Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2012 10:43:29 GMT -5
It’s just a simple fact: everything changes.
The world of professional wrestling was definitely not exempt from change. For a few decades, wrestling matches had been incredibly boring and long, consisting of holds and counter-holds that literally lasted minutes at a time. Promotional growth was stagnant, too. The champions’ title reigns lasted for years at a time with the same performers – usually the owners themselves – featured as the promotions’ top stars. Then, the 1980s rolled around and everything changed.
For better or worse, the rock ‘n’ wrestling era grabbed the wrestling business in a headlock and refused to let go. Suddenly, it was more important to have a flashy, flamboyant character than it was to know the difference between a wristwatch and a wristlock. James Harlow had broken into the business at a time when a respect for the fundamentals was eclipsed by the show business side. Naturally, you had to be able to wrestle, but you also had to be able to put on a show. The promoters wanted a character that they could get behind – and make money off of.
Harlow had started training to be a wrestler at the age of eighteen, but he hadn’t gotten his big break until two years later. An aging wrestler-turned-promoter, Henry Munson, had signed him to a couple of shows for his Kansas City-based Mid-West Championship Wrestling. Despite liking what he saw in the ring, Munson wanted Harlow to develop a character. “You gotta catch their attention, boy,” Munson had said, his ever present unlit cigar glued to his lower lip. “You hook ‘em with a flashy character and THEN you keep ‘em watching with your moves.”
At the time, Harlow had been wearing plain and uninteresting wrestling attire: white boots and blue trunks. Munson had suggested a complete make-over, so Harlow had created an entirely new wrestling persona: Jimmy Love. He bleached his sandy brown hair and let it grow down to his shoulders. The bland trunks and boots were gone, replaced with white boots with sparkly streamers that dangled from the tops and multi-colored, tie-dyed spandex tights. Munson even stuck him with a manager, an ex-wrestler named Bobby Valentine that was only a few years older than him.
Harlow had worked several different promotions throughout the territories as Love, but had never really achieved any success. When Munson passed away and Mid-West Championship Wrestling shut its doors in 1982, Bobby had talked Harlow into changing his look and persona again. Bobby had finally gotten healthy enough to return to the ring again and he wanted Harlow to tag with him as one half of the Creatures of the Night. Harlow and Valentine had become big fans of the rock band KISS, so they patterned their new personas after Gene Simmons’s the Demon and Paul Stanley’s Star Child.
The pair had traveled around North American, even occasionally drifting up north into Canada and down south into Mexico, before an injury in 1984 permanently ended Bobby’s in-ring career and left Harlow at a crossroads in his.
Harlow knew that he needed to change his look and persona again. As much as he had liked tagging with Bobby, he had never really enjoyed the face paint or the insanely uncomfortable leather pants that he’d worn. He floundered for a couple of months, working as Jimmy Love, but times had changed and the hippy gimmick wasn’t working.
While hanging out with Bobby one night, they had flipped the television on. At the time MTV had only been on the a couple of years, but Bobby had become addicted to it. He had pointed at the lead singer and said, “Look at that shit, Jimbo! That’s what you should do. Hell, you already party like a rocker. You might as well look like one.”
With those words, Harlow’s life had changed again.
Sandwiched between a pawn shop and a deli, Unique You was a little, hole-in-the-wall place. From the outside it didn’t look like much, but almost every wrestler that passed through Reno knew that it existed. The owner, had developed a reputation for creating some of the finest wrestling apparel in the United States.
The bell above the door clanged as James Harlow stepped inside the shop. He hadn’t been to Unique You in years, but nothing had really changed. The front room was small and tidy, the counter that dominated most of the right side empty expect for a register. There were no decorations or anything else on display that hinted what kind of business Unique You was.
The curtain to the back room parted and the owner, Reggie Stalworth – known affectionately as Big Reg – gave Harlow a big, toothy grin. At six-six and more than four hundred pounds, Big Reg lived up to his name. Half-African American, half-Puerto Rican, Reg had been openly gay for as long as Harlow had known him. Today he was wearing a royal purple, double-breasted suit with matching fedora, looking like he had just stepped out of a Technicolor remake of an old 1920s mobster flick.
