As much as the prospect of celebrity is a motivational factor, however, Milonas claims he would have no regrets if he failed to scale that illustrious plateau. In the small-time venues of high-school gymnasiums and Veterans’ halls that are the promotion’s common stamping grounds, Chaotic somehow maintains the illusion of a large arena with a capacity crowd. The fact that the typical arena’s JumboTron video screen, for example, has been replaced with a sheet pulled over a wooden frame and suspended 20 feet in the air is completely irrelevant. The spirit of the event, and the ever-important dialogue between the performers and their audience, remains intact, effectively setting the stage for catharsis on a shoestring budget.
“Obviously, the dream is to entertain 20,000 fans at a time rather than 200,” Milonas says, outlining every wrestler’s ideal scenario. “But even at this level, it has been an unbelievable experience. It’s like being a drug addict. It’s like a fix when you come out of that curtain.”
For now, at least, Milonas is content to moonlight as a professional wrestler, spending his days working alongside Todd Smith and other members of the Chaotic stable at a women’s lingerie warehouse in Tewksbury that is operated by Jamitkowski’s family. It’s a surprisingly appropriate job for a group of guys preoccupied with living out fantasies first conceived while in the throes of adolescence.
Walking the talk
A week after the Lowell show, Milonas and Smith, who also double as trainers at the Chaotic facility in North Andover, are running a one-day trial camp for a small group of young men and women who believe they could be the next great phenomenon in sports entertainment. It’s a diverse bunch that includes a history teacher, a few high-school students, and a couple in their 20s, all of whom are about to find themselves in way over their heads.
“We take anybody,” explains Chaotic owner Jamitkowski, who also doubles as a Northeastern talent scout for the WWE. “But the worst-case scenario is when we have people come in who think they’re going to be a superstar tomorrow. It’s just not going to happen. You have to have a certain look, but also conditioning, a good attitude, and, most importantly, the ability to talk.”
Over the course of the day, campers will learn the very basics of wrestling technique: how to hit the ropes, tie up with your opponent, and safely take a fall or “bump,” just to name a few of the skills they’ll acquire. With each lesson, the rookies’ faces grow ever more sober as they grit their teeth to suppress unanticipated pain and stumble around the ring like newly birthed fawns.
After getting a taste of the steep physical learning curve, the newbies move on to the portion of the camp devoted to developing a personal promo in which each of the participants will present his or her in-ring persona. The process proves to be, like the rest of the day’s clinics, a difficult one. Most of the rookies stammer and pace in front of the rest of the class while they deliver their feeble monologues, sheepishly traversing the chest-thumping vocabulary that made many greased-up giants cultural icons. Some unfortunately resort to cringe-worthy metaphors in failed attempts at gravitas. (“April showers will bring May flowers,” one hopeful asserts. “Flowers in the form of Chaotic Gold.”) It’s like watching a cattle call of terrible child actors auditioning for a community production of Annie, trying desperately to please their overzealous stage mothers.
