Top 5 skate video parts of all time

There are things that are good.  A movie that made you laugh or action-packed, or maybe a song that has a good solid beat to jam to; something that keeps you entertained for a solid period of time.

Then, there are things that are great.  Something that has an impact on your life.  A song that instantaneously triggers the senses captured in a particular memory.  That scene in a movie that leaves you with goosebumps, provokes a heavy emotion, and challenges your normal process of thinking.  It’s the urge to escape, trying to navigate life in your mid-twenties, staring at a beautiful spring sunset across the Cascade Mountains in Seattle’s Central District as the piano riff of Kanye West’s “Runaway,” plays in the background, or how I subconsciously throw out Forrest Gump quotes years after the movie was released, something I imagine I’ll be doing for the rest of my life.

And as any avid skateboarder will tell you, nothing gets you stoked for a day of skating like a good skate video.  A respectable video part gets the juices flowing, warms you up before you even get to the skate park, and makes you nod your head in approval.  But there are a few parts out there of which I can tell you the exact time and place I was when I first saw it, where not just the skating was great, but the music, style and personality of the skater/video all meshed to create something special.  A part that would inspire me to go bigger, harder and faster than I did the day before.  A part that made you and your friends jump up and down uncontrollably, screaming “Ohhhhhhhh” when the final hammer was stuck.

Something I would watch over and over again, each time with the thought, “someday, that could be me.”

So, in honor of Go Skateboarding Day, I’ve compiled a list of what I consider to be the top 5 video parts of all time.  Understanding that this list is very subjective, and that the reasons for including these parts are very personal to me, there may be some debate as to which parts are actually the best.  However, putting that aside, and keeping the time periods and skill levels in perspective, low and behold, are my top 5 skateboarding video parts of all time.

5. Heath Kirchart and Jeremy Klein, The End. Birdhouse Skateboards, circa 1997.

“Oh man, I popped the fattest ollie going down that hill, I was going so fast…” said Austin Moody as he described his mad dash back to his house.  It was the first day we had hung out since his return from a summer in Louisiana, and already we were finding ourselves in a heap of trouble.

Austin and I had spent a considerable amount of time at Mary Carter’s house that afternoon, chatting away and trying to impress her with our terrible jokes and foolish, teenage ways.  Mary Carter was, in all respects, a huge babe, stealing the hearts of nearly every teenage boy in Asotin High School’s Freshman class, and while we were busy drooling over Mary, I had totally spaced the fact that I was supposed to attend Jim Stuck’s Eagle Scout Ceremony.  Having received the message from my sister, Moody immediately skipped town to avoid an unpleasant confrontation with my parents.

On and on he went, telling me how I was going to be in “So much trouble,”and how sorry he was.  The sympathy only lasted a day, blaming me for the whole thing afterwards.  However, as a consolation for my potential grounding, or maybe the fact that he simply forgot to take it with him in his flurry, he lent me his VHS copy of, “The End,” my very first skate video experience.

And what an eye-opening experience it was!  There were goofs, pranks, and most importantly, skateboarding—lots of it.  Monumental for its time and filmed entirely on 16mm film when most skateboarders barely had the funds for Sony Handycam quality, it was my first real exposure to skateboard culture.

Andrew Reynolds’ part blew my mind with his frontside flip over a 13-stair handrail (more on him later).  Tony Hawk, arguably the most famous/influential skateboarder of all time rounded the video off with an epic vert ramp session in the middle of a bull ring that included “The Loop.”  But to me, the stand out part in that video was Heath Kirchart and Jeremy Klein’s skate excursion through the streets of LA in Gucci suits.

Starting with them living out the many negative stereotype associated with skateboarders and bearing no apologies, the two drive a van from spot to spot like a couple of hooligans, crashing into things along the way with total disregard to the law (my favorite is when they drive the van down the El Toro stair set), until the van blows up and they “die.”  From there, it takes them into a heavenly dream sequence, living the high life surrounded by babes in a giant mansion and playing Goldeneye until they decide to go an epic skate adventure.  With David Bowie and Queen’s “Under Pressure” as their song of choice, they take to the streets, dressed to impress and using a giant ramp to skate over obstacles that would normally seem unfathomable.

The two meet their untimely end however when they negligently light themselves on fire with a cigar and a bottle of booze and are forced to skate off a long dock into the ocean to relieve themselves.

Though the part can be seen as promoting anarchy, I see it as a blend of wit, creativity, and gnarly skating, and will always be one of those parts I remember from my early days of skateboarding.

4. Daewon Song, Round 3. Almost Skateboards, circa 2005.

As far as influential skateboarders go, Rodney Mullen is among the top of the list.  He is credited with inventing almost every flip trick seen in street skating.  During his prime (and arguably to this day), his abilities on a board were on whole other level when compared to the rest of the field.  Nobody could touch him, but Daewon Song was always around to give it the ol’ college try.

In the late 90’s and early 2000’s, Mullen and Song came up with a string of videos, cleverly titled “Rodney Mullen vs. Daewon Song,” rounds 1 through 3.  Although Daewon Song was an accomplished skater with a creative style, it seemed as though he could never quite keep up with Rodney.  His tricks were quality, and his effort was well and good, but each time they’d face off, the consensus among the skate community (at least among me and my friends) was that Rodney Mullen would always be the greater skater.

In Round 3, that all changed.  Daewon beat Rodney, hands down.

In Round 3, Daewon solidified himself as one of the most creative, technically adept skaters of all time.  His combination of flip to grinds to manuals and his willingness to huck himself between roofs and other dangerous gaps put him on top once and for all.  And using one of the best songs from the 2000’s, the spirit of the times really shines as the music pushes the intensity of each trick combination up into the song’s climax.  At the very end, you’re left wondering what else can be accomplished on a skateboard.