Ignoring Harlow’s outstretched hand, Big Reg swept him up into a crushing bear hug. He took a step back and looked Harlow up and down, grinning. “Damn, Hammer, it’s good to see ya.”
Harlow smiled. “Yeah, it’s been a long time, man. How’s business?”
“Booming,” Big Reg said. “Can’t you tell?”
Both of them laughed as Big Reg gestured toward the back. “After you, my man.”
Stepping into the rear section of Unique You was like stepping into another world. An L-shaped sectional sofa took up one wall, flanked on either side by smoked glass-and-wrought iron end tables. Mounted on the wall opposite the sofa was a huge, flat screen television. Framed photographs of Big Reg and some of his more famous customers covered most of the burgundy-colored wallpaper. Harlow lifted an eyebrow and grinned as Reg. “Where’s all the tights and the sewing machines and the spangles and shit like that?”
Reg laughed as he moved to the wet bar. “Man, this place is just for show. I meet with clients here. That’s it. I do all of the real work at home.”
“Then, why even have a shop?”
“For show, my brother. All for show. Makes me look all professional.” He grinned and tapped a bottle of Grey Goose. “Want a drink?”
Harlow shook his head. “Clean and sober eight years now, brother. I’ll take a Coke if you’ve got one.”
“A Coke it is,” Reg said, retrieving a can of Coke from the built-in fridge beneath the bar. He tossed it to Harlow, before going back to making his own drink.
The two made small talk for a few minutes, just enjoying catching up. Finally, Reg excused himself and left the room, leaving Harlow to his own thoughts.
After deciding to return to the ring, Harlow had pulled all of his old wrestling gear out of storage to see if he could still squeeze into them. He soon discovered that the fit was the only thing that had to change. Compared to what the wrestlers were wearing now, his lime green-and-black spandex tights were out-dated and silly. It was like comparing Poison to Slipknot. So, he had decided it was time for a change.
Big Reg walked back into the room, a bulky package wrapped in brown paper in one hand and a pair of black, lace-up wrestling boots in the other. Still grinning, he tossed the package onto the sofa next to Harlow. “Take a look, brother. Tell me what ya think.”
Harlow eyed the boots skeptically. “Black’s not really my color.”
“You want me to add some little streamers to the top so they blow in the wind when ya jump off the top rope?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harlow said with a laugh.
“Just look, alright. You don’t like it, I’ll give ya a freebie.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Harlow picked up the package with a sigh, the paper crackling in his hand. Despite all of the conversations he’d had with Bobby, his doctor, Carrie-Ann, and even the guy from Pro Wrestling Now, none of it had really driven home the fact that he was about to wrestle again. The package’s contents made it real. At the ripe old age of fifty-four, he was coming out of retirement.
He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully and shot a glance at the wet bar. One drink would calm his nerves. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to get plastered. His throat felt parched, too-dry. One drink would solve all of that.
Noticing his hesitation, Reg placed one large, catcher’s mitt-sized hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me, brother.”
Harlow sighed. He liked Reg, but there was no way he was going to spill his guts to him. If it had been Bobby or even Carrie-Ann, he might have been tempted, but not with Reg. “Just a little nervous.” He cracked a smile. “I keep picturing hot pink vinyl.”
“Just open it,” Reg chuckled. “But I’ll keep the hot pink vinyl idea in mind for next time.”
Chuckling, Harlow shredded the paper. The tights were red, a black-and-white Yin Yang air brushed on each leg. A silver tribal design edged in black surrounded the Yin Yang symbols, done with such detail and care that the silver looked like hammered steel. “The Hammer” ran his fingers over the design, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “Beautiful, man.”
“I thought you’d approve. I’ve got three more for you. Black, blue, and purple.”
Harlow raised an eyebrow. “Purple?”
“It’s all about presentation, baby. Right? You’ve gotta dress for success.”
Harlow nodded. “Good point.” He glanced at his wristwatch and groaned. He had an appointment at the gym in fifteen minutes, which meant he might make it on time – if he had left ten minutes ago.
“Busy day?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he said with a smile. “A new look isn’t going to be enough. There are other things that I’ve got to change.”
“Like what?”
