I wrote before about some of my favorite heels. This will be more general.
There are certain types of heels that always got me going when I watched them destroy jobbers on TV and I’m going to break down some of the more common categories. Everyone has something different. What works for one person doesn’t for another. Some want their heels all fat and hairy. Some want them looking like greek gods. Some want them to be great wrestlers on the mat, some want them to just have a few power moves but no real basic skills. The beauty of squash matches and jobber-heel matches from the 1980s and early ’90s was that there was something for everyone. So here are a few of my favorites:
These are the powerful wrestlers. The ones who never got the memo that you’re occasionally supposed to cycle off of steroids. Their muscles bulged, they waddled to the ring, and sometimes they could barely move. But they could dominate a jobber through sheer power.
Some guys who fit this role? Hercules, Ted Arcidi, Ken Patera. Guys like Patera and Arcidi were “strongest men in the world” types before they climbed into the ring. They had limited moves. Lift, pound, repeat. What I loved about these guys is that they could quite literally manhandle their jobber foes. During these guys’ matches, you’d hear the phrase, “Handled him like a sack of potatoes,” or “Look how he manhandles this youngster.” Yes, look at it. All three of these guys were great at perhaps my favorite move — as readers of this blog know. The overhead military press where the heel lifts the jobber’s trunks above his ass. God how I wanted to be lifted high in the air by one of these meatheads, holding me by my neck or chin as the drool drips down and I’m helpless in the air, exposed in front of the crowd, my jobber trunks above my ass or being wedgied in them. These guys could then literally press the jobber a few times, as if they were a barbell.
I always thought it’d be fun to wrestle these guys and attempt a cross body block, knowing it would be utterly ineffective. They’d simply catch me like a flyball, grip my ass for a few seconds and then decide what to do with me. These guys had few moves, but they could execute basic things like a suplex, slam or full nelson. I so wanted to be in a full nelson in Patera’s grubby hands, being swung back and forth by the strongman and former Olympian, or whatever it was he did in his previous life.
I’m a red-blooded American boy and like everyone else in the 1980s, I hated those Commie bastards from the Soviet Union. Oh how I hated them. I would have loved to have been a jobber back then and going against some of these foreign menaces, people who didn’t just spit on jobbers, they spit on what the United States represented!
Would have loved to have been in my little trunks, jumping up and down in the ring, the crowd behind me because they too hate anyone who wasn’t born in these here United States of America. Would have been especially humbling to be dominated, used and slapped around by an enemy of the state. The fact many of these “foreign” heels were as American as anyone? Who cares!
Nikolai Volkoff, Iron Sheik, Ivan Koloff, Colonel DeBeers. Guys like that. They seemed to get off on dominating American jobbers, it gave them a chance to prove their country’s superiority, in a way that the 1984 Olympics failed to provide. Volkoff is one of my favorite heels of course, with the way he too could military press a jobber for a wedgie backbreaker. Imagine being a jobber in your little trunks, the crowd behind you, while you listen to that Soviet son of a bitch sing his national anthem. You’d want revenge for your country. And then soon enough you find yourself hoisted in the air, up in the lights, being put on display in front of God and country.
The sheik was another classic foreign villain who loved spitting on this country’s ideals. When he slapped the camel clutch on a jobber, he wasn’t just breaking that kid’s back — he was trying to break the United States.
I like to imagine I’m a jobber back then who then has to face his friends and family after being defeated by a foreigner. Would they judge me? Probably.
I know, I know. Not politically correct. But as a white jobber who wants to get his ass kicked, I always had something for black heels who kicked the ass of white sissies. In the current story I’m working on — publication date: Who the hell knows — I have the jobber competing in a match in Harlem during Black History month, against a series of black heels.
Butch Reed, Ron Simmons, those two as Doom, Bad News Brown. I don’t know if its’ white liberal guilt or just the idea of having my ass kicked by an alpha black male that got me going, but how I wanted to be in the ring with those tough guys, who would show the crowd what black power was all about.
I guess you could throw Kamala in there too. Or could you? He could be a foreign one too. Probably more foreign.
Honestly, these guys didn’t do much for me. The ones who were great technicians or who knew how to take guys apart with a series of long holds. I’m thinking more old school guys like Sammartino, Thesz or Backlund. I appreciate the love many have for these types but they didn’t get me going.
One of my favorite categories. It would be really, truly, no joke terrifying to face these guys because you really don’t know what the hell they were going to do. It seemed they enjoyed their work a little too much, that they weren’t totally acting, that there was a disturbed individual in there.
Kevin Sullivan, Buzz Sawyer, Mark Lewin. Sullivan and Sawyer especially were two favorites. Sullivan was a master of the dark arts — or whatever. But more than that he reveled in taking a good-looking jobber in his silky trunks and trouncing him inside and outside the ring. He’d throw him into the second row, stomp on his chest, bite him, scratch his back and threaten to send the guy to the hospital, before the attendants would come to take Sullivan back to the mental hospital. I can’t imagine how terrifying it’d be for a jobber when they found out Sullivan was waiting for them that night. Could you call in sick?
Sawyer too, the Mad Dog, had no regard for his own body, or anyone else’s. He’d attack anywhere and try any move, no matter how dangerous. He was not a stable person and he took it out on the jobber meat inside the squared circle.
Was there anything better than a jobber getting his ass kicked and then, after the match, suffering the indignity of being hogtied or handcuffed? Christ. The heel would lasso his legs and hands together behind his back or sometimes handcuff him or cuff him to the ropes. So helpless, utterly helpless in the middle of the ring, just waiting for what was next: A branding, a kick, an ass-fucking? Bunkhouse Buck, Jimmy Jack Funk, The Big Bossman, The Mountie. Who came up with the idea to do this to jobbers? The wrestlers or the horny promoters who thought it’d be a great idea to put a bunch of young, good-looking men in skimpy trunks into the ring and have them all tied up in knots? God bless them.
Where do I classify him? As a madman? Yeah. As a bondage lover? Yeah. He was simply a bit of everything. And god I loved him.
These guys were amazing because they wrestled in any style. They really were supremely talented but they could handle any role: They had great moves but they also did power moves. They were perhaps most importantly, deliberate. They liked picking a jobber apart for six or seven minutes, a series of holds and moves and throwing them outside the ring. They could press a guy or headlock him. They seemed to revel in displaying their skill and sadism.
Who am I talking about?
Barry Windham, Bob Orton, Arn Anderson. Guys like that. Windham always liked to grab the jobber’s trunks and he would do it on a series of moves: Slams, suplexes, pulling the trunks up their ass before a piledriver, and the superplex. He dismantled his foes move by move, piece by piece. He could work one area of the body or the entire body.
Orton was similar. He had every move in the book and used them but was also a fan of yanking a man around by his jobber gear, often with teh same moves as Windham. Arn, same way. Another thing that separates these guys is they seemed like true bullies. Not just physically, in the way the strongmen were. But emotionally, mentally. They enjoyed the power they had over a jobber and that’s why the matches lasted awhile. They enjoyed their dominance and showing off and wanted the whole crowd to see the jobber fag get taken apart in the squared circle. If that meant pulling up a man by his hair at the two count so they could deliver some more punishment, great.
I would have loved to have been in a match against any of these heel types. It’s what I still fantasize about. How about you guys? What are your favorite categories? Are they any of the ones I listed or do you have some of your own, too?