south to Pittsburgh. At that point, I’d never heard of a lake effect storm or snow squall. It had been snowing for some time, but as a road veteran, I was having no problems. Suddenly, just as I was coming to an exit, the wind was blowing and the snow was flying to the point that driving became almost impossible. For some reason, I went on, thinking it would suddenly clear. I was wrong. An hour later, I had traveled only a few miles, and I pulled over for the night and checked into my Fairmont Hotel, where I slept soundly inside my two sleeping bags.
I was awakened by the tapping of a motorist on my windshield. “Are you okay?” he yelled.
I was still half asleep, and responded with a ridiculous “Sure, yeah, go ahead,” that I later regretted deeply. I climbed into the front seat and attempted to fire the mother up. Needless to say, the mother didn’t fire. Neither did it flicker or even spark. It was one dead mother. I got out of the car and my initial reaction was, “I’m going to die.” It was so cold and so windy that the wind was whipping right through my trusty red flannel and freezing me to the bone. In an act of self-preservation, I began to run, and with luck on my side, found a trooper station less than a mile up the road. A day later, the Interstate opened up and I drove the five hours back to Cortland just in time to catch the Super Bowl.
I had some other driving mishaps, but these were sometimes mental lapses on my part. One time, I drove to Freedom to find Dominic on an independent trip that I had forgotten about, as had Tony Nardo, another aspiring student. We drove to Dominic’s house, where we were given the bad news by his wife Jeneane. Jeneane was nice enough to give us the key to the gym, and Tony and I rolled around for an hour, returned the key, and went home. Total training time, one hour-total driving time, sixteen hours.
I did that trip one better shortly after college graduation when I was living with my parents in East Setauket. East Setauket was almost 500 miles away, instead of the 400 that Cortland was, and so it was with great sadness that I showed up in Freedom, only to find out that training was canceled. After a few minutes of somber soul-searching as to what the hell I was doing in the wrestling business, I did an about-face and drove home. Total training time, zero minutes-total driving time, twenty hours. I chalked up all these situations to paying my dues.
After about four trips to Dominic’s, I found I really had only two problems. One, I sucked at pro wrestling, and two, I hated it. After my big Ward Melville Dude Love debut, everything had been downhill. Now, at Dominic’s, I was finally getting to try some offensive moves, and couldn’t cut the mustard. Even the simplest things were confusing to me. Doing a hip toss was like doing algebra-I didn’t have a clue. A schoolboy rollup might as well have been nuclear physics, and a drop toe hold, brain surgery. I have several witnesses who can attest that I was the worst natural wrestler they ever saw. So when in the ring with me, the other students concentrated instead on what I was capable of-namely, taking an ass kicking-and proceeded to help me hone my skills in that specific area. I was really so bad that I wanted to quit, and the only thing that was stopping me was my pride. I had talked so much about wrestling for so many years that, if I quit, I would have felt like a huge failure.
Thankfully, after a long time, the fog began to lift, and I began to learn, and in turn began to enjoy myself. I credit my turnaround to hard work and perseverance, but above all else, the dedication of that old “som una bitch,” Dominic DeNucci. Too many times, I’ve heard horror stories of wrestlers’ “training” guys just as a way to rip them off. The Undertaker recently told me that he paid Buzz Sawyer to train him and basically learned how to lock up (begin a match) in Buzz’s backyard before showing up and finding that
I was awakened by the tapping of a motorist on my windshield. “Are you okay?” he yelled.
I was still half asleep, and responded with a ridiculous “Sure, yeah, go ahead,” that I later regretted deeply. I climbed into the front seat and attempted to fire the mother up. Needless to say, the mother didn’t fire. Neither did it flicker or even spark. It was one dead mother. I got out of the car and my initial reaction was, “I’m going to die.” It was so cold and so windy that the wind was whipping right through my trusty red flannel and freezing me to the bone. In an act of self-preservation, I began to run, and with luck on my side, found a trooper station less than a mile up the road. A day later, the Interstate opened up and I drove the five hours back to Cortland just in time to catch the Super Bowl.
I had some other driving mishaps, but these were sometimes mental lapses on my part. One time, I drove to Freedom to find Dominic on an independent trip that I had forgotten about, as had Tony Nardo, another aspiring student. We drove to Dominic’s house, where we were given the bad news by his wife Jeneane. Jeneane was nice enough to give us the key to the gym, and Tony and I rolled around for an hour, returned the key, and went home. Total training time, one hour-total driving time, sixteen hours.
I did that trip one better shortly after college graduation when I was living with my parents in East Setauket. East Setauket was almost 500 miles away, instead of the 400 that Cortland was, and so it was with great sadness that I showed up in Freedom, only to find out that training was canceled. After a few minutes of somber soul-searching as to what the hell I was doing in the wrestling business, I did an about-face and drove home. Total training time, zero minutes-total driving time, twenty hours. I chalked up all these situations to paying my dues.
After about four trips to Dominic’s, I found I really had only two problems. One, I sucked at pro wrestling, and two, I hated it. After my big Ward Melville Dude Love debut, everything had been downhill. Now, at Dominic’s, I was finally getting to try some offensive moves, and couldn’t cut the mustard. Even the simplest things were confusing to me. Doing a hip toss was like doing algebra-I didn’t have a clue. A schoolboy rollup might as well have been nuclear physics, and a drop toe hold, brain surgery. I have several witnesses who can attest that I was the worst natural wrestler they ever saw. So when in the ring with me, the other students concentrated instead on what I was capable of-namely, taking an ass kicking-and proceeded to help me hone my skills in that specific area. I was really so bad that I wanted to quit, and the only thing that was stopping me was my pride. I had talked so much about wrestling for so many years that, if I quit, I would have felt like a huge failure.
Thankfully, after a long time, the fog began to lift, and I began to learn, and in turn began to enjoy myself. I credit my turnaround to hard work and perseverance, but above all else, the dedication of that old “som una bitch,” Dominic DeNucci. Too many times, I’ve heard horror stories of wrestlers’ “training” guys just as a way to rip them off. The Undertaker recently told me that he paid Buzz Sawyer to train him and basically learned how to lock up (begin a match) in Buzz’s backyard before showing up and finding that
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