One of the earliest memories that I have as a kid centers around professional wrestling. My mom was a huge fan of it, or I should say that in particular, she cheered for a specific wrestler named Gentleman Dutch Savage, who was part of a local wrestling circuit. The arena was located about an hour away from our home, and the action was also broadcast every Saturday night on a local t.v station. I can remember many tense and nail-biting weekend evenings in our house as we cheered and booed appropriately at the many diverse situations in which Dutch would find himself battling.
By the time I entered Kindergarten I had already been soundly immersed in the world of wrestling, and it was there, on the first day, that I met a classmate who would become my best friend. Soon, there were a lot of sleepovers at each other's homes, and I joyfully discovered that my best friend also loved wrestling. We spent many Saturday nights glued to the television, and then afterward, we would spend the rest of the evening imagining ourselves to be residents of the ring, re-enacting all the action we had just witnessed. As a kid, I could believe myself to be a hero of the squared circle with a name that brought fear and respect, something like Steel Knuckles. My friend and I would jump off the furniture, pretending that it was the top ropes. We used pillows, picturing them as steel folding chairs, swinging away at each other like the men on t.v, and we would wrap tape around paper towel tubes and imagine them to be foreign weapons that had been smuggled into the ring when the ref wasn't looking. Then the ultimate came when my best friend had a 7-year old birthday party, and his parents not only took us out for pizza but also took us to see Portland Wrestling, the show we had been watching! We were even treated to a main event consisting of a three-man tag team, involving The Battling Midgets. I look back at the memory now with a fondness. But also through the eyes of a parent and realize that taking a bunch of six and seven-year-olds to see grown men pretend to hate each other and beat on one another in a little roped off ring was probably not the kind of decision that would propel one to a parent-of-the-year status.
Most people, of course, understand that the so-called Professional Wrestling is as fake as margarine that pretends to be butter. It has been choreographed, and, unless you are one of those people who is thinking that the Tooth Fairy most likely is stuck in traffic but will eventually come to retrieve the 40-year-old tooth that's under your pillow, you have come to the realization that it is all just an elaborate show. Sadly, this is not the case with Ataxia. My childhood fantasy concerning a stout gladiator of the pro-wrestling circuit named Steel Knuckles has been replaced by a forty-nine-year-old flabby man named Jerky Cramps.
I sincerely wish, though, that all my self-inflicted injuries and falls had been scripted and rehearsed beforehand, and ONLY looked real. The best that I can do at this point is to try and limit the kinds of situations that cause me to fall. Awhile ago at the Ataxia support group that I attend we had a Physical Therapist come and talk to the group about balance concerns and some safety issues. The topic that he explored with us that is relevant to this article was the subject of falling. Most of us tense up; I know I do when we trip or feel ourselves being pulled by that relentless stalker known as gravity. Myself, I'm always trying to avoid the invitation,( read blog #32 ). The speaker was telling us that we need just to relax and lay ourselves gently on the ground, folding the knees and laying down sideways, like you are getting into your bed. This would probably work great, but I seem always to forget, and at the moment of stumbling, stiffen up and fight it. After a ten to fifteen-second impromptu ritualistic-style dance, I will usually end up falling anyway. And the fall is made worse by the fact that all my pre-fall dancing has only helped me to pick up a full head of steam so that when I do hit the ground, I'm sure to injure myself. The latest example of this was when I recently stumbled on my carport stairs, did a dance routine for a few moments, and body slammed myself on the concrete driveway.
Somehow, it all comes back to wrestling. I started childhood watching two opponents face each other in a rope surrounded ring. As an adult, well....when I hear the bell, and look around, I see only myself. You might think that this would be an easy win, but no, I usually lay the smack down and have become my own worst enemy.
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