A Wrestling Tale: Jimmy Griffith

Jimmy Griffith didn’t walk around backstage. Jimmy Griffith strode. Jimmy Griffith sauntered. Jimmy Griffith strolled around like he owned the place.

“Teddy! Arnold! Pretty baby! It’s the Griff!”

Jimmy Griffith sucked and everybody knew it but him.

Jimmy Griffith rated his own matches. Jimmy Griffith didn’t use stars. Everybody else used stars. Jimmy Griffith rated his matches with the clever device of fish.

“Did you see that? I dragged that little no talent prick to a trout!”

“Yo Rex! We just had ourselves a swordfish out there! Way to keep up with the Griff!”

“Buddy, my friend, thank you. I rarely get me a great white shark, but you man and me! And the Griff! We hooked ourselves a big old shark out there! AWESOME!”

Jimmy Griffith didn’t wrestle minnows. Jimmy Griffith never had a goldfish. Those “technical” wrestlers had the terrible matches. Jimmy Griffith didn’t have to do a submission move besides a headlock and a chin lock. Jimmy Griffith wasn’t lazy like some people.

“What the hell were you limping around for five minutes for? It’s not like you were still in the figure four!”

“Wow, fifteen German suplexes! Too bad the crowd was bored after the first one!”

“Man, I gotta work with Rob tonight? Great, I’ll lie on the ground for 8 minutes while he plays with my ankle and then I’ll powerbomb the crap out of him! That cool with you ROB? That work for you, ROB?”

Oh my God did Jimmy Griffith blow.

Jimmy Griffith didn’t job. Jimmy Griffith wasn’t a punk. Jimmy Griffith lost by outside interference. Jimmy Griffith had to be hit with 3 consecutive finishing moves, so long as the finishing move wasn’t a submission hold because Jimmy Griffith didn’t tap. Jimmy Griffith did pass out from pain, but only if he was in the submission move for at least 3 minutes. Jimmy Griffith sold, but he sold differently than others.

“If you want me to look like I’m in pain you gotta sell the move better! Look like you’re hurting me OW! Don’t twist so hard! This isn’t real!”

“Okay, you hit me with the chair and I’ll drop to a knee. Then I’ll stand up. Hit me again and I’ll fall to both my knees. Then I’m going to point at you like I’m pissed off. Hit me again and I’ll go down. Cover me and I’ll kick out at two. Go to hit me with the chair again but I’ll catch it, hit YOU AND BAM, POWERBOMB! THAT’S A SWORDFISH!”

“Ow. It hurts. It hurts so badly. He hit me right in the balls. Oh the pain. Somebody help the Griff.”

Jimmy Griffith deserved a handshake before the match and a handshake after the match from his opponent. Jimmy Griffith didn’t have to do any pre-match preparation besides the handshake. Jimmy Griffith had been doing this for 13 years. Jimmy Griffith could book a match the 30 seconds before they went on and he usually did.

“Okay Matt. Sorry, Pat. You’re working the Griff match here. You attack me. I knock you down. But you ain’t a punk! You didn’t come here to get punked by the Griff! You get up and attack me again. I KICK YOUR ASS! You get punked this time and roll out of the ring. I follow you. You get back in, I’m coming back in AND THE GRIFF GETS CHEAP SHOTTED! YOU PUNK! Crowd boos man, they boo! You go to town on me, kicking me and elbows and crap. You got a move you wanna hit? No time now, call it in the ring. Get ready to hit your winning move but the Griff is going to do the Griff thing and get really mad and KICK TO THE GUT! POWERBOMB! Match is over! That’s a trout! They’re playing your music! Big night for you Matt!”

Jimmy Griffith needed to go away.

Jimmy Griffith didn’t put over new guys. New guys paid respect to Jimmy Griffith by putting Jimmy Griffith over. Jimmy Griffith lost to Paul, Ray and Jon and those earned it.

