Appalachian Independent Wrestling: Sonny v. Doc (continued)

 (our match continues)

Every second inside the headlock drained strength. Every adjustment forced resistance.

Doc's knees bent lower as he tried again to relieve the pressure on his neck. One hand clamped around Sonny's wrist while the other hand pressed against Sonny's side, searching for enough space or leverage to turn inward.

Sonny leaned heavily into him and took a short step forward, dragging Doc with him.

The side headlock became a march across the mat.

Doc stumbled once before catching himself. Sonny immediately tightened the arm and pulled him back upright into the crook of the hold, keeping Doc trapped exactly where he wanted him -- bent, uncomfortable, and carrying the larger man's control like extra weight across his shoulders.

The lantern light caught the glint of sweat along both men's arms. Something almost ritualistic was caught in the moment -- two grappling men under an Appalachian moon, testing not merely strength but endurance, patience, and knowledge accumulated over decades of hard matches and hardscrabble life.

Doc dug his boots into the mat and tried once more to drive Sonny backward.

Sonny absorbed it.

Doc pushed again.

Sonny shifted his hips, tightened the headlock, and forced Doc's head lower against his ribs until the man in black had no choice but to bend and regroup once again. Sonny, calm as the mountains surrounding them, continued to work.

The pressure became so relentless that Doc struggled to think how he might escape and counter.

Sonny kept his hips low and his chest turned inward, forcing Doc to carry the full weight of the hold while his neck twisted sideways in the thick crook of Sonny's arm.

Sweat glistened on both men under the lantern light, their breathing deep and heavy in the cool mountain air.

Doc's face tightened as Sonny gave yet another short wrench to the hold. "You planning to keep me here all night?" Doc growled.

Sonny's eyes stayed forward. "Depends on how stubborn you feel."

Doc answered by changing levels suddenly. Instead of fighting upward again, he dropped lower beneath the headlock, forcing Sonny to widen his base to keep balance. Doc's shoulder pressed hard into Sonny's waistline and hip while his arm wrapped around Sonny's lower back for a momentary anchor.

Sonny felt the shift and tried to cinch the hold tighter.

But Doc was already moving. Years of wrestling instinct came roaring back to him. He stepped his outside leg deep across Sonny's body and twisted sharply, not away from the hold this time but directly into it.

The sudden rotation disrupted Sonny's footing for the first time since the side headlock had been applied. Sonny's left boot slid an inch.

Doc felt it, the slip. "There you are," he growled. Before Sonny could reset his balance, Doc threw his weight sideways and backward in one explosive motion. He lifted Sonny and turned, and the two of them were headed toward the mat.

The porch thundered beneath the takedown.

Sonny hit first. His shoulder and ribs slammed against the old canvas, and his grip loosened just enough for Doc to slip his head partially free. Sonny tried to clamp down again, but momentum had already shifted.

Doc rolled with the fall. Surprisingly agile for a man his size, he twirled counterclockwise and came out of the butt-roll near Sonny's head -- above and behind Sonny's head. He cupped Sonny's chin with a rough palm and pulled upward as if he would bring him to a seated position, but then he swung his thick left leg over Sonny's left shoulder and lay back. Falling toward his own seated position, Doc swung his right leg into position over Sonny's right shoulder, and as his butt met canvas, he pulled Sonny's head deep between his powerful thighs and scissored his legs shut, locking them at the ankles.

Sonny's eyes widened before slamming shut when Doc cinched the head scissors tight. Doc lay fully on his back, pulling Sonny with him and tightening the scissors with another jolting cinch.

Doc shook his head to shake off the residue of Sonny's headlock. As for Sonny, he could feel the ghost of that headlock, the feel of holding Doc's head tight to his chest and side, but then he felt the reality of being caught flat on the mat with Doc's legs crushing around his head and neck.

The moonlight gleamed off the sweat of both wrestlers as the struggle completely reversed.

Now it was Sonny grimacing.

Doc flexed the muscles of his inner thighs and tightened the scissors another painful notch. He flexed hard, aware of the back of Sonny's head trapped against his black trunks.

Sonny grunted and grabbed instinctively at Doc's left thigh, as if holding on for dear life.

"Still stubborn," Doc said through heavy breaths.

Sonny tried to twist free, but Doc adjusted with veteran precision, shifting his hips and tightening the lock of his ankles to prevent any escape.

The old porch boards creaked beneath them as they rolled slightly toward the edge of the circle painted on the mat.

Lantern light flickered across Sonny's strained face. The man in red planted one boot against the canvas and bridged his hips, trying to create space inside the scissors.

Doc immediately answered by rolling his weight backward and pulling tighter on the hold, forcing Sonny back down flat on the mat.

The pressure intensified.

Sonny's beard was damp with sweat against Doc's inner thigh. His chest heaved as he tried to work his hands between Doc's legs, searching for leverage.

But Doc was finally in control, and after spending long minutes trapped inside Sonny's grinding side headlock, he had no intention of surrendering control quickly.

