Review of Benoit book

As a writer for, of all things, a wrestling-themed Internet site, one of my deepest, darkest secrets is that I never watched WCW in its heyday. Sure, I was aware of it; I knew of the exploits of the N.W.O. and how awesome the cruiserweights were, but I never actually “watched” the shows, per se. Hey, I have an excuse: I was one of the few diehard ECW faithful of the era, meaning I pledged allegiance to Paul E and Paul E alone. Sure, I may have cheated on Mr. Heyman’s unique brand of debauchery, violence, and impromptu booking with that sultry temptress known as the WWF every now and then, but I was devoted enough to the cause of barbed wire and aluminum cookie sheets to stay away from Ted Turner’s offering without nary a thought of temptation.

That means that I was never around for Chris Jericho’s hilarious bits in Bischoff country. “The Man of 1,004 Holds”, “The Master Of The Loophole”, Ralphus, his feud with Mini-Goldberg…I missed all of them during their initial run and hide to catch them second-hand on Youtube. Sure, it’s neat and all, but much in the same way that those that were never around for the sheer ecstasy of the “real” E-C-Dub, I will never be able to truly appreciate the magic presented before me. I guess it’s just something you had to experience first hand to truly relish the beauty of the moment.

That being said, although I may have missed Jericho’s WCW days, I sure as heck didn’t miss his WWF debut. For months, WWF programming heralded the coming of the new millennium, which was odd, seeing as how the actual millennium was still about 3.5 months away from rolling around. On the magical night of August 9th, 1999, my hero arrived.

For my money, it was the single greatest debut promo in history.

Without missing a beat, your hero and mine went verbal pound for pound with the best stick man in the business, and seeing as how I legitimately HATED The Rock, I was officially enamored by this blonde coiffed rock star in shiny sequins that just handed Rocky’s proverbial a-hole back to him.

It was platonic man-love at first sight. As I read more and more into this Jericho character, I couldn’t help but trumpet him as MY champion. He was into Iron Maiden, loved hockey, and promoted that rock and roll lifestyle that a 14 year old loser fantasizes about. The same way that Mick Foley earned my undying endearment due to his flannel-hearted antics, I felt a kinship with this Canadian lad that made me cheer my bum off as if the very essence of my being hinged on it.

Chris Jericho eventually went on to become my favorite wrestler during my turbulent teenage years, inspiring me so much that I actually went out and bought a set of neon silver sequin jackets that I wore my FIRST day of high school. I might as well have brought a giant sign that read “PLEASE BEAT ME UP, SENIORS” in red letters with me, but it was worth it. Besides, I was a student of Jericho’s teaching: if some wannabe alpha male wanted to target me for my flamboyant style of fashion, I knew the immediate and proper rebuttal would be a prescription Liontamer. I even tried to throw in a Lionsault during an ACTUAL fight as an ode to Y2J…although violence is never a solution, youngsters, I can assure you that trying to rebound off a steel rail in the auditorium with enough velocity to shift your body a full 180 degrees is an even WORSE idea.

I was, and still am, a HUGE Jericholic. When I heard that he was publishing an autobiography chronicling his rise in the world of wrestling, I was ecstatic. Now that his tome is FINALLY out, I can safely say that “A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex” may very well be the single GREATEST book ever written on the subject of wrestling, even usurping the mighty works of Michael Francis Foley. Yes, plebeians, this title is THAT good.

The novella begins with Chris recounting his days of youth in the rural serenity of Winnipeg, and his first foray into the world of wrestling.

Chris humorously recounts his memories of being an uber-nerd wrestling geek, going as far as to stalk The Four Horsemen in their limo. As the tale progresses, Chris learns the horrible truth behind kayfabe , and ultimately decides to take that first great step into the unknown that is following one’s dream. If, like me, you are a wide-eyed Carpe-Diem spouting super Romantic that believes one can achieve his or her dreams as long as motivation and truth are inherent in one’s psyche, then you are going to LOVE this title. It certainly perked me up when I was feeling down, and made me want to follow this whole “writing” shtick with more zeal and fervor than ever.

Without giving away too much of the plot, Chris’ pro wrestling adventures have him trekking all over the world; getting cups of urine splashed on him in Mexico, watching fecal-themed pornography in Germany, and hanging out with mega fans that learned English SOLELY to speak to foreign wrestlers in Japan. However, the funniest segment of the book takes place in the most enchanting, exotic locale of them all: Tennessee. Jericho’s recounting of his experiences in Knoxville, such as receiving a bizarro video tape from a family of hicks post show and having to room with a hoss that would walk into a Denny’s and start shoveling buffet items down his gullet without the benefit of a clean plate (and thusly, monetary exchange) are among the FUNNIEST anecdotes you’ll ever hear in your life, and I’m not just talking about wrestling-related ventures.

Granted, not all is well in Jericho-land. The portions that are meant to be heart wrenching insights into the human condition (such as the day Chris’ mother was paralyzed and the death of Art Barr) are played far too saccharine and without a true sense of compassion. Sure, you feel for the guy, but when he’s launching into midget and fart jokes sentences later, the sentiment is somewhat lost in a wash of juvenile humor (that, for what it’s worth, is done with a Foley-esque quality…since the Writer’s Guild is currently on strike, why haven’t the big shot Hollywood producers called up these two guys to iron out a script for another Porky’s movie?)

Chris goes on to recount his ECW days (did you know that Paul Heyman is an untrustworthy person? Color me shocked, as well!) and finally gets his break into the big time when he signs with WCW.

The WCW section of the book goes on to prove that the guys running the show in Atlanta had no idea what they were doing. As a victim of the hierarchy structure in World Championship Wrestling, Jericho spends a majority of the segment detailing his dissatisfaction with the booking committee, going into great detail about how Goldberg, Hulk Hogan, and Eric B triple-handily screwed over his push. One phone call from Vince McMahon later, and the rest was history.

The book ends with Chris making his WWF debut (looks like this article has come full circle, no?), and if anything, makes me even HUNGRIER for the eventual return of the man that made me mark out of my seat all those years ago. Oh, well, I guess we won’t have 222 wait that long, now will we?

An outstanding, phenomenal title worthy of any wrestling fan’s bookcase and a truly transcendent tome that is easily in league with the best of the genre. Enjoy your accolades, Sexy Beast, you’ve earned it.

Ten things I learned from this book that I was not previously aware of:

* Vampiro is an a-hole.

* Bob Backlund is legitimately insane.

* “Agog” is the greatest word in the English language.

* NEVER pick up a senorita at a Mexican bar. You’ll just end up with a gun in your face.

* Dean Malenko is actually funny.

* In Germany, the referees have entrance music.

* Having Haku in your company can help you immensely if you’re ever caught up in an border security quagmire.

* Being loaded on Halicon makes bowling WAY more fun.

* Cancer patients always have the best weed.

* Elvis’ birthplace contains Eddy Guerrero urine.

Reviewed by James Swift