Bob Holly - The Hardcore Truth: The Bob Holly Story

June 2010 Southampton, England

What the fuck are you doing?

Bobs steely glare bored into me as I asked myself exactly the same thing.... There I was, a not entirely athletic 31-year-old who had made his pro wrestling debut just four months earlier, in the ring with Hardcore Holly and he looked pissed off. Even the referee was giving us a wide berth. With no more than a foot between us, I was certainly within clouting distance. The question was just how hard and how prolonged the clouting was going to be. Time seemed to stand still while neither of us did a thing. The audience buzzed, anticipating the forthcoming violence, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be to be carted off to the hospital whilst wearing altogether too much spandex.

I was supposed to be finished for the evening. Id opened the show, winning a 12-minute contest that was, at that point, the best match of my career. I had been looking forward to watching the main event that would see Bob Holly and Jake McCluskey pitted against the UK Kid and Leon Shah. But, as Leon hobbled back into the locker room after his first bout of the evening, I began to feel uneasy. The unease quickly turned into full-blown panic as Leon explained to promoter Tom (the UK Kid) that he couldnt put any real weight on his leg. No worries, said Tom. Well just use Ross instead.

Oh shit.

It was brown trousers time for sure. Still, I manned up and didnt let on.

So, what are we going to do? I enquired as casually as I could manage.

Dunno. Well call it in the ring, replied the UK Kid, a 12-year veteran. Five-year pro McCluskey looked on in amusement.

But Tom, I whispered, Ive never done a tag match before. Can we at least lay out a couple of spots?

Tom gave me a devilish smirk. Well, if you want to go and discuss your ideas with Bob, feel free...

I looked at Bob, taking nanoseconds to decide that approaching him would not be a clever move. Apparently, nanoseconds were too long. Bob caught me staring in his direction and thundered, What the fuckre you lookin at? across the locker room.

I averted my gaze, changed my underwear, and got warmed up for the match.

Ten minutes later, as I was jogging up and down a corridor, Toms voice rang out. Ross, are you coming or not? Tom was in his gear, ready to go. Bob and Jake were ready too, standing halfway down the corridor. Mustering all my bravado, I tried something along the lines of a confident swagger: Yeah, I thought I might give it a go. Passing Jake and Bob, I offered a nod and a simple see you out there. Bobs voice, quiet but full of menace, followed me down the corridor: Youve got a fuckin attitude problem.

As I passed Rob Holte, whose often stoic expression now showed something approaching sympathy, I said, Tell my mother I love her. Rob was my favorite opponent and had always looked after me but, even so, I would often leave the ring a little worse for wear after our matches. I knew that was nothing compared to what I was about to experience.

I approached the ring on jelly-legs, running on a mixture of adrenaline and terror, and awaited my fate. As Bobs music blared over the speakers, Tom approached and said, Dont worry, Ill work most of the match. Just follow my lead, youll be fine.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I took up a position on the apron a position I expected to maintain for most of the match. Roughly 18 seconds later, after two or three quick bumps, Tom scurried over to tag me in.

I dropped off the apron, refusing his hand, assuming I should play the cowardly heel.

Tom whispered, Get between us.

By this, he meant that I should sneak into the ring, lure Bob into our corner, and let Tom jump him from behind. Having never been in a tag match before and not yet being aware of all the wrestling lingo, I thought Tom meant that I should physically get between them. So I slid into the ring and marched up to Bob with my arms outstretched as if to say, Whaddya think youre doing, tough guy?

Under my breath, I asked, Do you want to hit me?

This is where we came in.

What the fuck are you doing?

My options seemed to be: A) run away and have Bob catch me and beat the everlasting crap out of me for being a pussy; B) back away and have Bob grab me and beat the everlasting crap out of me for being a pussy; or C) shove him and see what happened.

I went with C and gave him a respectful shove.

Bob Hardcore Holly then respectfully smacked me upside my head, bursting my eardrum. As he reached down to hoist me off the canvas, I realized I couldnt hear a damn thing out of my right ear. What if he tried to call some moves to me, I didnt catch them, and I blew a spot? Hed think I was fucking with him and would absolutely destroy me! These fears were quickly dismissed when his plans became evident. He backed me up into the corner and pulled my shirt over my head, exposing my chest.

Bobs chops are notorious for hurting like hell. Up until that point, I could only speculate. Two minutes later, having been on the receiving end of about a dozen of Bobs finest, I could confirm that yes, they do indeed hurt like hell. My chest, which was now bleeding, seconded the opinion. The crowd had popped for each chop with increasing fervor but, by the last, they were wincing in pain along with me.

Then something happened that changed my view of Bob entirely.

Propping me up in the corner and pulling my shirt over my face once more, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, Sorry, man.

Ever the British gent, I believe I instinctively replied, Thats quite all right, before he clobbered me again, saving the stiffest shot for last.

After my brutalization and his apology, the rest of the match went smoothly (save for my nose being cut open my mistake there, I caught my face on something Jake was wearing), and my input was limited to some basic holds, plenty of cheating, and being sent sailing over the top rope to the unpadded floor. I cant take any credit for the quality of the match, since everyone else was just working around me, but it remains my best match and my favorite, for that matter.

Back in the locker room, after having a picture taken in which I proudly displayed my bloody nose and red-raw chest, I wandered over to Bob to thank him for the match. He shook my hand, thanked me, and said, You really impressed me out there. You were in the right place at the right time and you took your beating like a man. You did great. He also told me that my bloodied chest would hurt like hell when I showered. He was definitely not wrong. It was unquestionably the most painful shower I have taken in my life.

Still, long after the wounds on my chest had healed and as my eardrum slowly repaired itself, I had a memory to cherish and one heck of a story to tell and video footage to back it up! About 10 weeks later, around the time my eardrum had finally healed, I was surprised to receive an email from Bob and the content was even more surprising. In the email, Bob reiterated that he had nothing but respect for me and apologized for any times hed treated me badly. (For the record, I dont feel he ever had.) He finished by writing, I hope you accept my apology. Since then, weve kept in touch, leading to this project. Hes filled me in on a few things: that he pushed for me to replace Leon for that match in Southampton and that, months before that, when he first heard me cut a promo in training, he pushed hard for Tom to use me regularly on shows. Bob really gets behind the people who he believes work hard to improve and he is extremely supportive while remaining honest to a fault. During my training and wrestling career, he informed me repeatedly (and accurately!) that I struggle with the athletic side of things but also told me that I had good timing, took a fantastic bump, and could cut a damn fine promo. The fact that hes so blunt in observing my lack of athletic acumen did actually help me believe the other stuff! The more you get to know Bob, the more you realize he is just not into bullshit and he will call a spade a spade. If you suck, hell tell you. If youre good at something, hell put you over for it. In short, hell tell you what you