That title is misleading, and deliberately so; I realised that the topics of insomnia and quiting wrestling were sort of downers; they weren't intended to be, but they're personal, and self-reflection can easily read as negative. So, in this post, I'm endeavouring to write about something positive. Or, at least, something that doesn't sound like it was penned by Eeyore.
Think positive, hmmm.
I'm positive I've made some friends in wrestling. I mean actual arrange-to-meet-outside-of-a-wrestling-environment-and-not-just-have-to-talk-about-wrestling-whilst-we're-there-friends. Sometimes it can be hard to find friends like this, because the easy topic of discussion is wrestling - it's a known, shared interest, so why not, right? Because we all do other things in life! Yes, even me.
Wrestling has been a valuable social experience for me, though. I started training when I was 15; being in high school, you're probably at your most neurotic and uncomfortable stage of development, you're surrounded by hundreds of people who're going through the same thing, and you're all imprisioned. Now imagine, on top of all that, you're expected to appear semi-naked, in front of strangers, on a regular basis. That helps you overcome alot of the inherent shyness you might possess. And it did, for me anyway. I was a stooge in brightly coloured spandex and vinyl clothing, with long, shaggy hair, and a tan that'd give Casper the friendly ghost a run for his money; it's hard to take life too seriously when a good portion of your formative years are spent as a harlequin. Don't read me wrong, I'm not an icon of self-confidence and zen-like approach, now, but I definitely overcame alot of those stupid things that can hold you back during adolescence, because of the situations I was finding myself in.
I'm not a club and pub person - I've tried my best, but it's not for me. Some people are, and those social situations probably contributed to their maturation (or, in some cases, the lack thereof). Wrestling was my equivalent. And when I say wrestling, I mean everything that contributes to, and includes, what happens in the ring. In the middle of matches I've cried, swore (too much), laughed, and even had full conversations. Outside the ring, I've made friends, enemies (too many), acquaintances, and even girlfriends.
And you're not limited to the wrestlers you meet through the years; you'll most likely meet their friends and their family, too. You'll meet people who have no interest in wrestling whatsoever, and you'll only have met them through the fact you are a wrestler. A friend of mine, probably through a fear of social stigma, makes sure none of his "real life friends" know he has an interest in wrestling, and when asked, we're to say we met him playing in the local dodgeball league.
Wrestling attracts a whole variety of characters, who'll equip you with stories to tell for the rest of your life. But, really, it's no different - socially - from any other gathering. Some people talk over a game of cards, some get drunk together, some people put on a pair of trunks and boots and bodyslam one another. It's all gay, and I mean that in a totally archaic way.
Friday 29 June 2012
Friday 22 June 2012
A Crisis of Faith
So, in my last post I talked about how a culture, or community, breeds familiar experiences amongst its members. This is sort of a continuation of that theme, I guess.
Somedays, I wake up ready to take on the whole world; other days I can't be bothered making the effort of getting up again. It's on those latter days, which are brought about by physical fatigue or ego depletion, I become stoic (or, as an ex-girlfriend used to call it, "being a moody arse"). When you can't be bothered doing anything, nothing is too small an excuse to reframe.
Somedays, I just can't be bothered with wrestling.
Now, everyone will experience that day - probably multiple times - when they just aren't arsed. What I'm talking about are those days you wake up wanting to quit. At least twice a year, since I started wrestling, six years ago, I've seriously considered stopping; usually the feeling stems from frustration at a lack of personal progress, or just a perceived stagnation (I've been told I'm too hard on myself). I can't say this is a universal experience amongst wrestlers, but, as time has gone by, interviews read, and podcasts listened to, I can say that there is a good number of people who have a similar low point.
Imagine putting your hours in, traveling the roads, and even the world, with a constant nag playing in the back of your brain: "Where is the next booking coming from?"; " Do we have enough for the month, yet?"; "What if you get hurt, tonight?" Imagine traveling, full-time, for years on end, and the nag doesn't cease. Instead, a new voice starts; you listen to it and it says "What if this is all you'll ever do? What if you're going to do this routine until the day your body gives out? What're you gonna do as a almost-made-it wrestler?"
Naming no names and looking at no one in particular, I've heard this fear expressed by a number of full-time, professional wrestlers. I'm a part-time wrestler. Due to always being in some form of education (whether higher, middle, or an intermediate stage) I've never been able to fully commit myself to the premise of full-time, professional wrestling employment. I earn money, but enough for food and training costs, I don't live off it. This crisis of faith hasn't occured for me yet, but, I will admit, the precursor to it has been playing about in my psyche: "What if you become that forty something, who never made it? What if all you get out of this is a growing list of injuries? What if you don't even get that far?"
I don't have an answer to these concerns, yet; I'm twenty-two years old, I don't really know anything. I suppose I'll wake up tomorrow morning, feeling a little better, training, and exercising the demons out of the system. They'll be gone for awhile, and when they return, I'll rinse and repeat.
