WWE: A true story

As a kid, I always wanted to become a wrestling champion. Partly, I think, it was because I wanted to show my dominance over others. Skinny little boy that I was, I wished I could look the other guy in the eye and scare the shit out of him. But the real reason was probably a bit more insignificant.

World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), formerly World Wrestling Federation, was the proverbial forbidden fruit as far as our household was concerned. The channels were changed at super sonic speed whenever violence or steamy scenes were aired on television. So, it was only natural that I was being subconsciously pulled towards wrestling all along; very much alike to my inadvertent attraction towards alcohol or my guy friends’ girl friends. 

Anyway, when I came across the online ad during my working hours at the office, little did I know that it'd trigger a chain of events that would eventually, literally and figuratively, scar me forever.  

So it was a fine Friday afternoon and I was busy multitasking as usual; working and getting gyaan from Google simultaneously, when I came across the life changing advertisement.

WWE were looking for individuals who possessed a number of unique attributes who, either by themselves or combined, would play a role in the success of a WWE superstar.

In particular, they were looking for an Indian; someone who could connect with the Indian audience much better than the seven foot behemoth, The Great Khali. They were hoping to expand their base in our country, increase their market share, generate more revenue, and all that jazz.

The point was, WWE were recruiting!

I skimmed through the entire advertisement with the weight of my childhood dream crushing my insides with every mouse-scroll-down. Realizing my juvenile foolishness, I quickly switched the window back to my worksheet.

Work request_411_Unit_Test _Plan.xls

Testing my own code; so this was what I was meant for. I stared blankly at the Acer desktop screen for a couple of minutes, and then switched back to the ad again. At that moment, something snapped inside my head.

On October 20, 2012, throwing caution to the wind, I packed my bags, bid adieu to a multi-billion dollar, multi-national company, and boarded a train to Mumbai, the WWE headquarters in India.

The interview

It was a sophisticated, luxurious room with two French windows, a plush red carpet, two leather couches and a round mahogany table at the centre. I settled down comfortably on one of the couches, welcoming the warm, friendly atmosphere of the room.

A minute later, the door opened and in walked, Mr. McMohan.

Vincent K. McMohan, the Chief Executing Officer of WWE.

No. Kidding.

“Good morning, cmus.”

“Good morning, Mr. McMohan,” I said, standing up.

“Please, have a seat. You can call me Vince. I hope you had a comfortable journey.”

“Yes…Vince. Thank you.”

“Okay, so let’s get down to business, shall we?” he said, wasting no more time. “Let me make this very clear to you, cmus. We are not looking for an overweight giant with bulky muscles,” he said, sensing my insecurity. “We already have Rana for that.”

“Sorry?”

“Rana. Dalip Singh Rana. The Great Khali.”

“Oh.”

“Quite frankly, he is a little over rated. He takes ages to walk to the ring; he’s not coherent in speech; and he lacks the “IT” factor.”

“Yes, yes, I agree. I could never see “IT” in him.”

“Moreover, the people, especially the young, cannot aspire to be that size and they find him intimidating. So now, we need a change. What we are looking for is an athlete. Swift in movement and armed with a couple of special maneuver techniques. Someone who stands out in a crowd; someone with a magnetic appeal. We are in a show business, cmus. What we really want from you is…attitude.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly. It seemed to be more like a prep run rather than an interview.

“I’ll be honest with you. You are the first and the only candidate to have applied for this job,” he said with a sad smile, reading my mind. “Right now, we need you more than you need us. You really want to do this, right?”

“Of course!”

“Good. Now, the first match is going to be held on the 20th of November. Don’t worry,” he said in response to my anxious look, “you will be undergoing three weeks of rigorous mental and physical training by the best professionals that we have here. All we need to discuss about is our angle.”

“By angle, you mean, a storyline?”

“Correct. We can’t just put two men in the ring and ask them to fight. This is not a competition either. We need to give a reason to the public to put you in the ring.”

“That’s easy. Have someone say something really bad about my country…”

“…and thus, unleash your wrath,” he finished dramatically.

