Mick McManus v Clive Myers
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It was always fascinating to see how clashes of invincibles would pan out. Jackie Pallo had developed the face-saving walk-out many years before today’s main event, and other inconclusive No Contests and Unable to Continues combined to be a scourge of professional wrestling down the years.
In this match-up of athletic Clive Myers, his Iron Fist persona now excitingly honed beyond recognition from the quiet welterweight of the early seventies, and a leotarded Mick McManus in the twilight of his combative years, the contrasts were so extreme that any knowing fan could have made a fair bet as to the outcome.
Myers was on the up, holding sway with the great names of the era, the last great days of televised wrestling, tagging with Kung Fu and opposing Rocco and going on subsequently even to do battle with heavyweight Kendo Nagasaki. McManus had already started to allow defeat on television, Mal Sanders and Tony St Clair being two later champions who had been seen to topple the Great Man on their way up the ladder. Here he was, just a year and a day before his final appearance on the small screen he had made all his own.
An even more aged McManus, against the martial arts star, and even a Dale Martin London-based star in McManus’s own not quite literal likeness – yes, this would surely be a career-embedding victory for Iron Fist.
In his last few years, McManus bouts tended to last less than 15 minutes, the wrestler’s equivalent of an OAP bus pass concession, down from the mandatory 25. So it was today, with two full 5 minute rounds and two scores within seconds of the other two rounds. Nevertheless, in their 12 minutes of ring action, the fans were treated to all the regular McManus tricks, some new ones too, and Myers had ample opportunity to pose and threaten and deliver his karate blows.
We particularly enjoyed the sleeper hold which unfortunately Kent Walton failed to pick up on. Myers weakened the McManus neck and then applied the sleeper. McManus quickly nodded off, eyes shut, head to one side, arm drooping lifelessly. Just as soon as referee Max Ward had broken the hold, McManus was spring-heeled and smiling derisively as he had outwitted the official.
His 12 minutes of activity were action-packed as he once again convinced us of how very much he wanted to win, whilst at the same time making us hate him, whether for blindside tactics, abuse of the audience, or simply the oh-so-uncouth manner in which he could throw a water bottle and spit not quite accurately into the bucket.
Editing his performance for these later years meant something had to suffer: he didn’t take a single throw, failing to go with one Myers whip, denying us his familiar bounce, and not even attempting his forearm smash against his jacketed opponent. But he sank snugly and regularly into his restful step-over-toe-hold, a vantage point from which to engage audience members or the world at large in surly backchat, consolidating his portrayal of the dislikeable Londoner.
Myers showed tremendous respect to the master, perhaps his employer, and sold his attacks and foul play most graciously. He vaulted over the referee, bounded over the top rope, made several plays for his delicate ears, and, in short, did everything to highlight the difference in styles, age, approach, ability.
In spite of, or, more likely, precisely because of all this, the match worked beautifully to be very very enjoyable, even though commentator Walton was hard pressed to contribute usefully. The cruelty of the television close-up showed us the referee standing over the rolled up McManus, who had a whole foot fully through the ropes as Ward counted out the opening pin fall in Myers’ favour.
Kent Walton told us it would be disallowed and then found himself selflessly saying he had been mistaken and the fall was fair and square “by inches”. At any rate, Myers was on his way to the predicted victory.
For some, the ending will be the remarkable part of this encounter. Judging by Mick’s expression it was genuinely surprising for him. Following a benign flick of a throw in which contact was scarcely made between the two, Clive Myers went into orbit, vaulting high, high over the top rope just as he had on entry all those 12 minutes or so earlier. Just this time it was horizontally.
He absolutely flew, his heels creating a parting of the waves in the third row of which Moses would have been proud. We have worn out the rewind and slow buttons on the VCR to see whether those seated in the target row had any prior inkling of what was to befall them, but must conclude they appeared not to be prepared at all. Kent missed the recovery but we glimpsed a dishevelled Iron Fist, recovered and back in vertical mode. If truth be told, we were more concerned about the condition of the audience members.
And thanking our lucky stars that bookmakers don’t take bets on professional wrestling.
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