Today at over 40 years old, Daewon continues to discover new ways to advance skateboarding with new trick combinations and ways of interpreting the sport.  Every time I watch this part, I’m reminded of the potential skateboarding has, and that there’s always some other aspect that nobody has looked at, waiting to be unlocked.

I’m reminded that the possibilities are endless.

3. Mike Mo Capaldi, Fully Flared. Lakai Shoes, circa 2007.

It blows my mind to think how fast time has passed, that 10 years ago, I was finishing up my final semester of college, ready to face a world full of opportunity, a place ready to be explored and conquered.  Some might say it was the cliché indoctrination thrust upon college graduates skewing my optimism.  But if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say it had more to do with Mike Mo’s part from Fully Flared.

From what I consider as possibly the best skate video of all time (although it would have to duke it out with Chomp on This), it’s hard to actually pick a single part from Fully Flared that stands out above the rest. Having been instrumental in the evolution of the modern skate videos by combining the highest quality of skateboarding and video production, Fully Flared was Spike Jonze’s masterpiece, starting with the most epic intro to a skate video that will ever be made (as in, nothing will top it… ever).

Each part seems to complement each other with its unique perspective on the sport, making it that much harder to declare a part as truly the best. Though my personal favorite may be Brandon Beibel’s part with his gangsta steez and huge muscles (starting around the 47:40 mark), looking at the video from an overall standpoint, Mike Mo skating behind the Arcade Fire’s “No Cars Go” ultimately takes the cake.  His style and skill level backed behind the energetic beat really captured the attitude of the skate scene in the late 2000’s—representing a changing of the guard you might say.  It set the tone for a new era of skateboarding, with Mike Mo at the forefront.

At a minimum, I encourage you to watch the intro that transitions into Mike Mo’s part, right after he does a switch flip over an exploding set of stairs (no joke, you need to watch if you’ve never seen it).  But if you have a chance, take the time to sit down watch the video in its entirety.  At over 10 years old, it is still the standard of how great skate video are made.

Andrew Reynolds, Stay Gold. Emerica Shoes, Circa 2010.

Andrew Reynolds—one of the legends of the sport.  Known as “The Boss” and the king of the frontside flip, his style is distinct, incorporating flips and technical tricks down large gaps and stair sets, all the while making them look basic.  Tricks simply become twice as incredible when he’s performing them.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him skate, pulling a cabilariel over a rail and down a 12 stair drop in “The End,” and continuing his onslaught of flip tricks down stair sets and in and out of slides.  Instantaneously, he became my favorite skater.

For these reasons, he has enjoyed a long and storied career in an industry where success is often fleeting.  After a breakout video part, the pressure is on for amateurs and pros alike to step up their game.  The audience, for better or worse, expects harder tricks down bigger gaps and rails—a tall order for any skater new to the industry.  Reynolds had no problem delivering for most of his career, but like any athlete, the window of success can be short, and age quickly becomes a factor in your ability to perform, especially north of 30.

Thus, even with his proven track record, questions inevitably began to surface with Reynold’s skill level and whether he could maintain it or not. It’s not uncommon for a popular skater to get the coveted final part in a video, regardless of whether he deserves it or not.  Even I asked myself a similar question when his name flashed across the screen the first time I watch Emerica’s “Stay Gold.”  New talent was emerging, and the trends suggested they were quickly surpassing the veterans.

“Will he get the last part in the video just because of his name recognition?”  The answer—a resounding “no.”  He deserved it, and then some.

The calming musical selection in his intro nearly tells the entire story. It was known that Reynolds’ career would begin to wind down.  Sure, he’d still be a pro, and he could sell plenty of boards, but you can only keep up with the fresh legs for so long.  After a career full of fame, partying, drugs, and turmoil, here was a man, clean, mature, and wise, giving it his all one last time before passing the torch.

Nearly half of the tricks performed could be considered enders for any ordinary part.  He revisits the legendary spots of his past video parts and takes it a step further. Each trick is crisp and carefully selected, taking thought, time and care to ensure that not only the trick was landed, but that it was well thought out and performed cleanly.  It was as if he knew the significance of this part and how important it was not only for him, but to the entire skateboard community.

What we were left with was exactly everything we needed, and absolutely nothing we didn’t—truly a memorable experience from start to finish. This was Andrew Reynold’s Magnum Opus, a showcase of his gift to the world.

It’s quite possibly the closest thing we’ll ever get to a perfect part.

Honorable Mentions:

A couple more parts that didn’t quite make the list, but are still worth mentioning and checking out if you have the chance.

Rodney Mullen – Second Hand Smoke

PJ Ladd – PJ Ladd’s Wonderful Horrible Life

Xeno Miller – Enrolling in the Middle Class

Arto Saari – Sorry or Menikmati… or Minefield (or pretty much anything Arto Saari)

 

 

1. Jamie Thomas, Misled Youth. Zero Skateboards, Circa 1998.

“Jess… Jess!  Mute Grab!” It was the last thing I remember saying. A day later, I awoke, laying in a hospital bed with no knowledge of the events that had succeeded the infamous line…

I had tried my hardest to convince him, but the prospect of a killer mute grab into the Snake River up past Buffalo Eddy just wasn’t enough to break his attention from his girlfriend (of which to this day I still can’t understand, but oh well).  So, I tried harder, and harder, and… apparently, I tried too hard, for as Shaun Walters described it, I slipped and fell head first, landing on a pile of rocks 15 feet below before sliding into the river.

What ensued were lots of tears, lots of payers, and a two-week hospital stay. After it was all said and done, Thor had jumped in after me to pull me out, an off-duty nurse, who just happened to be at the same beach as us, took care of me until the ambulance came, and Jon Shaw was forced to drive my squirrely, 85 Buick Regal back to my house.

Oh, and the whole thing could be blamed on Jess.

The good news was, I recovered with only minor long-term effects (I mean, there’s probably a little memory loss or brain damage here or there, but I’m not sure which memories they are, so I’m not going to ever worry about it!). The bad news, I couldn’t skateboard, for over a month.  And for an avid 18-year-old skater, it was absolute torture.

