It’s important to call people what they want to be called, and the diminutive athletes of the Micro Wrestling Federation, which was founded back in 2000, call themselves midgets. In fact, at PT’s Showclub, where the MWF performed last weekend, the sign boasted The Midgets Are Here! They were selling T-shirts that said I Support Midget Violence. No, the MWF show was not politically correct, but it was fine theater.
The first Micro Wrestling Superstar to take the 12-by-12 ring was the evening’s smallest performer, known simply as the Kid. The Kid’s opponent, J-Mazing, seemed like he belonged in a heavier weight class, which was astounding in and of itself, since J-Mazing, at 3’11” and 70 pounds, could only look big standing beside the Kid. That was part of the optical illusion, the delightful incongruence of watching two small performers pretend to beat the hell out of each other. Other than their size, the match was like any other professional wrestling promotion. J-Mazing, who was also the MWF’s best dancer, tossed the Kid around awhile. Even though the violence was fake, theatrical, and constructed, the Kid was so small, his entire body so bird-like and seemingly fragile, that when J-Mazing used his shoulder to drive the smaller man into the canvas, I worried. I thought, damn, that little child is going to get hurt! Then I wanted the Kid to get up and give that bully J-Mazing the business. In no time I was, in fact, screaming for the Kid to give him the business, and that meant we were all having a good time.
And I think the Kid heard me, because he got out of the ring, went under the apron, and found a cache of wrestling weapons: chains, trashcans, wiffle-ball bats, several clipboards, toilet plungers, and a pool cue. I never knew that clipboards made such a dramatic, satisfying sound when smashed across a midget’s head, but you learn something new every day. The Kid pummeled J-Mazing with contraband, and then pinned him. The crowd roared for the tiny man, and the tone for the evening was set. The next match featured a Kurt Angle-type wrestler who reportedly was a three-time gold medal winner (don’t ask what he won the medals in — that ruins the fun), and the match after that included a Mexican-style masked luchador.
The midgets flew from the turnbuckles, smashed each other with foreign objects, and brawled all through the raucous crowd. Each performer was received with zeal. The crowd’s goodwill extended to some of PT’s regular performers, too. A dancer named Sky, PT’s most accomplished pole artist (insert your own joke here) was heartily and deservedly applauded for her athletic, gravity-defying poses, and was so encouraged by her reception that she got down on the stage and spun on her head. That’s not easy for anyone, especially while wearing just a g-string! The evening’s only drawback was a balding, middle-aged creeper with a flashlight and a microphone, kind of like a “color man” for the announcer, who kept commenting about the dancers’ boobs and making stupid jokes about the wrestlers’ “little midget nuts.” PT’s is reportedly starting a Monday night beer-pong league: When they do, someone needs to confiscate that guy’s microphone.
But the stars of the night were the little men. For a grand finale, a steel cage was erected, every weapon was tossed into the ring, and the performers had at it until only one midget was left standing tall. And who was it? Why, the Kid, of course. The smallest of the small wins, and everyone feels good.