Wrestling stars have to start somewhere, and once a month, a handful of hopefuls grapple and grimace for little money as they dream big.
By RON MATUS
Published February 20, 2004
[Times photo: Chris Zuppa]
"Straight Up" Mikey Batts, whose real name is Michael Altieri of Tampa, jumps off the ropes onto his opponent Roderick Strong (Chris Lindsey of Tampa) during a recent wrestling match. They are part of the United States Wrestlying Syndicate, which meets monthly in Ybor.
YBOR CITY - In the wacky world of pro wrestling, the story's the thing.
Plots dripping with revenge and redemption must be over the top to sustain boos and roars and the occasional flying cup of beer. It's bizarre. It's goofy.
And behind the scenes, some of it is even true.
On a recent Wednesday night at the Masquerade, the man everybody calls Barry Mulkey is doing what he always does this time of the month: chug-a-lugging cans of warm Budweiser in a room the size of a janitor's closet and scheduling the lineup for another showdown at the United States Wrestling Syndicate.
The story: Mulkey (who refuses to give his real name, even to other show organizers) is a 33-year-old plumber who sets up fights for the USWS, Tampa's answer to pro wrestling. He's a former pro wrestler himself - a pasty, cussin', red-haired former wrestler who looks like a grown-up Opie had Opie been routinely beaten with Aunt Bea's switch.
"These kids don't know this business, they just know what they see on TV," Mulkey spits, mounting his soap box so fast, you know he's told this story before: "I worked for two months with a cracked disc in my neck . . . we worked seven nights a week . . . you get so tired, you put tin foil on your windows . . . because you need to crash so bad . . . because you're so freakin' high. . . ."
If you believe Mulkey's story - and remember, this is wrestling, where fiction melts on fact like Superbrand singles on a baloney boat - Mulkey is stinging from wounds that won't heal. Once, he was basking in the glow of the World Wrestling Federation; now, he's unclogging toilets in Valrico. You'd be bitter, too.
Right then, a young wrestler, Marine lean and sleepy-eyed, pushes through the door. He apologizes for being late, asks to be added to the fight card. He doesn't offer an explanation.
Bad timing.
Mulkey cocks his head to the side, like a rooster about to dig spurs into a rival.
"You can't work if you're not here when I'm expecting you to be here," he rips.
The young man backs sheepishly out the door to the backstage den of wrestlers who were there on time. Mulkey takes another sip. "I need guys that are hungry," he says.
Or at least ones with a story.
* * *
Tampa's year-old United States Wrestling Syndicate isn't unique.
It's one of hundreds of grassroots organizations across the country - independents, they call themselves - that toil in the shadow of the big boys at World Wrestling Entertainment. (The WWE was the World Wrestling Federation until 2002, when the World Wildlife Fund won a legal smackdown over rights to the initials WWF.)
Last year, WWE events attracted millions of viewers and raked in $374-million. On good nights, the United States Wrestling Syndicate draws 100 people and breaks even.
For spectators, the shows are cheap fun ($8 general admission, $10 ringside).
For wrestlers, they're a chance to catapult to the big time.
Once a month, a handful of guys - and a few women - appear to grapple and grimace and beat each other senseless in the cavernous Masquerade. Music thunders. Lights flash. The ring mat crackles with every body slam.
The crowd is small, spirited and diverse: sorority girls and tattoo artists, club kids and cowboys. They won't see Hulk Hogan or get a whiff of The Rock's cooking. But they will get to witness Mulkey's return to the ring, and the whomping Mr. Tuesday Night will deliver to Mulkey's head what appears to be a cookie sheet.
They don't care whether Mulkey really is a former wrestler, or whether he's really in pain, or whether a cookie sheet can really hurt that much.
They just want a good story.
Making up stories is part of the show. Wrestlers and promoters do it so often, and so well, that it's hard to fathom that for some of them, this business isn't a joke.
"My goal is to take care of my family," deadpans Wayne "Lex Lovett" Meyer, 29, a bald, soft-spoken and muscle-bound father of two.
His story: He graduated with a finance degree from the University of South Florida; worked as a junior analyst for Raymond James; subbed as a business teacher at Chamberlain High School.
Unlike Mulkey's resume, Meyer's is easy to check out. And it's all true.
A New Tampa resident, Meyer not only graduated from USF, he was a cheerleader. For a while, he coached cheerleading.
Now, he dreams of whole coliseums cheering for him - in wrestler-crazy Japan.
To get there, he performs in gritty joints around the country, and in places as far flung as Peru, Ireland and Saudi Arabia. One of these days, he is sure, a talent scout will recommend him for stardom, maybe after seeing him perform, maybe even at the Masquerade, where on a generous night promoters will hand him $40.
Clearly, it's not money that draws these beefy dreamers.
