The Pez
06-14-2004, 03:26 PM
Thought this was an interesting read.......
The aesthetic appeal of burly, bare-chested men in garish kilts is largely unappreciated beyond the Scottish isles. But for a little boy in Jeffersonville, it was love at first sight.
Rewind to 1984. Nicky Dinsmore, 8, is channel surfing.
Lo, a fight! A big dude in a plaid skirt is staring down another big dude wearing Speedo trunks and go-go boots with laces. They take turns hurling each other around a boxing ring.
"Rowdy Roddy Piper vs. Mr. Wonderful, Paul Orndorff; that's the first match I ever saw," Dinsmore said. "I thought it was the coolest thing. I told anybody who'd listen, 'That's what I want to do when I grow up.'"
Little Nicky got his wish.
He's 28 now and built like a middle linebacker. He works in big-city arenas, on national TV.
Every Monday, he dons his own Speedos and knee-highs and hurls other Gigantors around the ring — when he's not making mischief outside the ring.
In the guise of a lovably childish lugnut named Eugene, Dinsmore is the hottest property of a multimedia conglomerate with projected revenues of $375 million this year.
The company is called World Wrestling Entertainment Inc., or WWE, the grandest, gaudiest professional wrestling circuit on Earth. (The WWE was known as the WWF — World Wrestling Federation — until May 2002, when a London court ruled that only the World Wildlife Fund, an older organization, was entitled to use those initials.)
Whatever the name, the circuit represents the acme of Dinsmore's profession and the culmination of a childhood dream that the dreamer himself can't believe came true.
However, Dinsmore's pals at Ohio Valley Wrestling, a Louisville-based circuit that develops talent for WWE, figured Dinsmore would hit it big some day.
"I'm not surprised at all by how well he's done," said Demond Thompson, 29, known as Morris the Butler to OVW fans. "Nick is a consummate professional who does well at everything he does. He deserved a break, and I'm glad he got it."
It was eight years coming.
Dinsmore started out in 1996 on wrestling's bottom rung, earning $25 to $40 a night, and was freshly astounded each time he took another step up the ladder. His climb soared into the stratosphere when Eugene made his debut on "WWE Raw" 10 weeks ago.
"I started wrestling in '96 at Danny Davis' little school in Jeffersonville," said Dinsmore. "I got on Channel 3 (WAVE-TV) and thought I'd made the big time. Then, I started wrestling a little bit with the WCW when they were still around and I thought, 'Man, I'm on top of the world.'
"Then, I signed a developmental contract with the WWE in 1999. Now this. Pretty amazing."
Dinsmore, a level-headed fellow with a communications degree from Indiana University Southeast, seems to be taking his sudden fame in stride. On a visit last Wednesday to his old stamping grounds, Ohio Valley Wrestling's arena-***-soundstage in Newburg, Dinsmore exuded a Zen-like calm.
Then again, he might have been in a mild state of shock, the latest victim of the modern American pandemic known as Sudden Celebrity Syndrome.
Or maybe it was just jet lag. He had barely unpacked from a whirlwind tour of England and Ireland, where Eugene and Co. played to packed houses of up to 18,000 fans at every stop.
There is a clear division of labor in Dinsmore Inc. Nick is the grunt; Eugene is the artiste. They are such separate entities that Dinsmore refers to his alter ego in the third person.
"Eugene is going to L.A. next week to get scanned for an action figure," Dinsmore said.
You mean you're going to L.A. to get scanned, someone said.
"No, Eugene is getting scanned," Dinsmore said. "I'm just going along for the ride."
Dinsmore, earnest and intense, handles the scut work. He boards the planes, pumps the iron and nurses the injuries, which are many.
He endured the first of three knee surgeries while at Providence High School, where as a senior in 1993-94 he played on the Pioneers' state championship football team and qualified for the regional wrestling tournament as well.
Pro wrestling is more theatrical than the schoolboy variety, but it's also more punishing. No matter how artful and careful the athletes are, injuries are inevitable when big men with big muscles start slinging each other around.
"My back is killing me," Dinsmore said. "My neck's killing me. My knees hurt."
Asked if he hopes to enjoy a 30-year career like that of Ric Flair, for example, Dinsmore rolled his eyes heavenward and said, "I don't know if my body could take it."
Do pro wrestlers pull punches? Of course — but the margin of error is slim and unforgiving.
Not long ago, Dinsmore took a "chair shot" — he was bashed over the head with a metal folding chair. The blow compressed a couple of vertebrae in his neck.
"I got it massaged out," he said, "but every once in a while it sneaks up on me."
Eugene doesn't feel Dinsmore's pain. But he doesn't cash the paychecks, either. Dinsmore makes a lot more than $40 a night these days. He won't say how much more, but acknowledges that his 2004 tax return will report a six-figure income. It's just a matter of what number precedes the five zeroes, which depends on merchandise sales, which depend in turn on Eugene remaining popular with WWE fans.
So far, so good.
WWE.com made Eugene its "Superstar of the Week" for May 31-June 6. It also posted 10 different video highlights and started hawking two different Eugene T-shirts at $26 a pop.
When Dinsmore last talked to The Courier-Journal in 1998, he said, "Hopefully ... I'll get my own T-shirt and my own doll." It took six years, but today he has all that and more. Not bad for a channel-surfing wannabe.
