What Would Jessy Do?
Jessy Sorensen vs Joey Ryan, 10-10-15 (Paragon Pro Wrestling)
I used to call these blog postings reviews. I shy away from that language these days. It implies I have some credibility on the subject of wrestling, pro or otherwise. I do not. Furthermore, readers often assume a review is objective. I don't do objective. I don't in any meaningful way evaluate wrestlers or their matches. What I do is more interpretative and intuitive. I write about what interests me in a wrestler or a match, and I wonder aloud (or in black and white) why on earth he or she or it interests me so much. If something doesn't interest me, I don't write about it, which means some very fine wrestlers and important history-changing matches get ignored in these pages, and some fairly insignificant stuff (insignificant to other people) gets pored over like it was the Talmud. That's what a blog is, in my opinion. It's not journalism. (Readers of political blogs would do well to recognize the difference, too.)
What interests me this morning is the Lalique shine of Jessy Sorensen's body, the pouty but tough swell of his lower abdomen, the pedestal solidity of his thighs. Before he does anything else, Joey Ryan sells the magnificence of the champion's physique by shrinking away, cowering between the ropes, as if reluctant to engage this towering body (in this, his third contest against Sorensen in a year*--lucky Joey). In response, Jessy's lurching but graceful swagger pantomimes his eagerness to get his hands on Ryan. Of course, since he covets the man's belt, Joey wants this fight, too, but in the manner of all cowardly heels he wants it in the easiest (cheapest, dirtiest) way possible. Honor means nothing to him, whereas Jessy is the very picture of honor.
I'm also interested in Jessy's grip on Joey's head. His belly flat against the ring floor as he presses Joey's nose into the canvas. He lies there as still as a lion with a warthog in his jaws, contemplating what to do with it. A minute later, I detect (or project) the same meditative mood as he stands with an all but paralyzed challenger clamped in a side headlock, giving the neck a good crank to let Joey know who's boss. This kind of confident, heroic sadism (the right word, but the wrong connotation) reminds me of the wrestlers, like Jack Brisco, who worked their opponents till the poor schmoes were nothing but a big wet spot on the floor.
In a real sense the outcome of this contest makes no difference to me. That part is just stats on a win/loss scorecard. Whether Jessy keeps or loses the title or belt is less consequential (to me) than the beauty of the moments of body-to-body stasis in the midst of titanic gestures of self-assured dominance and control.
* The other two are here and here.