Black Widow
02-29-2008, 10:15 PM
The run home from high school took about 12 minutes.
The 9th grade junior high school student had just enough time to make the phone call, turn around, and run back in time for the 1st class of the afternoon.
Helluva way to spend your lunch period, huh?
But this was no ordinary phone call. You see, this soon-to-be 14 year old with the deep voice -and braces and pimples, which they couldn't see on the phone- was calling what was then known as Capital Wrestling, the parent company for World Wide Wrestling Federation.
And the person I was calling was Vince McMahon.
Oh, not the current owner and Chairman of the Board of World Wrestling Entertainment. Back then, he wasn't "Vince." He was "Vince McMahon Junior."
The phone call was to his father, Vincent James McMahon. Legendary promoter, noted gentleman, and ruler of the wrestling world in the Northeast.
Breathless from his run, the kid picked up the phone, and dialed the number as quickly as his fingers would allow. As the phone was ringing, the kid practiced his speech. "My name is so-and-so, and I'm calling for Vince McMahon."
Over and over again, out loud, using a radio announcer's voice to mask the fact that if the phone call went more than just a few minutes, the kid's parents would be informed that their conniving little son had missed the beginning of Science class.
Right in the middle of one of the many practice "my name is...." introductions, there was a voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello ... may I help you?"
The kid lost his steadiness. His voice cracked as bad as when he recited from the Torah during his Bar-Mitzvah. For you non-Jews reading this, just imagine trying to sing in front of all your friends, family, and neighbors (and a congregation of strangers) right at the point in your life when puberty hits the hardest.
OK, back to our story.
"Yes, I'm looking for Vince McMahon," the kid shrieked. The nice lady who answered the phone said, "I'm sorry, he's not ..." when all of a sudden, the kid --realizing he just blew the entire opportunity-- went into a staged sneezing fit and said, "I apologize, I'm getting over a terrible cold!"
Phew. That was a close one. "Hold on a moment, please." OK, here we go, thought the kid. "Yes, Mr. McMahon (there WAS a "Mr. McMahon before the current Czar of the industry), my name is....."
"Hi, may I ask the nature of this call?"
The kid cleared his throat. "Damn cold!" he exclaimed, "Yes, I was told by Mr. McMahon to reach out for him at this number to get a press pass for the upcoming show at Madison Square Garden."
Another "hold on a moment, please," and the kid now realises he's officially late for class. "It doesn't matter," he thought to himself, "this is going to happen. It has to happen!"
The call was forwarded. Ring. Ring. Every ring resonated in the kid's ear, because with every ring, the kid could imagine how much trouble he was going to be in.
"Mr. McMahon's office....."
OK, this is it. The moment the kid had waited for. Practiced this part to no end. "Yes, Mr. McMahon please, my name is...."
You ever notice that in the pivotal moments of your life, it's almost an out-of-body experience? You feel like you're watching yourself do something, even though the words are coming out of your own mouth, and the actions are not taking place anywhere else but within your own allotted space in the universe?
"Are you looking for Mr.McMahon Senior or Junior?"
It's working! Oh My God! "Senior, please. And if you don't mind, tell him it's ...."
That whole out-of-body experience sure is a bitch. Just going through the experience of living your dream, getting that one moment you've been hoping for .... praying for ..... thinking about ..... dreaming about .... for months on end, and you know that within another minute, all those plans will either come to fruition or die with a loud, annoying dial tone echoing in your head as you run back to the junior high school that is about to inform your parents "your son missed the first half of class and had no valid excuse."
"This is Vince McMahon, how may I help you?"
It was him. The owner of the company. The guy who makes all the decisions. The legend. The 2nd generation promoter who ruled over the likes of Bruno Sammartino, Superstar Billy Graham, Pedro Morales, Chief Jay Strongbow, and an ill-fitting-blazer wearing announcer with whom he shared his first and last name.
"Yes," the kid said, clearing his throat, "Damn cold ... Vince? It's Paul Heyman!"
The larger than life booker --that's known as "head writer" today-- paused and said, "WHO?"
Uh oh. Think fast. "Paul Heyman... we met after the last Garden show, and you told me to give you a call and get a photographer's pass. You liked my publication...."
The elder statesman interrupted the brash young caller, "I DID?"
"Yes, of course!" the kid shrieked, now realising that hanging up to make any portion of the class would throw his dreams out the window, "you told me to call you so I could get a pass photogra ....."
Vince McMahon --that's Senior, mind you-- stopped me dead in my tracks. "Oh, ok ... just got down to the Holland Hotel on 42nd Street and 8th Avenue, and ask for Gorilla Monsoon or Arnold Skaaland. 2nd Floor. Day of the show. Nice chatting with you, Paul. See you at the Garden!"
CLICK.
It worked! I was "IN!" Of course, when they realise the photographer with the deep voice was really a kid with pimples and braces, that's going to be a whole different sell job.
But for now, as my heart was beating rapidly not only because I was running full speed back to Edgemont Junior High School, but also because I couldn't believe I was going to get a photographer's pass, I knew I had accomplished something no other kid in my class would have dared to even attempt.
And as I look back on that afternoon that changed my life, I realise now exactly what really happened on that cold September midday.
I didn't just break into the professional wrestling business, I did something much more extraordinary.