Thus changes the rhythm of a wrestling match. Only moments earlier, Sonny had been calm and methodical, marching Doc around the mat under control of the side headlock -- like an old ring general dictating pace and pressure.

Now Doc controlled the tempo.

Now Sonny was the one trapped.

Beyond the porch, the Appalachian hills rolled dark beneath the full moon, while on the porch, wrapped in lantern-glow, two wrestling men strained against each other on the mat -- one man squeezing with strong and determined legs, the other fighting stubbornly for breathing room.

Sonny's face began to redden inside the crushing pressure of Doc's head scissors.

Doc lay back in the warm light with his thick legs locked tightly around Sonny's head. Every squeeze pressed Sonny's neck and cheeks against Doc's inner thighs while the old mat and the old porch groaned beneath their shifting weight.

For long seconds, Sonny could do little but endure the hold.

The moon hung bright over the mountains beyond the porch edge while sweat rolled down both men's arms and chests, making their skin shine bronze and silver beneath the mixed light of lanterns, candles, and the moon.

Doc tightened the head scissors again.

Sonny grunted sharply and thumped both boots hard against the canvas. "You always did have tree-trunk legs," he said through gritted teeth.

Doc's breathing came heavy but steady. "Glad you like them, treehugger."

"Didn't say I like them," Sonny said. He paused. Then, "But I do."

The pressure continued in spite of a stillness that came over the wrestlers. Each seemed lost in the moment, the feel of the hold, the skin-to-skin contact, their love of these moments.

Then Sonny twisted violently to his side. The sudden movement rocked both men across the mat, but Doc stayed attached to his opponent in red like a vise, keeping the scissors clamped tight while adjusting his hips to follow the motion.

Sonny tried prying space between the locked ankles, his thick fingers digging against Doc's boot and calf, but the hold remained stubbornly secure.

Still, Doc felt the resistance changing.

Sonny was no longer enduring. He was building leverage.

Doc reacted by squeezing harder and rolling backward to flatten Sonny's shoulders, but in doing so, he shifted his hips just enough for Sonny to slide one shoulder deeper into freedom.

Sonny felt it instantly.

So did Doc.

Both men exploded into motion at the same time. Doc tried to reset the scissors higher around Sonny's head, but Sonny bridged with all his weight and pushed upward with a hand at the back of each of Doc's knees. This forced the hold apart for half a second.

Half a second was enough.

Sonny ripped his head free with a rough gasp for air and rolled onto his belly before Doc could reapply the scissors. For the first time in several minutes, the pressure around Sonny's head had vanished.

But the escape and a needed hesitation cost him.

Doc was already moving again. The man in black came up faster than a man his size should have been able to move. Before Sonny could rise to defend himself, Doc seized his wrist with both hands and yanked the arm outward hard enough to stop Sonny's momentum.

"Not so fast," Doc said.

Sonny stalled on one knee, and Doc, looming over him, stepped into an expert deep arm bar. Sonny tried to turn inward, face him, but Doc already had the arm securely threaded into a punishing, controlling hold.

Pain shot through both Sonny's shoulder and his pride. "Ahh -- damn it!"

Doc cranked the hold carefully but firmly, controlling the wrist with one hand while pressing down above the elbow with the other. The leverage forced Sonny chest-down toward the mat, one arm stretched awkwardly behind him while his free hand clawed at the canvas for balance.

The reversal happened so quickly, Sonny barely had time to process it. Only moments before he had escaped the head scissors and felt the momentum shifting back within reach. Now he was trapped again.

Doc widened his stance and leaned his weight into the hold with veteran precision, twisting the arm just enough to keep Sonny grounded without risking injury. "Thought you were clear, didn't you?" Doc asked between breaths.

Sonny grimaced and tried to pull his elbow inward.

Doc immediately torqued the wrist another notch.

Sonny froze.

The lantern beside the porch post flickered in the breeze while both men steadied themselves in the center of the mat -- Doc kneeling over his opponent now, broad shoulders gleaming with sweat, and Sonny trapped face-down beneath the pressure of the arm bar, breathing hard through clenched teeth.

(to be continued)

Appalachian Independent Wrestling: Sonny v. Doc

 

The scene is set.

The wrestlers have arrived ready to grapple.

The handshake lasted longer than either man expected.

Out on the porch, under the silver wash of the Appalachian moon, Sonny and Doc stood at the edge of the rings that centered the old wrestling mat, their boots planted wide and solid, their thick hands clasped together in a shake of good sportsmanship. The lanterns hanging from the porch posts and scattered around on low tables and the floor threw amber light across the boards and mat, making the first sheen of sweat already gathering on their foreheads shine like oil.

An old and weathered hand-painted sign on the wall -- APPALACHIAN WRESTLING / EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT / BELL TIME 8:30 -- looked ghostly in the moonlight, like something from another century, which it was.

The mountains around were quiet except for the distant song of crickets and the low, slow creak of the porch timbers beneath their weight. Down in the holler, a dog barked once and then quieted again. 

