Mike Martin, 5'7", 150#, turns me to stone. This 2002 Bulldog Wrestling UK match against Ringkid, 5'6", 140#, gives me instant wood, hard wood, the kind you can thump with your forefinger and thumb, the kind that gives even quality stitching a run for its money. Not that I have anything against Ringkid. I like him. He's a friend. But Ringkid entered into this fight willingly, with his eyes wide open. He is not altogether helpless. Not wet behind the ears. He knows the ropes. He is not altogether innocent either. He's a tough, mean character. Ringkid is getting just what he deserves. Martin is the man to get the job done. The ruggedly handsome wrestler excises Ringkid's pride and dignity with the clean, dispassionate skill of a dentist pulling a couple of molars.
I've been turned on by a lot of wrestling. But this fight is immediate, visceral, and personal. It feels real, and more than that it feels like it's directed right at me. Like it's got my name on it. Not that I believe for a moment that it was really fought specifically for me. I'm not delusional. Just maddeningly porned up. Thumper wants in on the action. Thumper wants to jump Martin's bones. Thumper wants to save his buddy Ringkid from Martin's punishing humiliations, sure, but mostly Thumper wants to jump Martin's bones, drag him down to the mat, pound against him for an hour or two. This is the kind of match that makes me happy Sunday's not a work day for me. I can spend some time on this. I can pick over it for hours. (See the match, most of it, on YouTube, here and here and here.)