“The Hammer” grinned. “I’m going to get myself some new moves.”
The world of professional wrestling was definitely not exempt from change. For a few decades, wrestling matches had been incredibly boring and long, consisting of holds and counter-holds that literally lasted minutes at a time. Promotional growth was stagnant, too. The champions’ title reigns lasted for years at a time with the same performers – usually the owners themselves – featured as the promotions’ top stars. Then, the 1980s rolled around and everything changed.
For better or worse, the rock ‘n’ wrestling era grabbed the wrestling business in a headlock and refused to let go. Suddenly, it was more important to have a flashy, flamboyant character than it was to know the difference between a wristwatch and a wristlock. James Harlow had broken into the business at a time when a respect for the fundamentals was eclipsed by the show business side. Naturally, you had to be able to wrestle, but you also had to be able to put on a show. The promoters wanted a character that they could get behind – and make money off of.
Harlow had started training to be a wrestler at the age of eighteen, but he hadn’t gotten his big break until two years later. An aging wrestler-turned-promoter, Henry Munson, had signed him to a couple of shows for his Kansas City-based Mid-West Championship Wrestling. Despite liking what he saw in the ring, Munson wanted Harlow to develop a character. “You gotta catch their attention, boy,” Munson had said, his ever present unlit cigar glued to his lower lip. “You hook ‘em with a flashy character and THEN you keep ‘em watching with your moves.”
At the time, Harlow had been wearing plain and uninteresting wrestling attire: white boots and blue trunks. Munson had suggested a complete make-over, so Harlow had created an entirely new wrestling persona: Jimmy Love. He bleached his sandy brown hair and let it grow down to his shoulders. The bland trunks and boots were gone, replaced with white boots with sparkly streamers that dangled from the tops and multi-colored, tie-dyed spandex tights. Munson even stuck him with a manager, an ex-wrestler named Bobby Valentine that was only a few years older than him.
Harlow had worked several different promotions throughout the territories as Love, but had never really achieved any success. When Munson passed away and Mid-West Championship Wrestling shut its doors in 1982, Bobby had talked Harlow into changing his look and persona again. Bobby had finally gotten healthy enough to return to the ring again and he wanted Harlow to tag with him as one half of the Creatures of the Night. Harlow and Valentine had become big fans of the rock band KISS, so they patterned their new personas after Gene Simmons’s the Demon and Paul Stanley’s Star Child.
The pair had traveled around North American, even occasionally drifting up north into Canada and down south into Mexico, before an injury in 1984 permanently ended Bobby’s in-ring career and left Harlow at a crossroads in his.
Harlow knew that he needed to change his look and persona again. As much as he had liked tagging with Bobby, he had never really enjoyed the face paint or the insanely uncomfortable leather pants that he’d worn. He floundered for a couple of months, working as Jimmy Love, but times had changed and the hippy gimmick wasn’t working.
While hanging out with Bobby one night, they had flipped the television on. At the time MTV had only been on the a couple of years, but Bobby had become addicted to it. He had pointed at the lead singer and said, “Look at that shit, Jimbo! That’s what you should do. Hell, you already party like a rocker. You might as well look like one.”
With those words, Harlow’s life had changed again.
Sandwiched between a pawn shop and a deli, Unique You was a little, hole-in-the-wall place. From the outside it didn’t look like much, but almost every wrestler that passed through Reno knew that it existed. The owner, had developed a reputation for creating some of the finest wrestling apparel in the United States.
The bell above the door clanged as James Harlow stepped inside the shop. He hadn’t been to Unique You in years, but nothing had really changed. The front room was small and tidy, the counter that dominated most of the right side empty expect for a register. There were no decorations or anything else on display that hinted what kind of business Unique You was.
The curtain to the back room parted and the owner, Reggie Stalworth – known affectionately as Big Reg – gave Harlow a big, toothy grin. At six-six and more than four hundred pounds, Big Reg lived up to his name. Half-African American, half-Puerto Rican, Reg had been openly gay for as long as Harlow had known him. Today he was wearing a royal purple, double-breasted suit with matching fedora, looking like he had just stepped out of a Technicolor remake of an old 1920s mobster flick.
