Mr. Peabody, if you please, set the wayback machine to a celebratively spectral time in early '70's sports...when gritty, no-holds-barred wrestling, and the equally raw, 'bash & dash' world of roller derby were the respected, underground competition-reveling form of sports entertainment, for the moment...a time when, although a clearly choreographed, performance-driven form of sporting combat, still made quite an impression upon devotedly eager viewers...gasp-induced witnesses to wincingly excruciating blows, tosses & holds...the rampant spray of sweat, spit & blood...and the echoing of repeatedly wet, pounding sounds...slamming home, not unlike that of continuously stricken, well-tenderized meat...the humble, albeit no less grueling and compelling beginnings of a national pastime, which has since evolved into quite literally, an institution...
Oh, yes...as it probably was, with folks in many homes other than mine, when I was a kid, it was a time when me and my late Mom...bless her soul...vehemently (...and growlingly) commandeered the boob tube from my Dad's regularly scheduled western movie broadcast, each and every Saturday afternoon, for two or three hours, tuning into the higher-ranged UHF, for what was essentially and stereotypically monikered as the rousing gladiator sporting events for the middle-to-lower class. And as if mass gathering in front of the TV wasn't satisfying enough, there was always the odd weekend evening, city-bound roadtrip...a mere matter of clambering into the car, and jutting out to the Olympic Auditorium, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, to first-hand gawk and cheer these battered, albeit celebrated 'warriors' in the ring (...or on the track, if the flavor of the moment, was roller derby). It is this very gnashing, almost embracingly regressive spirit, which one, oh-so privy to this time, cannot help but harken back to, when viewing the gritty and candid, 1973 wrestling documentary, and seldom-seen drive-in theater-flavored oddity, called "Wrestling Queen"...
