BRAD'S COMMENTARY  
Commentary for February 28, 2005

Welcome to another edition of Bad Brad’s commentary. I know it has been a while since this page has been updated. There is no good explanation. I offer only my apologies. At this point it is my goal to begin updating video reviews again. Also, I am going to take on the task of archiving old commentaries. Stay tuned to this page in the coming weeks for details on my return to the wrestling business. Go ahead, call me Terry Funk. There are much worse people to be compared to.

We now go from returning to the business, to making my debut in the business. Yes, it seems like only yesterday that I was pacing the halls, nervous as can be as it neared time for my very first match.

It all happened on a fluke, essentially. I had attended a show at New Mid-South in Oklahoma City on a Friday night. The following afternoon, there was a show promoted by Henry Hubbard in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Bryan and Jimmy--Cruize Control--were booked on the show. At the last minute they decided not to go, citing that the pay being offered wasn’t worth it. I enjoyed tagging along on road trips anyway, and I saw a small glimmer of hope that I may actually get to work on the show, as I had been training for 6 months, and believed I was ready to go.

Following the show in Oklahoma City, I jumped into the truck with Striker, Marshal Law, and Havoc--the other three guys booked on the show besides the aforementioned, no-showing Cruize Control. We headed over to Havoc’s house as he needed to help his mom hook up her U-Haul. She was moving to Florida the next day. This turned into a several hour ordeal. Although we did get beer and pizza out of the deal. Finally we hit the road.

It was a near 8 hour drive to our destination. Listening to Havoc along the way was one of the most miserable experiences I have ever had in my life. Each line that came out of his mouth was more preposterous that the last. However, none were more mind-numbing that the story of the family feud between he and his sister, that resulted in Havoc blowing up his sister’s car. To this day, Striker and I still get a good chuckle out of that one.

We arrived in Clarksdale late morning on Saturday, several hours before the show was to begin. The show was part of the local fair, taking place in a large event pavilion. Our arrival was very ill-fated, as the ring hadn’t even shown up yet. After Havoc refused to check into a hotel, where we could catch a few hours sleep and take a hot shower, we chose to nap on the cold, aluminum bleachers that would later hold several hundred wrestling fans.

I awoke to the sound of the ring crew, unloading the ring that I would step into just a few hours later for my first match. I couldn’t help but be curious as to what this ring looked like. I watched with eagerness, as the crew set up. Eagerness soon turned into horror, as more and more pieces were assembled. First the frame was all wood, so it would be stiff bumping. The ropes were actually rope. Not the nicely woven and wrapped with tape, hemp ropes that are used in New York. Nope. These ropes were badly unraveling. It looked like as soon as the event was over with, the ring would be disassembled, and the ropes would quickly be taken to another part of the fair so that they may be used for the bull roping event. When they started placing ply wood on the stiff, wood frame, I had some hope. However, the pieces were not cut to fit the ring, they were overlapping. Bumping with my back on two different levels of plywood would cause my back much pain in the years to come. Next came the canvas. Well, it wasn’t a canvas at all. It was a vinyl tarp, that if I didn’t know any better, a member of the ring crew had unhooked from the bed of his pickup truck just before driving the ring to the building. You couldn’t get any traction in that ring if your life depended on it.

Attempting to forget the tragedy that was the ring for the time being, I decided to catch another short nap in the stands. Eventually, the promoter showed up. Marshal and I, who were not booked, walked up to him along side Havoc & Striker, acting like we were supposed to be there. Strangely he didn’t question it, aside from telling me I looked too small to be a wrestler. I brushed it off and took my “gear” to the “locker room”. To dress, we could chose between a bathroom, and two different storage rooms. Also on the card were Koko B. Ware, King Cobra, Kevin Northcutt, and Dusty Wolfe, who I briefly knew from New Mid-South.

I soon met the state athletic commissioner. Only 16 years old at the time I had been nervous about legally being able to work on the show. I asked the commissioner if there was an age limit for competing. He no-sold it and asked, “How old are you?” I lied and said 18, hoping that was the right answer. It was ok for him, but he wanted to see my ID. Striker, not missing a beat, chimed in and told the commissioner that I had lost all my belongings in the May 3, 1999 tornado in Oklahoma. My house had legitimately been hit, but my ID remained in tact, and was in my wallet at that very moment. Having sympathy on me, the commissioner didn’t question me any further.

I began getting dressed. My “gear” consisted of a pair of red amateur wrestling shoes that I borrowed from Striker, black Trace knee pads, navy blue gym shorts, and a “Viagra” t-shirt, that I would wear many more times early in my career, before it was ripped during an unfortunate incident in the ring. If only judging by my ring attire, I had no business getting in the ring that night. These days I see numerous guys attired very similarly and working every week.

While fixing my hair in the bathroom, a photographer/reporter began interviewing me. That’s right. My very first match, hundreds of miles away from home, and I ended up with my picture in the newspaper.

As the moments leading up to my match slowly drifted away, I became more and more nervous--pacing around the locker room. At one point, I turned to Striker and asked, “Do you really think I’m ready for this?” He simply responded, “You’ve been ready.” That helped to ease the tension quite a bit.

Finally it was show time. I made my way to the ring, and for some reason, saw fit to grab the microphone. I went on to tell the fans how appropriate it was that this event was taking place at a circus, because I had never seen a bigger bunch of ugly, freaks in one building. Upon review, I guess it wasn’t really a circus after all, but the comment enraged the people all the same.

Next, my opponent, the Maniac Mechanic Marshal Law made his way to the ring. We opened up with the Tennessee arm drag, hip toss, body slam spot. The next several minutes were relatively basic, with me putting the boots to Marshal and choking him, while antagonizing the crowd. As it was time to go home, Marshall looks at me and says, “What’s the finish?” I shot him off the ropes, hoping he would remember. He ducked a clothesline and caught me with a boot to the gut as I turned around. Then he hit me with a face buster for a three count. It went off without a hitch. Finally, my first match was over. They only got easier after that.

The ride home was slightly cramped, as we added that evening ladies match (Kandi Kain & Cookie S. Cummings) to the truck. What I remember most about the ride home was Marshal drinking beer, and needing to pull over to pee. Striker pulled behind a car wash. Instead of peeing in the shadows where no one could see, he turned to face the road and stepped right into the most brightly lit spot possible. Two songs came and went on the radio while Marshal continued to pee for what seemed like an hour.

It was a great night that opened the door for many more matches to come. Check in next week for more fun stories. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed these stories half as much as I enjoyed living them.

Until next time,