Ignoring Harlow’s outstretched hand, Big Reg swept him up into a crushing bear hug. He took a step back and looked Harlow up and down, grinning. “Damn, Hammer, it’s good to see ya.”
Harlow smiled. “Yeah, it’s been a long time, man. How’s business?”
“Booming,” Big Reg said. “Can’t you tell?”
Both of them laughed as Big Reg gestured toward the back. “After you, my man.”
Stepping into the rear section of Unique You was like stepping into another world. An L-shaped sectional sofa took up one wall, flanked on either side by smoked glass-and-wrought iron end tables. Mounted on the wall opposite the sofa was a huge, flat screen television. Framed photographs of Big Reg and some of his more famous customers covered most of the burgundy-colored wallpaper. Harlow lifted an eyebrow and grinned as Reg. “Where’s all the tights and the sewing machines and the spangles and shit like that?”
Reg laughed as he moved to the wet bar. “Man, this place is just for show. I meet with clients here. That’s it. I do all of the real work at home.”
“Then, why even have a shop?”
“For show, my brother. All for show. Makes me look all professional.” He grinned and tapped a bottle of Grey Goose. “Want a drink?”
Harlow shook his head. “Clean and sober eight years now, brother. I’ll take a Coke if you’ve got one.”
“A Coke it is,” Reg said, retrieving a can of Coke from the built-in fridge beneath the bar. He tossed it to Harlow, before going back to making his own drink.
The two made small talk for a few minutes, just enjoying catching up. Finally, Reg excused himself and left the room, leaving Harlow to his own thoughts.
After deciding to return to the ring, Harlow had pulled all of his old wrestling gear out of storage to see if he could still squeeze into them. He soon discovered that the fit was the only thing that had to change. Compared to what the wrestlers were wearing now, his lime green-and-black spandex tights were out-dated and silly. It was like comparing Poison to Slipknot. So, he had decided it was time for a change.
Big Reg walked back into the room, a bulky package wrapped in brown paper in one hand and a pair of black, lace-up wrestling boots in the other. Still grinning, he tossed the package onto the sofa next to Harlow. “Take a look, brother. Tell me what ya think.”
Harlow eyed the boots skeptically. “Black’s not really my color.”
“You want me to add some little streamers to the top so they blow in the wind when ya jump off the top rope?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harlow said with a laugh.
“Just look, alright. You don’t like it, I’ll give ya a freebie.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Harlow picked up the package with a sigh, the paper crackling in his hand. Despite all of the conversations he’d had with Bobby, his doctor, Carrie-Ann, and even the guy from Pro Wrestling Now, none of it had really driven home the fact that he was about to wrestle again. The package’s contents made it real. At the ripe old age of fifty-four, he was coming out of retirement.
He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully and shot a glance at the wet bar. One drink would calm his nerves. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to get plastered. His throat felt parched, too-dry. One drink would solve all of that.
Noticing his hesitation, Reg placed one large, catcher’s mitt-sized hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me, brother.”
Harlow sighed. He liked Reg, but there was no way he was going to spill his guts to him. If it had been Bobby or even Carrie-Ann, he might have been tempted, but not with Reg. “Just a little nervous.” He cracked a smile. “I keep picturing hot pink vinyl.”
“Just open it,” Reg chuckled. “But I’ll keep the hot pink vinyl idea in mind for next time.”
Chuckling, Harlow shredded the paper. The tights were red, a black-and-white Yin Yang air brushed on each leg. A silver tribal design edged in black surrounded the Yin Yang symbols, done with such detail and care that the silver looked like hammered steel. “The Hammer” ran his fingers over the design, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “Beautiful, man.”
“I thought you’d approve. I’ve got three more for you. Black, blue, and purple.”
Harlow raised an eyebrow. “Purple?”
“It’s all about presentation, baby. Right? You’ve gotta dress for success.”
Harlow nodded. “Good point.” He glanced at his wristwatch and groaned. He had an appointment at the gym in fifteen minutes, which meant he might make it on time – if he had left ten minutes ago.
“Busy day?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he said with a smile. “A new look isn’t going to be enough. There are other things that I’ve got to change.”
“Like what?”
“The Hammer” grinned. “I’m going to get myself some new moves.”