Poem: "The Jobber"

Originally published in the Wrestling Observer Newsletter, 8th August, 1988.


The Jobber
I was at home with my wife watching TV,
When the telephone rang and the call was for me.
That very next night in Nashville, Tennessee
They wanted me to do a job on national TV.

I'd make $65, the going rate for chumps,
It was clearly understood that I'd be taking all the bumps,
So I told their stooge that I would be there,
He said "thanks very much," but I knew he didn't care.

Got all of my gear and packed my bag,
That ride the next day would be such a drag,
Left my house at four so I wouldn't be late,
Then started hauling ass up the interstate.

Stopped at a store to hear, "which one are you?"
Those idiot marks just didn't have a clue,
If I was Hogan or Savage, they wouldn't have to ask,
But I'm only a jobber, with a lowly wrestling task.

Arrived at the building and walked to the stage door,
And got cussed out by a rat, such a pitiful whore,
As I headed to the heels dressing room,
My ego felt shattered, for a faced certain doom.

Strut into the room and forced a fake smile,
"How ya been doing brother, haven't seen you in a while,"
Found me a spot and started getting ready
I was sweating like hell but my nerves held steady.

Up walked the booker to give me the finish,
As I felt my pride so painfully diminish,
He wanted us to do the "old Pearl Harbor,"
The face would make the comeback, I'd end up the jobber.

Then the bell rang, my match was up first,
I was suddenly stricken with a bad case of thirst,
"First match get out there," the bookers' voice did hiss
I was busy taking my third nervous piss.

So I stomped to the ring to the sound of jeers,
Then out waltzed the baby to a round of rousing cheers,
I'm a pretty tough dude who can kick some bass,
Too bad I don't fit in with the front office brass.

I'd take decs and D-Bol and some Winstrol V,
If only the pencil would do something with me,
My name was announced to the deafening boos,
As I envied my opponent, cause he wasn't gonna lose.

All went as planned, and well, "that was that,"
My shoulders got pinned in the middle of the mat,
TV matches are short, and this was no exception,
I stormed back to the room feeling total dejection.

Took a hot shower and washed off the seat,
I'd be back on the road, they'd be taking a jet,
Said bye to the boys and then to the booker,
I had turned my trick like a 300 pound hooker.

Oh how I wanted that booker to clobber,
But had to keep my cool, I was only a jobber,
Don't get me wrong, no apology was needed,
I made the babyface look good, so I totally succeeded.

Drove back down the interstate guzzling a beer,
Would I always be a jobber, what an agonizing fear?
But deep down I know all that really matters, you see,
Is that I play my role well, and am very proud of me.