D-Money and Adam Ricker, the evening’s first combatants, met with the Television Championship Belt on the line, even though this didn’t happen on television but in a Libbyville backyard. Brawling in the seats before even getting in the ring, when they finally did climb between the ropes it was weapons time: a belt, a hammer, folding chairs, a stop sign, a yield sign, and in moments that recalled Mommie Dearest, a wire hanger that D-Money twice put around Ricker’s neck, bending him backwards over the top of the ring, the hanger hooked to the middle rope.
When Ricker took a turn with the belt, the first time he whipped D-Money’s back the sound was unbelievable. Think Captain Bligh and Fletcher Christian, or maybe, since Ricker is black and D-Money white, a racial reversal of that scene in Roots where Tom Moore (Chuck Connors) whips Kunta Kinte (LeVar Burton) for refusing to take the slave name Toby. Never in my life have I seen a man struck like that, not even by strippers at raunchy private bachelor parties. Both Ricker and D-Money looked momentarily shocked, but as true professionals, they never broke character. Ricker twice body slammed D-Money, and was on the verge of pinning him when goons stormed the ring to help. They tied a dazed Ricker’s leg to a turnbuckle and propped up D-Money, who cradled the TV Belt in his arms, weeping as the ref counted Ricker out and the crowd chanted, “D-Money sucks!”
Welcome to the PPW, Portland Professional Wrestling. Every Monday night at 10 Huntress Street, just off Congress Street, near Denny’s and the Cumberland County Jail, from spring until shorter days and the cold drive away the audience, the PPW puts on a free wrestling exhibition for whoever wants to show up. There’s no admission charge, no snacks or drinks for sale, and no bathroom. There are plenty of wrestlers: McNasty; the Horror; Steve Ossler, and a 140-pound kid called Hi-Flyin’ Ryan, who leaps off top ropes like Superfly Snuka. The PPW also has ladies, like Jess Quick, Jenna, and Haley Brooks, the fishnet-clad announcer. Jenna’s shtick is that she has a big butt, as the capacity audience constantly reminded her during her match, but that’s all show biz, because her butt isn’t that big at all. Not by Maine standards.
The ramshackle ring and about fifty chairs are set up behind Keith Dinsmore’s house. With his chest protector, make-up and unsharpened samurai sword, Dinsmore, the PPW’s leader (wrestling name “Richard Cranium”), looks like the gyro pilot from the Mad Max movies. In the night’s penultimate match, he faced Eddie Vega, a diminutive stick of dynamite who struts around wearing a Puerto Rican flag as a cape. Vega, a short man with a comic-book physique, has charisma to spare. When the crowd booed, which was often, he exulted in their derision, shouting, “They just can’t take my Latino heat!”
But the most amazing thing isn’t that the PPW exists, or that its dedicated members can execute impressive wrestling moves; it’s that the PPW is sanctioned by the Maine Athletic Commission, which charges $60 for a wrestling license. It’s only $20 to be a referee. Bob Richard, who described himself as “the low man on the commission,” makes sure papers are in order every Monday. That might seem odd, but I guess Maine (the only entity making money at the PPW) needs to take their cut.
Check the PPW out online at YouTube or MySpace, or better yet, check them out on the corner of Huntress and Congress, while the weather lasts. It’s more than worth the price of admission.
Email the author
Rick Wormwood:
rickwormwood@excite.com