Ken Joyce v Dick Conlon
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Bouts like this were curtain-raisers nationwide throughout the period we describe. In actual fact, they provided the real wrestling before skulduggery and theatrics set in, doing their 25 minutes of clean slick move and counter-move wrestling.
We single this veteran pairing out more by chance than selection.
Dodger Dick was clearly not the commentator’s favourite, notwithstanding his status of already fully 14 years propping up bills throughout the south. Neither his role as mini clown prince nor as captain of his tag pairing with Chris Bailey had managed to elevate one of wrestling’s many schoolmasters from a strictly assistant role. Exams just wouldn’t allow it.
So today we saw him haunting dear Ken Joyce, the uncle we all wish we’d had, by his ghostly similarity as body-double to the Rushden man’s long-standing tag-partner, Eddie Capelli. Their second televised match-up in fact, Joyce having disposed of both Dodgers in the preceding 18 months.
Dear, dear Ken. With not an ounce of nastiness in his veins. Providing, of course, we choose to turn a blind eye to sixties foul play alongside pirate-like rule-bending brother Doug. Ken of that most idiosyncratic of stances, not merely flat-footed, but an athlete who balanced on his heels most times. So off they set on their 25-minute run, each giving and taking equally. Such generous selling of each other’s moves combined with an absence of lovey-dovey hand-shaking to convince us that here we had two equally weighted foes vying for a share of the spoils. They massaged their arms believably back into sockets after throws, positively flew as the other attempted a whip, and grunted and groaned, panted and palpitated, with ne’er a smile nor a minimally grudging mutual acknowledgement.
The ending was quite outstanding, but mediocre commentary failed to highlight its worth. From a truly spectacular plank rise à la Zimba or Bartelli, Joyce grabbed his man, hoisting him aloft seemingly for a suplex but switching deftly to pile-driver mode and delivering a hefty bump to the canvas followed up by a oner-twoer-threer from youer-knower-whoer.
As the prostrate Dodger saw stars, the prim southern MC called the sterile result. Alas, all articulation at the expense of execution. Oh how a Neil Snowdon from the north would have described each stage of this true climax to let us know how privileged we had been to witness it. But we were left with typical Dale Martin fare, and the impression that this master of ceremonies had been woken from his slumber reluctantly to enter the ring to describe a meaningless result rather than a magnificent two-sided performance.
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