EPISODE 11 CUSTOMS

Fergal had family in Boston, so in early October 2005 he moved in with them while he pursued wrestling stateside. With our relationship still blossoming, I flew down to Boston to stay with him at the end of the month. The autumn air was crisp and his new, quaint Massachusetts neighborhood gave off a sense that Michael Myers could pop out of a bush at any moment. Fergal had gotten in with NWA New England, and thus I was welcomed aboard the roster also. Female wrestlers were sparse and hard to come by. Even more so if they were half-decent, allowing me to get booked on shows easier than most.

After spending a week in Boston with Fergal’s family, we flew down to Florida to meet up with Lexie Fyfe, whom I had met at a wrestling show a year or so ago. Lexie was a short, stocky lady who had been wrestling for many years and looked like an all-purpose human, as if she could do anything from wrestling an alligator to fixing a drainpipe to saving a cat from a burning building.

She was eager to share her knowledge of the business with us youngins. She ran what were called customs, a shady part of our business. A client with, say, a certain proclivity would message Lexie with a request for a specific type of match (for example, a barefoot match) or working a specific type of hold (for example, the midsection) and they would pay a hefty fee for the service. Lexie would then find wrestlers to facilitate said request, tape it, and send it on to the consumer. Odd, yes. But a quick way to make a buck for a struggling wrestler.

My naivety at the time allowed me to believe that it was an easy way to get paid to do what I loved and there was nothing perverse about it. In reality, it was a fetish site. And hey, man, whatever floats your boat and doesn’t sink mine is A-okay with me. But this was definitely not what I set out to do—and I would wager this was the kind of stuff my mother would dread when the concept of professional wrestler was brought her way.

For me, I got to wrestle; it didn’t matter the means. Sure, it was barefoot, with holds being applied to my belly, in a warehouse with no fans, but I was substantially richer leaving than when I got there, allowing me to do the thing I loved even longer. Looking back now, I shudder; however, it would be rare to find a struggling independent wrestler who hasn’t done their fair share of customs.

Before our trip to Florida had ended, Lexie and her husband generously gave us our first Disney World experience. We got to chatting about the future of the business and where our ambitions would take us.

“I want to wrestle in Japan, maybe NWA TNA; they have a great women’s division,” I said, glowing with possibility.

“What about WWE?” Lexie questioned.

“I don’t think that’s for me,” I dissented.

“Yeah, they don’t want girls like us; they want fluff,” Lexie affirmed.

Fuck that, was my first thought. They would want me if I wanted them to want me. The contrarian in me rose up, without any probability for cause whatsoever.

Lexie wasn’t trying to be offensive; in a way, she was being complimentary. She was saying that I was a wrestlers’ wrestler, like her, and in fact, she was very right. I was nothing special from a physical standpoint. I was a little soft, with a fairly decent set of arms; my face looked not totally awful when you put a bit of makeup on it, but nothing you’d put in or on a magazine; and certainly I wasn’t filling out anything past an A cup.

I hadn’t even wanted to go to WWE based on their treatment of women.

But now that I was challenged and told I couldn’t make it, I wanted to change the whole damn industry.

If there is one thing that fires me up more than anything, it’s being told that I can’t do something or I’m not good enough. As much as I doubt myself from time to time, or even most of the time, the rebellious spirit in me thrives on a challenge.

Once I had gotten out of Ireland and was gaining confidence wrestling in different places, it never crossed my mind that I “wouldn’t” be wanted somewhere, even if it was WWE. I truly believed so much in myself that I thought I could go anywhere.

I boarded my Japan Airlines flight in Vancouver, meeting Nattie at the gate. For all the confidence I had amassed in North America, uncertainty met me at that gate like an old pal.

My dream was to wrestle in Japan like all of my heroes. What if I’m not ready? What if it’s too soon? What if I fuck it up and fall flat on my face? What if I can’t keep up? Sure, I felt like I was the best female wrestler on my circuit, but the women over there were on a different level.

I wrote in my journal endlessly for the duration of the twelve-hour flight to Narita Airport, trying to give myself pep talks and reminding myself it would all be okay. When the fear would begin to cripple me, I would look at the time left on the flight and say to myself, Okay, you’ve eight more hours to get nervous. You’re safe now, and it would calm me for the next five to ten minutes.