So, every night, I’d sit in my basement and watch Jamie Thomas’s part from Misled Youth.

Hearing the opening keyboard loop of Baba O’Riley fade in still gives me chills to this day.  It was the sound of hope; the sound of inspiration.  My heart would pound as I’d watch Thomas walk up the Hollywood High stair set holding his busted head with the greatest rock song of all time playing in the background.  In a way, it was like he was subtly telling me, “Don’t worry, we’re going to make it through this.  It’s going to be good.  Real good…”

What ensued was an onslaught hammers, trick after trick down the biggest stair sets and baddest rails of the day.  Not only did he go big, but he had the technical variety to back up his style. The lipslide down the blue Rincon rails that led to a six-foot drop, the benihana down the long double set, kickflip down the Macba 4 block… tricks nobody in their right mind would consider even attempting at the time.  In under 5 minutes, Jamie Thomas opened our eyes to a new style of skating.

And then came the slow-mo section.  Just when we thought our minds couldn’t be any more blown, The Doors “The End” fades in and Thomas proceeds to execute another round of bangers, bigger and crazier than the one’s before.  The nosegrind down the 14-stair that he bailed on earlier with a raised fist to the giant backside 180 over the rail and down the Rincon drop, the smith down the 18-stair, backside lipslide down Hollywood High… my jaw would lock in the open position as I’d watch him perform each feat, my body completely frozen as if I had peered into the eyes of Medusa.  And the perfect 5-0 down the huge white rail, only for Thomas to shake his head in disappointment and lift his finger so he could go back and do it, “one more time?” Classic.  A textbook example of how to put together a bangers section.

Nowadays, there are plethora of skaters who “go big,” but 20 years ago, that number was slim.  Nobody went big, at least not like Jamie Thomas.  He was the pioneer, starting with the infamous Leap of Faith and taking it a step further in Misled Youth.  When others had only a handful of tricks they could do down big gaps and rails, Jamie had all the bases covered, and for years, his part in Misled Youth was the standard for final video parts.

To this day, his part has stood the test of time, cementing Jamie Thomas as one of the GOAT’s of the sport.  It’s a part I will never forget… a part that inspired a battered and broken teenager to get back on his board; one that gave him so much hope 15 years ago.

***

Maybe I’m becoming a bit of a curmudgeon in my older years, but I can’t help but think of the rise the digital age and how a skater’s newest part can be viewed with a few clicks at your computer.  Though beneficial beyond a doubt, I often wonder if young skaters these days understand the significance of the skate video, if they’ll ever have the same appreciation me and my friends did when videos were harder to come by.

At the same time, I occasionally go back to watch these old videos online, recalling the days when my life revolved around a board.  “I’ll be a skater for the rest of my life,” I’d say in total confidence, back when the world was a much simpler place.  Now, I admittedly find myself scoffing when I see a group of skaters at a spot, even going as far as to sympathize with those kicking them out. “Am I this out of touch with the scene?” I ask myself.  Perhaps it’s just a part of growing up.

However, with all that has changed in the nearly 20 years since I picked up a board, the memories I have while skating, some of the best of my entire life, will forever remain, even if I don’t get out and skate like I used to. The youthful spirit captured in skateboarding has always been constant.

Whenever I revisit these old videos, I’m reminded of that.

Honestly, who steals a Speedo???

It was the latest in a string of brutal Facebook battles with Mike Gibson that held me at my work desk well passed quitting time on a Friday afternoon.  Insults had flown and tempers flared in a contest that had escalated into a day and half affair.  Attacks on each other’s intelligence were common as well as accusations of one’s character with little regard to anybody’s feelings whatsoever.  It was my “switch to decaf” line however, that I think nearly ended the long standing friendship.

Sure, it was harsh, and both of us were fully aware that the amount of time and energy spent arguing would not change either one of our minds, but ultimately, it was our pride that stood in the way of reason.  Much like Aaron Rodgers treats his house…

Nobody talks bad about Ted Cruz… without paying the price!  Not here… Not ever!

However, through some luck, perseverance, and probably a miracle or two from God, it seemed that we had reached a compromise, or at least a conclusion of which our friendship had remained intact… at least for now.  Only one thing was left—a closing statement before I left work for the weekend.  I typed out my final message, one that had been well thought out, and though not politically motivated, guaranteed to leave a stinger.  I pressed the return key and read the message several times over, waiting for Mike’s repulsed response, assurance that it was I who would once and for all receive the upper hand.

“Ok, time to put on my Speedo.  I’ll talk to you soon brotherman!”

I knew the last thing he wanted was an image of me wearing a Speedo, but really, I couldn’t help but share, whether I wanted to or not.  It had been on my mind the entire day, waiting for the moment to clock out and head to the pool for lap swim.  What had started as an alternative to running due to my busted old knee had now become an obsession.  I longed for the moment each day where I could finally strap on the tight-fitting nylon garment and rip the freestyle stroke several times across the length of the pool, and today was no different.

In all honesty though, whether Gibson ever had the courage to admit it or not, the image of me in a Speedo isn’t half bad, evidence by the look on Mike Masters’ face the day before.  “Hey, what’s up Mike,” I called out to my co-worker in the locker room, a man with awesome hair and impeccable style who had just finished up a few sets of peck building, the last piece of the perfect trifecta to impress babes.  His eyes lit up at the sight of me, as if it were his first glimpse of the statue of David—a dripping wet specimen with only a Speedo to conceal the fleshy profile.  I turned for a quick second (nonchalant of course) and looked in the mirror, just to confirm that his awestruck reaction was authentic… and indeed, it was.

A smile remained on my face throughout the entire car ride from work to the gym, sustained by the aid of classic rock tunes pumping through the radio.  An unusually chipper tone was exercised with the gate guard into the Navy base, and a confident strut accompanied my journey from my car to the gym, eager to kick the weekend off appropriately.

