|
black cow press Issue #9: "WORM WARS!" |
|
Black Cow Press
Back to BCP Home
|
OUTLAW WORM WRESTLING
BURLINGTON, VT- Headlights
from the circle of parked cars cast long
shadows of two strangely clad figures
grappling on the cold pavement amid a
knot of spectators. With the exception
of the two men in sleeping bags and
motorcycle helmets duking it out in the
middle, the group is eerily quiet.
Breaths seem held in anticipation of
the next pin or body slam. On the side
lines, Jonas M. is curled in the fetal
position, trying not to make too much
noise as he nurses a shattered patella. This is Outlaw Worm Wrestling.
 If you think there's anything lightweight about wrastlin' in sleeping bags, try going a few rounds with the Vermont Slug Fighters. On Sunday nights, the twenty or so members of VSF get together in Burlington for matches: Settling scores, and vying for the coveted title of 'Nightcrawler'. On this chilly evening in April, the Slugs are sparring on the concrete deck of a new parking garage being built near the hospital.
 In the makeshift ring, a sudden charge catches one of the wormers by surprise. As he pogos around to regain balance, his legs are kicked out from beneath him, and a well-placed body slam seals the deal. It appears someone has a pin. The referee runs in close for the count: One, Two, Three, and the match is over. Groaning is heard as money changes hands in the shadows. "He should have seen that one coming," mutters Seth L., a Vermont native with over 50 wins to his name. Seth has an important match tonight. The muscly stock analyst, and former Marine, was unseated last month by Lawrence P., a 25 year old medical student from Cambridge, Mass.
 Lawrence has been in the car all evening. He regularly makes the eight hour commute to the Queen City for worm night. The 165 pounder is focused, and says little as he inspects the drawstring on his Patagonia bag, and begins taping up. Though it is not required, many wormers tape their legs together at the knees and ankles to give them more control in the air. The rules, in fact, are very few. A three count or a knockout wins a match, and a wormer's torso, arms and legs must be completely within the zipped sleeping bag, with only the neck and head exposed. There are no separate weight classes. Because the Vermont Slug Fighters usually compete on concrete, they insist on the use of some sort of helmet. It's not uncommon to see bike helmets bobbing and weaving alongside W.W.I era military headgear or white pith helmets of the sort worn by nineteenth century British jungle explorers. A wrestler's choice of helmet can be very telling. A match consists of five 90 second rounds, but rarely goes the duration on concrete.
 "When you're on the pavement, it's unusual to see anything more than a few rounds," says Seth, "Someone's gonna' take a spill and get crunched. What's crazy is worming on ice. This winter the lake froze early and we were out there a couple of times. That sucked. I'd rather be on concrete than ice or frozen ground. At least this surface is regular and you can get grip. Ice is death." But matches are held wherever the Slugs can find a space they won't be bothered. They've been using the parking garage for a few weeks, and will likely be moving again soon, now that construction there is almost finished. The location for the next week's bout is always a closely- guarded secret. "We've met out at the train yard before," Seth reveals, "We even had some bouts up at this guy's barn in Barton, but that didn't work out. A dude tried to pull a Caber and went through the floor. He's still kind of screwed up. The owners heard about it and shut us down. Worried about liability. Sallies!" "Sallies," comes the echo in unison from a few of the others. Seth is referring to the Caber Flip, the hot new move where a wormer fakes that he is hopping away from his opponent, then does a powerful leap into the air, revolves completely over backwards with his body rigid, and lands with his feet squarely on his opponent. It is amazing to see. "Last year it was the Hulk Smash or Widow's Whip, but now it's all about the Caber."