“Well, yeah. We are a patriotic lot here.”

“That’s great! So, you can be our new baby face.”

“Baby, what?”

“Face, or baby face. The hero in the plot. We have always had a face. Hulk Hogan, The Rock, John Cena, Rey Mysterio. From now on, you will be the crowd’s favorite. Just behave well with them,” he said, pausing for a moment, “and during the match, follow the referee’s instructions, and don’t break any rules. Remember, you will be the good guy.”

“No problem. So, I guess we’ll need a villain now. He must be having a better nick than face.”

“You are catching up,” he said, smiling. “Yes, we have already chosen the heel,” he said, stressing upon the last word. I waited for him to continue. “You must have heard of 'The Big Show'.”

My jaw dropped. “Nooo…way.”

Ignoring my shocked response, he continued. “He will be your opponent, and you’ll win against him.”

This time, I burst out laughing. The man was obviously out of his fucking mind.

“This is not a joke, cmus. I want my company to spread out its wings here. For that, we need to win over people’s emotions. The patriotic angle is perfect. Let Paul, I mean, The Big Show, insult your countrymen. It will create enough heat and it will be controversial. But, once you win, everyone will go home happy.”

“But…but…”I stammered, fumbling for the right words, “this is just preposterous! Have you seen that guy? He can send me back home flying in one hit!”

“I told you. You will be trained by the best professionals. Anyway, he won’t be actually hitting anyone. You have got nothing to worry about. Even the referee will be keeping an eye on you.”

“But still, look at me. How am I even supposed to fake lifting him up or slamming him down?”

“You are talking about the ‘power’ maneuvers. Leave that to the wrestlers with enormous strength. Most of your moves will comprise of the ‘aerial’ techniques. With the help of the ring and its posts and ropes, you can knock him down with some really sexy moves. Trust me.”

“I don’t know, Vince. I was expecting someone closer to my size. This just seems…”

“Unbelievable? Well, we are just entertainers. It is as simple as that. All we have to do is follow Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s words. Infuse enough human interest and a semblance of truth into a fantastic tale to promote suspension of disbelief. Moreover, I wanted to know how you guys kept yourselves entertained, and I watched quite a few Bollywood movies in the past couple of weeks,” he smiled with a meaningful look.

I smiled back.

“So, it seems like I’m going to beat the big guy after all.”

“Yes, and one more thing. You’ll have to pick an entrance theme. I would suggest a catchy song that is popular with the Indian crowd, and which would be relevant to what we are going to do. Is there anything that pops up in your head?”

I thought for a moment and then, looking up at him, I nodded, sporting a huge grin on my face.

The fight

“You know what the funny thing is, Paul? Vince and I discussed about everything on the first day except for the attire,” I said, looking down at the tights that I was wearing.

Paul and I were standing backstage, waiting for the emcee to announce our names.

“I mean, don’t you think this is a bit retarded?” I asked him, eyeing his skin-tight, black costume that resembled a conjoined pair of vest and trunks. I was wearing exactly the same thing in white. Symbolic of evil and good, I supposed.

“We are like superheroes, mate,” Paul said.

The crowd was roaring in anticipation as the emcee bellowed out some mumbo jumbo about Paul.

                                                

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, do you feel, you know, kinda awkward losing to small guys like me?”

Paul simply shrugged. “We are paid to act, not to win.”

Then, we heard a loud call for The Big Show.

“See you in the ring, eh?” Paul said, slapping my back with this left hand. I staggered forward.

“Easy, big boy. You don’t want me to knock you down right now, do you?”

Paul guffawed and slapped my back again.

“Great,” I mumbled, as I watched him walk out towards the battle arena. There was a loud cheer as his theme song ‘Crank It Up’ started with the beats. Five minutes later, I heard my name being called out. I took a deep breath, put on a stern expression on my face and walked out to my theme song.

Aa dekhen zara…kis mein kitna hai dum

The crowd went on a rampage. I plodded down the aisle, basking in my new found glory. I had become the hero even before I had stepped inside the ring.