I let the myriad of thoughts circulate through my head as I rummaged through my bag in the locker room.  Man, my stroke’s been improving lately.  The way I glide through the water now with ease and finesse, my level of endurance; it’s like I’m a natural.  Like, pretty soon—well, I’m not going to be cocky about it, cause that’s not my style or anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m swimming like Michael Phelps soon… Of course I’ll be humble about it, even to Mike Gibson, but yea, I’m getting that good!  And I don’t exactly want to say it, but man, that’s gonna be a lot of Michaels jealous of me.  Gibson, Masters… Phelps, I guess I’m just… just…  Wait—what the hell?

My breaths become heavy, short and frequent, my head darting left and right like the hyperactive child on an overdose of Redbull.  I scoured the bag, my fingers blasting every knack and cranny in desperation.  Is this for real?  No… this… this can’t be happening!

No more screwing around.  I emptied my entire bag on the ground and initiated a scavenger hunt.  Gym goers alike stared with concern at what appeared to be a strange boy looking for treasures in the county landfill.  It didn’t matter, at least not to me.  Dignity had been long gone at this point, and any method of searching was on the table.  Desperation set in.  For the moment, I had become the little girl who had lost her mom at Walmart.

I searched, and researched, and searched again.  Every pocket, every square inch, every part of my bag.  No matter how many times I looked, I just couldn’t accept the fact that it was gone.  But it was…

I… I can’t believe it… My Speedo… it’s… missing.

But… it has to be here… somewhere…  Anywhere!  My mind raced with ideas.  I mean, the last time I had it was here, at the gym.  Where else could it be?  I checked the swimsuit water extractor (a centrifugal machine that spins around really fast and sucks the water out of your swimsuit, which admittedly I also use to extract the sweat from my workout shirts from time to time).  Completely empty.

Retrace your steps.  I made my way back to the showers, artfully maneuvering my way around an obstacle course of old, naked bodies (it’s only the old dudes who take showers at the gym for some reason, and never the young hunks… besides me of course.  I don’t know why…).  No signs—no evidence of a Speedo for miles.  Maybe it really is gone…

I stood in solace, lost in translation as naked body after naked body walked past, like I didn’t even exist.  What else can I do…  There was only one thing left to do—check the lost and found.  It took a minute of staring into space in the middle of naked man-traffic before I could muster up the desire to walk out of the shower room.

“Hi, I’d like to check the lost and found for a Speedo,” I asked the lady at the front desk.

“Ok, what does it look like?”

“Well, it’s black and it’s… I mean, it’s a Speedo…”

“Oh, um… ok.  Let me go in the back and take a look…”  Her voice was suspect.  It was quite possible that she didn’t want to handle a strangers Speedo, and part of me couldn’t blame her.  But it’s not like I’m so hobo from the streets or something.  I’m a respectable member of the community for heaven’s sake!

It was a long minute, anxiety building heavier and heavier as the seconds passed.  But why?  Me, worry?  The Speedo has to be here.  I searched the entire locker room, high and low.  The cleaners had to have picked it up, for nobody would ever touch a Speedo laying on the floor of a locker room… at least I wouldn’t.  You never touch another man’s Speedo.  That’s my motto!

The lady returned with a somber look on her face.  This can’t be good.  “I’m sorry sir, but all we have is a pair of boots.”  My heart dropped at the sound of her voice.  Oh my God… I can’t even believe it.  It was stolen… Some retched soul is actually in position of my Speedo…

“Ok, thank you for checking,” I replied.  It took every muscle in my body to muster a polite response and keep my composure before slumping back to the locker room.

I sat before my locker, my head in my hands for over 10 minutes, unable to fathom—even accept the reality bestowed upon me.  I do have my regular gym clothes, so I guess could lift weights.  But having to use the weight room, with all those hunks and their weight belts, and sculpted muscles and protein shakes?  I’d rather slit my wrists!

I mean, how did this happen?  How could one day, I be wearing it at the gym, and the very next day, it’s gone?  What makes somebody want to take a piece of garment like that?  What kind of sick person would fathom doing such a thing?

Honestly, who steals a Speedo!?

Without restraint, my mind developed an image of the filthiest of men, a Ben Woodward strutting around in nothing but my Speedo, feeling all cool and confident—laughing, knowing I was in the locker room right now, moping—suffering from PTSD.  Heck, they’re probably not even wearing underpants!  That’s just down right disgusting!

Realizing it’d be a waste of a trip not to get some sort of workout in, I unwillingly changed into my gym clothes and made the plunge into the weight room, where a fleet of Navy hunks were awaiting my arrival in a sea of testosterone.  I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with an air supply saturated with man-sweat.  This was a big mistake.

A nervous tension sifted through my body—the muscular presence too much to overcome, too overpowering!  Ok, just calm down, you’re just out of your comfort zone.  Just imagine everybody in their underwear.  That’s all you have to do.  That always works, especially when people give speeches and stuff.

Boldly, I continued on, into the heart of the Lion’s Den with second life, an intrepid attitude that could not be broken, letting my imagination go to work.  Great, just great.  All these sculpted bodies walking around in their underpants… it’s even worse!  Look at em’, thinking they’re all awesome.  And why are they all black, and shiny like they’re going swimming and stuff?  It’s like they’re all wearing Speed… Oh God.

Strategy backfired.

I brushed it off as best I could and approached the pull-up bar.  In front of me stood a young Navy hunk working on his biceps.  He turned to the mirror and flexed.  It’s him.  That has to be him.  He’s the guy wearing my freaking Speedo.  How else could he think he’s so awesome right now?  His muscles aren’t even that big!  Whatever, I’ll show him!  I pumped out 10 pull-ups, easy.