"You still favor that left knee?" Sonny asked.

Doc's eyes narrowed. "Only if you're still slow to let go of a side headlock."

That almost earned a grin from Sonny. But only almost.

They released the handshake, and each took one slow step backward, the stiff old mat crackling under their boots. Both men rolled their shoulders loose. Sonny ran thumbs under the straps of his red tank top. Doc tucked his black tank top into his black trunks, then ran thumbs inside the waistband of the trunks and released it with a snap.

D. Samson "Sonny" Hunter and Aubrey "Doc" Weaver had known each other too long for WWE theatrics or playground trash talk. The respect between them was settled years before under the auspices of the Appalachian Independent Wrestling Alliance: beneath summer suns at county fairgrounds, in town and country high school gyms, throughout the AIWA territory in National Guard armories and VFW halls, where folding chairs screeched on concrete floors when the audience got excited and lung smoke hung beneath the rafters.

The last gasp of that heyday had now been more than thirty years before. This night was different. No crowd. No announcer. No referee. Just the mountains. Just the moon. Just the men in their sixties.

A breeze drifted across the porch, carrying with it the scents of pine woods and earth dampened by an afternoon rain. It cooled skin already heating with anticipation.

Old instincts awakened in both men at once. The years disappeared. Age remained in their faces, in the gray of their beards, in the thickness of their waistlines. But not in their eyes. Their eyes revealed they were still dangerous, still brimming with wrestling vitality and desires.

Sonny made the first feint -- a quick reach toward a thick thigh meant to test Doc's reaction speed. Doc slapped the hand aside and shifted to his right, the movement causing the lantern light to swing or shiver, which in turn set the men's shadows into motion on the mat and along the walls.

"Fast enough?" Doc said.

Sonny's answer was to drive forward. Not recklessly, but with the heavy, deliberate lunge of a ring veteran who knew the potential of making the first move. Doc met him head-on, and again the old porch shook beneath the collision.

The classic collar-and-elbow.

Right hand to the back of the other's neck. Left hand on the other's forearm or elbow. Fingers and palms curled and gripped. With a dull thump, their foreheads bumped together and stayed that way.

The entire porch seemed to tighten around them. The wall with its sign. The board floor with its wrestling mat. The shaking and shivering tongues of flame. Even the old man in the moon. Everything seemed to exist for -- to be focused on -- the wrestlers.

Neither gave an inch.

Sonny moved first and attempted to push Doc backward toward the edge of the mat where he could press Doc's shoulders against the APPALACHIAN WRESTLING sign. A show of strength, nothing more. But Doc did little more than step back with his right leg and plant his foot, stopping Sonny cold. Doc answered with a pull downward on Sonny's elbow at the same time as he pulled forward on the back of Sonny's neck, going for the traditional transition from the collar-and-elbow to a side headlock.

Sonny grunted and, at the same time, stepped back and pushed Doc away, breaking the initial lockup.

Doc's jaw tightened.

They circled each other one rotation around the mat, paused, and then lunged back into the collar-and-elbow. Their foreheads pressed together hard enough to hurt. The second tie-up settled into a grinding test of balance and leverage as Sonny and Doc leaned into each other in the center of the old porch mat. Their boots shuffled softly against the canvas as the lantern light flickered across broad shoulders and backs.

Out beyond the edge of the porch, the forest and mountains stood blue-black and silent beneath the moon as the two old wrestlers leaned into each other, testing strength against strength as they'd done much of their lives -- wrestling or not.

Sonny's right hand stayed tight against the back of Doc's neck. Doc's right hand pressed tight against Sonny's collarbone. Their free hands moved up and down from left forearm to elbow, feeling for the sweet spot where leverage and surprise might click into place to the advantage of one or the other.

This time it was Doc who drove first. With a sharp shove off his back foot, he pushed Sonny a step backward toward the edge of the mat--the edge of the porch. The movement rattled the old boards beneath the mat. Sonny absorbed the pressure with another grunt, lowered his hips, and widened his stance. His red tank top stretched tight across his thick frame as he dug in and stopped Doc's momentum cold.

For a moment they froze there like a sculpture. Strength against strength.

Then they became wrestlers again.

Doc tried to turn the lock-up clockwise, attempting to pull Sonny off balance and expose an angle for control, but Sonny felt it instantly. As years of instinct flared awake in him, he shifted with the motion instead of resisting directly, shifted just enough to destabilize Doc's right-side pressure.

That tiny opening was all Sonny needed.

Sonny's left hand shot up to the back of Doc's neck at the same time as his right hand slid down to Doc's elbow.

Doc recognized the danger a heartbeat too late.

Sonny pivoted sharply on this left boot, turned his hips clockwise, and, with Doc's left arm firmly under the control of Sonny's right hand, Sonny threaded his left arm around Doc's head and snapped a side headlock in place, pressing the right side of Doc's face hard against Sonny's powerful upper body. His right hand released Doc's left and moved to close the side headlock.

