A Closer Look in Words
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One of my earliest professional wrestling memories is watching Vader come down to the ring to face Goldust at the 1998 WWF Royal Rumble. As a kid, I found Goldust to be visually disturbing. The event stands out as a big moment for me. It helped shape my overall interest in professional wrestling. I was lucky enough to watch it from a suite my father owned, which gave us access to box seating for just about anything that came through the building, including WWE events, at the San Jose Arena, which is what it was called at the time, now known as the SAP Center. At that same event, my little brother and I realized we were seated just one box over from both Vince McMahon and Mike Tyson, who had been shown on the jumbotron. We slipped out of our suite and walked over to the stairs that led down to the regular seating. From the top of those stairs, you could briefly look over a glass and cement partition to see who was sitting inside the suite. We knew from the jumbotron they were right next to us. We leaned over, trying to get a look, and saw Mike Tyson and Vince McMahon in their prime before we were quickly shooed away by the blue coats.
My last job was in a slaughterhouse in Reno, Nevada, where Thursdays were known as kill days. By the time the animals reached me on the line, their heads and feet were gone. They hung upside down by their back legs, massive bodies stretched out, their bellies swaying at chest height. Some were so large their headless necks hovered just above the concrete as the chain pulled them forward. My job was to skin them. It became routine, almost mechanical. I circled the knife around the ankle joints to free the hide, then pulled the blade from the armpit down to the wrist, separating skin from muscle. After that, I cut along the back to loosen everything for the next step. Once I finished, the machines took over. We hooked a chain to the hide, attached it to a piston, and in one violent motion the machine tore it off, dropping it into a barrel below. The rhythm never stopped. Knife, cut, saw, chain, piston. Over and over, paced by the line. One day, I moved too fast. I pulled the knife too close to my body, and it snapped back into my stomach. The rubber apron took the hit, but it still shook me. My mind jumped straight to it. What if it went through. What if I didn’t feel it yet. I stepped off the floor into the cooler, still soaked from the work. My chest tightened as I lifted my shirt. There it was. A dark hole in my stomach, ringed with blood. For a second, everything spun. I was sure I had cut myself open. I pressed my hand against it, waiting for pain. Instead, I felt something familiar. Not a wound. Not torn flesh. Just the hole I’d had since birth. My belly button, streaked with blood and panic, mistaken for something far worse.
I used to work at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California. I was employed there before they even opened in 2014 and stayed for three full 49ers seasons before I left. During that time, I worked major events including: WrestleMania 31, March 2015 . NHL Stadium Series, February 2015 (San Jose Sharks vs Los Angeles Kings) . Super Bowl 50, February 2016 (Denver Broncos vs Carolina Panthers) . Fare Thee Well: Grateful Dead final shows, June 2015 . I was granted Most Valuable Playmaker at the San Jose Earthquakes vs Seattle Sounders match on August 2, 2014 . I saw a lot of crazy things while working there. But the most unexpected was when I got into a spat with the late, great Barry Bonds. Mind you, I grew up going to San Francisco Giants games. I used to sit in the stands, look out at Barry Bonds in left field, watch him at bat, and never fully understood how legendary a player I was watching. I had the privilege of seeing him live so many times, with little to no appreciation for it at the time, or even for the fact that I was at a major league game. Anyway, the version of Barry Bonds I grew up watching was a much bigger man. He wore jewelry, had a presence, a swagger about him that was unmistakable. But on this day, working a 49ers game at Levi’s Stadium, I was posted at one of the side entrances near the ticket booths. My job was simple. Stop people from slipping through the small ticketed entrances on either side of the ticket windows and into the stadium without a ticket. There was one of us on each side. If you didn’t have a ticket or official credentials, you didn’t get in. No exceptions. Well… except for Barry Bonds. The thing is, I almost didn’t recognize him. At least at the time, he was very, very skinny. My memory of Bonds was of a much bigger guy, the version everyone talked about, the version tied to the steroid era. This guy in front of me didn’t match that image right away. So when he walked up to me, he didn’t stop like everyone else. He just kept moving. I stepped into his path and said, “Ticket.” He said, “Nope. I don’t need one.” I said, “You do. Ticket or ID badge.” He looked at me and said, “Do you know who I am? I’m Barry Bonds. I don’t need anything.” And then he pushed right past me.
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