Billy Who?

"Never meet your heroes" is not a piece of advice I agree with. Certainly there are people who you (yes you) have probably built up in your mind so much that there's no way that they could actually live up the expectations you have for them; but I don't think this rule applies one hundred percent of the time.

That being said though, there is one hero of mine, who is probably held so high in my regard because I never met him: Billy Joyce. There's a good chance you haven't heard that name before. If you have, good on you, but I'm going to go into a little bit of history anyway: Billy Joyce was the ring name of Bob Robinson, apparently one of the greatest wrestlers of all time. When I say apparently, it's because - aside form never meeting the man - I have never actually seen Mr Joyce wrestle. I have only heard stories from the old time Wigan wrestlers, who described a genius of the craft. This craft was catch-as-catch-can wrestling.

The two most prominent names that I heard of coming from the infamous, original snake pit gym, in Wigan, were Billy Robinson and Karl Gotch. It is primarily because of their influence on professional wrestling that I knew their stories. And it wasn't until a year or so of actually training and learning about the history that I heard the name Billy Joyce, or "Bob Robby", mentioned. So imagine my surprise when I hear of the heavyweight Gotch, who even after years of training, was toyed with, by the significantly smaller Joyce. "He'd let you arm drag him, and you'd end up pulling him onto your leg."

The legend of a man who was the epitome of the idea of grappling being a game of human chess, was built up in my mind. Never the biggest, strongest, nor fastest, here was a man that simply outwrestled everyone. But it's not solely because of that that I consider him a hero; the biggest influence on the legend, for me, was a story I heard from the other big man, Billy Robinson:

"I asked Billy Riley, my trainer, who was the worst student you ever had? And he said without a doubt it was Billy Joyce. He would come week in and week out, and he was just terrible. Could barely teach him a thing. Until one day it all clicked, and he started timing his moves, countering people, knowing his set ups, and beating everyone. But it took him years to get there."

That's not word for word, as it's from memory, but the gist of it is there.

Because I've never met this man, and I've never seen him go to work on the mats, I have only my imagination, fueled by the stories of others. If I'd have met him, or actually had the chance to witness his wrestling, I don't think the legend would live up. This is the story of someone who was not a natural born genius, who, from the first moment of being on those horse hair mats, knew what he was doing. This was the worst student they'd ever had, who simply worked at it. That kind of story gives me hope.

The Thing I Hate The Most

There are plenty of things to hate having to deal with, as a pro wrestler: the travel, having no toilets in a changing room, having no changing rooms to speak of, "bookers", venues that don't have a shower - there's enough things to make any man mentioning them sound like a diva having a fit. But there's one thing I truly hate having to do more than anything else, and that's walk through the curtain to the ring. Once I'm in the ring there's (usually) nothing to worry about, and waiting backstage very rarely produces problems, but the transition between the two is typically the hardest part of my night.

Right before my matches I make sure I've warmed up properly, and my muscles are loose, before preparing myself for the time where I have to cross the clothed threshold. In these minutes, I don't like talking to people; I just keep my head down and pace the same spot over and over again. I'm not entirely sure why that moment is the toughest for me, but I think it's something to do with considering it a point of no return; more than once I've heard my music start and thought about making a run for it.

It's ridiculous when you think about it too, as I'm about to be slammed around a ring, forearmed in the head, and stomped on, yet it's the act of walking to the aforementioned ring that turns my stomach into a butterfly collector. And no matter how many times I rationalise it to myself, making the point that I've done it a few hundred times before and that nothing horrible has happened so far, there is a zero percent improvement in my disposition when I hear the opening chords of whatever is playing for me on that night.

On the bright side of things, if walking through a curtain is the worse thing that I have to regularly deal with, I think I'm doing pretty good - lifestyle wise.

Sitting Here In Silence

Pro wrestling documentaries conform to one of three narratives: the first two are character focused; either a career beginning or ending, that promises a bright future, or reveals a dark past; with the third primarily concerned with the representation of wrestling - usually this is a discussion of how "fake" wrestling is supposed to be, juxtaposed against the real injuries sustained whilst in the ring.

Maybe I'm simply too cynical to enjoy people living out their bright futures in front of a camera crew; I know I get no pleasure in watching their nightmares take over, either; and I find the question of how "fake" wrestling is, to be a tired one that doesn't really need to be addressed again.

I don't like wrestling documentaries. That is, I don't like the majority. GAEA Girls [by Kim Longinotto and Jano Williams] is the exception. Although the structure of the narrative is not an unfamiliar one, telling the story of a group of trainee wrestlers, all looking to make a name for themselves, with one girl - Saika Takeuchi - taking up the role of the main character, it is the way in which the story is told, that is important.

For those of you that don't know (shame on you) GAEA was a Japanese wrestling company with an all women roster. The trainees in this documentary are those of Chigusa Nagayo, who's one of the owners of GAEA, as well as a well established wrestler in her own right.

The reason why this is one of my favourite documentaries is for something that I didn't even notice, until someone pointed it out. I didn't notice it because it wasn't there - a voice over. There are interviews with the trainers, with the trainees, with the families, but no voice over and no score from the filmmakers telling you - implicitly - how to feel. Because of this, I've heard a variety of reactions to the movie. Certainly, there are repeat opinions, but there're also minor and major contrasts in them, too. You never really know how someone's going to take to it.

I actually don't want to go any further in describing it, for the simple reason that I'd hate to turn this into some form of commentary. This film is supposed to be stark; it's supposed to have those unsettling, quiet moments.

If you're training to become a wrestler, or are just considering it, watch this film!


GAEA Girls can be found on Youtube, but, if you like it, buy the DVD off Amazon and support some good art.