Ron Reddick, 46, wrestles as Mohamed Studd, 33. The East Tampa resident - a mountain of a man with a braided mohawk - says he has wrestled on and off for 20 years. He made more money doing bodyguard work (he wouldn't say for whom) but pursued wrestling because he was a contender. In the early 1990s, the pros were watching him close. Then, tragedy struck: His mother became seriously ill. His father died.
"I fell into a little bit of depression," Reddick says.
By the time he climbed out, his window to fame had closed. But Reddick still loves the game enough to push a new league in Pasco called the Future Legends of Wrestling.
Mom motivates Charles Major.
The 26-year-old Orlando resident says his mom encouraged him to wrestle and now lands him gigs. In the ring, the announcer introduces Major as CBKool, "straight from yo mama's house."
"When I was a kid, I'd walk around and think I was a wrestler," says Major, who at 5-foot-5 and 180 pounds is as solid as a fire hydrant. "Sometimes I'd fantasize about being a wrestler. Sometimes I'd fantasize about being a cop."
The cop thing never happened, but a clothing store did, Major says. So did a group called the Florida Angel Tree Foundation, which raises money for homeless people including, for its latest project, a single mother with cancer who can't pay her rent.
Is it true?
State records list a Charles Major from Orlando as the registered agent for the Florida Angel Tree Foundation, an active nonprofit. Major is also listed as one of two officers for Hazy Daze in Orlando, which until recently sold clothing and "smoker's accessories," but now just sells the accessories, according to a man who answered the phone there.
The story: CBKool owns a head shop.
* * *
One of tonight's biggest matches is for the USWS "hard-core" championship, pitting the washed-up Mulkey against Mr. Tuesday Night, who happens to be Masquerade manager Tom DeGeorge.
(In real life, Mulkey and DeGeorge founded USWS with David Vincent, who says he's the bass player for Tampa shock rock band Genitorturers.)
The story: According to the USWS Web site. Mulkey became syndicate champ after confronting the past title holder in the parking lot of the Krispy Kreme on Kennedy Boulevard and bashing him savagely with a crippled woman's walker.
Mulkey enters the ring gripping a baseball bat and accompanied by a woman wearing shiny black short-shorts. The crowd responds as if this is the Republican National Convention, and Mulkey is Hillary Clinton.
The back and forth between the fighters is titanic - and shamelessly hokey.
Mr. Tuesday Night assails Mulkey with a chain, a bulletin board and, of course, the cookie sheet. The referee (by day, a crematorium manager in St. Petersburg) doesn't object. Neither do the fans.
One guy in the crowd - with long black hair, a leather jacket and a nose ring - honks compulsively on a bicycle horn for the entire 15-minute match.
Meanwhile, a promoter for another indie league in Pinellas Park is corralling anyone he thinks might spread his story. "Got the shortest wrestler in the United States right here," he says, pointing to a table where, sure enough, a very, very short man is sitting.
Back in the ring, Mulkey won't go down easy.
At one point, he slams a garbage can over Mr. Tuesday Night's head. At another, he leaps on to his opponent from a railing 15 feet in the air.
Or was it 50 feet in the air?
* * *
Finally, the main event: Lex Lovett (a.k.a. Wayne Meyer) vs. Steve Patterson.
Lovett is one of several area wrestlers whose skills, charisma and story give them real shots at the pros, and yet, he's not gunning for the WWE.
"Moral issues," he says. Too many half-naked women. Too much sexual innuendo. "I don't want to be afraid to have my children watch me on TV."
The crowd chants when the good guy appears: LEX! LEX! LEX! LEX!
Compared with most of the previous matches, this one is a cut above. Both men are fast and athletic. Their moves are smooth. They're into their roles.
"Lex, Lex, Lex," the spiky-haired Patterson mocks to the audience, after putting Lovett in a head lock.
Lovett doesn't speak. His moves do the talking.
The story: The Lovett character isn't completely made up, Meyer says after the show.
Alex Lovett was Meyer's friend and former roommate. They cheered together at USF. They worked together as bouncers. A few years ago, Alex, a blossoming wrestler, introduced Meyer to the ring.
"He was going to . . . show me the ropes," Meyer says.
But it didn't happen. Alex Lovett died unexpectedly in July 1999, on a wrestling trip to Peru. Meyer would not discuss the details, but says he was devastated.
Not long afterward, he found a stage name.
"Lex Lovett and Alex Lovett are the same person," Meyer says. "It's a tribute."
In the ring, the title match is crashing to a choreographed finish.
Lovett and Patterson duel on the top rope, sweating, panting. The crowd knows the big finale is coming: Lovett tugs on Patterson and leaps at the same time, initiating a move that sends both men tumbling. They flip on the way, landing flat on their backs.
KA-RACK!!!
Lovett pins Patterson for the win.
He grabs his championship belt, winces in pain, holds it up for the fans.
The crowd goes wild: WOOOOOOOO!!!
Lovett pumps both fists in the air on his way to the locker room.
