I nodded, understanding fully for the first time, what Everett Davis and the sports entertainment industry were all about. The man wasn’t a promoter after the manner of that American bloke with the big hair; he was an impresario, an actor director, and his presentations were an extreme form of dance theatre.
As the rest of the troupe split off into twos, or in one case, four, I followed him into a corner of the great hall, where a pile of speakers and other audio equipment stood ready for positioning. He picked up a cordless mike and handed it to me. ‘Get used to handling it like it’s not there,’ he said. ‘Hold it like I showed you the other day, chest height to give the cameras a clear shot of your face, about a foot and a half away from your mouth.’ I nodded, dumbly.
‘Okay. Now let’s hear you.’ I took the running order from the inside pocket of my sports jacket, and ran my eyes down it. The first match featured someone called Salvatore Scarletto (His real name was Johnny King: I had met him on the bus) fighting Tommy Rockette. (His gimmick appeared to be that he came to the ring carrying a guitar.) I ran through my intro, awkwardly. When we had tried it out first in Glasgow, I hadn’t been holding a mike.
‘Relax, man,’ said Everett. ‘Start slow and build up to a crescendo. Roll out each of the names, real slow, so that everyone can hear ’em loud and clear.’ After half a dozen more attempts, he was satisfied. ‘That’s good. Just keep that tempo and you’ll be fine, Oz. Now run through the rest of the card for me.’
I did as he asked. I must have been okay right enough, because his nods grew more emphatic and his smile widened as I went on. By the time I’d finished, I noticed for the first time an absentee from the list. ‘Where’s Jerry?’ I asked.
‘He’s not appearing this week. We’re using that video insert you saw the other day. It’ll run for the audience on our big screen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘The Behemoth? Okay? Man, he’s indestructible. The fact is he’s on a kids’ television show tomorrow morning, as a special guest star.’
‘Kids’ telly? Won’t he scare the life out of the poor wee darlings?’
Everett laughed. ‘The opposite. He’s great with kids; they love him.’ He turned and looked across at the ring.
‘The canvas is in place. I gotta go and rehearse the guys. You just stay here and keep practising.’
I did as I was told, facing into the corner and feeling only slightly daft as I ran through the card over and over again. I was just about ready to pack it in for the night when a hand fell on my shoulder, none too softly.
‘Well now, Ozzie my boyo,’ said Liam Matthews. ‘How are you doing? Better than that last bastard, I hope.’ I hadn’t taken to the Irishman at first sight, but there was something in his tone which made me like him even less. The fact is it made me downright dislike him.
‘I want you to remember something,’ he brogued at me. ‘All the other introductions, they can all go to ratshit for all I care. There’s one you’d better get right, though, and you can guess whose that is.’ He squeezed my shoulder for a second, hard enough for it to hurt.
‘Sure’n let’s be hearing you now.’
‘If you want.’ I raised my dead mike to the required level and began to call my intro, ‘. . and his opponent, in this title match, all the way from Dublin, Ireland, the GWA Transcontinental Champion, Liam. . The Man. . Matthews!’
The Irishman’s long, thick blond hair flew as he shook his head, vigorously. ‘Christ man, where did the big D dig you up? You make me sound like a selling plater. I am the coming man in this organisation, and that’s all you can do for me?’
‘What more do you want?’ I demanded.
‘I want you to call out my name like you were introducing Jesus Christ, John Lennon and Muhammad Ali all in one. I want you to hang on to every letter, as if you couldn’t bear to let them go. I want you to have those little girls screaming for me before you’ve even got halfway through.’
And why would they be screaming for you, you greasy Irish toe-rag? I thought. I decided against voicing it though. ‘I’ll work on it,’ I said instead. ‘I’ll stay up all night working on it if I have to.’
‘As well you do, Ozzie boy. Otherwise you’ll come by the same injuries as the last fella.’ He gave me one of the least pleasant smiles I had ever seen and turned away, trotting across to the ring where Everett and the Black Angel of Death awaited his pleasure, together with Dee Dee, the ‘manager’, dressed this time in a casual shirt, rather than his incredibly loud jacket.
I stared after him, pondering his threat, wondering whether to take it seriously.
‘Don’t you worry about that one, mate.’
The thick Glasgow accent came from behind me. I turned, to see a man standing beside the piled up speakers. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties; he was fair-haired, wearing grimy jeans and a faded GWA tee-shirt, and his face was streaked with dust and sweat. He was tall, about six three, and brick-built. ‘Liam likes to chuck his weight around. Just ignore him.’
I nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll enjoy ignoring the bastard, in fact.’ I looked at the newcomer. ‘You a wrestler?’
‘Christ no. I’m one of the road crew. We’re the really tough boys around here. Ma name’s Gary O’Rourke, by the way.’
‘Oz Blackstone.’
‘How did you come to land this job, Oz?’
I took immediate refuge behind my previously rehearsed lie. ‘I’ve done a bit of acting. A friend of mine introduced me to Everett, and he decided to give me a shot at it.’
Gary nodded. ‘Aye, he’s a good bloke, is big Daze. So’s the other Yank, Jerry.’
‘What are the rest of the wrestlers like?’
‘Ach, apart from Liam who’s a nasty wee shite, the most of them are okay. Yon Darius, he looks fuckin’ terrifying in the ring, but he’s a pleasant big guy outside of it. Even the lassies are fine.’ He pointed across the arena, towards one of the women I had seen earlier: she was doing stretching exercises. ‘Sally, over there, Sally Crockett: she’s a real stunner. She comes from Manchester; the other women in the squad are Yanks.
‘As for the boss’s wife. .’ His voice tailed off.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve met her.’
I paused and looked at him. ‘How tough are these guys, really?’
Gary grunted and ran his thick fingers through his hair. ‘Depends what you mean by tough. If you mean how are they in a real fight: some of them — the likes of Johnny King and Rockette there — wouldnae last two minutes in our local, but as for some of the others. . Jerry Gradi, now, he’s a fuckin’ monster. So’s Darius. He wears that loose ring costume, but you see him out of it. Man, he’s so hard, the only bit of his body that moves is his dick.’
‘What about Daze?’
The Glaswegian frowned. ‘The Boss is brilliant in the ring. It’s just so easy for him. He can even handle big Jerry like he was a wean. You look at him and you realise that he’s holdin’ so much back. As for how tough he is, the only thing I could say to that is that if he ever got mad at me, Ah’d send for the SAS. . and even then Ah wouldnae expect to get anythin’ better than a draw.
‘The really impressive thing about these guys though is what they can do wi’ their bodies. Look at that.’ He pointed to the ring. I turned, in time to see Darius pick up Liam Matthews, lift him to shoulder height and choke-slam him down flat on his back on to the padded canvas.
‘Liam weighs maybe a bit over fifteen stone. He and all the rest of them take that sort of hammering every week in life, but they just absorb it and come back for more. Now that’s tough.’
‘Is it a good crowd to work for?’ I asked him, casually.
‘Aye, it is. Big Daze tries to run this like a fitba’ team. He goes out of his way tae make sure everybody’s happy.’
‘And are they?’
‘As far as Ah can tell. It’s the best place Ah’ve ever worked, Ah’ll tell ye.’
‘Where did you work before?’
‘Buildin’ trade.’
‘What brought you here?’