Evening, wrestling fans. It's me, Johnny Gallivan, here with another taste of the E-ticket ride that is my life. In the past, I've given you a look at my home life, and I've waxed philosophically about anything and everything. And I've even talked about wrestling once or twice.

Since this is a wrestling site (or so they tell me), this week I thought I would share with you a few stores about what made me a wrestling fan. It should be a fun trip down memory lane, and another look into my damaged psyche. I'll apologize ahead of time if my facts aren't right, because I refuse to research this, and possibly skew my rose-colored memories. Enjoy!

I won't tell you the year, for fear of revealing my age. But, my small town cable company finally picked up the Turner Broadcasting Service. (or is that System?) As a confessed TV junkie, I dove into the channel with reckless abandon. And there, nestled amidst endless James Bond flicks and hyper-censored action movies (I never knew "hell" was a curse-word until TBS came along), was a program called "WCW Saturday Night". But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I'd even found Saturday Night, I accidentally stumbled onto a replay of "Clash of the Champions". For those of you unfamiliar, Clash was a PPV-quality broadcast, shown on TBS for free. This particular Clash included the international tag team tournament for the WCW World and US tag straps.

Now, if I can backtrack even a little more, my first taste of wrestling was probably Calgary Stampede Wrestling. Living close to the border, we got a few Canadian channels, and it was then that I learned the credo that has done me well throughout my years as a wrestling commentator and pundit: The greatest wrestlers come from Calgary. Guys like Biff Wellington, Chris Benoit, Jason the Terrible, Makhan Singh (AKA Norman the Lunatic, AKA Trucker Norm, AKA Bastion Booker, etc), Owen Hart, Bad News Allen, and the worst ref in the history of the business Jergan Herman all tore it up in that ring. Here's where I got a taste of just how good wrestling could be.

Then, the WWF started to gain popularity. Their Saturday Night's Main Event programs were classic, and I watched them religiously, along with WWF Superstars on Saturday. There, I got to see some of my favorites, Dino Bravo, Steve Keirn, Kato and Pat Tanaka, Jake Roberts, and the greatest heel team ever, The Hart Foundation, to name just a few. Like most of my friends, I became hooked with WWF, and we chatted about storylines in school. "Did you see Savage tear up Ricky Steamboat?"... "No way is Andre the Giant Machine!"... "Piper doesn't stand a chance."... "Hogan's an overrated buffoon."... "Yes, I am a model."... "Aaaaaah Loooooooooooove Youuuuuuuuuuu."

Fast forward again to that cold day (or was it warm), when I saw Clash of the Champions. I had known wrestling, and treated it like any other hobby. It didn't rule my life; not until the Clash. There, I saw old favorites like Biff Wellington and Chris Benoit, along with others who were completely foreign to me. And there, standing above them all when the dust cleared, was "Dr. Death" Steve Williams and Terry "Bam Bam" Gordy. That night of wrestling excellence convinced me to start watching this rebel upstart program WCW Saturday Night. There, I saw guys who actually wrestled! Martha, they're wrestling! This wasn't the punch-punch-kick style of the WWF. I saw armlocks, and weardown holds, and DDTs! Everybody and their brother threw DDTs around like they were candy. Along with others, wrestlers like Arn Anderson made me forget about the cowbell-wearing, snake-dragging competition in Connecticut. Theirs always seemed a cut above, and a cut above even the rest of the roster stood four men... the Horsemen.

Those years were amazing. Windham and Rhodes on one side, Demolition on the other. Honkytonk Man, or "Stunning" Steve? Terry Funk, or Roddy Piper? The insanely brutal matches between Vader and Cactus Jack. Years, angles, gimmicks, and matches all flowed together in my memories, and the timeline is a mystery. But, I remember the matches.

Like anything, wrestling is better with choice. When I became ready to become a wrestling fan, I had the choice between watching wrestling, and watching the circus. Sure, the circus could be fun; it had giants, and hillbillies, and a screaming madman wearing a kilt; but there was always wrestling to fall back on. As the years progressed, I found even more choice. Independent feds, like one out of Manitoba, where I first saw Chris Jericho and The Natural (AKA Cyrus the Virus), or the growing revolution that was ECW. As fans, we were spoiled for choice, and as a fan, I chose all of it.

Now, as I look back on my career as a wrestling fan, I wonder just how much choice we have left. Sure, I can go to an independent show and see youngsters just breaking into the business and old-timers who made me smile as a kid; and I can even look to Japan, where old-school wrestling and hardcore mayhem are both done in style. But, when I lie back on my easy-chair at night, flipping through my hundred or so channels, the choice is obvious. Watch the circus, or don't watch anything. Oh well, I've still got my memories.