Doc bent to the pressure. "Damn," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Sonny planted his legs wide for balance, his boots gripping the mat as he locked his hands together and pulled Doc's head tight against his chest. The muscles in Sonny's forearms tightened like cables in the lantern glow.

Doc felt his head pressed securely against Sonny's left pec while one hand instinctively reached for Sonny's thigh to steady himself. His other hand grabbed at Sonny's waist, searching for stability inside the hold before Sonny further increased the pressure.

Sonny knew exactly how to apply the classic hold. Not wild. Not cruel. Precise. His hip stayed low. His chest stayed upright. His left elbow pinched inward just enough to force Doc's neck into an uncomfortable angle without fully cutting off movement.

Doc's boots shuffled for balance.

Sonny cranked the hold another notch.

The old porch groaned beneath them. Lantern light swung in the breeze while the moon cast pale silver across the darkened world around the wrestlers, who, from a distance, might have looked frozen there -- one wrestler bent low inside the other's control, both framed by darkness and weathered timber.

But up close and inside the hold, everything was movement. Doc tested Sonny's balance with a shove to the hip. Sonny widened his base. Doc tried to slip his head lower. Sonny tightened the headlock and leaned his weight downward on Doc's neck and shoulders.

The match had changed now. The feeling-out process of the collar-and-elbow tie-up was gone. Sonny had established the first real advantage, and both men knew what that meant. From here forward, every movement would become a counter, every shift a potential trap, every ounce of pressure part of a longer strategy unfolding beneath the full Appalachian moon.

Sonny bore down on the headlock with slow, punishing patience.

Doc stayed bent at the waist beside him, one hand gripping Sonny's thigh for balance while the other alternately fought at the hands and wrists that locked the hold or reached around Sonny's thick waist for stability or to pull closer to reduce the pressure. The hold forced Doc's neck and face sideways into Sonny's powerful chest, and every time he tried to straighten up, Sonny leaned his weight into him again like an oak settling deeper into the earth.

"Still got it tight," Doc muttered through clenched teeth.

Sonny's answer came with another deliberate wrench of the hold. Not enough to injure. Enough to remind Doc who was in control.

Doc grunted and shifted his footing, his boots scraping across the canvas as he searched for an escape route. He knew better than to waste energy trying to overpower the hold directly. His opponent's base was far too solid for that.

The man in red had planted himself wide in the center of the circle, knees bent, hips low, every inch of his body aligned to keep control. Old wrestler's leverage. The dangerous kind.

Doc tried another tactic. Instead of pulling backward, he stepped inward, crowding Sonny's body and forcing the bigger man to adjust his footing. He drove his right shoulder into Sonny's ribs while his hands worked at the hand-and-wrist lock beneath his jaw.

Sonny saw through the tactic immediately and widened the stance of his left leg and rotated with the pressure, keeping Doc trapped tightly against his side and chest. The motion carried them slowly across the mat, both men breathing harder now, sweat beginning to shine on their arms and necks.

The old porch creaked beneath their combined weight of over five hundred pounds.

Doc suddenly shoved hard at Sonny's hip and tried to slip his head downward beneath the crook of the elbow.

For half a second the hold loosened. Half a second -- enough for hope of escape.

But when Doc paused to assess the change, Sonny -- already ahead of him -- released his grip just enough to tuck his right fist underneath Doc's chin and push his head further up into a headlock that he then snapped tighter and more secure than before. His forearm slid deeper beneath Doc's jawline, while he turned his chest sharply toward the hold, twisting Doc sideways and stopping his escape attempt cold.

Doc's face tightened with pain and frustration.

"Thought you had daylight there, didn't you?" Sonny said quietly and tightened the headlock another notch.

Doc huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.

The moonlight touched the forest and hills behind them with highlights of silver while Sonny kept tightening the hold notch by notch, making Doc not only suffer the grinding headlock but also carry the weight he leaned into it. This was classic old-school wrestling -- not explosive, not flashy, but exhausting in a way the WWE twigs and bodybuilders rarely, if ever, understood.

(to be continued)

 Anybody still out there?

Harley Race's Head Scissors

 I wish the video weren't so jumpy, but I do love to see Harley Race jump into a head scissors. This one's applied to the great Dory Funk. (If the video doesn't go directly to Race up in the air and locking his legs around Funk's head, you can jump to it at 35:44.)

My Favorite AC

First contact via blog comments: "Hey Ringer, I've been reading your article for a while and share many of your same thoughts and feelings about the matter. I am married with a child and attend church regularly and struggle with the issue of enjoying wrestling. I live in was wondering if you would be interested in meeting for a match?"

My response: "Sorry, but I missed your "live in" somehow. Where are you? If it's geographically possible, I'd be interested in meeting for a match.

And thanks for reading! You can contact me at wrestling-life@hotmail.com."

My follow-up response: "Got your email, "Anonymous," and sent one back to you."

