CHAPTER 1
Richard Daniel Ginsburg (that's me) came to Oxford, Mississippi, at the ripe old age of 18 with only one desire: to play football for the Rebels.
Football was my life. I had played in my senior year of high school as quarterback and done a good job of it: we made it to the state finals. I was naturally athletic, quick on my feet and even quicker in my head. I figured that I could sign up for the tryouts and wow them into taking me. The ability to pay for school and all that would come afterwards. I was counting on it.
I didn't count on a Manning. Eli Manning, son of the great Archie Manning and brother to the NFL superstar Peyton Manning, was having his freshman year at the same time as me, and although he was just the backup, it was clear that I really had no shot at making it onto the field, even as a third or fourth stringer, through charm and ability alone.
My luck was somewhat intact, though; at the time, Ole Miss had a terrible defense. They were in desperate need of people at nearly all positions. I tried out and made it as the second string middle linebacker, my original position on the junior varsity squad. It gave me a scholarship that, coupled with the academic one I'd earned and the grants I'd managed to get, let me pay for school, but not much else.
The season went well; I saw some game time and even recorded four sacks. As a pass rusher I was great, and playing zone or man-to-man, I was damn near impenetrable. My biggest problem was stopping the run.
I stand barely 6'2, and weighed about 220 of mostly muscle at the time. Not bad, but it wasn't going to stop a 300 pound RB steamrolling his way out of the backfield with the endzone in mind.
But where everyone else saw my size as a liability, I was determined to turn it into an asset. I began using my speed and mobility a lot more against rushers, and studied their styles, focusing on disrupting his center of gravity. And when it came time to hit, I made sure that I hit as hard and as mean as I possibly could.
Needless to say, by the end of the season, the possibility to be a starter for the next year was definitely swinging in my favor.
With football season out of the way, however, I had to find something to occupy myself. I was determined to become stronger and increase my reaction speed to the equivalent of human lightning, but simple weight training and practice drills with the team wasnÕt going to cut it.
I realized I had to get back to my roots. As a kid, I grew up in Hawaii, the melting pot of the Pacific. Growing up there, I was exposed to a good deal of asian culture, and I fell in love with the martial arts. I trained primarily in Shotokan Karate and Tae Kwon Do, although I did have some Tai Chi and Jiujitsu lessons, as well as practicing a little known Hawaiian martial art known as KuiaÕlae, the art of bone breaking, which was the precursor to Kempo.
The bad thing about it was that the school only offered a few beginner Tae Kwon Do courses that I could have taught. The rest of the town wasn't any better: a studio taught Judo and generic Karate once a week each. I was resigned to running wind sprints and maybe taking some yoga classes or something, when one of my drinking buddies, after a pint or two, suggested wrestling.
"Nah, the school doesnÕt even have a wrestling team."
"Not amateur wrestling," he said, enunciating his words to make himself clear. "Pro wrestling. You know, like Hulk Hogan and Stone Cold and all that."
I could only raise my eyebrows at that. I had watched the WWF a lot as a kid, but it was a good 10 years ago when I stopped. I had caught a couple episodes of it recently, but I didn't really have the time for TV these days. And besides...
"Everyone knows wrestling is fake."
"Not this kind of wrestling, Rick. Check it out sometime."
He told me about a backyard hardcore wrestling league that ran every Saturday night in (wonder of wonders) someone's backyard. I hadnÕt heard of anything like it before, but it intrigued me enough to show up.
Now, when you think of wrestling from the 80's, you picture vaguely cartoonish good guys like Hulk Hogan and the Macho Man, or vaguely cartoonish bad guys like the Undertaker and Ric Flair. Back then, the show was like a carnival. It was also mostly devoid of any actually talented workers. When the mid-90's rolled around, there was another boom in the business, as more reality-based characters and storylines became the norm, and most of the wrestlers had to actually learn to work. Guys like Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock were the ones to become famous in the modern era. The average person on the street would likely have known that; but ask them about hardcore wrestling and you'd likely just get a puzzled look.
Needless to say, I didn't know what to expect, but what I got was an experience, to say the least.
I paid ten bucks to get in. There was a bunch of folding chairs organized around the ring, and about half of them were filled. The rest would end up filled soon enough, and people were still filing in, standing up in the back to catch the show.
The ring was set up in some guy's rather large backyard. It was a raised platform of wood cushioned with cotton stuffing. The turnbuckles were just covered with some canvas. The ropes looked to be the most expensive part of the whole setup: some cables, also covered in canvas. They hurt like a bitch to run into, because they had no give whatsoever.
The announcer used a microphone to call out the wrestlers' names. The characters were completely goofy. The Brazilian Barracuda went up against Panther Gold in the opening match. Their fight was so rudimentary, so basic, it almost hurt to watch by today's standards. Most of the rest weren't much better, but they tried their damnedest. The scary thing was, these guys would do moves with only the most minimal training, moves they could seriously injure themselves with.
For some reason, I absolutely loved it, and knew that this was what I wanted to do.
Now, before I go on, I want to say something. Backyard wrestling is dangerous. Period. Many kids have gotten hurt in a bad way trying it. I know three people who are crippled now because they or their opponent screwed up. Some have even died. Yes, I got my start here, and I actually made it, but how many others can say that? Not very many.
It might be hypocritical of me, but I urge any of you out there who want to try backyard wrestling: don't. Go to a real school and learn it the right way.
I'm off my soapbox, and we now return you to your regularly scheduled autobiography.
