Even the Icons Are Bald
There's a joke people like to make about the qualifications of an Icon.
WWF's Icons are bald.
Every single one of them. Not a single exception.
Captain Logan — bald.
Rockcold — bald.
Shawn Cena — bald.
And Triple H, who openly lusted after Icon status, went bald by the twilight of his career too.
And the man we had come to see today? He'd gotten there as well.
The Pock.
In the wrestling industry, his influence was nothing short of colossal.
He'd made an enormous impact within an incredibly short window — from the mid-nineties to the early 2000s.
Personally, I thought he'd left the industry just before he could carve out his own era, which kept him from ever reaching true Icon status — but his popularity and swagger were every bit the equal of those three names I'd mentioned.
A Samoan titan hailing from the Anoa'i family, professional wrestling's most storied bloodline.
That was The Pock.
Samoan father, Black mother — the striking looks and bronze skin made him wildly popular. Then he broke into Hollywood, where as a macho action hero he became a bona fide superstar.
Even afterward he kept things friendly with the WWF, coming back now and then to lace up his boots. A class act, that man.
Me, Vince, Flair, and Joe had come here to ambush him — or so went today's first bit.
In my previous life, it had been Triple H who came out in my place, carving his name into every corner of the country before walking off.
In other words, another golden opportunity had landed in my lap.
And I was confident.
The corridor behind the main stage.
As we took our positions according to the script, Bart glanced around at each of us.
"Everyone ready?"
"Yes, Bart."
"Ready, sir."
"Rolling in five!"
the director shouted.
It was a live broadcast, so there were cameras, monitoring screens, and the countdown clock leading up to the start of the show.
The moment that number hit zero, the broadcast would go live and we'd have to deliver our lines.
And that broadcast would go out to the entire nation. A single mistake would not be forgiven.
Perhaps to drive that point home, the director launched into his explanation with two minutes left on the clock.
"If you forget your lines, I'll write them down and hold them up for you, so just stall for time. Any of you can deliver the dialogue."
"Yessir."
"You're wrestlers, so I'm not expecting miracles. Just don't cause a disaster, and we'll call it a win."
"Our boys can act, you know."
"This is live television, sir."
At that, Bart burst out laughing. So did Flair on his left, and Joe behind them.
Why?
Because Burning Kong had been a three-hour live broadcast every single week from the nineties right up to this very day.
When it came to live television, we were every bit as seasoned as these folks.
Time to show them what we can do.
With that thought, I shot a quick glance at my teammates.
They answered with knowing smiles, as if to say they'd follow my lead.
And the countdown hit zero.
The red numbers turned white, and a new count began.
Five minutes.
That was all we had to deliver our lines and hand things off to the opening segment.
The floor director gave the signal, and I could feel everyone watching us, tense with distrust — as if they couldn't bring themselves to believe in a bunch of wrestlers.
By the script, Bart was supposed to open.
But the first to clear his throat and speak was me.
"Bart, where the hell are we?"
The floor director froze in horror.
But Bart simply shrugged and played right along. "SNL, of course. A comedy show. A place that has absolutely nothing to do with wrestlers like you."
The original lines had been a simple introduction of who we were. Bart had taken the straightforward dialogue and bent it into something better.
"Then what are we doing on a comedy show? Point me at whoever I'm supposed to beat up around here."
"That's not why you're here. Tonight's host is The Pock, so we came out to show him some support. That's the whole premise."
"The Pock. Last I heard, the man went to Hollywood and died on a film set."
"Flair, Pock is not dead. He was very much still making movies."
"He died in the movie, sir!"
"...Joe. Dying in a movie is not the same as dying in real life."
"I... it wasn't?"
"You didn't know that? Darth Vader died in the movies too, and he's alive and well."
"I haven't gotten that far yet!"
"Oh, and I suppose you don't know Luke is Vader's son, either?"
"GRRAAAAAGH!!"
It was classic comedy — playing Joe as all brawn and no brains. Joe didn't mind; they were paying him.
"Anyway, tonight's show is a big opportunity for you boys. One day you might host it yourselves. Flair. Shin—"
"What about me?"
"You... I'm not sure about. Joe."
