Press Releases Posted on Sun, Jan. 25, 2004 Tallahassee's school of hard knocks To study, to practice, perchance to flatten an opponent with style By Mark Hinson DEMOCRAT STAFF WRITER A loud rumbling noise was coming from behind the doors of Body Slam University, a professional wrestling school in South Tallahassee, filling the cold night air. Had someone thrown bowling balls in an industrial clothes dryer, set it on the high and walked away? Inside, students were learning the tricks, moves and proper attitude of the pro-rasslin' trade. The best ones stood a chance to grapple in front of a live crowd later in the month. Wrestling trainer John Copassaki entered the 18-by-18 ring that was jammed into the drafty BSU warehouse. He was giving a tutorial to 15 students about how to break an opponent's leg. Well, Copassaki - who wrestles under the name of "Blaze" on the independent Capital City Wrestling promotional circuit - was showing the class how to make it look as if he was genuinely twisting Josh "Juice" Sienkiewicz's kicking left stem out of its socket. "OK, I'm going to stretch him," Copassaki said as he pulled Sienkiewicz's limb backward with a butter-churning motion. "And Josh is going to sell it. Keep in mind I'm not really applying much pressure." Sienkiewicz, who was lying on his stomach in the middle of the ring, grimaced and howled with Oscar-worthy conviction. He slapped his palms hard on the canvas. The wooden slats beneath the ring created as much racket as someone setting off firecrackers. "You've got to sell it to the audience," Copassaki shouted over the commotion. "You always have to keep in mind where the audience is and make sure that they can see your face. It's called 'ring awareness.' You want the audience to see as much as possible." Ring awareness is what BSU is all about. The is-it-real-or-fake debate about pro wrestling is irrelevant. It's all about entertainment. At BSU, students pay an initial fee of $800 to get one-on-one instruction. Lesser "maintenance fees" are charged as training progresses. It's a lot like taking ballroom dance to learn intricate new steps. Of course, the BSU students are learning a tango that includes diving off the top turnbuckle, flattening a grown man and applying a vicious-looking front face-lock. "We teach people how not to get hurt doing this," Copassaki, 26, said. "But there is a certain amount of danger, sure. It's as physical as it gets. But if I haven't taught them a move - no matter how simple - I won't let them try it. There's a technique to it. Don't come in here imitating stuff you've seen on TV and think you know how to perform. It's the quickest way to get hurt." Gettin' ready to rumble Capital City Wrestling - which is in partnership with BSU - staged its debut match in Tallahassee in April 2003. It attracted fans, paying $10 a seat, right from the start. "You'd be surprised how many people are wrestling fans; they really come out of the woodwork," Copassaki said. "We had as many as 300 to 350 fans show up. For independent shows, that's huge." The fourth and most recent CCW smackdown was staged Jan. 17 at Chubby's, a sprawling nightclub and former movie house on West Tennessee Street where such acts as rapper 50 Cent have performed. The twice-a-week training at BSU intensified as the Chubby's date with destiny approached. "Come on, it's all 'bout timing," Copassaki yelled as he ran his students through the finer points of a forward, flipping move called a "suflex." "Loosen up. You've gotta roll with it. Go slow and be safe." When he's not teaching the fine art of hammerlocks and human-tossing, Copassaki, a former high school teacher in Fort Lauderdale, is finishing up his doctorate in education at Florida State University. He recently underwent a series of chemotherapy treatments after doctors discovered a cancerous brain tumor. "You'll have to forgive me if I sit down while we talk. I still haven't gotten all my energy back after chemo," he said as he pulled up a chair ringside in the BSU warehouse. "But I'm getting better." "He's dropped about 30 pounds, but he's putting it back on," former WWF wrestler and BSU instructor Marty Jannetty said. "John's tough. He has a background in martial arts, so he's a disciplined guy." The BSU "campus" is not much to look at, Copassaki admitted. It's hidden away in a strip of drab warehouses that faces the back wall of a convenience store and what may be the biggest, busiest Dumpster in North Florida. "It's humble, but it's all we need," Copassaki said. "(Before BSU) I was driving up to Columbus, Ga., to go to wrestling school," Rod "The Bod" Foys said. "They had mats on the floor with duct tape on them. And I paid $1,600 and never even got in the ring (for a real match). This is a lot better." Foys, 31, who is the general manager of the Downtown Gold's Gym on Apalachee Parkway, has emerged as one of the rising stars of Capital City Wrestling. In the ring, Rod the Bod the character is a vain, arrogant pretty boy. He has a female "valet" who carries a mirror for him at all times. You never know when Rod the Bod may have to stop, primp and fix his hair, even if it's in the middle of a fight. "My character is sort of a combination of earlier wrestlers like Rick Rude, the Macho Man, Gorgeous George from the '50s and Jimmy Garvin," Foys said. "I kind of stole or used the image. In wrestling there's always a bad guy who is obsessed with his looks. ... I just try to get them (the audience) to hate me. If you walk out and it's silent, you're in trouble." Talking classics with Axis Jonathan Davis is not a guy most people would approach in a dark parking lot. He's a 280-pound bruiser with biceps the size