The indie wrestler I went out with circa 2003 died recently. I’m not sure what he died of, but his Facebook page shows an x-ray of a bone with metal rods in it or something, dated like a week before he died. I think physically he really had a hard time of it.
He was around 43. People on Facebook were saying he was younger, but I remember him as being a year or two older than me. He told me (and I think only me) that he fibbed about his age, made himself younger, in attempt to extend the viability of his wrestling career.
After we broke up I stayed away from him for all the right reasons, but I’m sad now that I never checked in with him over the years. He was in a dire state when we parted ways, but he went on to a life of youth ministry and service. He was a natural heel, but after wrestling he really became one of the good guys. I wish I followed him on Twitter back when I discovered him there and said hello. Now all I can do is follow him posthumously.
I wasn’t ever going to say Dameon’s name on the blog here. I wanted to respect his privacy. I got to know him too well, got beneath the kayfabe to his life wounds, and it didn’t seem right to turn him into a character, to exploit his pain for my writing. But then I remembered I told him I was going to write about professional wrestling someday, and how he lit up. He told me about how interesting wrestlers’ lives are, and what a complex art it is. The sense I got from him was a deep gratitude for a writer who would want to help tell the story of wrestling, and that maybe he would even feature in it. So here I am now, writing about Dameon Dollaz. It occurs to me that he should be included as one of the inspirations for this blog.
So God bless, Dameon Dollaz. I hope you know I never forgot about you and always hoped you were okay. I loved your airbrushed pants and your big arms, and the way you could pick me up and carry me like a rag doll. Also, your mean promo work always gave me chills:
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