His initial email: "Sorry, I typed the comment early this morning before leaving for work.  I reside in the Kingsport area so not too far away.  I noted from reading some [of] your articles that you generally meet at Applebee's so thought I might see if you were interested in meeting up for a match sometime.  As I said, I have read your article for a while and had alot of the same thoughts and feelings and thought it could be interesting."

My response: "Thanks for the note. Again, I'm glad you've gotten something out of the blog. It certainly helps me. My wrestling experiences have been almost all good ones, and as you can tell from the blog, this is due in part to the fact that I'm cautious in setting up matches. So, if you don't mind, before we begin looking for a time to get together, let's have a brief email conversation.

You know a good bit about my wrestling interests from your reading. Other things that might not have come out clearly in the blog are that I'm 49 years old and I currently weigh 255, and I don't generally wrestle men significantly younger (in their 20s) or significantly smaller (say, under 190). The rest you know or have a good idea about.
 
Tell me a little about yourself--age, size, wrestling interests.
 
Applebee's has been a good place to meet in the past, although now that I think about it, the meetings there haven't led to my favorite matches . But I'm sure that wasn't the fault of Applebee's.

I look forward to hearing from you again at your convenience."

My follow-up: "Hi there, I'm hoping I didn't write anything wrong in my last email to you, as I'm interested in talking sometime."

[crickets]

I guess sometimes--most times--contacts like this just don't work out. I never heard anything back from this contact after my last response above.

Uncle Bill's Nipple

A significant part of my wrestling obsession is an accompanying obsession with heavyset men with bellies.

Not grossly obese men. Not men with fat tires around their waists. Not men with hanging bellies that make them look for all the world as if they’re pregnant. Not men with flabby breasts that lay flaccid atop their bellies. Not men whose breasts seem only the wall of their chests with nipples painted on them.

No, some apparent muscle in the breasts seems necessary. Some apparent muscle in the belly—“table muscle”—seems necessary as well. The belly must have some contour and not appear carried like a bag.

Whence this obsession? This desire even?

One of the oldest images in my mind is of a morning in my grandparents’ house. The dining room table is covered with breakfast—plates of biscuits and bacon, bowls of gravy, cups of coffee, dishes of butter and jelly. I’m under ten years old, but I can’t be more accurate than that. I walk into the dining room, perhaps having just gotten out of bed. I come to the edge of the table, closest to where my uncle Bill sits. He has wavy red hair on a round head, a clean-shaven face often red from laughter. He is shirtless, and for whatever reason, his nipples are hard and large. Beneath them, his strong belly balloons partway out over his thighs. Maybe he’s wearing khaki trousers and is barefooted. Again, I’m not big, but I must stand tall enough that I’m at least a head above his shoulders as he’s seated, maybe even a head (or almost a head) above his head. Whichever the case, I’m able to look down at the table and move my gaze back and forth from the delicious food on his plate to his naked upper body without having to move my neck or change the position of my head.

I can’t recall seeing my father or other uncles without at least their undershirts on. Was Uncle Bill’s the first naked man’s body—partially naked, at least—that I’d been close to and able to observe closely, if covertly, in my life? I have little or no interest in men’s genitals, but their shoulders and breasts and bellies captivate my attention—if they have the look.

Did this moment next to Uncle Bill contribute to my obsession with wrestling—pro wrestling in particular? I don’t like all the clothes that amateur wrestlers wear. I don’t like when pro wrestlers wear anything on their upper bodies, even if it’s just a singlet with a single shoulder strap. I don’t care for wrestlers who have thin physiques (think Greg Gagne). I don’t care for wrestlers who are heavily muscled (think Lex Luger or Randy Savage) and seem more like bodybuilders—unless they also have a belly I like.

Now and then, Uncle Bill’s nipple pops into my mind, and I wonder if it—and that moment of seeing it—have had some influence on my erotic personality and interests.

So, friends, from Compton's Encyclopedia, this is the head scissors that so many of us are turned on by.

Some years ago, I met one of my favorite opponents for the first time in the basement of an old middle school. Upstairs a basketball game was going on. I met this big man outside the game. He worked at the school, which was near where I live, and he guided me through the dark to a back entrance. We stripped down to our trunks and wrestled. At one point I had him in a head scissors like Bockwinkle and Race begin with below. And suddenly the image of this old Compton's head scissors came to mind, and I could immediately envision how to switch from my standard head scissors to this luscious one from the encyclopedia. I said to my guy, "Hang on, I'm gonna try something." And I made the switch, natural as you please. Man, did my body thrill at finally being able to feel what I'd looked at and fantasized about for so long! 

Here it is as applied by Gene Kiniski on Giant Baba. Unlike the other holds below, in which the wrester in charge makes a quick switch from a standard head scissors to the "head scissors and arm hold," watch Kiniski go straight to the hold.

Hey, ref, how 'bout you get out of the dang way?!

Harley Race v. Terry Funk

Race's version of the hold is elevated, rather than lying heavily on Funk's body like the other holds depicted here.

Watch Race make the switch, which is done here slowly enough so that we can see how the grip with his legs changes from one version to the next.