Somedays, I wake up ready to take on the whole world; other days I can't be bothered making the effort of getting up again. It's on those latter days, which are brought about by physical fatigue or ego depletion, I become stoic (or, as an ex-girlfriend used to call it, "being a moody arse"). When you can't be bothered doing anything, nothing is too small an excuse to reframe.
Somedays, I just can't be bothered with wrestling.
Now, everyone will experience that day - probably multiple times - when they just aren't arsed. What I'm talking about are those days you wake up wanting to quit. At least twice a year, since I started wrestling, six years ago, I've seriously considered stopping; usually the feeling stems from frustration at a lack of personal progress, or just a perceived stagnation (I've been told I'm too hard on myself). I can't say this is a universal experience amongst wrestlers, but, as time has gone by, interviews read, and podcasts listened to, I can say that there is a good number of people who have a similar low point.
Imagine putting your hours in, traveling the roads, and even the world, with a constant nag playing in the back of your brain: "Where is the next booking coming from?"; " Do we have enough for the month, yet?"; "What if you get hurt, tonight?" Imagine traveling, full-time, for years on end, and the nag doesn't cease. Instead, a new voice starts; you listen to it and it says "What if this is all you'll ever do? What if you're going to do this routine until the day your body gives out? What're you gonna do as a almost-made-it wrestler?"
Naming no names and looking at no one in particular, I've heard this fear expressed by a number of full-time, professional wrestlers. I'm a part-time wrestler. Due to always being in some form of education (whether higher, middle, or an intermediate stage) I've never been able to fully commit myself to the premise of full-time, professional wrestling employment. I earn money, but enough for food and training costs, I don't live off it. This crisis of faith hasn't occured for me yet, but, I will admit, the precursor to it has been playing about in my psyche: "What if you become that forty something, who never made it? What if all you get out of this is a growing list of injuries? What if you don't even get that far?"
I don't have an answer to these concerns, yet; I'm twenty-two years old, I don't really know anything. I suppose I'll wake up tomorrow morning, feeling a little better, training, and exercising the demons out of the system. They'll be gone for awhile, and when they return, I'll rinse and repeat.
Thursday 14 June 2012
And then the glass shattered...
Cultures breed universal experiences amongst the population. Within hobbies, interests, and jobs, you find yourself integrated into another culture. Amongst some of the professional wrestlers I know, there's the nightmare of being at a show, your music is playing, and you've not got your gear (the equivalent of the turning up to school naked dream, I suppose). Amongst the fans, everyone has their own individual moment that sparked their interest and sent them off to pursue a passion, for as far and wide a scope as they we were willing, or wanting, to take. I still remember the first full wrestling show I watched, because that first show was all it took to hook me.
The people I have to thank - and whom my mum "blames" - is my older sister, and her friends. We'd just gotten Sky. The ability to surf channels and still find nothing worth watching - amazing to an eight-year-old. This rabble of teenage girls came round one Friday, insisting that we watch Sky Sports. There was nothing else worth watching, so we acquiesced to the request.
*click* *click*
"RAW IS WAR" is on the screen; all red and black with rock music playing.
Over the course of two hours, we're introduced to characters and storylines through a combination of ringside and couchside commentary; most significantly, we were learning who we should be cheering for and who we should be booing. I only really remember the main event, or, more truthfully, I only remember how it ended: an arrogant, corporate sell-out, in a tracksuit, by the name of The Rock (I'm supposed to be booing him), is out in the ring. Next to him, lays a man in a mask that reminds me of a horror film I wasn't allowed to watch at that age; this man is called Mankind (I'm supposed to be cheering him). There's a group brawl at ringside (I'm supposed to be booing and cheering these men in equal measure). The camera shot is pulled back, framing both the men in the ring, and the men fighting on the outside; all of this backgrounded by a sea of people. But only for an instant. Then the glass shattered. And the mass of humanity, that was nothing more than background a few seconds ago, erupts into life. A man I'd never seen before walks to the ring, hits The Rock with a steel chair, puts Mankind on top of him, and walks out. "1! 2!" - that last second always seems to hang in the air - "3!" Everyone on the television is jumping up and down with joy. Everyone in a little living room in England is doing the same.
It's one of those moments I still play over in my head sometimes. And, reflecting on it, it's such a strange starting point for everything that followed. The three main players in this were: an over-the-top sports entertainer, who'd taken cockiness to the level of abandoning the first-person pronoun; a hardcore icon, who'd gained infamy in Japanese deathmatches; and a beer swilling, finger flipping, brawler, redneck. This trinity sent me off into the wild world occupied by Tiger Mask's and Dynamite Kid's; the New Japan Strong Style and the All Japan King's Road Style; the graceful El Santo and the technical Johnny Saint; the amazing joshi and the serious shoot style. It's a wonderful world out there, if you're willing to take a look around.