We arrived in Tokyo with one hiccup. We were visa-less.

The company we were working for didn’t spring for work permits, so we had to act like we were tourists. Here came that feeling of being a complete criminal again, akin to smuggling a ham.

We walked up to the customs table where the stern officers were thoroughly searching foreigners’ bags. My bright pink championship belt was in there, offering no bigger giveaway that we hadn’t simply come to sample the sushi.

If they knew we were coming over to work without a visa, we could be kicked out of the country. Barred for life. Put in jail. The dream, and the revolution, would be over before it began.

They dug through the bags with great vigor, hand searching relentlessly through all compartments and crevices as I looked on, smiling, trying to keep my composure. Saying some Hail Marys in my head and at least one round of “Our Father.” Somehow, by some great miracle, or my divine prayer, they missed the championship belt. I smiled at them as if everything were normal while internally fist-pounding the air and doing a celebratory dance. No Japanese jail for this gal.

We walked out to the arrivals hall to meet with Shima, a gaunt, serious-looking Japanese man with glasses and a high-neck-collared trench coat. He had that standoffish air of a man not to be fucked with.

He led us to a black SUV, his intimidating aura having zero effect as I smiled so wide that my tiny mouth felt like it connected to my hairline. I remained gleefully gobsmacked as I looked out of the window in awe of the skyscrapers and bright lights of Tokyo.

Shima, apparently charmed by my enthusiasm, even cracked a smirk from time to time as I cooed over the Land of the Rising Sun. He even threw me a compliment—I looked like Britney Spears allegedly. I didn’t, but I was a young Caucasian girl with blond highlights, and according to one Japanese bartender I met en route, all us white girls have the same face.

We pulled up to a beautiful, ornate hotel in the electronics district.

The rooms, spacious and modern, disappointed me, in a way. I had seen movies and documentaries about tiny, cramped Tokyo hotel rooms and I wanted the full Japanese experience, darn it! Even if that meant sleeping in a hotel room the size of a sardine can. Alas, I would have to make do with my full-size room, complete with fancy intimidating toilets.

I bounced out of bed bright and early the next day, too high on life for jet lag to reach me. It was our first big show in the famous Korakuen Hall.

Wrestling here was a rite of passage for anyone who considered themselves a wrestler’s wrestler, and that’s what I wanted to be. All my favorite matches had taken place here: the Dynamite Kid versus Tiger Mask, Kobashi versus Misawa, and so many more.

Here I was. Rebecca Knox. The girl who, only four years ago, there were too many blond beauties for anyone to be looking at. Tonight, they’d all be looking.

I entered the arena, taking careful consideration to be mindful of every step I was taking. This step was where Eddie Guerrero and Terry Funk had stepped. The locker room where Mick Foley got ready. I climbed the stairwell that led to the main hall. On the grey wall were the signatures of everyone who had ever performed there. It was like wrestling’s version of the Hollywood Walk of Fame—albeit low-budget.

After standing dumbfounded and quasi-starstruck in front of the wall for what seemed like hours, I signed my own name among those of the greatest legends to ever grace a wrestling ring.

The IWGP roster was a hodgepodge of men and women from all over. Some were legends in their home countries of Mexico and Japan; some were people like me—total unknowns. However, Shima was so good at promoting me, you’d think I was the biggest star to walk out of Ireland since Bono. And I felt like it too when I went out for my first match. I was partnered with Nattie in an intergender tag taking on two of the Japanese male stars. Despite the promotion’s name—International Women’s Grand Prix—it was not actually an all-women’s promotion. The men were graciously willing to bump around for us and make Nattie and me look like badasses!

Upon our entrance the crowd showered us with streams of ribbon, littering the ring as if it were Mardi Gras.

Wrestling in front of a Japanese audience is a full departure from wrestling in front of Western audiences. The Japanese don’t yay and boo and chant in the same way, and so for a first-timer it can be rather jarring as they sit there silently and occasionally clap politely as you try to wow them with your most impressive maneuvers. I like the challenge—it’s akin to courting a person with an air of mystery to them. You’re not sure if they’re into you or not.

And I suppose the Japanese crowd were into us, because after the match, ladies rushed the ring brandishing stunning bouquets of flowers for us.

Wrestling in Japan had already exceeded my high expectations. There was nothing like it.