Paul sneered at me and began to insult me and my countrymen; all part of the script. A bunch of wusses, he said, laughing.

In a split second, a mike had appeared in my hand out of nowhere.

“Big Show,” I said with an underlying threat in my voice.

“You come to my land…” I paused, holding the mike close to my mouth.

“…and insult my people…”

“…standing right in front of me?”

“Tonight…Big Show…I’ll make you taste your own blood,” I said, menacingly.

Then, I flung the mike down to the floor and kicked it out of the ring. There were three loud bell rings. I rushed forward and shoved him in the chest. He didn’t budge an inch. Instead, he shoved me back a couple of steps. Moving forward, he shoved me again. I bounced off the ropes, took a leap and punched him in the face. He responded with a violent shake of his head, and then, raising his right hand, he slapped me, hard.

Fuck.

I thought I’d heard a cracking sound. “Hey, relax, I’m a novice here,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t sure if he had heard my plea amidst all the cheers from the audience. He put my suspicions to rest by punching me in the gut with his left fist. I buckled over and fell to my knees.

Grabbing his waist, I tried to raise myself up, keeping my face close to his body. I whispered again painfully, “Paul, are these your fake shots? You need to soften them a little more, man.”

Paul just grabbed my hair and pushed me to the centre of the ring. The crowd chanted his name, loud and clear.

“BIG SHOW…BIG SHOW…BIG SHOW”

For one fleeting moment, I wondered about the absconding patriots. It seemed as though they just wanted some action. No reasons; no background stories; no emotions; just hardcore action. Paul was not one to disappoint them. Stepping forward in one fierce motion, he punched me in the gut again with his left fist, followed by his right.

Clearly, I was being bludgeoned to death by a psychopath on steroids.

Then, he raised his right hand high up in the air, paused for a moment to hear the crowd’s roar, and delivered one of the finest offensive moves in professional wrestling; the open hand chop.

I collapsed to the floor.

As Paul raised his hands and walked around the ring, acknowledging the crowd’s appreciation, I gasped for some air, struggling to breathe.

“Reh,” I groaned inaudibly.

The referee shuffled around randomly and muttered under his breath, “You are one talented actor, son. I’ll give you that.”

I groaned louder in despair. Breathing became an effort.

“Reh…I…cah…beeedh.”

I tried to roll over onto my stomach. Paul moved towards one corner of the ring and scanned the crowd, questioning them silently. My eyes darted towards the referee, and then back to Paul.

The crowd hollered, “YEAH!”

No!

He slowly climbed up the corner post and stood up facing the crowd.

No! Wait!

Turning around, he spread out his arms wide open and looked down at me.

“Reh…stoh,” I breathed out, desperately trying to crawl away from the monster.

Then, he leapt high up in the air. There was a collective gasp from the crowd and a thousand camera flashes from all around the arena. The last thing that I remember before four hundred and forty one pounds of flesh came crashing down on me was a line from my own theme song.

                                    Saare sheher mein humin hain…Hum sa kaun hai

  

Home, sweet home

I stared blankly at the Acer desktop screen, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Vince had apologized profusely for over estimating my strength and recruiting me in the first place. Paul had assured me repeatedly that he was actually holding back his punches throughout the match and that he hadn’t heard anything from my end. The referee had simply claimed ignorance.

“Buying anything next week?” My colleague asked me, dragging his chair next to mine. “There is a Christmas sale coming up, starting from the 20th.”

I shook my head sideways, and then moaned in pain, involuntarily.

“Next time, ride carefully, and always wear a helmet,” he advised, patting my shoulder. “Accident or not, you won’t be getting one more long vacation, buddy.”

I nodded weakly.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” he said, getting up and moving towards the cabin door. “I’ve sent you a document. Review it once and update the tracker with your comments.”

I nodded again.

As he left the room, I clicked on my inbox. There was an email with a file attached to it.

Work Request_411_Implementation_Plan.doc