Breaking New Ground
My name is Christopher Irvine. I was born November 9th,
1970 in New York City. But don't be fooled, what rushes through my veins is
100% pure Canadian blood, and my hometown is really Winnipeg, Manitoba (where?)
in Canada. I just happened to be born "in season" – the hockey season that is.
Couldn't be helped; when your dad happens to be Ted Irvine, a regular player
for the New York Rangers, you just have to spend a quarter of your year with
him wherever the games are being held.
And of course, for those of you who still haven't the
slightest idea who I am, I'll just clear that up now. Does Chris Jericho ring a
bell? …Or maybe Y2J, as I am more popularly known as now. Have had a lot of
different names to date… Corazon de Leon, Lionheart, etc. It's surprising I'm
not yet schizophrenic… I think.
I'm Christian; due to my hanging with my dad so often I
can pretty much handle my own in a hockey match, and was also one of the stars
of the water polo team back in High School. My dad expected me to enter a
sports career due to my potential, and I didn't disappoint him on that respect.
He hoped I would continue the Irvine hockey legend, but that on the other hand…
That I didn't manage to. I turned to wrestling instead.
It really isn't as unbelievable as it sounds. My dad sort
of liked wrestling too, so he used to take me to the shows as a kid, and I
became hooked on wrestling. Guess that's normal for any teenage boy, huh? Only
thing was for me it wasn't just an interest, a hobby. It became a dream, and
obsession. Even before I'd graduated from college with a degree in journalism I
already had my career path mapped out before me.
I won't lie and say it was easy. It wasn't. Telling my
dad to his face that his son wouldn't be taking up pro-hockey, telling him that
I'd decided on one of the most painful, dangerous sports in the world, it was
one of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life. But at least I was lucky to
have a father involved in sports entertainment. Most parents would want their
children to take on a stable, secure job like law or banking etc, because in
the sports business if you're not at the top or anywhere near there, you're
pretty much dead. But I guess it was due to his background that my dad
understood me. He knew that despite the difficulties and the risks I would face
embarking on this career of mine, it was a dream I wanted so badly to fulfil –
the way his turning pro was a dream he had been chasing.
And
so he allowed me to enrol in wrestling school. To be precise, Stu Hart's
Pro-Wrestling Camp in Calgary, Alberta. Stu Hart was one of the generations of
what is arguably the most famous wrestling dynasty in the world, and his school
wasn't known as the infamous "Dungeon" for no good reason. Most wrestlers
require around a year's worth of training before they can actually venture out
into the competitive circuit. Three months, that was how long it took me. I
entered the training school as a complete greenhorn (sure, I was a hardcore
wrestling fan, but I obviously had no personal wrestling experience.). I
entered professional wrestling competitions less than a month after I left the
school. That's just how physically intense the training is. Torture? Maybe you
can call it that. But was it worth it?
Hell,
yes.
I
spent the next six years of my life travelling form country to country, from
USA to Mexico to even Japan (Hell, I even got new nicknames so that fans could
relate to me when I competed!). But no matter how many competitions I
participated in internationally, or how many championship titles I won, I
always haboured a secret hope – to join the 'Big Time'. Is it that hard to
guess what it is? Sure, international competitions are followed by the fans of
whichever countries they are being held in, but there is only one A-grade arena,
followed not just by any one nation, but by the whole world. That's right, the
World Wrestling Federation. That was the 'Big Time' to me. International
recognition. Every pro wrestler dreams of being a WWF player.
I
didn't get into the WWF actually, not at first. The WCW (World Championship
Wrestling) approached me first ( via Paul Heyman's ECW – Extreme Wrestling
Championships), and I signed up with it immediately. Sure, at the time it was
the newbie on the block, but due to its refreshing storylines and shock values,
it was beating WWF ratings. And I sincerely believed that it would be my 'Big
Time'. After all, I would finally be wrestling with 'the big boys', and I
assumed that due to its new status on the televised wrestling arena, everyone
could be given an equal chance to shine.
I've
experienced bitter frustration before. When I get defeated in my competitions
before WCW, I get frustrated. It's inevitable. And when it's a repeated defeat,
my frustration increases in proportion. But at least then I get a chance to
assess my mistakes and rectify my errors. And I always defeat my opponents in
the end.
But
WCW did something the demoralisation of repeated defeat could not do – it
disillusioned me. Up until now, disillusionment was something foreign to me.
Hell, no matter how down or depressed I ever got in my career, I always knew I
had the power to reverse my position. My fate lay in my hands. But in WCW, I
had no such power. There was this glass ceiling that separated newbies like me,
mid-carders, from the top dogs like Goldberg. They got all the promos, they got
all the good slots and storylines, and mid-carders like me, fellow "Dungeon"
graduate Chris Benoit, Perry Saturn and Dean Malenko etc, we weren't worth a
rat's ass. We were only in the shows to fill up the gaps between the
championship matches, to build the suspense.
Who
cared that I'd won the 'Newcomer of the Year' award, or the Cruiserweight
titles, or even the Television title. When you go out there to compete, and the
fans greet you with total indifference, can you imagine how that feels? Sure,
some people can say that a neutral position is better than one of loathing, but
trust me on this, it's better to be a heel and gain any kind of response from
the fans (no matter how negative), than to go out there and see faces all
around you stamped with boredom and apathy, to know that the fans don't give a
damn if you're here today and gone tomorrow.
I
left WCW after three years in that hellhole. It was a painful decision, but I
had to make it. There really wasn't an option – I was underused, under
performing, my morale had been battered into almost nothing… It was even worse
than before I'd joined.
Vincent
K. McMahon saved me.
I
don't know how he singled me out from a host of other WCW wrestlers, how he was
willing to give me a chance to perform in the WWF – my dream. But he did, and I
got one of the biggest, most extravagant welcomes to the WWF ever, as the
'Millennium Man' of the Federation. I was given control over my promos and
storylines, I had merchandise printed for me, and for the first time I heard
fans chanting my name during and sometimes even before my appearances; saw
placards and banners with huge 'Y2J's printed on them.
I
was finally given my chance to shine here, and I knew then that things would
never, eeeeeeeeeeever be the same for me again.
Of
course, I was right. It's been over two years since I've signed my name on the
dotted line for the WWF contract. I've won more titles than I ever could in
WCW. And I've never looked back since.
