I wear so many masks that you’d think I was some kind of mummer traveling the roads to and from worlds long gone to ash, that sometimes I wonder if I know which one is the true one myself. I guess it’s not much different from what most others do. I put on the calm, confident face of a leader when the need arises; the smirked face comes so naturally that maybe that’s the real one, the one that makes people laugh and girls slap me; I can slip in and out of em as if they were nothing more than second skins, yet today, for the first time in a long while, I lay myself bare, exposed and open from navel to neck, putting my twisted heart and bitter emotions on display for all.
Why such a show? My friend Dave “Pat MuGroin” Shelly passed away recently. They lost him on the operating table during heart surgery. It’s another pluck at the cord of a discordant melody here of late. Death, that cold, familiar monster, stalking the outer fringe, circling closer, collecting people that have barely touched my life here of late, spiraling forward, gaining momentum.
She shaped me as a preteen. My family has paid the butcher’s price many a time during those middle years of my life. It tempered me and turned me, but maybe some of that is being unmade now. We shall see.
I suppressed my pain, standing firm; a rock for the tide of emotions of others to break against. I thought it my duty to be there for my family. Letting my mom cry on my shoulder at eleven as we buried her mother and my grandmother. I’ve put a lot of kin in the ground; more than most I’d say, at least for my age. I’ve never once shed tears for them. It’s not because I don’t love the ones we’ve lost; I just couldn’t do it, so stuck on being strong. Yet here I sit, my thoughts scattered like a fragmented Rubik Cube, over a man who I called friend. It’s an odd feeling, seeing all the insignificant, petty things in a whole different light that only death can truly show you. A somber experience to say the least.
I tell you none of that because I expect pity; I just want you to understand why this is so odd for me and maybe best expressed through my blog.
But I’m rambling now and I digress.
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I can tell you a hundred stories about Dave. And I’m sure many of you reading have some you’d like to share as well. Please do. Let this be a testament to the kind of man he was and keep his memory alive. But for reading’s sake, I shall only share a few key moments that I remember well.
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The first time I met Dave, I could tell right off the bat. He was some kind of hybrid love-child of Weird Al and a soccer goon gone horribly awry, which he utilized to the fullest extent. He had “it”, the x-factor, whatever you want to call it, and he knew how to use it. The boys in the back knew it, too. He could rile up a crowd like few others, getting in their face and playing his part so well that there were times I feared he might not know how to switch “Pat MuGroin” off. I have to break here and explain to our non-wrestling readers how big an issue this is. When I first started wrestling, I worked with quite a few guys, that even to this day, have no clue how to turn it off. The lines between character and person blurred until gone entirely. No difference now between John Johnson and Ju-Jitsu John; just an inflated-head, ego devouring maniac.
Dave never had that problem.
You hated him during the shows but loved him as much or more after and before. He was always in the back with the guys, telling corny, God awful jokes that you laughed at more because he told them with such enthusiasm than the terrible punchline to follow. He shook hands with the fans after shows, and was always there when needed.
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Conversely, there was another time in particular, while Adam and I were challenging the tag team he managed (The Irish Revolution) for the 3CW Tag Team Championships where I wanted to choke him out in the Dragon Sleeper. The Go Home was in sight, we had worked the match without any flaw, we got there, the sweet release of a match gone off without a hitch within our grasp and BAM! Dave reaches into the ring from the outside and pulls a foot onto the ropes, breaking the supposed 3-count, blowing the spot and leaving us scrambling to improv an ending. But, looking back, its that wild passion that I loved most about him.
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He loved wrestling. Loved it more than most guys I’ve met in the business. He wasn’t drunk on power, and you have to trust me here, the nectar of the Gods isn’t Tequila or Beam of Makers Mark or Knob Creek. It’s power. A thimble full of attention from a crowd of 50 is much more intoxicating for most than a fifth of hard liquor any day of the week. Unlike booze, though, each shot of spotlight doesn’t get smoother as it goes down. It stays just as volatile. Dave drank his fill and yet I never once glimpsed a man hungry for more.
Wrestling is like a lot of other crafts; writing, music, sports and so on. You have to work for what you get. Some people don’t feel that way. Pretension runs rampant, probably much more in the world of wrestling, if you want me to be honest. You’re getting wished luck one minute and then being dogged by that same guy the minute your music is cued.
But you see, Dave wasn’t like the majority. He always had something positive to say. He was always encouraging. He was there to listen and offer advice. Dave was from the old world of wrestling and it showed years ago while we were working a show for a fed that had collected six or seven different feds into one event. All these guys were young and broken off into factions, eying one another coolly. For those of you who don’t know, this is unprofessional. In the old days such disrespect would get you stiffed at the first opportunity, but alas, I digress.
Dave and I went from group to group, introducing ourselves, using the three fingered shake Dave already knew and that I had been taught by another warrior of the old world (Pete “The Wrecking Ball” Madden). Just like that the lines of communication were open.
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That’s the kind of man Dave was. Honest, loving, impassioned, and a gateway from one person to another.
I am sorry, Dave, I wish I had been there more for you over the last few years, but I hope that wherever you are now, you’ve got a cold Strongbow in one hand and the remote to a TV the size of Saturn that plays nothing but all your favorite matches in the other. And lots of shows of girls running in slow motion in bikinis on the beach, too.
Love ya man. You will not be forgotten.
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The funeral for Dave “Pat MuGroin” Shelly will be on Thursday, April 22nd at 8:45am at Oak Ridge Cemetery. They are asking any who would attend park at the gate facing Monument Drive.
I’ve been approached by several interested in doing a benefit show for Dave and/or collecting donations for a tombstone for him. I think that is a very noble idea and leave the comment section of my blog open to such a discussion.
