I love wrestling.
I don't even pretend anymore at this point. I've heard everything, I've seen all the faces. "You like wrestling? The guy that is this harsh to movies and proclaims to love cinema as a high level form of art?" or one such variation of the questioning goes...
Some of my first memories are that of wrestling, specifically Puerto Rican wrestling via the World Wrestling Council (WWC).
Got your attention now?
If I don't, then you don't know about the perilous territory that is Puerto Rico - as a wrestling territory that is. The legendary riots, the raucous crowds, the gallons of blood spilled in the ring. Mick Foley, once and forever revered as the Patron Saint of Hardcore Wrestling, has had choice words about the toughness of Puerto Rican wrestlers and the fans that they bring. His love for this island's wrestling community so great that he conducted an auction to raise money for Puerto Ricans damaged by Hurricane Maria. In the auction, WWE talents and legends donated articles – usually signed by them. The Rock, Kevin Owens, Samoa Joe, Seth Rollins, Charlotte Flair, Becky Lynch, Puerto Rican born Lince Dorado and many others helped the WWE Hall of Famer to raise the $21,000 in this disastrous times.
This respect has been earned due to the brutality of matches in the 70['s and 80's from legends like Carlos Colon, Abdullah the Butcher, Stan Hansen, Bruiser Brody, among others. There is a degree of brutality in a match that I will gladly allow, provided it's not gonzo and gory for the sake of being gory. Story, in wrestling, matters the most. On Saturday September 18th, I was asked to come see a deathmatch tournament. My ears perked up, I had seldom witnessed the brutality of Puerto Rican hardcore wrestling on American soil. Sure, there are a myriad of deathmatch wrestling promotions, but I would never bother to pay to attend one since I expected a bunch of bikers and felons just brutalize each other for the sake of a paycheck.
I've been proven wrong before.
(language warning for the remainder of this column, this is the first and last warning I will issue to anyone with sensitive ears)
"Slave to the Deathmatch XII (STTDM)," I saw as I scrolled on Twitter, researching the company for my own edification. Primos Premier Pro Wrestling (great name, unchantable abbreviation) was the host of this night of decadence I was promised. An entire deathmatch-themed tournament in one night (!), how could I pass this invitation to a VIP showing by my friend Gabe (you should see how Dark and Weird he can get at times...) whose wrestling opinion I learned to respect early on?
I had to go.
7:00 PM MST rolled around and the stage was set. My first deathmatch show, the energy of this small but also grandiose Watering Bowlub was all but palpable. The crowd, bloodthirsty, chanting for their favorites, the music blasting, the journey about to begin. The first match, and Gabe's guidance throughout the entire affair, was what I like to call a "Primos Premier(e?) Primer." It set the mood, it laid the stage. The tournament format was as follows (reminder that this is the twelfth edition of this Wrestlemania-esque night of broken glass and barbwired dreams): the first stage of the tournament would be tag matches wherein the tag team that wins would advance to the next stage. In the 2nd stage of the tournament, four singles matches would then be produced between the tag team victors, essentially splitting the teams that just worked together to get to this stage.
Ultimately, the Final Stage would pit the four victors of the semi-finals into a grand Fatal Four War Deathmatch - complete with ring canvas being removed and no ropes on the ring for this match. Whomsoever wins the final match would be declared the Slave to the Deathmatch Champion, complete with a physical trophy as their prize, not to mention the bragging rights that usually come from tournament victories in the world of professional wrestling.
Around the third match or so I figured out Primos' genius tactic for booking this long tournament in one night (and that lasted into the midnight+ territory), short matches on the first round, longer affairs for the Semi-Finals and exhibition matches (two of which involved women's wresters that competed in two Match of the Night contenders). The final match, a cornucopia of gore, glass, and tables that would haunt Botchamania's own Maffew in nightmares to come, howling "I am the table!" as he would, try as he might, break through them never achieving his goal - only a bruised ego and mangled body. Plenty of egos were shattered on this night (yours included) and a body did pay a steep price for the fans in attendance's entertainment.
