Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2020 19:42:33 GMT -5
MUCH HAS BEEN WRITTEN about the wrestling revolution that began in Philadelphia in the early 1990s. Much of it has been covered with the sands of time, but even today whenever an action looks remotely legit, legions of fans worldwide chant with raised chests, “E-C-Dub! E-C-Dub! E-C-Dub!”—a fact that has bedeviled the princely Vinnie Mac.
Only a handful of those legions, though, were first-round players in that revolution. Today, the path that wrestling has taken since ECW’s inception seems to be almost universally known. The shelves of DVD distributors are littered with volumes that repute to tell the story of ECW, even its “rise and fall.” However, the complete story has gone largely untold—until now.
As a 23-year veteran of our great sport, I am proud to say that the crowning achievement of my career was spent as the main evil antagonist of this revolution. Professional wrestling has been, since its inception, the male version of a soap opera. Loved by generations, its following has grown larger with each successive generation that has watched it. That was until the early 1990s.
Following the titanic success of wrestling in the 1980s with its larger-than-life superstar, Hulk Hogan, it seemed as though wrestling could grow no larger. The personification of “Train, say your prayers, take your vitamins!” had run out of evildoers to combat. Or had he? The genius behind the then-World Wrestling Federation, Vince McMahon, believed he could use his Midas touch to create an even more menacing set of villains for his superstar Hulkster to face and vanquish. Sort of a wrestling meets Star Wars. On paper it sounded fine. In practice it was dreadful. Suddenly those of us who grew up loving wrestling were being inundated with grown men in turkey costumes who were called—and I’m not joking here—the Gobbledygooker. Garbage men, mad plumbers, and every sort of inane character were being introduced to endanger Hulksters rule. There was only one tiny problem with this business plan.
At this time reality TV was in its infancy and growing fast. Shows like Cops were just beginning to peak the interest of the same target audience as professional wrestling, the 18- to 49-year-old male demographic. Reality was all the rage, and grown men dressed as chickens were not even close to reality!
Enter the era of extreme! Using the blue-collar feel of shows like Cops, a band of largely unknown wrestlers was setting the stage to wrest the reins of wrestling away from the WWF’s Vince McMahon and place them solely in the hands of a man who even those of us who worked for him would call insane—Mr. Paul Heyman.
On my first trip to Philadelphia for then-Eastern Championship Wrestling, I was picked up at the airport with the true legend of our sport, Terry Funk.
“Terry,” I asked on our way to the arena, “how long do you think well ride this train before it runs off the tracks?”
“Hopefully,” he responded, “we’ll get a couple of weekends of pay out of it.”
In actuality my career would reside at ECW for more than seven glorious years. Seven years that would transform wrestling from the corniness of the WWF’s Gobbledygooker to the “New Attitude,” which would literally save the federation.
ECW took a violent Japanese style of wrestling and built it upon a core of largely unproven or untested wrestlers. Few of us had ever been on U.S. television, let alone main-event players. But what we lacked in resumé, we more than made up for it with attitude, and loads of it.
I once coined the phrase, “the island of misfit toys” in referring to the band of brothers who would become the foot soldiers who brought the revolution to life and carried it to its ignominious end. We were the boys who didn’t fit in the WWF or WCW. No, we were just the names that would ignite the flame of the sport of professional wrestling in that little bingo hall at the corners of Swanson and Ritner streets in Philly.
Only a handful of those legions, though, were first-round players in that revolution. Today, the path that wrestling has taken since ECW’s inception seems to be almost universally known. The shelves of DVD distributors are littered with volumes that repute to tell the story of ECW, even its “rise and fall.” However, the complete story has gone largely untold—until now.
As a 23-year veteran of our great sport, I am proud to say that the crowning achievement of my career was spent as the main evil antagonist of this revolution. Professional wrestling has been, since its inception, the male version of a soap opera. Loved by generations, its following has grown larger with each successive generation that has watched it. That was until the early 1990s.
Following the titanic success of wrestling in the 1980s with its larger-than-life superstar, Hulk Hogan, it seemed as though wrestling could grow no larger. The personification of “Train, say your prayers, take your vitamins!” had run out of evildoers to combat. Or had he? The genius behind the then-World Wrestling Federation, Vince McMahon, believed he could use his Midas touch to create an even more menacing set of villains for his superstar Hulkster to face and vanquish. Sort of a wrestling meets Star Wars. On paper it sounded fine. In practice it was dreadful. Suddenly those of us who grew up loving wrestling were being inundated with grown men in turkey costumes who were called—and I’m not joking here—the Gobbledygooker. Garbage men, mad plumbers, and every sort of inane character were being introduced to endanger Hulksters rule. There was only one tiny problem with this business plan.
At this time reality TV was in its infancy and growing fast. Shows like Cops were just beginning to peak the interest of the same target audience as professional wrestling, the 18- to 49-year-old male demographic. Reality was all the rage, and grown men dressed as chickens were not even close to reality!
Enter the era of extreme! Using the blue-collar feel of shows like Cops, a band of largely unknown wrestlers was setting the stage to wrest the reins of wrestling away from the WWF’s Vince McMahon and place them solely in the hands of a man who even those of us who worked for him would call insane—Mr. Paul Heyman.
On my first trip to Philadelphia for then-Eastern Championship Wrestling, I was picked up at the airport with the true legend of our sport, Terry Funk.
“Terry,” I asked on our way to the arena, “how long do you think well ride this train before it runs off the tracks?”
“Hopefully,” he responded, “we’ll get a couple of weekends of pay out of it.”
In actuality my career would reside at ECW for more than seven glorious years. Seven years that would transform wrestling from the corniness of the WWF’s Gobbledygooker to the “New Attitude,” which would literally save the federation.
ECW took a violent Japanese style of wrestling and built it upon a core of largely unproven or untested wrestlers. Few of us had ever been on U.S. television, let alone main-event players. But what we lacked in resumé, we more than made up for it with attitude, and loads of it.
I once coined the phrase, “the island of misfit toys” in referring to the band of brothers who would become the foot soldiers who brought the revolution to life and carried it to its ignominious end. We were the boys who didn’t fit in the WWF or WCW. No, we were just the names that would ignite the flame of the sport of professional wrestling in that little bingo hall at the corners of Swanson and Ritner streets in Philly.
—THE FRANCHISE” SHANE DOUGLAS