Shima vowed to make me a star. Regardless of the fact that I couldn’t even afford proper ring gear yet.

One night in and it was already working.

“Rebecca-San!!!!!” a loud yell came from behind me. I turned to see dozens of fans closing in on me, screaming at the top of their lungs as if I were Harry Styles exiting Madison Square Garden in a feathered boa.

What the actual fuck?

I was trying to leave the arena, but they kept coming from different directions, asking for pictures and signatures, offering me gifts. I was no one, but the impression that I was a big deal had sent these people into a frenzy.

I wanted to bask in it as long as I could, giving everyone a photo until the crowd became too overwhelming in size and security yanked me from the mound of fans and guided me to the bus.

The sacrifice of leaving Ireland and my family and Fergal behind was paying off. I could hardly believe how quick this was all happening.

The next day, the press was abuzz with praise for this champion by the name of Rebecca Knox. I had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and it was wrestling in Japan.

However, it seems that once we left Korakuen I tripped, stumbled, and fell, sending those golden coins flying, with the pot eventually rebounding and hitting me in the head.

Over the next two weeks, as we toured the country, the crowds dwindled. So did my confidence.

I was put in the main event every night, partnering with two wrestling icons, Gran Hamada and Aja Kong, facing Los Brazos, a Mexican trio of burly brothers who had gigged^I themselves so much that it looked like a miniature replica of the Grand Canyon had been carved into their foreheads.

Shima wanted me to be a high flyer (something I was not particularly good at), so he put me opposite Brazo de Platino, who was an excellent base and would throw me up, catch me, and maneuver me in such a way that made it look to the audience like I was doing all the work.

That’s one of those illusions of wrestling. Often the credit is given to the flyers when in actual fact it is the person standing steady and taking the move who’s doing the hard work.

Since I came to Canada I had made my name by being a good technical, ground-based wrestler. I was completely out of my element in the air. I was scared. I was a fraud and I knew it. Not being in tune enough with the temperature of the group, I vocalized my frustrations too much to some of the other girls on the tour, who were already salty over my very obvious preferential treatment and main event spot.

I was the chosen star of the show. I got the attention, was brought out by myself for dinners with sponsors—a situation unique to star performers in Japan, who are often treated to lavish meals and experiences. It was causing resentment, especially because I wasn’t even grateful for it. I’d piss and moan about not wrestling the way I wanted to when I was being given everything. Midway through the tour I could tell I had made some enemies.

Being so young, with a fear of failing at my dream of wrestling in Japan and knowing I wasn’t particularly good in this new high-flying main event role, I lacked couth and humility. Sometimes I would do fine; most times I would fall flat and Shima would reprimand me.

“Give sixty percent, seventy percent. Not one hundred percent. You try too hard. You no good. You go sixty percent you can go up. You go one hundred percent you only go down.”

I didn’t know how to give it anything but my all. Even now, I could never aim to give a performance less than my best.

Which, in fairness to Shima, is an observation I am guilty of. I do try too hard. I so badly want to entertain the people who came to see me, and prove to myself and the world that I am the best. But ultimately, what trying too hard is is a confession that you don’t completely trust yourself to be good enough yet. And in this moment in Japan I certainly did not.

By the time we had done our last show and it was time to leave, I was relieved. I had wanted to love this experience more, but I left feeling dejected.

Regardless of my own feelings of inadequacy about my performance over the last couple of weeks, Shima’s marketing of me was clearly effective. As soon as I returned to Canada, I opened my email to get the biggest offer of my life:

Dear Rebecca-San,

We are writing to you as one of Japan’s biggest advertising agencies.

We saw you wrestling in Japan and we think you are very good champion. We would like to represent you and make you big star. We will make you Maria Sharapova of wrestling. Making you make pop music single. We pay you $8000 in 4 installments.

We also pay airfare. You tell us how much you charge per match and we get you money.

We look forward to your correspondence.

If these people were legit, I was about to be the biggest thing the wrestling world had ever seen. Especially in Japan, which was where I wanted my future to be anyway!

My mind was blown. This was more than I had ever gotten paid for anything in my life!

I signed on the dotted line and awaited stardom.

1. I. In wrestling lingo “gigging” is a term used to describe intentionally cutting oneself to provoke bleeding—and while that practice may sound barbaric, there’s wrestlers who specialize in it, and even enjoy it!