Richard Daniel Ginsburg (that's me) came to Oxford, Mississippi, at the ripe old age of 18 with only one desire: to play football for the Rebels.
Football was my life. I had played in my senior year of high school as quarterback and done a good job of it: we made it to the state finals. I was naturally athletic, quick on my feet and even quicker in my head. I figured that I could sign up for the tryouts and wow them into taking me. The ability to pay for school and all that would come afterwards. I was counting on it.
I didn't count on a Manning. Eli Manning, son of the great Archie Manning and brother to the NFL superstar Peyton Manning, was having his freshman year at the same time as me, and although he was just the backup, it was clear that I really had no shot at making it onto the field, even as a third or fourth stringer, through charm and ability alone.
My luck was somewhat intact, though; at the time, Ole Miss had a terrible defense. They were in desperate need of people at nearly all positions. I tried out and made it as the second string middle linebacker, my original position on the junior varsity squad. It gave me a scholarship that, coupled with the academic one I'd earned and the grants I'd managed to get, let me pay for school, but not much else.
The season went well; I saw some game time and even recorded four sacks. As a pass rusher I was great, and playing zone or man-to-man, I was damn near impenetrable. My biggest problem was stopping the run.
I stand barely 6'2, and weighed about 220 of mostly muscle at the time. Not bad, but it wasn't going to stop a 300 pound RB steamrolling his way out of the backfield with the endzone in mind.
But where everyone else saw my size as a liability, I was determined to turn it into an asset. I began using my speed and mobility a lot more against rushers, and studied their styles, focusing on disrupting his center of gravity. And when it came time to hit, I made sure that I hit as hard and as mean as I possibly could.
Needless to say, by the end of the season, the possibility to be a starter for the next year was definitely swinging in my favor.
With football season out of the way, however, I had to find something to occupy myself. I was determined to become stronger and increase my reaction speed to the equivalent of human lightning, but simple weight training and practice drills with the team wasnÕt going to cut it.
I realized I had to get back to my roots. As a kid, I grew up in Hawaii, the melting pot of the Pacific. Growing up there, I was exposed to a good deal of asian culture, and I fell in love with the martial arts. I trained primarily in Shotokan Karate and Tae Kwon Do, although I did have some Tai Chi and Jiujitsu lessons, as well as practicing a little known Hawaiian martial art known as KuiaÕlae, the art of bone breaking, which was the precursor to Kempo.
The bad thing about it was that the school only offered a few beginner Tae Kwon Do courses that I could have taught. The rest of the town wasn't any better: a studio taught Judo and generic Karate once a week each. I was resigned to running wind sprints and maybe taking some yoga classes or something, when one of my drinking buddies, after a pint or two, suggested wrestling.
"Nah, the school doesnÕt even have a wrestling team."
"Not amateur wrestling," he said, enunciating his words to make himself clear. "Pro wrestling. You know, like Hulk Hogan and Stone Cold and all that."
I could only raise my eyebrows at that. I had watched the WWF a lot as a kid, but it was a good 10 years ago when I stopped. I had caught a couple episodes of it recently, but I didn't really have the time for TV these days. And besides...
"Everyone knows wrestling is fake."
"Not this kind of wrestling, Rick. Check it out sometime."
He told me about a backyard hardcore wrestling league that ran every Saturday night in (wonder of wonders) someone's backyard. I hadnÕt heard of anything like it before, but it intrigued me enough to show up.
Now, when you think of wrestling from the 80's, you picture vaguely cartoonish good guys like Hulk Hogan and the Macho Man, or vaguely cartoonish bad guys like the Undertaker and Ric Flair. Back then, the show was like a carnival. It was also mostly devoid of any actually talented workers. When the mid-90's rolled around, there was another boom in the business, as more reality-based characters and storylines became the norm, and most of the wrestlers had to actually learn to work. Guys like Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock were the ones to become famous in the modern era. The average person on the street would likely have known that; but ask them about hardcore wrestling and you'd likely just get a puzzled look.
Needless to say, I didn't know what to expect, but what I got was an experience, to say the least.
I paid ten bucks to get in. There was a bunch of folding chairs organized around the ring, and about half of them were filled. The rest would end up filled soon enough, and people were still filing in, standing up in the back to catch the show.
The ring was set up in some guy's rather large backyard. It was a raised platform of wood cushioned with cotton stuffing. The turnbuckles were just covered with some canvas. The ropes looked to be the most expensive part of the whole setup: some cables, also covered in canvas. They hurt like a bitch to run into, because they had no give whatsoever.
The announcer used a microphone to call out the wrestlers' names. The characters were completely goofy. The Brazilian Barracuda went up against Panther Gold in the opening match. Their fight was so rudimentary, so basic, it almost hurt to watch by today's standards. Most of the rest weren't much better, but they tried their damnedest. The scary thing was, these guys would do moves with only the most minimal training, moves they could seriously injure themselves with.
For some reason, I absolutely loved it, and knew that this was what I wanted to do.
Now, before I go on, I want to say something. Backyard wrestling is dangerous. Period. Many kids have gotten hurt in a bad way trying it. I know three people who are crippled now because they or their opponent screwed up. Some have even died. Yes, I got my start here, and I actually made it, but how many others can say that? Not very many.
It might be hypocritical of me, but I urge any of you out there who want to try backyard wrestling: don't. Go to a real school and learn it the right way.
I'm off my soapbox, and we now return you to your regularly scheduled autobiography.