Seconds later, another Navy hunk approached the mirror, same stature, same cut, flexing his muscles just like the first, probably thinking about all the babes he’s gonna score with his pythons, or in his case, gardener snakes.  Well what about this guy?  He could very well be wearing my Speedo as well.  Fits the profile of a criminal, and just as ridiculous as the first!  I mean, look at this!  I’m pretty much in a room of suspects right now!

I cranked out a second set just as fierce as the one before, and as I touched down, I caught a glimpse of the two whispering in each other’s ear through my peripherals—talking and colluding.  I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but it seemed to be in regards to… my Speedo?  Yes, my Speedo!  In clandestine fashion, I hovered around their position to eavesdrop, deciphering their conversation as best as I could.

“Yea, you see that guy right there… the one hovering next to us… well, get this.  I saw him last night in the locker room, walking around with his Speedo on… Yea, the minute I saw him, I knew all the babes were gonna be checking him out… Oh yea, you know it was a threat!  Messing up our game and everything…  No way I was gonna let him get away with that.  So check this out.  Once he hopped in the shower, I snuck over to his locker, and get this… I stole his Speedo…  Oh it’s true.  It’s damn true…  And check this out… I’m wearing it right now… no joke, working out in them as we speak!…  Yea, I knew he’d be here, thinking about it, his tight Speedo clasped around my buns, my thunderous legs—tightly adhering shape of my crotch, forming up and touching all the creases, the groin area, the bal—“

That’s it!  I can’t take it anymore!

***

My Speedo… the only thing I had left, now in the hands of a degenerate.  25 bucks could get me another one, no problem, but would justice be served?  Will this Speedo bandit ever be caught?  I mean, nobody steals my Speedo, without paying the price.  Not here… Not ever!

For all I know, it could be Mike Gibson’s grand scheme to get back at me for making him undergo an image of me in a Speedo.  What if he concocted this whole thing along?  I could just see Gibson sitting around in my Speedo, plotting this whole thing out—

Oh my God…  Gibson in a Speedo…  C’mon!

Well, looks like Gibson got the upper hand after all.  Son of a B.

 

Sunday Night Update:

So it turns out, after a weekend of getting worked up about football and having my Speedo stolen, that the Speedo was in my laundry basket all along.  I must have thrown it in their and forgotten about it!  Well, never mind.  Turns out, that all this stolen Speedo talk was all in my head this whole time!

Whoops!

The Secret Underground of the West Bremerton Wrestling Federation

It was just another one of your typical spring days in the Puget Sound—damp and dark, with a constant, heavy drizzle of rain.  Not like one of those crazy Midwest rainstorms that come out of nowhere and hammers you for a couple minutes with an intense, thunderous storm followed by a streak of sunshine; Mother Nature’s nice way of reminding us how powerful she is and why we shall respect her.  In the Pacific Northwest, she reminds us of her dominance in a much more subtle, but torturous manner…

 

To put it bluntly, it rains.  Period.  It will rain for days, weeks, and when she’s really pissed off, months even.  You wake from your peaceful slumber to a steady flow of water droplets pummeling the ground day after day, beating onto your skin as you step outside to make the morning commute, slowly seeping deeper into your already darkened soul.  Little by little, like the frog who’s stuck in the pot water that gradually turns to a boil, it wears you down to the point where it becomes accepted as part of your everyday routine, analogous to the mundane work that is to be accomplished when you arrive at work.

 

Then finally, after a much-extended departure, a few rays of light seep through a slight break in the clouds, sending the Olympic Peninsula natives into a frenzy of adulation.  We rejoice in the miracle of sunshine and spend much of our workday talking amongst our peers about our great plans for the weekend, now that the streaks of grey have been vanquished from the sky—our one and only sign of hope.

 

We crawl into bed with delusions of grandeur, for the sun, that bright ball of fire in the sky that had departed so long ago and had nearly been erased from our memory, would finally return to us.  Then, the very next morning, you are woken by the same persistent sound of tapping on the roof and windowsills.   You rise with every emotion drained from your body, except for a slight smirk, a recognition of the irony from the sights and sounds of sorrow, fooled once again to think we might actually have a chance to live through a day of nice weather.  And once again, the cycle repeats itself, forever ongoing, beating us into submission and furthering our depressed state.  No wonder so many people look like they’re in a terrible mood in the city of Seattle.

 

The rain doesn’t always have such a negative effect, however.  It makes us Pacific Northwesterners who deal with it day in and day out hardened to the fact that bad weather is a part of life, and that we must deal with or die.  We learn to suck it up, to pedal our bikes through unyielding walls of water just to make it to work to produce goods and services for the proud, work-driven community, or hike through flooded plains and mud-ridden trails to reach a destination of everlasting beauty.  It’s much like how the Wisconsinites deal with the bitter and cold winters with their sub-zero temperatures, or the harsh and blistering summer climate in the southwestern states.  It gives us all an appreciation of those wonderful days when by an act of God, the sun is shining bright between the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges without a cloud in the sky.

 

Much was the attitude that I discovered that liquid-saturated Saturday preceding Cinco de Mayo when I ventured down Callow Avenue in Bremerton, Washington with my go-to skate buddies Jack and Adam.  For those of you unfamiliar with Callow Avenue, it is a representation of the very best and very worst of what the city of Bremerton has to offer.  It houses a collection of historic businesses that molded the city into what it is today, while at the same time attracting many new stores that seem to undertake a more progressive model to commerce.

 

On either side of the street, you’ll find a mass of pawnshops, which have strategically placed neon signs plastered across the windows with seductive slogans.  One in particular caught my eye, and if I can remember correctly, it had a catchy phrase that went something like, “guns, guns, GUNS!”  Apparently, judging by the signs and the wooden silhouette of a cool cowboy leaning on a post and clasping a smoking pistol, these pawnshops like to sell a lot of guns.

