Every promoter, wrestler, and ref had to be licensed, and fees did not run cheap. There was a laundry list of regulations and fees posted, so the promoter had to have some hefty dough or a big spender of a sponsor. When the government moved to drop pro wrestling from being categorized as a sport in 1990, the Athletic Commission no longer had any authority over the promoters and wrestlers.  Promoting wrestling suddenly became quite affordable, and within two years independent groups sprang up all over Southern California.

But this was 1983. One of my quests to find a decent wrestling ring led me to Karl Lauer, who promoted some joint shows with the LeBell Family as well as on his own. I knew he owned a ring, and thought it would be worth asking if it was available. Karl was beginning a whole new promotion and brought on former LeBell jobber Pistol Pete as his trainer and booker. He told me that Pete held classes several times a week, and if I attended his classes and showed promise, he would consider booking me on upcoming shows. 

Pistol Pete Marquez was always a nice guy. Subject to delusions of grandeur at time, yes, but a good guy. Not a great worker, but he could work a good match when really inspired. When I showed up for my first class, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I got to the gym early, worried about looking half competent, and watched a varied crew of wrestling hopefuls trickle in. With the exception of a muscular and fit kid named Mike Parilla, I suddenly felt less pressure when I saw my peers; a tall goateed guy with sleepy eyes and bad posture (but he wore a bitchin’ cowboy hat!), a fellow named Harry who looked like a muscular version of the transient who slept outside the gym, and a gal named Charlie (attractive woman who wrestled indies for a few years. Nice person, but her best match would make the WWF Divas all look like bionic Manami Toyodas). The remainder of the students looked familiar. I recognized them from TV or movies, when it dawned on me that I had confused them with Disneyland’s Country Bear Jamboree.

While Pete was not a stellar performer, he understood a few basic things about pro wrestling and booking that some of today’s local folks could learn something from. For instance, if a brand new student was physically gifted and could emulate the suplexes and topes he saw on TV from the get go, Pete wasn’t impressed. He put students through the monotonous grind of simple repetitive bumps til they got them down pat, followed by simple lock-ups and arm drags until they perfected them. The majority of Pete’s students had trouble nabbing these basic maneuvers. (I saw the ultimate example of why the basics are important one night in 1994. Four self-trained guys in a tag match, all physically gifted wonders, did a match that pulled out some of the most astonishing flying maneuvers I had ever seen…but when they went to lock up, they looked like marionettes having a slapping contest; when they applied headlocks, there was so much air in between the arm and the head you could see the back of the arena through it! Killed the heat they got from their hot moves).

So I attended the classes religiously and learned the basics. I also worked odd jobs on Karl Lauer’s shows, from ticket seller to security to ringboy (insert your favorite 90s WWF joke here).  I was selling programs the night Mike Parilla debuted, and that night I overheard Pete telling Karl that I was about ready to have my first match. “I gotta stretch him first,” Pete said. “Make sure he respects the business.”

So the next morning I went to the workout, uncertain of what to expect. I remembered Doc cranking the facelock on me til I faded into La-La Land, and readied myself for more of the same. I entered the gym, and Pete just stared at me and frowned. “Time to pay your dues.”

He worked me over. The other students watched in horror. The gym manager winced.

As for me, I took the punishment by thinking to myself  “HUH?” I felt forearm smashes that hurt like the noogies my big brother gave me when I was six. Pete then clamped on an armbar that stung almost as much as the time that mean girl in kindergarten called me “Kurt Brown, went to town, wore his panties upside down!” Pete was no Dr. Jerry Graham, and it was actually hard keeping a straight face during the beating. My pain monitor should have been blazing with excruciating hallucinations of Billy Robinson, but the images flashing before me bore a greater resemblance to Billy Barty.

But this promotion was the only game in town at the time, so I knew I had to sell booker Pete’s shootfest. I thought back to that horrific day in the summer of ’76. The dentist drilled at my teeth. I was managing to keep steady nerves, when, without warning, “Afternoon Delight” began blaring on the dentist’s radio…..

And with that I cried uncle, tapped out, Pete released me, and I was on my way to my first bout.

NEXT: I make my debut on Karl Lauer’s show, how the structure of that show compares with those in Southern California indies today, and more detailed differences between the local workers then and now.