The aesthetic appeal of burly, bare-chested men in garish kilts is largely unappreciated beyond the Scottish isles. But for a little boy in Jeffersonville, it was love at first sight.
Rewind to 1984. Nicky Dinsmore, 8, is channel surfing.
Lo, a fight! A big dude in a plaid skirt is staring down another big dude wearing Speedo trunks and go-go boots with laces. They take turns hurling each other around a boxing ring.
"Rowdy Roddy Piper vs. Mr. Wonderful, Paul Orndorff; that's the first match I ever saw," Dinsmore said. "I thought it was the coolest thing. I told anybody who'd listen, 'That's what I want to do when I grow up.'"
Little Nicky got his wish.
He's 28 now and built like a middle linebacker. He works in big-city arenas, on national TV.
Every Monday, he dons his own Speedos and knee-highs and hurls other Gigantors around the ring — when he's not making mischief outside the ring.
In the guise of a lovably childish lugnut named Eugene, Dinsmore is the hottest property of a multimedia conglomerate with projected revenues of $375 million this year.
The company is called World Wrestling Entertainment Inc., or WWE, the grandest, gaudiest professional wrestling circuit on Earth. (The WWE was known as the WWF — World Wrestling Federation — until May 2002, when a London court ruled that only the World Wildlife Fund, an older organization, was entitled to use those initials.)
Whatever the name, the circuit represents the acme of Dinsmore's profession and the culmination of a childhood dream that the dreamer himself can't believe came true.
However, Dinsmore's pals at Ohio Valley Wrestling, a Louisville-based circuit that develops talent for WWE, figured Dinsmore would hit it big some day.
"I'm not surprised at all by how well he's done," said Demond Thompson, 29, known as Morris the Butler to OVW fans. "Nick is a consummate professional who does well at everything he does. He deserved a break, and I'm glad he got it."
It was eight years coming.
Dinsmore started out in 1996 on wrestling's bottom rung, earning $25 to $40 a night, and was freshly astounded each time he took another step up the ladder. His climb soared into the stratosphere when Eugene made his debut on "WWE Raw" 10 weeks ago.
"I started wrestling in '96 at Danny Davis' little school in Jeffersonville," said Dinsmore. "I got on Channel 3 (WAVE-TV) and thought I'd made the big time. Then, I started wrestling a little bit with the WCW when they were still around and I thought, 'Man, I'm on top of the world.'
"Then, I signed a developmental contract with the WWE in 1999. Now this. Pretty amazing."
Dinsmore, a level-headed fellow with a communications degree from Indiana University Southeast, seems to be taking his sudden fame in stride. On a visit last Wednesday to his old stamping grounds, Ohio Valley Wrestling's arena-***-soundstage in Newburg, Dinsmore exuded a Zen-like calm.
Then again, he might have been in a mild state of shock, the latest victim of the modern American pandemic known as Sudden Celebrity Syndrome.
Or maybe it was just jet lag. He had barely unpacked from a whirlwind tour of England and Ireland, where Eugene and Co. played to packed houses of up to 18,000 fans at every stop.
There is a clear division of labor in Dinsmore Inc. Nick is the grunt; Eugene is the artiste. They are such separate entities that Dinsmore refers to his alter ego in the third person.
"Eugene is going to L.A. next week to get scanned for an action figure," Dinsmore said.
You mean you're going to L.A. to get scanned, someone said.
"No, Eugene is getting scanned," Dinsmore said. "I'm just going along for the ride."
Dinsmore, earnest and intense, handles the scut work. He boards the planes, pumps the iron and nurses the injuries, which are many.
He endured the first of three knee surgeries while at Providence High School, where as a senior in 1993-94 he played on the Pioneers' state championship football team and qualified for the regional wrestling tournament as well.
Pro wrestling is more theatrical than the schoolboy variety, but it's also more punishing. No matter how artful and careful the athletes are, injuries are inevitable when big men with big muscles start slinging each other around.
"My back is killing me," Dinsmore said. "My neck's killing me. My knees hurt."
Asked if he hopes to enjoy a 30-year career like that of Ric Flair, for example, Dinsmore rolled his eyes heavenward and said, "I don't know if my body could take it."
Do pro wrestlers pull punches? Of course — but the margin of error is slim and unforgiving.
Not long ago, Dinsmore took a "chair shot" — he was bashed over the head with a metal folding chair. The blow compressed a couple of vertebrae in his neck.
"I got it massaged out," he said, "but every once in a while it sneaks up on me."
Eugene doesn't feel Dinsmore's pain. But he doesn't cash the paychecks, either. Dinsmore makes a lot more than $40 a night these days. He won't say how much more, but acknowledges that his 2004 tax return will report a six-figure income. It's just a matter of what number precedes the five zeroes, which depends on merchandise sales, which depend in turn on Eugene remaining popular with WWE fans.
So far, so good.
WWE.com made Eugene its "Superstar of the Week" for May 31-June 6. It also posted 10 different video highlights and started hawking two different Eugene T-shirts at $26 a pop.
When Dinsmore last talked to The Courier-Journal in 1998, he said, "Hopefully ... I'll get my own T-shirt and my own doll." It took six years, but today he has all that and more. Not bad for a channel-surfing wannabe.