Joe's face fell.
"So, as invited guests, let's do some good, behave ourselves, and head home. Any questions?"
Joe raised his hand.
This man was an absolute scene-stealer.
"Go ahead, Joe."
"Can I beat up Pock?"
"No."
"See, I figure if I whacked him with a pipe or something, it'd make for a great visual."
At that point I stepped back into my scripted line.
"I'll go tear a pipe off the wall!"
"No! Joe!"
Bart tried to stop him, but Big Joe hauled his massive frame off-screen.
The original script had us sighing heavily and waiting around for Joe to come back.
But I kept the lines rolling.
"Look at this, Bart. The people want violence. Let's go beat up The Pock right now and take over the ring."
"I said no, Shin. And there's no ring here."
"What kind of set doesn't even have a ring? Oh, wait — there's a pipe instead."
"Here you go!"
Big Joe held out a pipe.
I took it and gave it a test swing — and Bart snatched it away with a clack! and restored order.
"No fighting tonight! Period!"
"Aw, dammit~."
"Joe, Flair, Shin. All three of you are going to sit down, watch the show quietly, and that's it. Understood?"
"Yes, yes. ...Oh, Bart."
With twenty seconds of shoot time left, I added one more line.
This wasn't in the plan — a message, in other words, aimed squarely at The Pock.
"What is it, Shin?"
"What happens if Pock wants to fight?"
"He won't."
"He was a wrestler once. You don't think he'd want to go one round with me?"
And then — zero.
From somewhere far away came the blaring horn of the SNL opening theme.
I smirked and turned to the floor director, who was standing there dumbstruck.
"Sorry, Director. First live broadcast in a while. Guess I was nervous."
"Wh-what is that supposed to mean?!"
"It was fun, wasn't it? That's what counts."
"Ghh... yes, admittedly, but— no, wait! You tore the entire script to shreds! What on earth are you talking about?!"
"If you've got a complaint, file it through proper channels. We'll be happy to go down over your remarks about disrespecting the athletes."
At Bart's words, the color drained completely from the director's face.
"No, no, that's not what I—"
There are degrees of disrespect, even when it comes to dismissing pro wrestlers. And one of the men standing here today was the chairman of an entire company.
Whether he grasped that from the look in Bart's eyes or not, the director folded like a lawn chair.
Grinning, my crew and I headed straight for our next location.
The second shoot took place right on SNL's main stage.
We'd come out as if cheering The Pock on, then run another loosely scripted bit.
Pro wrestlers being portrayed in the media as thugs who know nothing but fighting — I wondered if that was really okay.
Eh, it's a comedy show. It'd be fine.
Besides, this was SNL — a place that turned the President of the United States into a punchline.
When we reached the main stage, the staff guarding the door stepped aside.
"Just head in on the signal."
The opening music swelled, and Pock began walking out from backstage.
Over 190 centimeters tall, built like a tank, roughly Triple H's size — a muscular bald man.
Deep bronze skin, a dazzling smile, and the face of a genuinely good man.
That was The Pock.
To thunderous cheers, he came down to the front of the stage, calmed the crowd, and began to speak.
"Thank you, everybody. What a beautiful night. I've never performed in such a small venue before."
He name-dropped his own stardom as a joke. The audience roared with laughter, and Pock rode the wave.
"Still, there's no audience in the world like all of you. Am I right?"
"YEAH!"
The crowd erupted in applause.
That ability — capturing a room in seconds and building the energy sky-high — was, without question, all-time great stuff.
Pock tossed out light one-liners, pulling the audience deeper into his story.
And we were scheduled to make our entrance right at the end of one of his jokes.
"Now!"
The doors opened, and we marched into the audience delivering our lines as we went.
"Coming through."
"Excuse us, folks."
At that, the audience members turned around and cheered us on loudly.
A few of them recognized me, calling out "Shin~!" and waving.
On stage, Pock played his part perfectly, his face a mask of comic bewilderment.
"Hey, who the hell are you people?!"
"Joe, this way."
"Oh, this seat's got a great view! Everybody move! This is MY seat!"
Joe grabbed the shoulder of an SNL cast member seated in the row and hoisted him clean off his feet.
