Long Days and Short Pays

This book is a nostalgic romp through wrestling s magnificent past.
Lanny "The Genius" Poffo

By his own admission, H.E. West was never what you might call a well-known name in professional wrestling. He never wrestled in Madison Square Garden, he never held a championship title, and the small amount of money he was paid seldom covered the expenses he incurred on the road. For all intents and purposes, wrestling was not much more than a hobby, but he was doing what he loved.

West's story is a captivating look at life on the road for a man whose only desire was to be a part of the world of professional wrestling, not matter how small or insignificant that part might be. He takes the reader along with him on his journey into the wrestling world, describing his time in the ring, wrestling in high-school gyms and armories before fewer than one hundred people, and on the road with his fellow wrestlers. West wrestled as Mean Duke West, The Creature, and his most high-profile character, the Canadian Rose. He talks about being cheated by promoters, and being paid as little as one dollar a match. The narrative is peppered with honesty and humor, and told with humility by a man who never makes himself out to be more than he was - a wrestler whose sole purpose in the ring was to make other wrestlers look good.

His story comes to a close as, with the advent of Vince McMahon and World Wrestling Entertainment, he watches the wrestling business change around him, and as the independent promotions go out of business, he finds himself standing on the outside of the wrestling business and looking in.

This is the story of a man who sacrificed and did what it took to achieve his childhood dream - to be a "professional wrestler."

Excerpt from Chapter 9: A Bloody Mess
Copyright © H.E. West
When I finally convinced him to lie down, I grabbed a clean towel and told him to hold it to his head, and then asked someone to find a first-aid kit. Unfortunately, nobody could find the janitor who opened up the building. The best anyone could come up with was a couple of Band-Aids, and they were practically useless in this situation. When Bobby walked into the dressing room, he looked at Johnny and calmly said, "He cut a little deep."
All I could say was, "No sh--, Bobby!" and I sent him out to call an ambulance.
Before long, the ambulance showed up and the medics walked in to see a room with blood all over the walls and floors. Johnny was still lying on the floor and holding the towel to his head. By that time, the towel was almost useless. It was totally soaked with blood. Johnny was yelling and babbling about what a great match it had been. Most of the other wrestlers are going about their business, while Bobby and I stood over Johnny and smoked cigars. As the medics went to work, one of them looked up at me and said, "Do you guys really like doing this stuff?"
I shrugged my shoulders as if I was indifferent to the whole situation. Then Johnny piped up, "Hell, yes! I love this sh--!"
The two medics looked at each other as if they had found themselves lost in some strange world that was like nothing they had ever seen. I suppose that was true.