geniusMoment

The difference is everyone knew "Iron" Mike Tyson. Did you hear the crowd when Mayweather came out, silence. If ten years ago Tyson came out and slugged Austin and accepted a fight can you imagine the crowd and press reaction. It would lead SportsCenter. I know who Mayweather is, but the 4 people I was watching with had no clue who he was, but they would've thought Tyson was a huge deal.

Don't ban him, just drop him off at Jane & Finch at 2:00 am with a sign strapped to him saying he wants to fight. He's Canadian and MMA tough, I'm sure he'll make it out alive.

Reds sign Brandon Phillips long-term. Four years--27 million

If it means the RHCP actually play mania it'll be worth it. But I doubt they'll agree to do it, I can't think of a band that big ever playing a wrestling show.

Dandy is quickly becoming one of the more annoying posters here. Congrats.

Little recognition for this guy: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1797425

Did Kurt "The Measuring Stick" Angle go through OVW?

They could try and get Joe Blanton, but now they'd probably have to vastly overpay.

I guess it's time to call Minnesota. Oh wait, my bad.

You can put it on the board...yessss! He gone. Good guys were black Sax packed with sox Sweet, more of these great calls are coming our way through 2011.

So, this is why Donnie Baseball isn't coaching. Damn, what a hot pic! http://www.kentucky.com/529/story/309120.html