Below is the head scissors in a match between Warren Bockwinkle and Wilbur Snyder. I think it might be my favorite, although the Race/Funk version is darn hot.

Watch this to see how Bockwinkle makes the switch between the two head scissors versions. I'm guessing that this is how the head scissors in Compton's developed. Although I suppose Black in the picture could have put White directly into the hold like Kiniski does Baba above.

Don't you wish we had a video of the Compton's Match?

I don't want to spoil anybody's MvM fun, but if you're into female wrestlers . . .

She's got it going on!

 

The Head Scissors and Johnny Weaver

I'll not say anything about being away and just be back without further comment (but with a hope that somebody is still out there reading).

At times when I need to be accomplishing the most, I procrastinate too often by scouring YouTube wrestling videos in search of any head scissors holds that matches might include. I've found a lot, but I've wasted a lot of time as well.

This morning, I was going through some old shows of the wrestling program I grew up watching--Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling. Back in the day, in pre-cable times, I could watch this once on Channel 4 out of Greenville, SC, after Saturday morning cartoons and before Saturday afternoon college sports. Then I could see it a second time that night, after the 11 o'clock news on Channel 13 out of Asheville, NC. I watched both shows always in hopes of seeing a head scissors and always in hopes of seeing my favorite wrester--Johnny Weaver. So, again, I was going through some Mid-Atlantic shows from 1981 and '82, and this one show just opened with the first match already in progress. Not only that, it opened with a head scissors already in progress. It gets better. Although I didn't remember the wrestler in control at that point in the match (I later learned his name was Ken Timbs), I quickly realized that the wrestler being worked over by the head scissors was Johnny Weaver.

Here's a screenshot of the match as it's picked up in progress:

I was immediately excited.

Weaver then rolls toward Timbs's feet and then onto his knees and works himself free of the hold. He lunges to take Timbs in a headlock, the counter to which puts him right back in the head scissors.

But then this shot of Weaver in the head scissors and looking, more or less, at the camera--at me--made my insides squirm and my crotch suddenly throb. Although brief in the video, this is such a visceral image for me.

Reader, I masturbated.

I've had these images up on my screen almost all day, and the throbbing has continued.

Here's a link to the video.

An Historic Find

Back in the late 1960s, a traveling salesman came to our house and sold my parents a set of Compton's Encyclopedia. This was great for my schooling, of course, and those books played some small role in making me what I am today.

But I'm not thinking only about what I am today as a writer and a knowledgable human being. I'm also thinking about why I'm here, writing on this blog and imagining wrestling. Wrestling shows for a young man from a rural area in the 1970s came on only Saturday morning and Saturday night. Once wrestling became elevated to the status of an obsession, my hungry eyes and imagination were fed the other six days of the week through print: sometimes in the pages of wrestling magazines at the drugstore or anytime I could get a moment alone via the brief entry on wrestling in the last volume of the Compton's set ("WXYZ").

That wrestling entry featured a full page of black-and-white photos that pretended to portray the progress of a match between two young wrestlers (165-pound class), nine pictures from their ready position to the pin. Who knows how many times these pictures aroused me over those years when I was still at home? Who knows how many times I masturbated to the one wrestler's head-scissors-and-arm hold on his opponent? How many times until I destroyed them? Although I don't remember the exact event, I know that at some point, my heterosexual Christian guilt hit me so hard that between one moment of satisfaction and release and the next time I felt the need, I ripped the offending page out and threw it away or burned it . . . something.

But then, my cousin had the same Compton set (with different covers) and the same pictures in volume "WXYZ." So, I didn't lose all access to that B&W dream match completely, but such access became limited. Few were the opportunities afterwards to sit with those pictures and revel in the way they excited me.

And then, eventually, they were gone forever.

Well, maybe not forever. Given the amount of stuff that's out there on the internet, I eventually began looking around to learn if somebody similarly affected had uploaded that one beautiful page. But, believe it or not, I've never found it out in cyberspace. Not in the B&W flesh at least. Once I found simple line drawings of more or less the same images, but those didn't satisfy and, instead, made me remember the old pictures with an even greater sense of loss.

Then yesterday I was in my office and received a call from a retired colleague (call him J). He asked if I still ran the fundraising book sale that annually supports a local organization. The mother of this colleague had died fifteen years before, and he was just getting around to clearing out and selling her house -- a house that contained a lot of books collected by his father, mother, and himself. I told him that a younger colleague of mine (call him S) now managed the book sale. When I got hold of S, he said we ought to kill an hour and make a run to see what was available from the estate's shelves.

To cut this short, I remember standing above a box of various books, looking down at them while J, S, and I talked. Suddenly my eyes focused on a set of dark-bound books -- Compton's Encyclopedia. My breath caught, and I immediately bent down out of the conversation and grabbed "WXYZ." I got hold of my excitement and pretended to flip through casually past "World War I" and "World War II" and then to "Wrestling," expecting to see those line drawings. But there, beneath my eyes again after at least forty years, two lithe young men wrestled through nine B&W pictures. My response to seeing these was immediate and visceral.