 

Then on the east side of the street across from the town bakery and adjacent to the comic book shop, there is an adult themed store with its specially attributed mannequin models posing in a provocative manner to advertise their explicit clothing line.  They seem to have great deals on a wide range of videos that line the store shelves, which I’m sure keeps their customers coming back for more.  And who can blame them with deals like “3 DVD’s for 19.95,” or “free edible underwear with the purchase of full lingerie set?”  Say what you want about the morality of their product, but there’s no denying that they know how to run a consumer based business.

 

And what would Callow Avenue be without a tobacco shop or two, whose specialties have recently expanded into the reach of glass headpieces?  With the rise of marijuana use due to Washington’s reformed laws, business has been booming for these small business start-ups, and who can blame them for taking full advantage of the law to boost their clientele base?  It’s what any smart businessperson would do, from Donald Trump to Vince McMahon.

 

There is even rumored to be an underground S&M and dominatrix club in one of the back alleys aligning Callow.  Supposedly, some of Bremerton’s finest are members of this exclusive club that is only accessible through secret invitation.  Doctors, lawyers, bankers, among many of the other important citizens of the Kitsap community are supposedly spotted entering the club’s secret passageway to indulge in their inner-most dark desires.  I didn’t believe it at first, but with much persuasion from Ben Woodward, he verified and assured me that such a place exists.  He seems to show a keen interested in those types of places for some reason or another.

 

We had nothing but the harmless intention of composing a high quality Instagram video that afternoon, although the never-ending rain put a stop to those plans real quickly.  It was just impossible to gather the filmmaking resources required to make such a video that lives up to our standards given the cacophonic state of the weather.  All was not lost however, for as we walked further down, a congregation of spectators had come into our sight.  For better or worse, our curiosity guided us past food vendors and hollering fans, some of whom had traveled far and wide from the outskirts of town, including representatives from Shelton, Belfair, Purdy, and many of the other communities out in the sticks that surround the city of Bremerton.

 

After maneuvering through the cluster of crazed fans, growing further impatient from the delay of action, or eyes settled to the middle of the street where a group of children, drenched with an unrelenting barrage of rain water, tirelessly labored to clear a square ring erected from four columns of turnbuckles at the corners and aligned with three rows of ropes.  No matter how much these boys squeegeed or how many towels they soaked up, the unstoppable force of rain continuously militated their efforts.  These modern peasants however were determined to see the ring cleared, and were willing to do whatever it took for the chance to watch their hero’s, many of whom they’ve been waiting their whole life to see, battle it out for their shot at stardom; the superstars of the West Bremerton Wrestling Federation, or better known as the WBWF.

 

I had heard of these small-operation wrestling organizations popping up around different cities with their members aiming to take their skill set to the big leagues.  Usually these events are pretty secretive, with their whereabouts only known by a limited number of hardcore fans who rarely share the details of the sport’s arrangements.  For that, I considered myself lucky that day to have stumbled upon such an event, and I’m sure there was at least a WWE scout or two in the crowd, even if it was raining cats and dogs.

 

After 10 minutes of obstinate work from the child laborers whom of which I’m sure were grossly underpaid, out of nowhere a booming voice with a God-like reverb exploded out of a PA system setup outside a Mexican restaurant.  From the way the man screamed at the boys to get their tiny buns out of the ring, I got the idea that their determination had finally paid off, even though much of the ring was still covered in a thick layer of water.  It mattered not, for rain or shine, we were finally going to see some damn wrestling!

 

The first two opponents stepped out into the ring, a masked behemoth, clad in a full body spandex suit vs. a truly undersized welterweight sporting red and yellow Zumba pants.  Toe to toe they stood, gazing into each other’s eyes with great malice; every second passing adding to their desire to clobber the other into the mat.  The bell rang and the two reached in for a fierce grapple, forcing each other’s weight upon the other, a force that quickly overcame the friction between their florescent colored K-Swiss running shoes and the rain-soaked mat.  What seemed like perfect execution, both wrestlers’ pair of legs flew out underneath them, sending them face first to the mat.  The crash of the two muscular giants thundered throughout Callow as the two turned to their sides, squinting their eyes and wallowing in pain.

 

The referee began his 10-second match disqualification count as the wrestlers desperately attempted to rise from the fall.  I don’t know if he was paying attention, had terrible track of time, or what his issue was, because his 10-second count seemed to last over a minute, for both wrestlers found it extremely difficult to keep their balance during their ascent to stand on two feet.  Both wrestlers slipped and fell back to the ground at least 3 or 4 times before the black behemoth finally rose up, grabbing Zumba’s long, oily locks and forcing him back onto his feet.

 

The behemoth grabbed Zumba by the arm, pulling and using his momentum to send him towards the ropes… perhaps too much momentum.  Again, the behemoth lost his balance and found himself back on the ground.  Zumba saw this as an opportunity, bouncing off the ropes to set up for a fierce guillotine leg drop, a perfect set up for a devastating finisher.

 

He approached the Behemoth lying on his back as he ran full speed and lifted his right leg, the one that would soon be strategically placed across his opponent’s throat, sending maximum pain throughout the rest of his body.  It was a perfect execution, too perfect, only if it hadn’t been for the inch of rainwater covering the mat…

 

Zumba began to slide, waving his arms in a windmilling fashion, doing everything he could to keep his balance and deliver the finishing blow.  However, with one leg already up in the air and a near frictionless wrestling mat, his valiant efforts were ultimately no use.  His left joined his elevated right, an entire ball of muscle floating in the air for a brief moment of time; his eyes widening to the size of silver dollars and his mouth shaping into the letter “O”, bracing for the impact his bony behind was about to make with the floor.

 

“OHHHH,” he cried out holding his left butt check, the one that had taken the brunt of the impact from the monstrous impact.  “C’mon!” we screamed in frustration, sensing that with both men on the ground, the referee would repeat his 5 minute 10-second count all over again.  This match was far from over.

