In amateur wrestling or martial arts matches, all I'd had to do was go out on the mat and use moves and techniques developed from many years of practice. I'd never worried about what onlookers were thinking; in many intense bouts, I had forgotten they were even there.
In this situation, it was the audience who would decide if what they saw was any good or not. With only four days of training in basic professional holds and moves under my belt, and no experience at showman ship, I had no idea how to have a professional wrestling match that would please or impress the fans. That was the main reason for my jitters although the possibility of being assaulted didn't help.
A savage hazing in the dressing room brought me to the ring in an uneasy frame of mind. When Tarzan made his scary arrival thirty seconds after mine, unease flared into outright alarm. Mainly worried about making a fool of myself during my first match, I hadn't anticipated the need to defend myself against a gigantic psycho.
Now, with me unable to use my fighting skills and the match about to start, lack of experience paired with no knowledge of what to expect were a nerve-rattling tag team busily putting a boot-stomping to my composure. Why hadn't I been warned about a nightmare like this in professional wrestling school?