I pulled off my first Hustle!
the sun
The 9th grade junior high school student had just enough time to make the phone call, turn around, and run back in time for the 1st class of the afternoon.
Helluva way to spend your lunch period, huh?
But this was no ordinary phone call. You see, this soon-to-be 14 year old with the deep voice -and braces and pimples, which they couldn't see on the phone- was calling what was then known as Capital Wrestling, the parent company for World Wide Wrestling Federation.
And the person I was calling was Vince McMahon.
Oh, not the current owner and Chairman of the Board of World Wrestling Entertainment. Back then, he wasn't "Vince." He was "Vince McMahon Junior."
The phone call was to his father, Vincent James McMahon. Legendary promoter, noted gentleman, and ruler of the wrestling world in the Northeast.
Breathless from his run, the kid picked up the phone, and dialed the number as quickly as his fingers would allow. As the phone was ringing, the kid practiced his speech. "My name is so-and-so, and I'm calling for Vince McMahon."
Over and over again, out loud, using a radio announcer's voice to mask the fact that if the phone call went more than just a few minutes, the kid's parents would be informed that their conniving little son had missed the beginning of Science class.
Right in the middle of one of the many practice "my name is...." introductions, there was a voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello ... may I help you?"
The kid lost his steadiness. His voice cracked as bad as when he recited from the Torah during his Bar-Mitzvah. For you non-Jews reading this, just imagine trying to sing in front of all your friends, family, and neighbors (and a congregation of strangers) right at the point in your life when puberty hits the hardest.
OK, back to our story.
"Yes, I'm looking for Vince McMahon," the kid shrieked. The nice lady who answered the phone said, "I'm sorry, he's not ..." when all of a sudden, the kid --realizing he just blew the entire opportunity-- went into a staged sneezing fit and said, "I apologize, I'm getting over a terrible cold!"
Phew. That was a close one. "Hold on a moment, please." OK, here we go, thought the kid. "Yes, Mr. McMahon (there WAS a "Mr. McMahon before the current Czar of the industry), my name is....."
"Hi, may I ask the nature of this call?"
The kid cleared his throat. "Damn cold!" he exclaimed, "Yes, I was told by Mr. McMahon to reach out for him at this number to get a press pass for the upcoming show at Madison Square Garden."
Another "hold on a moment, please," and the kid now realises he's officially late for class. "It doesn't matter," he thought to himself, "this is going to happen. It has to happen!"
The call was forwarded. Ring. Ring. Every ring resonated in the kid's ear, because with every ring, the kid could imagine how much trouble he was going to be in.
"Mr. McMahon's office....."
OK, this is it. The moment the kid had waited for. Practiced this part to no end. "Yes, Mr. McMahon please, my name is...."
You ever notice that in the pivotal moments of your life, it's almost an out-of-body experience? You feel like you're watching yourself do something, even though the words are coming out of your own mouth, and the actions are not taking place anywhere else but within your own allotted space in the universe?
"Are you looking for Mr.McMahon Senior or Junior?"
It's working! Oh My God! "Senior, please. And if you don't mind, tell him it's ...."
That whole out-of-body experience sure is a bitch. Just going through the experience of living your dream, getting that one moment you've been hoping for .... praying for ..... thinking about ..... dreaming about .... for months on end, and you know that within another minute, all those plans will either come to fruition or die with a loud, annoying dial tone echoing in your head as you run back to the junior high school that is about to inform your parents "your son missed the first half of class and had no valid excuse."
"This is Vince McMahon, how may I help you?"
It was him. The owner of the company. The guy who makes all the decisions. The legend. The 2nd generation promoter who ruled over the likes of Bruno Sammartino, Superstar Billy Graham, Pedro Morales, Chief Jay Strongbow, and an ill-fitting-blazer wearing announcer with whom he shared his first and last name.
"Yes," the kid said, clearing his throat, "Damn cold ... Vince? It's Paul Heyman!"
The larger than life booker --that's known as "head writer" today-- paused and said, "WHO?"
Uh oh. Think fast. "Paul Heyman... we met after the last Garden show, and you told me to give you a call and get a photographer's pass. You liked my publication...."
The elder statesman interrupted the brash young caller, "I DID?"
"Yes, of course!" the kid shrieked, now realising that hanging up to make any portion of the class would throw his dreams out the window, "you told me to call you so I could get a pass photogra ....."
Vince McMahon --that's Senior, mind you-- stopped me dead in my tracks. "Oh, ok ... just got down to the Holland Hotel on 42nd Street and 8th Avenue, and ask for Gorilla Monsoon or Arnold Skaaland. 2nd Floor. Day of the show. Nice chatting with you, Paul. See you at the Garden!"
CLICK.
It worked! I was "IN!" Of course, when they realise the photographer with the deep voice was really a kid with pimples and braces, that's going to be a whole different sell job.
But for now, as my heart was beating rapidly not only because I was running full speed back to Edgemont Junior High School, but also because I couldn't believe I was going to get a photographer's pass, I knew I had accomplished something no other kid in my class would have dared to even attempt.
And as I look back on that afternoon that changed my life, I realise now exactly what really happened on that cold September midday.
I didn't just break into the professional wrestling business, I did something much more extraordinary.
I pulled off my first Hustle!
the sun