 

Zumba’s mistake proved to be detrimental, for although he was courageous for taking on the masked behemoth, his valor was much too underwhelming for the 100 plus pounds and 8 inches the behemoth had over him, much to the disappointment of the crowd.  Everybody likes a good underdog victory every now and then, especially the couple that was across the ring from me.

 

The wife sported a black shirt with the slogan, “ATF: Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms.  Who brings the chips?” and the husband was clad in a tucked in XXL shirt with Yosemite Sam spread across the torso with two revolvers drawn and the phrase “Back Off!” tucked underneath his belly, well below his waistline.  Their 6 children, soaked in oversized shirts such as “Out of my Mind, be Back in 5 Minutes,” among other witty tops easily purchased at the local Wal-Mart mimicked their parent’s demeanor, hurling insults and yelling furiously at the heels throughout the duration of the event.

 

Soon after the Behemoth celebrated his victory and Zumba pitifully exited the ring in agonizing pain, the piercing sound of the Soviet National Anthem came blaring out of the speakers, one of the most excruciating songs to come out of the 20th century.

 

“What the hell?” I asked myself.  My question was quickly answered as two Russian jerks strutted out of the Mexican restaurant covered with the red hammer and sickle flag alongside their manager who kept waving around old Soviet Union paraphernalia yelling gibberish through a stupid megaphone.  Nothing grinds my gears more than a bunch of loudmouth commies prancing around with unjustified cockiness, especially considering the hostile advances against Ukraine in the past months.  A vicious anger began bellowing inside me, a rage building to uncontrollable levels.  It consumed me so much that I regrettably found myself hurling offenses along the lines of “Putin Sucks.” It was an action way beneath my character, but I could hardly believe the utter lack of respect these guys were showing, and was very much hoping their opponents were strong enough to deliver them the punishment they deserved.

 

After their egregious boasting, out came the other tag team, whose appearance left me a bit concerned I must admit.  The first was a chubby kid; barely of legal age to wrestle in the WBWF, clothed in black tights and in the process of growing a Flock of Seagulls style haircut with purple highlighted tips.  The kid had passion no doubt, a commendable attribute, but at the same time, certainly had a lot to learn about the sport of professional wrestling.

 

His partner, although out of shape, looked to be more of a veteran of the sport.  His hair style was of one of which I had never seen; a blonde and balding bowl cut with two inch long braids lining the perimeter of his head, matching his stained and crooked teeth and his multi-pocketed, flared out bellbottom style jeans, discolored with bleach stains in multiple spots.  His one saving grace was his superman shirt.  Say what you want about the guy, a washed up WBWF legend or recovering meth addict (some would make that assumption, but I never make accusations unless I have hard evidence), but anybody with a superman shirt is a man of integrity, intensity, and intelligence, and will with no doubt come out on top, no matter their appearance.

 

The match began with Mr. Emo up first against one of the Russians.  It was an absolute massacre, right from the get go.  Mr. Emo didn’t stand a chance.  Over and over again the Russian’s took turns throwing him against the turnbuckles and delivering slap chop to his abnormally large breasts and blows to his bloated gut, causing his epidermis to resonate with a high frequency.

 

“No, no!” He screamed as the Russian’s grabbed each of his legs, kicking them up and down as he clasped the ropes for dear life.  His plea was humored, but ultimately ignored as they ripped him from his rope stranglehold and threw him onto the center of the mat, sending a splash of water high into the air.  The Russian’s were just being a couple of buttholes now, placing Mr. Emo in various submissions, shooting pain throughout his body with every twist of his wrist and pull of his leg.

 

The Russian had Mr. Emo stuck in a full crab, a submission move where the victim lies on his stomach while the aggressor sits on his back and takes hold of both legs, pulling them towards the back of his head, causing much strain and deformation to the spine.  Further, the Russian consistently taunted his partner, Superman, as well as the crowd, hurling insults in a heavy eastern dialect that nobody quite understood, but hated all the same.

 

Although they certainly had the upper hand, the Russians’ cockiness were getting the best of their talent.  As they were busy ridiculing the crowd, Mr. Emo was clandestinely slipping away from his opponent’s submissive grip, his hand inching closer to his partners, Superman, who had yet to be tagged into the match.

 

He was so close, nearly a fingertip away from the tag with his arm outstretched and his eyes squinting, a helpful tactic that increases your reach every time it’s tried.  My heart was pounding out of my chest, for we were on the verge of witnessing an epic comeback matching that of when the Packers came back at the last second to beat the Cowboys in the Ice Bowl.  Just a little more reach and they would have it; the match would be theirs…

 

 The Russians pulled Mr. Emo back to the middle of the ring, laughing at his hopeless effort to tag his partner, but the laughter was short lived.  Somehow, by a shear act of God, the tag had been made and Superman was on his way to deliver a world of hurt.  His eyes were full of fury, the humiliation his partner received was about to be repaid in full, and after 10 agonizing minutes, we were finally about to get what we all came for—a good ol’ fashion American ass whoopin’!

 

Superman took a lunge and stuck out his forearm to deliver a close line.  The Russian inside the ring had just enough time to see the blow coming, but not enough time to evade.  Contact was inevitable; the Russians were going down…

 

“WHOA,” screamed the Superman as he realized one of his legs slipped out much to far in front of him.  Before doing the splits and ripping his growing muscles, he miraculously switched leg positions, and switched again, and then again, and again, and again.  It was like a Nordic Track on overdrive, accelerating with intensity with each leg shift.  At the rate his legs were moving, his body was brushing with the peril of a dangerous rotation that could send him to the mat if he wasn’t careful, but I knew he was going to pull out of it.  He was Superman after all.