“The boss just said you wanted to go over me. Over the Griff. You think you’re hot right now, huh? How long you been doing this, 2 years? 13 YEARS BITCH! I’VE BEEN HOT FOR 13 YEARS! I oughta kick your ass right now.”

“Paul, you get the best of the Griff tonight on tv, I get you at all the house shows and then at the PPV we draw. Let’s go get a drink.”

“Boss, I can’t job to that kid. How am I supposed to face my fans? You hear the fans when I come out? I give this kid a bone he’s going to want the whole turkey. Boss, you gotta think of the future. I mean, the past. Well, both. The past was the Griff. So is the future. I’m just saying, these flavors of the month, these little faggots they come and go. The Griff is your money maker.”

Jimmy Griffith was holding the entire roster down.

Jimmy Griffith didn’t “hold down” people. Jimmy Griffith looked out for Jimmy Griffith and expected others to look out for themselves and Jimmy Griffith. Jimmy Griffith earned that. Jimmy Griffith didn’t ask for the world titles and the main event pushes. Jimmy Griffith got them because Jimmy Griffith was the go to guy when the company needed a boost.

“Ray, your title reign is getting a little stale. Maybe it’s Griff time. We’ll have a great white shark of a match. Hell, I’ll work in a press slam.”

“I think the Griff has been sitting back, low profile feuds, watching Matt, sorry, Pat rise to prominence against Jon. Now I strike during their match! I kick the crap out of Matt and then powerbomb Jon, letting him know I still remember that I owe him one. The crowd will love it!”

“I need a new t-shirt. Can we put a naked lady on a t-shirt? Not nude, but in a bikini. Something like, “THE GRIFF LOVES HIS FANS” on the front and a picture of a model spread eagle on the back, but she’s wearing a Griff t-shirt. Hey! A t-shirt on a t-shirt! Awesome!”

Not even his friends respected Jimmy Griffith anymore.

Jimmy Griffith could out drink anyone on the roster and often did. Jimmy Griffith never touched the hard drugs and anyone who did was a loser. Jimmy Griffith didn’t use steroids. Anymore.

“What the hell is that, a joint? You made a big mistake asshole. You’re poisoning the roster.”

“COME ON PUSSY! DRINK!”

“Okay, so 15 beers and the Griff is still standing. Who’s next for the Griff to drink on? The Griff needs to talk to the Griff. I’m see, the where the huh? Yeah, I wet myself. I like you Pat. I mean Zach. What? No, your name is Pat. I’M THE GRIFF!”

Jimmy Griffith was 7’1”. Jimmy Griffith was scary looking. Jimmy Griffith had only learned the basics in the ring but he was magic on the mike. Jimmy Griffith knew how to compliment the management. Jimmy Griffith knew how to make friends with the established wrestlers. Jimmy Griffith would be around for a long, long time.

“Oh man. I have to face Griffith tonight.”

“Good news/bad news honey. I have a match on the PPV! Calm down. It’s against Jimmy Griffith. Yes, the Griff.”

“Please. Please sir. I don’t mean to be rude but anyone but Griffith.”

Jimmy Griffith didn’t have a rental car. Jimmy Griffith had a limo. It was a limo that brought Jimmy Griffith from the arena in his home town where Jimmy Griffith finished killing either Matt or Pat’s career to his mansion. Jimmy Griffith’s knees hurt but not so badly that he couldn’t saunter through his front door and up to his bed room. Jimmy Griffith laid down next to his wife. She woke up and looked at Jimmy Griffith.

“I suck you know. I suck more every day.”

Jimmy Griffith’s wife smiled.

“You sucked terribly tonight honey.”

Jimmy Griffith shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head.

“But it was a swordfish!”

Jimmy Griffith and his wife cracked up. Jimmy Griffith was lazy. Jimmy Griffith was awful. Jimmy Griffith was conceited and untalented and boring and Jimmy Griffith LOVED IT.

Jimmy Griffith ruled.