I would handle it when the day arrived.
We decided to stay in an American-style Holiday Inn and Elizondo agreed to pay half of the bill. He also agreed to reimburse us for our plane tickets (he never did) and to pay each of us 2,000 pesos a week, about 700 bucks, with a minimum of two matches a week. We could also eat for free at Cuatro Milpas, the restaurant he owned. Throw in the fact that it was my first steady job in the wrestling biz and you’ll see why I was a twenty-two-year-old happy campero.
I didn’t speak any Spanish at all, nothing, zilch, nada...okay, bad example. Mike however had spent a lot of time in Mexico and thought his Spanish was fairly good. But the more he spoke, the more I realized that he didn’t know any more than I did. He always ordered a jueves for lunch, thinking that it was a “type of sandwich.” What he was really ordering was a Thursday, the actual definition of jueves. It didn’t take long to realize that it was imperative to learn Spanish. Without it, I couldn’t eat, buy, sell, talk to girls, or put together a wrestling match.
Mexican wrestling is known as lucha libre, which loosely translated means free fight. Lucha is a high-flying style of wrestling with different rules and traditions that made it hard for me to understand. Lucha is to American wrestling as the Canadian Football League is to the National Football League. The same sport but with different rules. Most of the matches were six-man tags and were decided by the best two out of three falls. The majority of the performers—especially the natives—wore masks and had elaborately made colorful costumes with capes to match.
When I heard that Elizondo had an idea for my ring costume, I was intrigued. I was hoping for something cool, like a rainbow-colored mask with a silver cape and streamers shooting out of my hands. I almost had a heart attack when he gave me a little handful of spandex instead. He didn’t speak any English but I could see he was quite excited about the tiny yellow Speedos he wanted me to wear. Did I mention that he was openly gay? Seriously, was there something in the water that these promoters drank? I smiled back and when I motioned that I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing the flashy handkerchief, his face darkened.
He pondered my reaction for a few minutes and then mumbled something to the costume maker, who reached into his bag and pulled out plan B. These tights were a little longer than Speedos but were much tighter. As a matter of fact, they were probably the worst ball-huggers ever worn. You doubt me? Check out any of the pictures of me wearing them and you’ll know what religion I am.
Once I was issued the banana hammock, it was time to give me a new name. It was obvious from the Pomona HerriChico experience that the Chris Jericho nombre wouldn’t play in Pechuca, so I had to think of something else. Since Mike was known as Tigre Canadiense (Canadian Tiger) and we were partners, I had the idea to call myself Lion Heart.
But Elizondo hated it because he’d already come up with a name for me.
He-Man.
I’ll write it again...HE-MAN.
And not only did he want to call me He-Man, he wanted me to dress like the fucking guy as well. I’m talking the whole deal...furry boots, short tights with an H on the crotch, broadsword. Just what was I supposed to do with a broadsword? Behead the referee after a controversial call? He-Man made Cowboy Chris Jericho look like Stone Cold Steve Austin in comparison. I didn’t want to complain too loudly, as I still wanted the job, but as much as I tried to come to grips with the concept, I knew I could never make He-Man work.
I had the costume maker translate my words as I reasoned with the boss.
“If you think about it, Lion Heart is perfect. You brought me in to be Tigre Canadiense’s partner and if you use my name, we can be Lion and Tiger, the Canadian Wildcats!”
My pitch completed, I flashed Elizondo a Brad Pitt smile (although in retrospect I should’ve flashed him my ball bag). He liked the Gatos Salvaje (Wildcats) idea but didn’t feel that the fans would understand what a Lion Heart was. He toyed with the idea of calling me León d’Oro (Golden Lion) but after a few minutes decided he still liked He-Man best.
Elizondo was being such a name stickler because he had big plans for me in his company—he wanted to make me a star. He’d already started building up my debut by placing full-page ads of me in my crotch
holder in the local papers, offering free tickets to the first fan who could correctly answer three questions about me:
1. What was my real name?
2. Where was I from?
3. When was my debut match?
It was straight out of Tiger Beat and he wanted me to be a teen heartthrob like I was the Canadian member of Menudo.