 

It all happened so quickly; that I can’t quite remember the exact way it went down.  What I do know is one minute he was upright, the next he was down.  His face planted hard against the wet mat, and shortly after, our palms planted hard against our faces.  The Russian picked him up and suplexed him right onto his neck, a finishing move that proved to be incorrigible to recovery.  The Referee went down for the count.  In an attempt to save his partner, Mr. Emo got tangled in the ropes, eventually landing on his stomach with complete uselessness, the epitome of maladroit.  1, 2, 3, and it was all over.

 

The crowd booed off both teams with utter disgust.  I for one was completely ashamed to have these two buffoons represent my country.  Their pathetic display was an embarrassment to our great nation, and the unruly crowd let them have it with disapproving hand gestures, nasty heckles, and flying food particles.  Mr. Emo and Superman did what they could do re-garnish their support, but in the end, they both left the ring in disgrace.

 

The last match was perhaps the most inhumane of the day, a three on three tag-team bout consisting of the most desperate wrestlers in all of Kitsap County.  They came from all sides, the one entering the ring closest to us standing out above the rest.  We were in full view of his cacopygian attributes, and from what I could tell, he may have been only wearing a mask and a white T-shirt, for his overly obese legs, covered in a film of cellulite that had the consistency of cottage cheese, blocked the view of anything between his thighs and waist.

 

The match began and immediately there was trouble in the ring.  The mangers got involved right from the start, distracting the referee while the Cacopygian joined his other teammates in illegally attacking their outnumbered opponent.  For those of you not familiar with tag-team wrestling, the wrestlers can only double or triple team for a brief moment after a tag has been made before they must return the their corner, which these wrestlers were in clear violation of.  The crowd screamed at the ref in an attempt to raise his attention to the unsportsmanlike conduct happening inside the ring, but the more they hollered, the further he got distracted.  For some reason, everybody could see that the bad guys were cheating except for him.  I hate it when that happens.  It’s become a wild epidemic in the wrestling community that after many years still hasn’t fix.  You’d think there’d be better talent out there for referees, but then again, who knows?

 

Eventually the ref did turn back around, and by an astounding miracle things just happened to return to order right before his eyes reverted back into the ring, although the good guys were still beat up pretty bad and at a disadvantage.  It didn’t take long however for pandemonium to rear its ugly head once more after one of the managers slipped a steel-folding chair into the stage.  Cottage cheese legs grabbed the chair and took a swing at his opponent, except the low friction mat caused a slip, turning a brutal chair blow to the head into a petty tap on the shoulder.  The tap seemed to affect him all the same however, causing the good guy to flail back in pain, roll around on the ground and cover his face as if he’d been sprayed with a vile of acid.  The screaming good guy was too much for the ref to handle, quickly calling the match a disqualification.

 

Shortly after he announced his decision, a nasty, vociferous voice came out of the PA system.  A man walked out, claiming to be the CEO of the WBWF.  I believed him, although his appearance caught me a bit off guard.  Usually a ripped pair of jeans, a ratty T-shirt and an unbuttoned flannel doesn’t strike me as common CEO attire, and his cheesy mustache wasn’t doing him any favors either.

 

“I’m the CEO, and this is MY Company.  Therefore, I hereby reverse this match’s decision by the power bestowed on me!”

 

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

 

I really questioned the intelligence and motives of this CEO, and how long he was going to last.  I know his ambitions were high for the WBWF, but I just didn’t see him making it onto the Fortune 500 list anytime soon.  Within’ seconds of his reversal, an all out brawl of ten grown men broke out in the ring, slapping, grabbing and throwing each other around.  One man grabbed a hold of another and forced him onto the ground, thrusting his body weight onto his victim in an attempt to get him to submit.  Two others kept rolling around on the ground, grinding against each other, trying to position themselves on top of the other so they could have the upper hand and be the dominant partner calling the shots, delivering the pain and satisfying their alpha male desires.

 

The ring became a giant collection of blood, sweat, water, and flesh.  I hadn’t seen this much body to body contact since the last time I watched Game of Thrones, and being that this was a live event, the content was much more graphic.  For minutes we watched in horror as the bloodthirsty and obese kept hammering each other over and over again.  We stared in disgust with our mouths locked open as the topless plumps battled, slowly turning into a giant blob of flabby flesh with the occasional limb flopping around in desperation.  The uglier it got, the more impossible it became for us to turn our heads the other way.

 

They nailed each other with lefts and rights and forced their opponents into uncomfortable positions, the victims resisting as their perpetrators held them against their will, forcing their body to twist and turn in ways the good lord never intended.  Eventually, after a long and relentless pounding session, their stamina gave out, and they were left laying on the mat, side by side in a puddle of water mixed with blood, sweat, saliva, and any other bodily fluid that may be extracted during a match of this caliber, with a flood of rain dropping onto their feeble bodies; these weren’t the most athletic warriors after all.  Now, after 20 minutes of intense, physical, and strenuous activity in the ring, they were exhausted of all their strength, left breathless next to their partners in a moment of extreme pain and pleasure that only the participants could truly appreciate.

 

Their moment of intimacy was our cue to exit.  None of us said a word during the walk back through Callow Avenue.  Not even past the adult store, the pawnshops, or suspected S&M club.  We thought about those wrestling warriors that gave it their all in the ring.  Would they ever get their shot, the big time Pay-Per-View main event in the WWE with John Cena?  Only time will tell.  All I know that these athletes were willing to sacrifice it all for their shot at their dreams, and for that, I commend them.  We may not have gotten the Instagram skit we were hoping for, but in the end, I believe we received something much greater, for it’s truly amazing the things you’ll find sometimes when you’re not looking.

 

I think we all learned a great deal that day walking down Callow Street, about life and ourselves.  Maybe someday, we’ll be at that same level of pursuing our dreams, taking the risk of life for the glory inside the ring.  Until then, we’ll look up to these wrestlers with pride, despite their appearance or what opinions society may cast upon them.  We’ll look at them as greater men… The men we could be…  The men we want to be…  The men we can only hope our children will become…

 

-Grizzly Chadams