There’s only one thing worse than being put through a table at wrestling on Saturday night, that’s being slammed into a table that doesn’t break. And everyone said “ouch” in unison.
Say what you will about professional wrestling that it’s fake, that it’s a redneck soap opera, that it’s staged. At the end of the day, it’s a collision sport that is on keel with football and rugby for its sheer physicality. I’ve seen some pretty ugly injuries in the ring during my seven years in the business. You can’t fake gravity.
No, this isn’t a bit extolling the virtues of professional wrestling. This is a bit about how bad being slammed into a table that doesn’t break is. As an aside, tables at Tennessee All-Pro Wrestling are not pre-broken. They are heavy duty portable tables like the ones you on which you eat your homecoming dinner at church. They are very hard, trust me.
You may be asking yourself, how does a guy like you end up getting yourself in a situation where a big, old, sweaty wrestler is going to slam you through a table? It’s the same reason you jump off the bridge because your friends do. It’s called peer pressure.
I may be 51 but that doesn’t mean I’m not still subject to it. Plus, I like to think of myself as being a bit of a bad man, a tough guy (even though I secretly watch My Little Pony along with my youngest son in the morning and enjoy it).
So, there I am, presented with the scenario early in the evening. I’m the general manager at the local show so I don’t normally take these high-impact moves, yet I know that at the end of the night, I’m going through a table in front of a packed house. At least we have our shows at Smartt Assembly of God. I have to admit, I did a little extra bit of praying when I asked the blessing on the show that night.
Do you think my mind was on the matches that evening? Oh no. All I could think about is how bad going through that table was going to hurt. And, to allow the dread to build, my going through the table was going to be at the very end of the show.
Anyway, it came time for the inevitable. I stepped into the ring and was seized by one of the bad guys. The table was set up in the corner, ready to be splintered. Across the ring, the champion took off running and, like a linebacker, launched himself at my midsection, carrying me at full gallop toward the table. I winced, waiting to go through the table but instead, well, let’s just say it was like hitting a wall with my back.
“The table didn’t break,” I muttered as I slid down the still-intact table and landed in a heap.
“That sucks,” one of the wrestlers said as he mercifully kicked me out of the ring so the champ could continue trying to put people through the table. It took five tries to break, thankfully none of the rest involving me. That was one tough table.
Standard reporter Duane Sherrill can be reached at 473-2191.