André the Giant

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André René Roussimoff (May 19, 1946 – January 27, 1993 best known as André the Giant, was a French professional wrestler and actor. He was at least 2.09 metres (6 ft 10 in) tall and according to "The Official Site of Andre the Giant" 7' 4", and believed by many to have been over 2.13 metres (7 ft) at his tallest.



"We're bringing back the real thing to real wrestling fans," says Dominick Jerry, 34, co-founder of Fog City Wrestling, who uses the ring name Caesar Black. "None of that silly stuff you see a lot of nowadays."

Jerry, along with partner Steve Hemenway, 27, already scored an impressive headliner with Rikishi, a 400-pound superstar who has tangled limbs with the biggest names on the nationally televised World Wrestling Entertainment circuit.


Rikishi, whose real name is Solofa Tatu Jr., graduated from San Francisco's Balboa High School in 1987 and says he's happy to lend his services to help a family friend (Rikishi's sister is friends with Jerry's wife). He just returned from shows in South Africa and Australia, and is eager to take a step off the big-arena tour, where he's accustomed to performing for 10,000 people, usually under a cloud of pyrotechnics.

"I like being closer to the people," Rikishi says of the 300-person venue at CELLspace. "I say let the people come and see the Stink Face up close." (The Stink Face is Rikishi's signature finishing move that, using his ample hindquarters, deprives the victim of oxygen.)

For promoter Jerry, who, by day, teaches soccer and poetry to third- and fourth-graders at Taylor Elementary School in the Portola District, the launch of Fog City Wrestling is a dream come true.

Jerry grew up in Long Beach and can recall the details of his first live wrestling match the way some recall their first concert: It was Andre the Giant vs. Ultimate Warrior, and it took the young Warrior 45 seconds to trounce the aging Giant.

After high school, Jerry played drums in punk and hip-hop bands, but he always found his true pleasure off stage, doing the promotion and management errands no one else wanted to do.

"Some people were born to be backstage, doing all the little things that go into putting on a show," he says. "I'm one of them."

Jerry moved to the Bay Area seven years ago to enroll in Hayward's All Pro Wrestling school, one of the country's prominent "boot camps" for budding wrestling stars.

But again, the experience only confirmed for Jerry that the spotlight was not his place.

"It was like going to college undeclared and figuring out what you really want to do. I can get in the ring and wrestle, but I don't want to. I'd rather do this."

Alexander Roland, who owns All Pro Wrestling, has seen small wrestling leagues come and go over the years. That's why he trains wrestlers, he says, and doesn't worry much about trying to maintain a steady fan base by running a league.

When Roy Shire ran gigs at the Cow Palace, Alexander says Shire (who's now deceased) put 1,500 butts in seats every month and there was always local television to help promote the events. In those days, there were 32 regional leagues across the country and pro wrestlers could make a living touring the circuit.

But in the early '80s, promoter Vince McMahon and his then-named World Wrestling Federation changed the model, turning pro wrestling into a nationally televised event where fans could root for national stars on TV instead of paying to see their local guy. Performers like Hulk Hogan became household names, and it was easy for viewers from Buffalo to Berkeley to follow story lines and character development. The local wrestling leagues became less attractive, and they started to shut down.

"Now everybody is so brainwashed for the national product that's all they want," Alexander says. "It's hard for the locals to compete."

But some still manage. California towns like Oroville support the successful Pro Championship Wrestling, and Big Time Wrestling is based in Newark.

Dylan Drake, 26, a San Francisco bartender, is just the kind of wrestler who hopes Fog City Wrestling will succeed. Drake debuted in the ring last year after completing the All Pro Wrestling boot camp. He's competed in only a few matches as a pro (and still has no signature finishing move) but he's on tonight's bill, taking on a competitor named Jason Styles.

Drake, who describes himself as an All-American good guy, says there's no pre-determined script to follow in the ring. Pro wrestlers "work a match," improvising their moves with one another, seeking to flip-flop the momentum while playing to the crowd. A sort of gentlemanly agreement arises as to who will win; or it doesn't, and the crowd gets a helluva show.

If fans get behind one performer and the wrestler develops a following, it can thrust him beyond the independent leagues and into the national light of World Wrestling Entertainment.

"This is what helps us get our names out there as wrestlers," Drake says. "It's the next step to getting noticed and, hopefully, it'll snowball from there."

Still, All Pro Wrestling's Alexander is skeptical that San Francisco will support a pro wrestling outfit.

"In the small towns there's nothing to do," Alexander reasons. "In San Francisco, where there's plenty to do every night, there may be too much competition for the entertainment dollar."

Jerry understands his dream is an uphill climb. ("I've been on a one-man march to bring pro wrestling to the Bay Area," he says.) His hope is to draw enough money from tonight's show to put on another gig next month, and so on, until a steady fan base develops and he lands the lucrative Comcast contract.

In the meantime, it's still life in the bush leagues. Jerry's staff consists of 15 volunteers and he had to splurge to hire a professional singer to belt out "America the Beautiful" to open the show. The pyrotechnics will have to wait.

"At this level, we're lucky if we have a smoke machine," Jerry says. "When it's this small, you gotta work it, and create the emotion yourself."

For Jerry, the match's sell is simple: "You get to take your mind off the world for a few hours, not worry about the gas prices," he says. "Come see some wrestling, watch guys in tights pretend to fight. It's like Shakespeare that way."