I couldn't have been more disappointed in Davey, and feared he would end up making us both look bad. I remembered Vince asking me, back in Binghamton, if I was sure I could go on last in the main ­event. "I can promise you nobody will be able to follow us!" I'd said. And when I asked Vince whether he wanted me to run the finish past him, he told me, "I don't want to know; surprise me." I'd never, ever heard him say that to anyone else ­before-­or ­after-­but now I truly had no idea what surprises the match was likely to have in ­store. When I arrived in London, hundreds of fans poured out of the hotel lobby to chant my name in the streets. I set out to find Davey, but he was off somewhere with Diana and his family. I didn't see him until the required entrance rehearsal at Wembley stadium the night before the show. When I asked him why he hadn't returned my calls all summer, he wasn't able to look me in the eye. He fessed up that he'd been smoking crack with Jim for weeks and was now terrified. He'd gone back to being that same helpless kid I'd rescued from Dynamite ten years ­earlier. "Trust me, Davey, and I'll do all I can to get you through tomorrow, okay?" He nodded, and I sat him down for a crash course, going over and over our match and making him recite the moves back to me. It was now completely up to me to save our ­match. The following day we arrived at Wembley early. The sun hid high in an overcast sky, but there was a collective sigh of relief because it looked like it wasn't going to ­rain. Shortly before the show was to start I was summoned to a meet and greet with a room full of fans, most of whom had been given British Bulldog ­T-­shirts as part of a promotional contest. There was one little boy wearing a Hitman ­T-­shirt confidently arguing to some of Davey's ­grown-­up supporters that I was going to win. As he held his dad's hand, he politely asked me whether I could give him my glasses when I came out. I tussled his hair and said, "If I can find you, they're yours." In the dressing room Hawk gave me a sour smile as he casually popped three Placidyls into his mouth and hung his tongue out where they stuck just long enough for him to wash them down with black coffee-I guess Rocco the talking dummy was getting to him even more than I'd thought. Why anybody would do that was beyond me. I liked Hawk and sensed in that instant that he was at some personal breaking point on his own road to ­self-­destruction. Once the show started I worried and waited, fearing that the other wrestlers would run too long, leaving me and Davey with not enough time to tell our story. If we ran out of time, it would be my tough luck, since if Davey beat me in a short match, it could ruin me in England. One positive note was that the referee was Gorilla's boy, Joey Morella, who, in my opinion, was the best WWF ref. I knew he'd do his best to help me communicate with Davey once we got out ­there. I was amazed to see Hawk, who was nearly out on his feet, climb onto a rented Harley Davidson and wobble all the way out to the ring, behind Animal and their manager, Paul Ellering, who were also on bikes. Not that this should be recognized as some kind of amazing feat in itself, but the truth is that it was. Considering that he was barely conscious from bell to bell, the fact that ­Hawk-­with the help of his opponents, Mike Rotundo and Ted DiBiase, and of ­Animal-­somehow had a match, is a testament to all of them. But it mattered little, since Hawk upped and quit the next day, leaving Animal to fend for ­himself. Warrior and Randy had a decent World title match, but their ongoing angle never made much sense and only got more convoluted when Ric Flair, managed by Mr. Perfect, was the one to cost Warrior the ­belt. The sky was a beautiful ­purple-­blue by the time our match was called. Davey went out before me to a huge ­ovation. I was banking on my sense that the British fans truly loved me, but would feel they had to support their fellow countryman. To all the fans watching via satellite I'd be a huge underdog. Today I'd break all their hearts and win their undying loyalty: I was betting my career on ­it. The aisle was so long that my usual entrance music played twice as I made my way to the ring, the picture of confidence in my leather ring jacket. English football horns trumpeted through a crowd of all ages while Union Jacks fluttered in the soft breeze. I was eased by the sight of numerous pink and black signs, and I had the distinct sense that God was with me as I silently vowed to show Vince, Davey and the world how good I ­was. As I stood nose to nose with Davey he appeared to be every bit as determined, both of us unflinching warriors refusing to give way before ­battle. While a thunderous "Bulldog" chant reverberated through the stadium, I unbuckled the belt, held it up to my lips and kissed it. I handed it to Joey, who held it up to the crowd, while I dropped out to the floor to give my sunglasses away. To our mutual surprise I was able to place them on the little boy I'd promised them to earlier. His dad smiled, impressed that I was a man of my ­word. Back in the ring, Joey gave Davey and me the rules, the three of us momentarily awestruck by the size of the crowd. We pushed off with Davey looking strong and serious. The crowd was ours and the bell sounded. At first Davey outmanoeuvred me with simple and realistic wrestling, but after only a few minutes, he was breathing ­hard. "Bret, I'm fooked," Davey panted as I had him clamped in a side headlock. "I can't remember anything!" "Davey, just listen to me, I'll carry you." Joey shot me a worried look. This would be the test of my ­career. So, that's how it was, me calling out every single high spot for Davey, sometimes even the necessary facial expressions, helping him conserve what little stamina he had for a comeback that was still more than thirty minutes away. Every time Davey picked me up, I went up like a feather. He went up for me like a full ­refrigerator. I made sure I didn't overdo it as a heel, knowing the fans would forgive me in the end when I lost. Twenty-five minutes into the match I locked Davey in a sleeper hold, and the crowd immediately got behind him, cheering him on to revive himself as he crawled to the ropes gasping for air. I snapped a beautiful boot straight into his face, grazing the tip of his nose like I'd snapped it hard with my finger to wake him ­up. The drama built, layer upon layer, as every move that came followed a logic that never detracted from the story. I hit Davey with my whole arsenal, finally locking on the sleeper again. As he sank to his knees, I called the spots into his ear, and he rose up to his feet with me on his back. Staggering backward, he rammed me into the corner with all his weight, nearly snapping my neck in half on the top rope for real! But there was no time to sell as I slapped on the sleeper one more time. Again, Davey sank to his knees, as Joey muttered, "Do you guys hear that crowd? This is unbelievable!" We went into a beautiful sequence of moves, ending up with an old Hart ­Foundation-­Bulldogs spot where a groggy Davey went for a press slam but lost his balance and accidentally crotched me on the ropes, to the roar of the ­crowd. I'd carried him as far as possible, and now Davey took over for his ­long-­awaited comeback. I called out all his big moves for him, and after I'd taken them all, Davey dragged me to my feet by my singlet straps, revived enough to signal with his hands that it was time to finish me off with his running powerslam! Always incredibly strong, Davey easily twirled me over his shoulder and charged across the ring, flattening me to the mat for the one . . . two. . . but this time it was me who astounded the crowd by barely kicking out! Clutching his face, a tearful Davey only half feigned amazement as he finally realized that I'd put together a ­masterpiece. I dragged myself to the ropes and fell out to the apron. Davey suplexed me back in, but I dropped behind him, gripped him tightly around the waist, and jerked him into a perfect German suplex. This time Davey kicked out! As we got to our feet I attempted a front suplex, but Davey didn't budge. Instead, he blocked it, lifted me straight up, and dropped me painfully hard on the top corner strut, nearly castrating me. A ­half-­inch