In 2003, Burlington had more wormers per capita than any other U.S. city. "It all started here," explains Lawrence, "Let's face it, skiing just got way too expensive."
skiing just got way too expensive." -Lawrence P., Worm Wrestler In addition to the clubs in Vermont, there are established worm circuits in Seattle, Detroit, and Chicago, as well as a half dozen groups in Canada, and at least two "familias" in Mexico. With the recent surge in the popularity of the sport, I asked the Slugs if they'd had any luck finding sponsors or getting endorsements. North Face? L.L. Bean? "No," says Lawrence, "Jolt Cola wanted to do something, but we passed on the deal. We weren't sure we wanted to take worm in that direction. That shit is dangerous." Seth gets to the heart of the matter: "We're still in sort of a nebulous area as far as the law is concerned. There's no language in the Vermont statutes specifically banning it, but we've been arrested for stuff like disturbing the peace, noise in nighttime, assault, trespassing, resisting arrest - whatever that means - and disorderly. The cops shut us down every time we get too big. They're worried people might get hurt." "They're worried people might have a good time," interjects J.J., a young woman tying her long hair back in a pony tail and stretching her neck to one side until it cracks audibly. Our conversation trails off as Mickey, the referee, prepares for the night's feature match, a tag team. It's J.J. and a big guy named Brian squaring off against the McMahon brothers of nearby Winooski.
Mickey appears to be in charge if
anyone is here. At 35, he is semi-
retired from competition, and has been
entrusted with the referee's whistle.
More importantly, he holds the bets.
Mickey refs the bigger matches and
organizes the when and where of most
of the bouts in the area. Because no
one here has managers or coaches, he
fulfills a sort of avuncular, advisor role
for a lot of the younger crowd. It's no
secret that he has some mild mental
impairment, the result of a legendary
grudge match in the late 90's
 No one in attendance will deny that J.J. is hard core. Her mother was a pro rollerderbiest, and the Hackensack native had a rough upbringing on the New Jersey derby circuit. At 14 she ran away, ending up in Montreal where Mickey "discovered" her in an illegal boxing club. "When it comes to worm wrestling, she can jump higher than anyone here," claims Seth, "And don't think you can pin her because she's little or a chick. She's flattened guys that outweighed her by a hundred pounds- one round. J.J. doesn't have the weight for a conventional pin, so she'll usually go for a knockout. She's fast and has good aerial ability. It's a lethal combination." Seth informs me this is also J.J.'s first match since her arrest in February for allegedly assaulting a security guard.
Mickey starts the match with a short blast of the whistle. Brian and one of the McMahon brothers hop in towards each other and immediately engage. They leap about, lunging and ducking. It appears they're fairly closely matched in the first round, both fighting defensively, neither wanting to give the other an opportunity to set up for anything big. Neither tags in the first round, and no one can hold a pin for a three count. After a 30 second break, round two begins with J.J. in the ring against the older McMahon. J.J. feigns a shuffle hop to the left, then rotates and cuts back the opposite way, bringing the crown of her helmet up fast under the chin of McMahon who reels and struggles to keep his feet. The match proceeds at a furious pace, the spectators gasping as she dishes out hurt after hurt.
A minute later she is knocked to the ground by a hulk smash move. McMahon sets up for a half caber. At the last possible second, she rolls quickly to the left and he pancakes face down on the ground. The match is clearly over. Mickey runs in and, with the help of Brian and Seth, rolls the unconscious Irishman onto his back. J.J. comes over to check on McMahon as they attempt to revive him. A badly broken nose, and a lot worse inside the bag, possibly a fractured hip. When he comes round, McMahon is pale and shaky. He's carried to a van and whisked away in the direction of the emergency room. "Hard core," mutters Brian, "I wouldn't fight her."
As the night is wrapping up, an older guy shuffles by and asks if I need a bag. I tell him I'm just here to
watch, but he's insistent, and drags me over to his station wagon. He opens the back to reveal three sleeping
bags in pitiful condition. "Check this one out, man. This is Titan. This was Mickey's bag in '95... You can
have it for five hundred." The old North Face bag is filthy and heavily patched with duct tape. I try to walk
away. "Four hundred. Hey this is a piece of history, man!" But I don't want it. I'm trying to leave. He
changes his tone, beseeching me as I'm walking away. He admits that he just needs some money to clear up
a bet on the last fight. He's lost big again tonight.
 "I know man. It's sick. I gotta' quit the gaming, and get out the whole worm scene." He holds up the sleeping bag. The duct tape patches shimmer faintly in the moonlight. It's unclear whether he is about to cry. "Someone died in this bag, man." -bcp
© Copyright 2003-2010, Black Cow Press. All Rights Reserved. |