of canned hams. He likes to cover his shaved head with a black skull cap bearing a silver-outlined black cross - one that looks like the Blue Max medal the ace German pilots used to get in World War I. The cap helps accentuate his Fu Manchu facial hair. Davis, 30, wrestles professionally under the name "Axis" with a partner named "Python" (Mike Christeas) in a tag team called the Hell Raisers. Axis holds a degree in classics and humanities from FSU. "I like Virgil, and I also like to reread 'The Odyssey' and 'The Iliad' as many times as I can," Davis said in a raspy voice as he stood outside in the dimly lit lot of the BSU warehouse. He was waiting for his turn to teach an advanced class. "'The Iliad' can be read as a war blueprint or a love story or many other ways. It can be read on many different levels. That's why it has endured." Davis said he divides his time between wrestling around the Southeast and working as a personal trainer. "Wrestlers come from all different backgrounds," he said. "There's a stereotype that all wrestlers are crazy or stupid, and there's a reason that stereotype exists. Then there are just as many reasons it shouldn't exist." Ironically, Davis said he "wasn't any good at real wrestling" when he gave it a shot as a teenager. "I like the entertainment aspect of wrestling," he said. "There's an element of suspended disbelief at work. Crowds are looking for a catharsis." Just like any other art, it comes with sacrifice. "Every one of my fingers - except for my thumbs - has been broken," Davis said and continued a litany of abuse that included a broken nose, six concussions, a busted jaw and a compound leg fracture brought on by "300 pounds of fat a--." "There's not a morning I get up and something's not hurting," Davis said. "The best way to get hurt is to get into the ring with someone who doesn't know what he's doing or who's green. We call it being stiff. He's not following along. It's just like dancing." So how does a pro wrestler subtly communicate to an opponent who's messing up the choreography? "What I do is I lean in real close to his ear, and I say: 'What the (expletive) are you doing?'" The big match arrives On fight night, the upstairs dressing room at Chubby's was packed with wrestlers getting into character and plotting choreography. Unlike some locker rooms filled with just as much sweat and testosterone, the confined space smelled sweet. That was thanks to the copious amounts of Johnson's Baby Oil that the wrestlers squirted on their bodies to make their muscles shine in the spotlight. "We usually try to get into character an hour and a half before showtime," former Tallahassee Scorpions soccer player Tony "T-Bolt" Vaughn, 31, said. "It's sports entertainment, and it's a soap opera all rolled into one." Most of the beginner wrestlers will be paid $25 or $50 after the night's work. Visiting "old school" pros - such as Dusty "The American Dream" Rhodes, who took part in a match last year - can make as much as $2,500 for a guest gig. "I've wrestled in matches where there were more wrestlers than audience members," Foys said. "And I've been paid with pizza and Cokes." The Capital City Wrestling motto is "Shut Up and Wrestle" - which translates into "less banter and more head-banging." The credo is put into action when the series of bouts begins. The 300 or so fans jeer, hoot and taunt the wrestlers. A chorus of Hooters girls sits in the roped-off VIP section. Copassaki has morphed into Blaze. With his face painted a crazy pattern of red and green, Blaze is the obvious crowd favorite. His entrance is cheered like a returning Roman conqueror. "There's a good crowd here tonight, but I think it'd be better if George Strait wasn't in town (in concert at the Civic Center)," Jannetty said. If Blaze was the beloved one of the evening, Rod the Bod lived up to his goal as the despised one. The boos really started when Rod the Bod called several members of the audience "red-neck trash." In a bout with "Chief Little Bear" - a visiting pro wrestler from Panama City who has taught at BSU in the past - the preening Rod the Bod mocked his opponent's height. "I didn't know this was midget wrestling tonight," Rod the Bod shouted. The crowd went nuts and started doing the FSU Seminoles "chop." Perhaps it was done in honor of Chief Little Bear's Native American heritage. During the tussle, Rod the Bod got the better of Chief Little Bear and lifted him over the top ring rope. Instead of tossing Chief Little Bear out of the ring to the floor below, Rod the Bod held him steady. The Hooters girls got out of their seats and walked to ringside. They took turns slapping Chief Little Bear in the face. Chief Little Bear somehow rallied and managed to pin Rod the Bod to win the match. When Chief Little Bear extended his hand in a gesture of good sportsmanship, Rod the Bod knocked Chief Little Bear to the canvas with a cheap shot. The crowd hissed and booed. Rod the Bod checked his hair in the mirror. All in the name of good theater, baby. WANNA LEARN SOME MOVES? Anyone interested in taking lessons in pro wrestling from Body Slam University can call 251-4349 or visit www.ccwtallahassee.com. The next Capital City Wrestling main event is tentatively set for March 20 at Chubby's, 1833 W. Tennessee St. STORY BY MARK HINSON PHOTOS BY MARK WALLHEISER OF THE DEMOCRAT STAFF STORY BY MARK HINSON PHOTOS BY MARK WALLHEISER OF THE DEMOCRAT STAFF WANNA LEARN SOME MOVES? Anyone interested in taking lessons in pro wrestling from Body Slam University can call 251-4349 or visit www.ccwtallahassee.com. The next Capital City Wrestling main event is tentatively set for March 20 at Chubby's, 1833 W. Tennessee St.