over and the match would have ended right then and there! Davey climbed up to the top corner and, before he had time to think about it, we did a standing vertical suplex off the top, crashing to the mat below. This was considered the most ­high-­risk, breath-taking move in the business at that ­time. As Davey draped an arm over me for the one . . . two . . . I kicked out again at the last possible second. The crowd was stunned, but they'd only seen the appetizers; the best was yet to come! After a double clothesline, both Davey and I lay writhing in a heap as Joey started a ­ten-­count. If the fans only knew that I had come up with this move one night at about three in the morning. I had woken Julie up and somehow managed to talk her into lying on the floor next to the bed to see whether it would work. Now I entwined my leg through Davey's, and before anybody quite knew what I was up to I twisted him over into my sharpshooter with no escape . . . right in the middle of the ring! The crowd went nuts as I fought with all my strength to stop Davey from crawling to the ropes, dragging me behind him. When he reached them, there was an explosion of relief. Nobody had ever escaped the sharpshooter before! As I dragged myself to my feet, exhausted, I could see my invisible banana peel lying in the middle of the ring. Joey kept muttering, "Unbelievable!" The time had come to break the hearts of all my fans and forever change my destiny. "Let's go home!" I called as I slammed one last lifter into Davey's chest, rocking him hard enough to send sweat flying into the air. I squeezed his wrist as the cue to reverse me into the ropes, and I dove over him for a sunset flip, the simplest move in wrestling. But instead of falling backwards, we did the old Leo Burke finish: Davey fell forward, hooking my legs with his arms, collapsing on top of me and pinning me beautifully. One . . . two . . . three! We did it! I did it! There was a deafening roar as "Rule Britannia" played and Joey gave Davey the IC belt. After ­thirty-­seven gruelling minutes, I lay on the mat feigning being heart-broken, but in fact I was elated. I was also exhausted and in considerable pain, but I knew that the handshake at the end would top it all off, the last detail in this ­drama. I made out that I was too pissed off to shake Davey's hand. I'd planned all of this with Davey, but it became painfully obvious to me that he'd forgotten all about it. I desperately tried to make eye contact, but he was oblivious as Diana climbed into the ring crying, I can only assume for real. I'm thinking, C'mon, Davey, look at me and we'll make them all cry, but Davey never caught on. Instead he was trying to milk the crowd. I was thinking, The drama is with me, not them, for fuck's sake please look at me, Davey! After too many attempts I gave up and just walked over and shook his hand. He'd completely missed one of the tiny moments that can make it all more real. But what could I do? The torch had been ­passed. Everything hurt, even my fingers were ­sore. When I got back to the dressing room most of the boys had already left on the bus, but the ones who'd seen the match seemed blown away. I understood the art of losing and the power of sympathy. I knew that in the weeks to come, it would be me who was over; over more than Warrior, Savage, Flair, even Davey. All of them had been excellently executed! I've always believed this was my greatest match, especially because I'd carried Davey all the way through it without anyone being the wiser. My dad would tell me later that it's one thing to have a great match, but it's another thing to have a great match in front of eighty thousand ­people. Despite knowing it was all a work, and one that I had orchestrated, a deep sense of sadness came over me hours after the match. Losing the IC belt seemed all too real to ­me. Later that night, I limped into the crowded hotel bar where most of the wrestlers, fans and office were celebrating after the show. Vince came up to me and told me I was the greatest athlete he'd ever seen and that he only wished he had one ounce of the athletic ability I had. Jack Lanza and Shane McMahon told me that I had the greatest match of all time and that they'd both had goose bumps up their arms watching it. I was surprised to see Pat Patterson back, but there he was gushing all over at what a masterpiece it was, especially as I'd pulled it off without any help from him. I told him that I was glad to see him back, and that I'd felt he was unfairly railroaded during the sexual misconduct ­allegations. By the time I limped to my room and called home, the pain of the match was setting in. Julie barely spoke to me, handing the phone to Blade, whose voice lifted my spirits, but only until he said he missed me, which made me feel sadder. Dallas and Jade were both very emotional while Beans, probably the luckiest of my children because she cared the least about wrestling, consoled me for losing. Julie came back on the line and said she was sorry. I wondered whether she even knew what for. Sorry for the loss of income or for how she'd treated me for the last year or two . . . or three . . . or four. I loved her dearly, but as we talked I couldn't deny that my heart was broken and ­empty. The next day I flew to America and ended up at the usual Holiday Inn in Baltimore watching the match on tape in my room. There was a knock at the door, and I was surprised to see Randy Savage and Ric Flair come strutting in. Randy grabbed my hand and told me, "Brother, that was the mother of all matches!" Flair said, "Hitman, let me shake your hand!" A couple of hours later, Shawn Michaels came by. He said he heard I had a tape of the match and he wanted to watch it, and so we did. He stared at the screen with a look of amazement, and when it was over he stood up, shook my hand, looked me in the eye and said, "You are the best, man. ­In-­fucking-­credible." With the help of a local framing shop, I was able to give Vince his drawing at TVs the next day, along with a letter. Given all that was to happen later between us, I now have to remind myself that at the time I really did mean ­it. Dear Vince, It has often been difficult for me to express to you my sincere gratitude for everything you've done for me . . . I wanted to thank you for giving me a chance and I will forever appreciate all the faith and trust you've put in my ability. Over the past eight years, and in particular this last year, it has been an honor and a privilege to have played such an important role, to fulfill my wildest dreams, to create works of art on a ring canvas. I created this little masterpiece for you. I hope it makes you laugh and that it brings back fond memories of what has been an incredible eight years. I thank you, my family thanks you and I look forward to another eight more. It's been a blast. Bret. I worried that it reeked of opportunistic ­suck-­holing, but I still handed it to him, and he seemed quite moved. By the time I left Vince's office, I'd somehow managed to get Bruce sort of hired again. Unfortunately when Bruce called Vince he was conveniently unavailable and Bruce was handed off to J.J. Dillon. When I spoke with Vince afterwards, he no longer seemed interested in Bruce, who, he told me, had told J.J. that he was going to be some kind of saviour of the WWF and that all of Vince's current storylines were horrible. According to J.J., Bruce said he was going to ­single-­handedly turn things around for the WWF. Of course Bruce blamed J.J. for the misinterpretation, but I doubted that I'd ever be able to get Bruce a chance again. If Bruce didn't have bad luck he had no luck at ­all. On the last day of September, I sat on the balcony of a huge hotel suite looking out over the historic landscape of Berlin. Earlier, I'd posed for a WWF photo shoot at the Brandenburg Gate. I stood where the Reichstag once was, buying tiny chunks of the Berlin Wall to take home as ­souvenirs. That night I left them standing and cheering at the Deutschlandhalle after a terrific match against Papa Shango. Everything I hoped might happen after SummerSlam was happening, and I felt almost out of control as I rocketed ­ahead. Excerpted from Hitman by Bret Hart Copyright © 2007 by Bret Hart. Excerpted by permission of Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