The people I have to thank - and whom my mum "blames" - is my older sister, and her friends. We'd just gotten Sky. The ability to surf channels and still find nothing worth watching - amazing to an eight-year-old. This rabble of teenage girls came round one Friday, insisting that we watch Sky Sports. There was nothing else worth watching, so we acquiesced to the request.
*click* *click*
"RAW IS WAR" is on the screen; all red and black with rock music playing.
Over the course of two hours, we're introduced to characters and storylines through a combination of ringside and couchside commentary; most significantly, we were learning who we should be cheering for and who we should be booing. I only really remember the main event, or, more truthfully, I only remember how it ended: an arrogant, corporate sell-out, in a tracksuit, by the name of The Rock (I'm supposed to be booing him), is out in the ring. Next to him, lays a man in a mask that reminds me of a horror film I wasn't allowed to watch at that age; this man is called Mankind (I'm supposed to be cheering him). There's a group brawl at ringside (I'm supposed to be booing and cheering these men in equal measure). The camera shot is pulled back, framing both the men in the ring, and the men fighting on the outside; all of this backgrounded by a sea of people. But only for an instant. Then the glass shattered. And the mass of humanity, that was nothing more than background a few seconds ago, erupts into life. A man I'd never seen before walks to the ring, hits The Rock with a steel chair, puts Mankind on top of him, and walks out. "1! 2!" - that last second always seems to hang in the air - "3!" Everyone on the television is jumping up and down with joy. Everyone in a little living room in England is doing the same.
It's one of those moments I still play over in my head sometimes. And, reflecting on it, it's such a strange starting point for everything that followed. The three main players in this were: an over-the-top sports entertainer, who'd taken cockiness to the level of abandoning the first-person pronoun; a hardcore icon, who'd gained infamy in Japanese deathmatches; and a beer swilling, finger flipping, brawler, redneck. This trinity sent me off into the wild world occupied by Tiger Mask's and Dynamite Kid's; the New Japan Strong Style and the All Japan King's Road Style; the graceful El Santo and the technical Johnny Saint; the amazing joshi and the serious shoot style. It's a wonderful world out there, if you're willing to take a look around.
Friday 8 June 2012
Sleepless in the Second City
I have a little more free time now, so I'm endeavoring to actually start writing things in this damned blog. That being said, I previously was held back by two things: time and inspiration; I say inspiration, what I actually mean is that I was running out of interesting things to say (this is, of course, assuming I had something interesting to say in the first place). I'm not claiming to have suddenly been struck by the muse of blogging, again. Rather, I'm going to brute force ideas from my memory and try my best to make them read, at least somewhat, stimulating.
There was a point in time when I weighed two and a half stone heavier than I do now - for a short time, it was three. I was a chubby kid. I grew up as a chubby kid, into a chubby teen. As a chubby teen, I debuted as a pro 'rassler. I remained chubby for sometime after that. Then, apparently overnight, I dropped to a single digit body fat percentage, and lost, somewhere in the region of, six inches, from my waist. How? Very unhealthily.
Now, I never thought this would need stating, but I have never taken steroids, growth hormone, fat burners, or any other substance. Some people will've just read that and said "of course you've not, you skinny pillock". But I've been accused enough times now, to know that there is a percentage of people who don't believe me, too.
The boy on the left is more-to-love-version of Jack Gallagher; the boy on the right is the Jack Gallagher that people're more familiar with, these days.
The picture on the left is where this story begins. That kneepadded, badly beardly, vision, was captured around the time I was dealing with insomnia. When that picture was taken, I'd come off an entire hour of sleep, from the night before; the day before that, I'd probably slept around three hours - maximum. Now, I've been quite fortunate, in that, I don't have to deal with bad things very often, in life. However, when something serious turns up, my body's reaction is to not switch off. There came a time when I could not sleep properly. I tried everything, with the exception of sleeping medication; I could not sleep more than five hours, for many months on end. My reaction? "If it won't turn off, I'll make it crash". And I began to exercise like a madman.
I would be awake around sunrise, and immediately go for a thirty, to forty minute run; I'd eat; I'd go to the gym; I'd do an hour to an hour and a half at the gym; I'd eat again; I'd have a few hours of university or wrestling, depending on the day, and then I'd be back in the gym for another session; I'd go home, and eat; then I'd do bodyweight exercises until I couldn't. This was my daily schedule, for many months (yes, when possible, I worked seven days a week, three to four times a day). Over those months, I would begin to actively seek out new routines, and exercise advice, in an attempt to find better, and faster ways to exhaust myself. This lead me to rediscovering my childhood hero worship of Bruce Lee. I read up on how he developed exercise routines, which lead me to see how he evolved his diet to match the needs of his body. I changed the way I ate, and began thinking about why I was doing certain exercises, rather than mindless following a template, that I can't even remember how I came across, now.
