By MARSHALL CROOK
It's Saturday night and Danny Lopez lies belly-up and
bleeding on a wooden table. A 260-pound man jumps from 15 feet above and lands
on him. Both men break through the table onto a school gymnasium floor. Referees
check both for consciousness. Attendants mop up the blood around the scene. The
match continues.
Professional wrestling evokes prime-time TV spectacles
featuring nationally known names like Triple H and The Undertaker. This match
takes place nowhere near that world. It's held at the Golden Door Charter School
in Jersey City, N.J. Mr. Lopez performs as "Dan Maff" for Jersey All-Pro
Wrestling (JAPW), one of several small, independent organizations in the U.S.
that offers work to those wrestling away from the sport's largest stages.
Comparing World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) to what Mr.
Lopez does is like comparing Major League Baseball to the Cape Cod League.
Everything is smaller, from the venues to the crowds to the paydays. No one
expects TV coverage or health benefits. What little attention this
sub-subculture has attracted lately comes largely on the heels of the release of
"The Wrestler," a film about a fallen superstar wandering the indies.
Rows of folding chairs that double as potential weapons
surround the JAPW ring. One section of pull-out bleachers is open and filled.
Packs of boys scurry with sodas and pizza, discarding their cans on the floor.
Tonight the crowd will peak at 400 mostly male fans.
"I've worked crowds as small as 20 people, and I've worked
crowds that were 18,000," Mr. Lopez says. "You've still got to go out there and
work. It's harder to work that crowd of 20." Like most professional wrestlers,
Mr. Lopez has another job. Weekdays he works 12-hour shifts as a hazardous
materials technician in New Jersey. This provides the income and health benefits
to support his weekend hobby. Now in his 30s, Mr. Lopez has wrestled since 1999.
He has moved past the point of wanting wrestling to be his life. Now it
represents an extra paycheck.
Independent events provide a training ground for young
wrestlers hoping to get someplace bigger and a home for older wrestlers on their
way out to pasture. All involved work for minuscule pay with no job security or
guarantee of safety. A wrestler can expect as little as $25 for a night's work.
A surplus of wrestlers and a few slots for contracts from the big boys creates a
buyer's market. Pressure to perform at a high level mirrors other sports. The
use of steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs by some wrestlers is an
open secret in the indies, which does not have the resources to police its
members.
In the gymnasium, Mr. Lopez's opponent, Danny DeManto, has
just dropped him headfirst through a second table. They both sprawl on the floor
among wood splinters and spilled soda. Blood from Mr. Lopez's face pools beneath
him. The crowd pushes against the steel barriers and sounds its approval.
Beyond the ring a black curtain acts as an entry back to
normal life. When performing, wrestlers keep to the Code of Kayfabe. An old
carny term thought to derive from the Pig Latin form of "faked," kayfabe is
wrestling jargon for the fictional drama of a match: the taunts, double-crosses,
feuds and pre-determined outcomes which fuel professional wrestling's endless
soap opera. But sworn enemies in the ring are usually drinking buddies.
Backstage at JAPW, wrestlers change into costume or film DVD promos in
character. Guys smoke cigarettes and practice moves in a freight entrance.
Back onstage, the more dangerous the stunts, the more the
crowd reacts. The wrestlers know better than to expect insurance – the best they
get on this night is a registered nurse on staff. During Mr. Lopez's bloody mess
of a match, the crowd breaks into chants of "This is awesome" when they witness
something spectacular, like Mr. Lopez's head going through a table. By the time
the match ends, Mr. Lopez has lost the fight but won the crowd.
Down the hall, another wrestler preps for the night's main
event. Benny Cuntapay is 29 and has wrestled for 10 years. He retired for most
of 2008 but is making his return to JAPW. Mr. Cuntapay calls himself a "weekday
warrior." He claims to make enough money on the independent circuit to pay his
living expenses, which makes him a rarity in the indie world. As a headliner, he
might make between $500 and $1,000 a night.
Mr. Cuntapay – aka B-Boy, the New Age Punisher – bounds
into the ring. Once he removes his black ski-mask, he wanders the ring like a
corralled animal, giving the audience a glare. The audience responds by chanting
"Welcome back." In character, B-Boy pauses: He's appreciative, but ready to
fight. Still, for a split second Mr. Cuntapay looks like he's using all his
strength to keep from grinning.
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