I had previously been a “backyarder,” which will no doubt come as quite the shock to the legions of “smart marks” who have repeatedly praised my technical expertise and pure wrestling skill.  A “backyarder,” despite what you might infer, is in fact not someone who lives in their backyard, but rather, an untrained, often-masochistic young person who engages in poorly-choreographed “wrestling matches” with their equally-unprofessional chums in or around their homes.  As you might imagine, this sort of brilliant activity usually results in hours of nigh-unwatchable footage and an inordinate number of young men with debilitating back and knee problems. That said, I think backyard wrestling is bloody fantastic.  Sure, if I hadn’t spent four years of my life jumping out of barn lofts and landing improperly on my neck (which is a tendency you’ll notice I’ve not corrected…), I’d be a healthier, happier young adult, who wouldn’t have to worry about the brewing storm and its effect on my knees, but I’d also never have felt confident enough in my ability to get smacked in the head with household furniture to move across the country to pursue my dream.  Therefore, backyarding is a valuable and productive life experience, however mindlessly stupid.  I had become interested in wrestling in 1998, the same year in which Master P took rap music to a whole new level of laziness with his hit, “Make ‘Em Say Uggh.”  In essence, I was introduced to it by my old friend, Tony Cohoon, whom you can read more about on the “UHW” webpage, which is heavily linked to (and cheaply plugged, time and again!) on this site.  I got involved in backyard wrestling for several years, and eventually opted to try to make a career of it.  So, in October, 2004, I packed up my belongings and headed for the coast, leaving behind the miles of cornfields, the large Ford pick-em-up trucks, and a general open acceptance of incest that I would miss greatly.  

In November of the same year, I enrolled myself in the CZW wrestling school, at the time still under the tutelage of Prof. DJ Hyde, PhD.  After initially telling me that I probably didn’t have what it takes to be a wrestler (and, in retrospect, being absolutely correct), DJ eventually allowed me to train with the other CZW students.  This training included a whole lot of hindu squats and a great deal of me bumping very improperly, not to mention a shocking amount of mock homosexuality displayed by several of my co-trainees, which made the transition much easier on me (Thanks, Niles!). Eventually, the CZW school merged with the CHIKARA WrestleFactory, famous for silly costumes and a rigorous training regimen based mostly around an absoludicrous variety of armdrags.  I tried very hard to follow the curriculum and progress as they wished, but the fact is, I’m not a particularly good luchador.  I took as much of the knowledge that they imparted as I could use (more accurately, as much as I could remember) and began shaping my wrestling style.  Little did I know, “shaping my wrestling style” was completely unecessary, as getting dropped repeatedly on my head requires surprisingly little planning. 

I officially made my wrestling debut at CZW’s “Tournament of Death 4,” in which I took on a whole slew of people who were equally-as-forgettable as I, in an “Ultraviolent Rumble.”  Despite showing essentially no wrestling ability in the match, I did seem to manage to attract some small attention from fans whom are (rather unaffectionately) refered to as “bloodmarks” by their more egocentric counterparts, the “smartmarks.”