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DEATHMATCH: Continuation of Chapter One
Shuffling from side to side, he moved around in front of me, as if he couldn't decide where to start with whatever mayhem he planned. I'd never laid eyes on this brute until thirty seconds ago and had no idea why he was so pushed out of shape, but saw he seemed convinced he could do anything he wanted to about it.
Here I was, Mick Michaels, at any moment needing to protect myself from, by Tarzan's look and manner, assault with a deadly wrestler, working undercover as a Secret Service agent on the lookout for funny money. I sure didn't see any on Tarzan and also detected nothing counterfeit in his appearance as a man about to go berserk.
Backing away a couple of steps, he pointed at me and took a wide sweeping look at the spectators. "I'm gonna rip this punk's head off" he thundered, looking insanely eager to commence ripping.
Tarzan showed no lack of confidence when he broadcast his game plan to everyone in the building. I scanned the densely packed fans sitting fifteen rows deep around the ring and saw no one challenge his claim; instead, I noticed a number of them nodding in agreement. It seemed they were as convinced as he was of his ability to mutilate my essential body parts.
Standing six feet tall and weighing two hundred twenty pounds ranks me among the larger members of our species. I was skilled at amateur wrestling and the martial arts and normally felt big and tough enough to handle physical face-offs with anyone. Tarzan looked a foot taller and twice my size. Even so, I knew I could defend myself except for one small detail. I couldn't use my fighting skills!
If l used amateur wrestling moves to take Tarzan off his feet and control-ride him until he calmed down, I would never get another match or, if I did, it wouldn't be any time soon. I had been told this by almost every one I'd come in contact within this business. The man who trained me had been first to warn me, followed by the promoter who hired me and finally, by every wrestler in my dressing room. If l just wanted to be what they called a shooter and use amateur wrestling moves to control professional opponents, any match I was in, compared to what pro fans were used to seeing, would be extremely boring.
Boring matches turn fans away in droves, gate receipts plummet, and wrestlers and promoter suffer in their bank accounts. I was being given a chance to develop into a professional wrestler. If I wasn't willing to forego my amateur training and learn the ropes as any other apprentice would, I could return to the amateur ranks.
I had been given this advice over and over, even while making it clear I understood the conditions, was putting my amateur background on the shelf and moving on. I was vexed to learn these new colleagues deemed my hard-earned status as Olympic Champion a negative and treated me with scorn because of it. I'd decided not to tell anyone I was also skilled in the martial arts, and knew, if I was going to succeed in my undercover work, I couldn't use those abilities either.
Until Next Time...