He had also booked me on the local TV show Lucha Esta Noche! (Wrestling Tonight) to introduce me to the fans of Monterrey. So far, I was feeling pretty especial. After two days, I was already the subject of a contest in the paper AND the special guest on Lucha Esta frickin’ Noche! Finally after years of hardship, my ship was coming in.
But the damn ship sank seconds later when it was brought to my attention that my name was going to be decided by the viewers of the show. Elizondo’s idea was to have the fans watching Lucha Tonight vote on what my name should be. I figured that he would use León d’Oro no matter what the actual vote tally was, but Elizondo assured me that the voting process would be totally legit. The viewers would make their choice from three available names...He-Man, León d’Oro, or Chris Power. Chris Power? Granted He-Man was horrible, but it was better than that shit sandwich of a name.
The show began with the two masked hosts and me sitting around a desk looking serious. Sure luchadores are the superheroes of Mexican culture who hide their identities behind a mask, but why might I ask were the HOSTS hiding their faces? Did they have to conceal their identities from the evil TV hosts who were out to destroy them?
Even though I was a sexy beast, the episode of Lucha Esta Noche! was probably the worst show in Mexican television history. This was the result of an interviewer who spoke no English having an in-depth conversation with a guest who spoke no Spanish.
I fumbled through the disaster of a show, knowing that I had zero control over the upcoming decision that would forever change the course of my career.
Finally, a mariachi band began to play and the mysterious host hyped the big moment. The time had come! He was handed an envelope as if I was about to win a shitty Emmy. The winner of the Worst Name in Wrestling is...
After some babble about nombres and votas, the hostador finally opened the envelope. My heart pounded and a chorus line of Skeletors danced around inside my head like satanic Rockettes as the host revealed my new name of...
León d’Oro!!!
I morphed into Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally as I jumped up and down screaming, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
The show ended with confetti falling and the mariachis throwing the fuck down. After the hosts shook my hand and walked off the stage, I noticed that they’d left the paper with the vote tallies written on it. I read it and the results were:
León d’Oro—412 votes
He-Man—410 votes
Chris Power—52 votes
I had three thoughts:
1. I was spared He-Man by two measly votes.
2. I was shocked that there were fifty-two people in TV Land who actually liked the name Chris Power.
3. Only 874 people had watched the show.
CHAPTER 15
TOILET WATER IS TOILET WATER
Shortly afterward, I made my lucha libre debut with my new name, León d’Oro. The show took place in a parking lot, lit with a string of Christmas lights and a pair of headlights from an ’82 Chevy parked in front of the ring.
Mike had warned me to watch out for the Mexican wrestlers who were unhappy about the foreigners invading their territory. So it was no surprise when the first guy I got in the ring with, el Ranger, punched me in the face as hard as he could right off the lockup. I understood what was happening and after the second swing connected harder than the first one, I punched the bastard back. Just to make sure there was no confusion, I tattooed him a second time and after that he was very easy to work with. When the match was over he was quite friendly and never mentioned the stiff shots. Go figure.
After working exclusively in North America, I found the strange lucha style to be like wrestling trigonometry. There was a lot of rolling and tumbling in the ring, a direct contrast to the impactful bumps I’d been trained to do. The luchadores were throwing each other off the ropes with one hand and barely touching each other on tackles and clotheslines. They were working so light with each other that everything they did looked—dare I say—fake.
The stories told during the matches were strange as well. Falls would end only when every member of a team was pinned. We would work a fall for five minutes or so until all the members of the losing team got pinned or submitted one after another, only seconds apart. Then the second fall would start and the same thing would happen. You could also win by diving outside the ring onto another guy, but only if he wasn’t the captain. The captain could only lose if he was pinned or submitted. Confused? I am and I wrestled there for three years.