I was breathless trying to figure out what to do, as I was sure that S wouldn't want this old -- but not antique -- set for the book sale. So, after holding the book for an inordinately long while, I put it back in the box and bided my time. Then, when J took S into the house to show him something, I quickly retrieved the book and used my phone to take pictures of those beloved pictures. I realized later that J and S might have seen me through the windows, but I was beyond caring. (I wouldn't mind having S ask me what I was doing, as I'd like to open up a wrestling conversation with him and then grapple with him in some grassy clearing off a mountain trail. But that specific image is a tale for another day.)


I suppose that as I grew to well over two hundred pounds, I lost interest in the 165-pound class, but I was still thrilled to see those fellows from long ago -- called Black and White, according to the color of their trunks. And I was particularly thrilled to see Black work White into that head-scissors-and-arm hold again.

Mr. Wrestling II vs. Tony Russo [1985-03-02]

Arkansas Interlude

I reluctantly left Tulsa in the morning and my wrestling partner there to travel east, hoping to make Nashville sometime before midnight. But that afternoon, I intended to make a stop in Arkansas to wrestle with Tarzan Tim. He and I had been chatting a good bit online at that time, and I was looking forward to tangling with him.

A couple of things were great about wrestling Tim. First, he has one of the top two or three best wrestling bodies I've ever gotten my hands on. Once I got there, the other great thing was that we were going to wrestle in his garage, with the big door open. I'd always liked the idea of wrestling outdoors, and this was close to that. His house was out in the woods, so we were able to have the door open to the sunshine and air without having to worry about being watched.

But Tim had just had some surgery done on one of his wrists. With an awareness that we had to be careful about that, we dressed out in our trunks and hit the mat in the garage. The first few minutes was just about perfect, but then something happened. I'm not sure what. He pretty quickly went to some groping that, in those days, I wasn't very comfortable with. I asked him to tone it down a bit. I don't know if that offended him or disappointed him or turned him off. I don't know if he or I accidentally did something to his injured arm that made him suddenly realize that maybe this wasn't the best activity to engage in at this point in his physical recovery.

Whatever happened, the wrestling stopped. He just stopped and let me know we were finished. I was terrifically disappointed and so thrown off my game that I forgot my wrestling shoes at his house. Somewhere along the road to Nashville, I called him about them, and he agreed to mail them to me. Which he graciously did. We've corresponded some since then, and we seem to be good with each other.

Still, that truncated match remains one of my biggest wrestling disappointments, because it left me wanting to hit the mats with Tarzan Tim again. One of these days . . .

Wrestling on Tulsa Time

I left Denver and drove a long day to Wichita, Kansas, arriving on a rainy night and thinking about the BTK Strangler. It was kind of creepy, and it became even more so as I thought about what kind of position I put myself in when I meet a man like John (a previous post) either at home or in motel. I'm cautious to avoid spur-of-the-moment meetings, which don't happen very much anyway. I was a long, long time negotiating that match with John, and during our conversations I backed out more than once before I felt comfortable that he knew my interests and I could live--survive--with his. We take a lot of risks, I think, and although I don't wrestle primarily for the sex as some do, I can't help but wonder at the root of this drive to experience wrestling in the real world.

After a somewhat restless and stormy night, I drove on down to Tulsa, where I was to meet the Head Squeeze King. I looked forward to this match for a number of reasons, two of which are that HSQ and I are about the same size, which I always like, and that he is also into head holds (head scissors, headlocks). I had a feeling this was going to be a good one!

I arrived in the afternoon and got in touch with HSK, who is nothing like BTK, of course, and we got together and went to dinner (Mexican) first thing. We enjoyed our meals and our talk, and then we headed back to my motel for some wrestling. The room was ideal, with a large open space over which we spread padding before getting down to business.

The wrestling was a blast. HSK is fun to wrestle. He's talkative and expressive and playful. And true to my hopes, he loves to use a lot of head scissors holds. So, in addition to various other holds, particularly headlocks and body scissors, we had a head scissors fest.

HSK and I met again some years later in Nashville, where we both happened to be at the same time. Although he'd had some health issues that often come to men of a certain age, his love of wrestling and his personality in the match were undiminished.

HSK is one of very few wrestlers that I've met who is married and whose spouse knows about--even supports--the wrestling. I think HSK's case, this came about when the spouse had something that she found difficult to confess to her husband. But he was all right with it. This moment of vulnerability and gratitude between them led him to a counter-confession of his interest in wrestling. A mutual acceptance took place. An understanding that I envied as I drove out of Tulsa the next morning. I envy it still.

Wrestling II v. Tony Russo

I always enjoyed watching Wrestling II in the ring. And Tony Russo was my favorite jobber working in Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling back in the 1970s and '80s. (This particular match was part of a 1985 TBS show.) I liked Russo's look--a real fireplug, stocky and strong. He has his moments in control, of course, but he's best at making his opponents look good and really selling their holds (and his struggles) to the crowd.