From the upcoming Shelly Martinez (WWE's Ariel) bondage porn video. I would post some of the more extreme pics but I don't feel like using Photobucket and no porn's allowed on the board server.

Even the top 10 can be deceiving. Most Reds scouts (who have seen both Bailey and Cueto pitch from the start) think Cueto is actually the better prospect due to being a more complete pitcher with better control.

I don't know, it has gotten pretty tiresome. Really, he should've made a few posts and been done with it. That's the thing about messageboarding, the more you really get into a feud the more pathetic you become, even if you "win".

What's a lemon party?

All this because Pimp Daddy Al let CWM, Czech and Kreese become mods to improve the board. Meanwhile Al gets a week vacation from TSM and Matt Young becomes a TSM legend.

I wonder if this will cause some friction between BFF Clemens and Andy. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22903086/

Someone's name was also changed to The Sperm. Maybe he asked for that name though, I can't be sure. His personal info is interesting. I wonder who did that?

I figured as much. Your sarcastic post cuts through me though, it hurts. I won't deny it. I can't.

I know, I was just trying to get a rise out of Spiff.

Santino>Phil Hartman on Newsradio

Anyone care to explain what happened and how?

Considering he was an NFL player in the early 70's he might be older than JR, not younger than him.

"He was so into the role that he pushed himself to the brink of sanity, he likely died as a result of his commitment and desire to give a legendary performance....that's some wicked shit." Precious Roy