Another major difference was, when you worked a match in Canada or the States, you worked on the left side of your opponent’s body. You focused on his left leg or his left arm; you locked up at the beginning of the match with your left leg forward. But in Mexico, everyone worked on the right side. During my first match, I had no prior knowledge of this and it was like I was driving a car in England. I was bumping and crashing into things like Mel Gibson in Malibu, until I figured out it out.
I was glad that I had the parking lot match to work out the kinks because my next match was in the Plaza Monumental, the massive bull fighting arena. The ring was set up in the middle of a large dirt floor and the mat was covered in a coat of dust that mushroomed into the air with every bump. When the show started, the Plaza was jam-packed with 10,000 screaming fans, the majority of them girls and kids. When I looked into the crowd during my previous matches, I could see each face, each person. But with a crowd this large all I noticed was a living, breathing monster, moving and shifting just outside the glow of the ring lights. It was the first time that I felt like I was in the big leagues. This was no community center or bar; this was a legitimate arena with tiers of padded seats, wandering popcorn vendors, and a full PA system. After working here, I knew I could never go back to the minor leagues of Canada again.
While the situation was memorable, the match was not. We’d been booked with the legendary Mil Mascaras. Earlier, he’d been bragging in the dressing room (while standing on his toes and wearing his mask) that he’d:
a) Trained Arnold Schwarzenegger on Venice Beach in 1968,
b) Was the best technical wrestler in Mexican history, and
c) Was a superstar in every country in the world... even Luxembourg.
After all his talk I was expecting something special, but in reality Mil was rotten. He didn’t want Mike and me to do any offensive moves, as he said the thousands of fans in attendance wouldn’t believe in us. Yet he did nothing in the ring, besides flexing his saggy pectorals and dancing around like he had antalones in his pantalones. But the massive crowd went nuts for him anyway. After the match was finished he kept his mask on the entire time he was in the building, even while standing in the shower.
I was buzzing over working in such a big venue when I opened the backstage door to leave. I walked into the parking lot and couldn’t believe what I saw. Hundreds of fans were swarming around, all of them screaming and yelling. Chicks and guys, kids and old ladies, farmers and teenage girls, all of them pushing and hustling toward me. People were grabbing me and shouting, “León, León! Una foto (a picture)! Un beso (a kiss)!” Girls were clutching and pulling my hair and planting kisses on me with lips covered in cheap red lipstick. They were pinching my ass, grabbing my plums, and trying to steal my gear bag (I’m glad it wasn’t the other way around). It was like being in the middle of a scene in A Hard Day’s Night and I was the fifth Beatle. I felt fine.
I’d quickly become a bona fide celebrity in Monterrey and I was in demand. People wanted more than just the luchador and Elizondo booked me for a personal appearance at a factory Christmas party for a cool 600 pesos (200 bucks). It was easy money and
all I had to do, according to him, was show up, shake some hands, kiss some babies, and I’d be on my merry way. It was a much better deal than wrestling in front of seven people in Bimby, Alberta.
I got to the factory and went to the party area. Streamers and balloons were taped to a bunch of tables, all of them facing the stage at the end of the room. I asked where the signing area was and was surprised when I was told there wouldn’t be one. This was going to be easier than I thought!
But when a lady introduced herself and said she was my translator for the speech, the night got a whole lot harder. “Speech?”
“Yes. You’ll need to have your speech on ecology translated for the kids, won’t you?”
That’s when I found out that Elizondo had booked me at the party to give a speech to the kids on the importance of ECOLOGY. I didn’t know anything about Mexico or anything about Spanish and I sure as hell didn’t know anything about ecology! I walked on stage and faced a bunch of kids wearing Santa hats staring at me with expectant looks on their faces. They had no clue who I was and were wondering what the hell I was going to say.
So was I.
I walked up to the podium and said “Hola,” the only Spanish word I knew. I followed up in English with “We are gathered here today,” and it just went downhill from there, as the translator repeated my every word in Spanish. Considering that I had no idea what I was saying I can only imagine what she was translating my words into.
A Lion's Tale: Around the World in Spandex Page 11