If you're familiar with this blog, you know my affinity for--obsession with--the head scissors. This match has one of the best TV head scissors I've ever seen beginning at 2:12. Wrestling II locks it in tight and makes it look strong, and Russo sells it beautifully. I think what really gets me in this one is the camera work. The camera shoots from a nearly perfect angle and at just the right distance to let the wrestling fill the screen. In other words, it's not just a head trapped between legs, and it's not just legs wrapped around a head. Russo's face sells the hold as his belly breathes. Just great! Enjoy!

More writing about wrestling to come soon. Promise.

A few days after my Indianapolis stop, I was in Sterling, Colorado, to wrestle a fellow named John. We had been in contact for a while online, but I didn’t know a lot about him. He was a good size—maybe 5’11” and maybe between 230 and 260 and maybe in his late 50s, as I am now. He’d wrestled years before, during his time in the military, and, if I’m not mistaken, he’d helped coach in one or two of the high schools in or near Sterling. So, I expected him to work me over; that is, I didn’t expect to win any falls against him.

I remember being a bit more nervous about this than other recent meetings. In our pre-match scheduling contacts, he’d repeatedly referred to our “fight” rather than to our wrestling match. I’m not a fighter, and as I’ve suggested here before, I’m not really a wrestler in any real sense either. A couple of times during our long period of communication and planning, I’d stopped contacting him because of my fear that I was possibly putting myself in a position I wouldn’t be able to handle. But he would seek me out again, and we’d pick up with planning. After a while I was able to express to him my concern about his idea of our meeting to fight. He understood and began to change his tone. Eventually he must have convinced me that his fighting language was just that—language—and that we would indeed wrestle, because here I was in Sterling, Colorado, in a phone booth (remember those?), dialing the number he’d given me.

I don’t recall if he came to meet me and led me back to his place or if he just gave me directions. Either way, I ended up at a ranch-style house on a quiet street in Sterling, and inside I found another strange setting in which to satisfy my strange attraction to wrestling.

John’s mother was, I believe, in a nearby nursing home, and he was living in her house. I stepped through the front door into the living space of an elderly woman. The couches and chairs were well stuffed; the carpet was plush and, I think, light blue. The walls held portraits of family and shelves full of knickknacks. A console piano might have stood against one wall; if one didn’t, one should have.

John led me through this living room—I remember running my hand across the back of the couch as we walked behind it—and through what had once been a wide doorway to the back yard and into a room that might have once been a back porch, now closed in as a den. Then he turned right, and we stepped into another world.

A cage of chain link fence surrounded a 10’ X 10’ wrestling mat. The gate to the interior of the circle stood open to the right. On the left, shelves on the wall were lined not with knickknacks but with pairs of wrestling shoes and wrestling boots and wrestling headgear. Singlets of various styles and colors hung on hangers hooked into the chain links on the outside of the ring. A single small window low on the outside wall lit the room.

The space was intimidating, to say the least, and also surreal, considering the front rooms that I’d passed through. John said that from time to time he hosted underground fights there. Sometimes he had trained a fighter and brought another in from somewhere in the region for a fight. Sometimes two fighters found his place and booked it as a neutral meeting space. But the space offered no room for an audience and so was all about the fight.

I’m not sure I believed him, but such a scenario was interesting to think about. Certainly I couldn’t deny the room could have hosted such an event. But now it was hosting our wrestling match.

Writing at a distance of over ten years from the event, I can’t provide much detail about the wrestling itself. Intense is the best I can do. John was a good grappler, much more formally trained in freestyle wrestling than anybody else I’ve wrestled. In spite of his commitment to fighting, he graciously agreed to wrestle my speed to light submission, which I greatly appreciated. He was still too much to handle, but between my submissions, I learned some stuff from him about amateur-style wrestling.

Eventually we finished wrestling and training and talking wrestling. We dressed and went out for a bite—Mexican, I think—at a place where the people seemed to know him well. After supper, I left him and headed for Denver.

I thought about wrestling John as I drove south and west along I-76. One thing I realized—when remembering the sound of his breathing, for example—was that he didn’t seem to have a great deal of stamina and maybe not a lot of reserve strength either. If I’d been able to avoid his pinning combinations and submission holds, neither of which I could work myself free from once he trapped me, or if I could have held out in those holds a little longer, I might have been able to wear him down and make a better showing, maybe even have gotten a submission or two from him.

I’ve lost track of John, and I don’t know if he remains among the living in Sterling or if he is with Milo of Croton in the Underworld. But I remember him and the setting in which we wrestled.

P.S. – I was supposed to have a match in Denver, with a fellow I’ll call M-CO. I called off our meeting, which I remember almost immediately regretting, as we had talked about it for a long time. I don’t remember if a conflict arose between when M-CO and I could meet and when I needed to meet other friends in the Denver area, or if I was too tired and sore in body and spirit after John finished working me over, but now, over ten years later, I still regret missing that wrestling match and not being able to remember it here. Maybe one of these days, M-CO.