As prearranged, the cast members surrendered their seats before our might.
The crowd laughed heartily at the sight of us muscling our way in.
Carried away by the moment, I leaned in close to the middle-aged woman beside me and spoke.
"I know I'm sexy, but hands off the butt, sweetheart."
"I'm thirsty. Any chance of a beer around here?"
"This is basically a theater, Flair. They sell soda instead of beer."
"Now this is torture. Not selling beer — now THAT'S comedy."
Having dissed SNL with perfect naturalness, we settled into our seats with a thud.
Something about the satire of the "rough, unsophisticated wrestler" image struck me as funny in a way I couldn't quite explain.
I flashed a grin, the Intercontinental Championship belt slung over my shoulder.
And in that instant, my eyes locked directly with Pock's, standing there on stage.
The Hollywood star.
Right now he was merely a moderately buzzed-up newcomer, but someday he would become an actor who represented America itself.
He built his career through all kinds of action and comedy films.
The man had earned every bit of it.
With our eyes meeting at close range like this, the force of The Pock's presence was no joke. If anything, it hit harder than Triple H's.
"Sounds like we've got a disturbance, folks. These gentlemen are wrestlers from the WWF — the home of my first love. Give them a warm welcome!"
People applauded.
The Pock flashed me a grin and carried on.
That was the end of our role for now.
We'd appear again in the sketch coming up later, but until then we were free to lay low and slip out whenever we pleased.
I settled in quietly, intending to savor The Pock's command of the stage with my own two eyes.
"Still, I've got nothing on yours truly! I have the sexiest eyebrows in the world and this gorgeous smile. But hey — anyone can have those."
And then, right on cue, the unexpected happened — even for me.
"Even that moron champion up there could get to my feet if he tried hard enough!"
"...Huh?"
For a split second, I wondered if it was a mistake.
It wasn't. The Pock pointed right at me and kept the mockery rolling.
"But he'll never build a body like this! I'm the one and only sexy man in the world!"
The crowd went wild.
And all that cheering was aimed at me.
Wait — is this an opening?
It sure looked like one.
Just as we'd carried the backstage scene on improvisation, The Pock was feeding me lines on the fly.
Reading the situation, I rose from my seat without a moment's hesitation.
"Who exactly is lecturing ME about sexy right now?"
Applause and cheers poured down.
For a moment my voice was swallowed by the noise, and I had to raise it again.
Things were getting fun.
Fun enough to turn the script those NBC and SNL writers had sweated over all night into instant scrap paper.
But what could you do?
The ones who understand pro wrestlers best — the ones who can pull the entertainment out of them — are other pro wrestlers.
And The Pock was a man whose wrestler's soul was still very much alive.
"Sit back down. I can smell you from up here. What'd you shower with — dog shampoo?"
"Sadly, I've got something to say to you. How about we stand side by side and compare who's the sexiest?"
With that, I came down from the audience and stepped onto the stage, hoisting the championship belt over my shoulder.
"Of course I'm the champion."
"Your matches are pretty decent."
"Pretty decent? Pock, my matches are hardcore enough to make you puke just watching. Very sexy."
"While bleeding?"
"Everyone who looked at me passed out."
Trading banter with Pock like that, I caught on to what he was doing — and felt a flicker of genuine respect.
He'd left the industry. But it was his first love.
As if to prove that very point, The Pock had engineered all of this to put me and the WWF over.
In that case, the most memorable ending would be for me to put Pock over in return and close the loop on this show.
"Now that I see you up close, it's clear. That's the body of the greatest Hollywood star our industry ever produced."
"Still not the body of an active competitor, though. Looks a little slim to me... but hey, what do I know."
"Your success has become the dream of every wrestler back home. When you've got time, come back to the ring and go one round with me."
"Ha! You want ME to fight the hottest rookie in the WWF? Now that's a spicy headline!"
With that, Pock extended his hand, and we shook.
SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!
Pocky! Pocky! Pocky!
The crowd's voices alternated, chanting the names of me and The Pock in turn.
Turning around with a grin, I spotted Joe and Flair dancing, whipping the chant up even higher.
When it came to teamwork, we were second to none.