Through all this, I never looked up the importance of resting, because I couldn't rest; or, I didn't think I could. People I was training with remarked how much I was changing, physically, and I felt good. I'd like to say that the spirit was willing, and that the body was weak, but the truth was, the spirit was stubborn. The moment of realisation came when I was training at the Snake Pit and I was being tossed around - easily. If you laid a hand on my head or neck, and applied a little strength, then I would drop, and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. My movement was slow and my reaction time was lagging by about a week. I was shaking, walking off the mat, at the end of the session.
The exercising had become a suicide attempt. I was trying so hard to put myself to sleep, I almost completely burnt myself out. I began training less. I began resting more. I eased up on my dieting. I didn't suddenly gain all the weight again and loose all the muscle. I relaxed.
I'd like to believe I'm still a hard worker, just a much smarter one, now. Despite not killing myself with training, I am, without a doubt, stronger, and faster, and the most energised, that I have ever been in my life. What's more, it's maintainable. I'm still toying with things, and changing routines, and switching food choices, because there's always something new to be done, or old, to be revisited. Only now, there's sleep to be had, too.
[Suggested background music for this post: "I wish I was skinny" by The Boo Radleys]
"Wishin’ I was skinny
Wishin’ that the whole world knew my name
Wishin’ I was thrillin’..."
Wishin’ that the whole world knew my name
Wishin’ I was thrillin’..."
There was a point in time when I weighed two and a half stone heavier than I do now - for a short time, it was three. I was a chubby kid. I grew up as a chubby kid, into a chubby teen. As a chubby teen, I debuted as a pro 'rassler. I remained chubby for sometime after that. Then, apparently overnight, I dropped to a single digit body fat percentage, and lost, somewhere in the region of, six inches, from my waist. How? Very unhealthily.
Now, I never thought this would need stating, but I have never taken steroids, growth hormone, fat burners, or any other substance. Some people will've just read that and said "of course you've not, you skinny pillock". But I've been accused enough times now, to know that there is a percentage of people who don't believe me, too.
The boy on the left is more-to-love-version of Jack Gallagher; the boy on the right is the Jack Gallagher that people're more familiar with, these days.
The picture on the left is where this story begins. That kneepadded, badly beardly, vision, was captured around the time I was dealing with insomnia. When that picture was taken, I'd come off an entire hour of sleep, from the night before; the day before that, I'd probably slept around three hours - maximum. Now, I've been quite fortunate, in that, I don't have to deal with bad things very often, in life. However, when something serious turns up, my body's reaction is to not switch off. There came a time when I could not sleep properly. I tried everything, with the exception of sleeping medication; I could not sleep more than five hours, for many months on end. My reaction? "If it won't turn off, I'll make it crash". And I began to exercise like a madman.
I would be awake around sunrise, and immediately go for a thirty, to forty minute run; I'd eat; I'd go to the gym; I'd do an hour to an hour and a half at the gym; I'd eat again; I'd have a few hours of university or wrestling, depending on the day, and then I'd be back in the gym for another session; I'd go home, and eat; then I'd do bodyweight exercises until I couldn't. This was my daily schedule, for many months (yes, when possible, I worked seven days a week, three to four times a day). Over those months, I would begin to actively seek out new routines, and exercise advice, in an attempt to find better, and faster ways to exhaust myself. This lead me to rediscovering my childhood hero worship of Bruce Lee. I read up on how he developed exercise routines, which lead me to see how he evolved his diet to match the needs of his body. I changed the way I ate, and began thinking about why I was doing certain exercises, rather than mindless following a template, that I can't even remember how I came across, now.
Through all this, I never looked up the importance of resting, because I couldn't rest; or, I didn't think I could. People I was training with remarked how much I was changing, physically, and I felt good. I'd like to say that the spirit was willing, and that the body was weak, but the truth was, the spirit was stubborn. The moment of realisation came when I was training at the Snake Pit and I was being tossed around - easily. If you laid a hand on my head or neck, and applied a little strength, then I would drop, and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. My movement was slow and my reaction time was lagging by about a week. I was shaking, walking off the mat, at the end of the session.
The exercising had become a suicide attempt. I was trying so hard to put myself to sleep, I almost completely burnt myself out. I began training less. I began resting more. I eased up on my dieting. I didn't suddenly gain all the weight again and loose all the muscle. I relaxed.
I'd like to believe I'm still a hard worker, just a much smarter one, now. Despite not killing myself with training, I am, without a doubt, stronger, and faster, and the most energised, that I have ever been in my life. What's more, it's maintainable. I'm still toying with things, and changing routines, and switching food choices, because there's always something new to be done, or old, to be revisited. Only now, there's sleep to be had, too.
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