I’m going to get confident now. I am officially proclaiming that I have regular readers, that’s right I’m talking plural! People, not person, folk not fella. Even if my column circulates through the minds of just two people (that’s including myself, I love to buff that ego) then I suppose my rants, rambles and all round logical well balanced opinions have a place in this world. Therefore I believe that at least one or two of my loyal fan base (that being me and my girlfriend) will take something away from the following tall tale. After you’ve experienced this epic adventure I want you all, friends and foe a like, to ask yourself this. How would you react?
Those who know me will tell you that I have an excellent temperament. I am calm, I am collected, I am a reasoning machine! So on this particular November morning my state of mind was no different than usual, calm, content and happy.
In the afternoon I was playing football (that’s soccer for you folks across the Atlantic) for my beloved Hesketh Bank AFC. We we’re in a County Cup match against a bunch of Hardcore bruisers from inner city Manchester. They kicked, they punched, they spat. It was the equivalent to facing eleven Big Boss Man clones but instead of pummelling us with night sticks they took full advantage of natures gift and turned their limbs into weapons.
For sixty minutes the game was an utter farce. We’d gone 2-0 ahead and they didn’t like it. I was smacked, whacked and almost cracked but my temperament, as it had done in the past, held firm. The mission was to win the game, no more, no less. However to keep your mind on the prize can be difficult when you’re being attacked from every angle with every limb.
There was one player in particular that seemed to get aroused every time he made someone else suffer. He was stocky, strong and above all a nasty piece of work. If he were to be a wrestler he’d get heat from just frowning. He tackled with two feet, he elbowed you in the face and he kicked your ankles whenever the ref wasn’t watching. For the sake of identity we’ll call him Shithead.
About an hour into the match this hairy ball of horse manure decided to scrape his sharp studs down the back of my best friend’s Achilles heel, which subsequently caused him to be sidelined for ten months. The aggravating aspect of this unprovoked attack was that my friend didn’t even have the ball. It was at the other end of the pitch along with the ref’s attention. It was at this point that my normally luke warm persona went up a degree or two. I marched over to this foul smelling cock sparrow and launched an unflinched verbal attack
Hudson: ‘That was a bit harsh wasn’t it mate?’
After such a scathing assault of words I’m not sure what I expected in reply but I can’t confess to being too surprised at what came my way.
Shithead: ‘Its you next fella’
Ah, I’m next. On a football field empty threats are thrown about like Funaki when battling the Big Show. Somehow though I thought that this arrangement of bone, muscle and pure evil would follow through on what I believed as a promise, not a threat. Just milliseconds after this chilling response came an air assault from his mouth to my eye. Spit in the face! For those of you who don’t know this is the most insulting and aggravating act possible on a football pitch. No one would have blamed me for clenching my knuckles and giving Shithead a right old pummelling. I took a deep, deep, deep breath and tried to keep my mind on winning the contest.
Ten minutes later and nothing had gone down. I was starting to wonder whether he’d sized me up and realised I would beat him half way to China, then I realised that I’m not what you would call physically intimidating and thought better of it. Suddenly as I attempted a short through ball on the edge of my box I felt a sudden loss of air in my chest and was sent tumbling to my ass from what can only be described as a Gore. I was ready for a three count it was that authentic.
I coughed, I stood and I watched as the referee lifted up the red card to Shithead, the Rhino wannabe. That was it, game over, I win! As he walked off and I tried to fill my lungs with precious air the scumbag stopped. He turned to look at me and like Hogan seeing a Summerslam pay off he opened his legs and sprinted towards me. He lifted his right arm and smashed me right across the jaw. Just to make it extra special he made a few predictions involving himself, my mother and the act of anal sex.
It was at this point I was ready to rip the f***ers head off! I wanted to tear into his acne ridden freak show of a face and bury him 6 foot under along with a steaming pile of Viscera’s diuretic slop. Yet what I actually did remains one of the proudest moments of my life. I put my hands behind my back, held out my chin and uttered the following.
Hudson: ’Go on, hit me again’
So he did. It hurt, I winced, he smiled. I wanted to knock his teeth out, but I didn’t. I stood my ground and kept my hands clasped very, very tightly, behind my back. He was restrained and taken off the pitch. I finished the game and we won 3-0.
Why? Why the hell would I let such a shit stain get away with a barbaric act of pure hatred. Why would I let him get off Scott free with what at its core was bullying? Simple, I wanted him punished. Despite looking like the missing link in the evolution chain he was actually showing a far more sinister side to his ugly mug.
The reason he hit me was not to make himself feel better but to get me sent off. In football, if you raise your hands you get sent off, no sin bin, its one red card and that’s it, game over. He of course knew this and believed that a fist to my face would provoke me into a fight and result in my exclusion from the field. I wasn’t prepared to give him the satisfaction. If I’d raised a fist I may have temporarily hurt his jaw or cheekbone (more likely not) but I would also let him get away with not only insulting my mother and punching me in the chops but seriously injuring my team mate.
This crackpot was fined £100 by the Lancashire FA, he was band for ten matches and guess what, we got to the semi-final of the cup.
So you‘ve managed to get this far. More often than not ambiguous or personal columns will be scanned over and politely left for others to comment upon. So if you’ve taken it all in then I thank you. Yet even you, a loyal reader is surely wondering what in the name of Big John Studd’s jock strap does this have to do with wrestling.
At the time I had been a huge fan of pro-wrestling for about two years. Along with football it was at the top of my passion list and rapidly growing in relevance. If that same situation had occurred in a wrestling ring my reaction would have been completely different.
Shithead was for all intents and purposes a nasty, mid-card wrestling heel. A guy everyone hates not because he’s good at being bad, he’s just bad. He was just scum, simple as the four letters it spells. Scum. I in turn was the equivalent of a face, a baby face. So if it had been played out in a wrestling ring the outcome is obvious. I’d have opened a Hudson size can of whoop ass and checked him into the Smackdown Hotel! On completion I would have sized him up real nice, taken that red card and shoved it straight up his candy ass! Suck it!
While it would have been a grand display of wrestling catchphrase knowledge, it would also have cost me a severe fine, a lengthy ban and above all I would have let down my team.
The fact is that real life isn’t wrestling. Wrestling isn’t real life. To feel the emotion of a situation involving provocation, family insults and physical attack is an adrenaline rush. Your temperament is on a knife edge and the knowledge of right and wrong is severely compromised. So when you see the worked angles in wrestling, it’s a release. I love to see a face get slapped, take it all in and then hurl back a series of right hooks.
Living vicariously through wrestling is something no one who calls themselves a fan can deny. It is also nothing to challenge or be embarrassed about. I would never dream of starting or even joining a real life fight, not unless I was pushed to the limit, and from the story you all know how far people have to go to get a physical reaction from me. Yet when a war of words is being contested in the ring I’m the first one to egg on the physicality.
My love of wrestling stems from emotion. I didn’t know it at first, and haven’t known it for a long time. Its about what gets a reaction out of me. What gives me the goosebumps, makes me sit up and take notice.
If you take anything away from me and my writing at all its this. Feel what you feel, process it through your god given gift of rational thought and act accordingly. Lay back, relax and take your mind away from critique, switch on the wrestling and get your thrills from the screen, its less painful than real life.
Got a problem punk? Fine by me, vent that anger we’ll see who comes out swinging!
E-mail me at sargey18@hotmail.com
Tony Hudson
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