One of my earlier picks, unbeknownst to me at the time as a local Greeley wrestler my gracious host had an established relationship with, was one Benjamin "Motherfuckin' (or just F'N) Cumberbatch. I've seen enough wrestlers to know a star when I first gaze upon them. The swagger, the stature, the charisma. The intangible "it" that many in the realm of entertainment profess to be in a long search for. Benny, well, the kid had it.
There's an exhausting quality to deathmatch wrestling, you can only bash so many heads and swing at pain-riddled-bodies before the "act" becomes stale and a parody of itself. Some would point at Mike Awesome VS. Masato Tanaka in ECW's One Night Stand 2005 as a prime example of a match that leans hard on the weapons use aspect of wrestling that defies all logic and brings the audience out (not Philly tho...), all while informing us them that, yes - this is scripted, and yes, we are hurting each other for your entertainment. There's only so much damage that even the most bloodthirsty fan will stomach. As Bret "The Hitman" Hart famously prided himself of, that the best wrestlers in the world are the ones that never injure their partner in the ring.
Midway through the night, I may have inhaled fluorescent light tube glass. It shocked me back to reality so to speak, my musings about hardcore wrestling echoing the "Cane Dewey" promo Mick Foley once passionately burned into our minds. I had concerns this night. Primos Premier Pro Wrestling spent hours massaging my fears, letting me know the talent wasn't going too far sometimes; they would tease a weed whacker spot and thank Christ almighty they didn't pull the trigger, because I would have walked out. Inevitably, as some of the biggest moments in wrestling tend to lead into, tragedy struck.
The stage was set, although in deathmatch wrestling, and specifically this night, the "stage being set" meant removing some of the actual setting in which the match that would crown tonight's champion would take place. Center stage, the bloodied ring canvas was removed. Mats were hastily rolled away by an industrious ring crew. Turnbuckles and posts, once the standing four corners of the squared circle, came down. Tonight's champion was not going to be crowned because of his athletic prowess in the ring, running the ropes and dazzling us with technical acumen. No, no. Tonight's victor was going to be a gladiator standing proudly on the carcasses of the men he would take to war, standing atop the wooden ground that many have bumped entire lifetimes on.
"The Duke of Hardcore" John Wayne Murdoch, 5th combatant entry into the tournament, would face three other hungry warriors in the Fatal Four Way Main Event. Former STTDM Champion “The King of Things That Sting" 14th combatant Dalton C. Bragg. Former STTDM Champion “Juggalo Extraordinaire“ 12th combatant Mosh Pit Mike. And, of course, Benny F’N Cumberbatch.
The match was all the chaos that would usually entail a deathmatch tournament final, and try as I might, the action was almost impossible to absorb as it spread out around the ring and even the balcony above us. After a beautiful dive by Bragg, we heard the crowd murmuring. All eyes and cameras pointed directly above us, Benny and John Wayne Murdoch were brawling on the balcony, when suddenly, and with thunderous crunch, both men fell through the tables. A Canadian Destroyer from the top of the balcony, all the way down the two stacked tables laid before you. A spot that sent shivers down my spine, as I remembered how I felt on that fateful day when Mankind was thrown off the Hell in a Cell.
As of this writing, Benjamin Cumberbatch is in serious condition at a hospital in Denver, Colorado. I would implore of Primos Premier Wrestling fans, deathmatch fans, and all of wrestling fans to reach out. Because a star shone this night, and I would hate to see it fade into obscurity. A promising career can be derailed by an unforeseen injury. Stone Cold, Mick Foley, Edge, Daniel Bryan - all recipients of injuries that pushed them to the precipice of retirement before their hard work and skill persevered, and became legends today.
He needs to know the wrestling world is behind him.
Benjamin Motherfuckin’ Cumberbatch.
We see you.
(If you want to donate and help Benjamin and his family during this time, you can support them via this Go Fund Me link here)
Rating:
It's not everyone's cup of tea, but I take great joy in seeing men and women hone their craft and paint the canvas red with the bloody brush they paint with. A Death Match Tournament worthy of its "Wrestlemania" level implications.
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