Remember way back when...back when your most pressing priority was if and when you would eat the paste? Don't we all have wonderful recollections of when we were just lil' tykes in the schoolyard? I remember. I remember when the teacher used to ask us, "What would you like to be when you grow up?" I've come to wonder since then.........

Today's superstar sports entertainers were kids once, too. Did they know all along that they would be professional wrestlers? Probably not. But some kid out there might know right now. he or she may have a vision of glitz, glamour, and championship gold that only RAW or Nitro could bring to fruition.

But who would they most like to be like when they grow up? Who can kids look to to be their model for ring success? Their are so many choices. Can we narrow down the list? We shall certainly try.

Well, let's see, now. Let's start with my own personal favorite, Mick Foley. Quite possibly the most demented figures ever struck in a wrestling were created by Mrs. Foley's baby boy. Mankind, Cactus Jack, Dude Love, whatever the name, you knew, more often than not, you were in for something unique. Be it a blistering promo, a heinous bump, or just the very costumes he wore into the square circle, Foley did everything within his power (that time tested combination of Foley physique and his self-professed "half-thimbleful of talent) to give the paying audience, be they 20 or 20,000, their money's worth. The respect he garnered from fan and peer alike was hard earned, but well earned.

But the price he had to pay was steep, 'tis true. His body has been savaged to a point where a lesser man may indeed already be in a wheelchair. One ear was sliced in half, irrevocably. His quest to reach the pinnacle of his profession (which, in can be argued, he did, with 3 WWF Titles + numerous Tag Titles amid myriad other gold from all levels of the business) took nearly 15 years of hellacious physical abuse to achieve. Perhaps his most likely legacy to wrestling will be his nightmarish endeavors in Japan, when he was crowned "King of the Death Matches," a feat which required him to subject himself to such indecencies as barbed wire, broken glass, nail beds, thumbtacks, and , to top it all like some demonic cherry on top of a slice of Hell, honest-to-goodness EXPLODING barbed wire boards! Some would look at this and say that Mick's story is a testament to perserverance and self- belief: others would gasp in horror at the sound of such atrocities, then gasp again when they realized that most, if not all, were visited upon himself.

Alright. Maybe, maybe not. How about a different example. Perhaps Bret Hart? The Hitman, much like Mick Foley, is a truly grizzled veteran of the ring wars. A product of father Stu Hart's Dungeon, and Stampede Wrestling, Bret was no wet-behind-the-ears rookie when he latched on with Vince McMahon's burgeoning franchise in the mid '80s. After a highly touted and quite suc- cessful run as a Tag Team competitor, Bret was able to srtike out on his own as a singles threat in the early part of the '90s. His work and dedication (and, yes, his LOYALTY) were eventually re- warded with 2 Intercontinental Titles and 5 reigns as WWF Champion. His popularity soared as the decade wore on, even after a less-than-complete heel turn just before "That" happened (and we'll talk about "That" in a moment. Even after switching companies, he was tabbed numerous times to posess WCW gold.

Now, about "That". You may have guessed by now what I mean by "That". Survivor Series 1997 is still a potent buzzword in the realm of professional wrestling and it's cyberspace progeny. To this day, Bret still can't think about Vince McMahon without a certain tinge of venom on his tongue and daggers in his eyes because of it. But was the "screwjob" the be all and the end all of the problem? Hardly.

You see, Vince, being the shrewd businessman that he is, realized that his company had become the 2nd banana to WCW in the mid '90s. Head-to-head competiton for talent and for ratings had swung heavily in Ted Tuner's favor. Realizing that he was more than likely going to be on the short end of a bidding war for Bret Hart's services, Vince (at least, as he tells it) all but begged Bret to break his WWF contract and sign with WCW, siting the fact that he couldn't offer Bret nearly what Turner could. Bret, however, didn't want to leave, but eventually ceded to the greener pastures of Atlanta. There were only a few, minor problems. One, Bret was still the WWF Champion. Two, Bret despised the man Vince had chosen as his successor: Shawn Michaels. To Bret, Shawn represented everything that had gone wrong with the sport he loved during the '90s. The shift in fan approval from clean-cut, straight arrow "good guys", to the relatively more realistic warts-and-all anti-hero, did not sit well with the purist in Bret. Bret became jaded, yet his loyalties stil laid squarely with Vince and then WWF. So (at least, as Bret tells it), as a show of good faith, Bret agreed to drop the title to Shawn. His one condition: it not happen in Bret's native Canada. A knotty pine, indeed. Anyway, there is much we still don't know about what transpired that November night in Montreal, but this much is certain: Bret lost his title to Shawn under "diabolical" circumstances. Did a good man, a company man, get shafted by his employer? Did a paranoid owner try to save face for his company by rigging a rigged match? Or was Bret's "tradi- tialist" bent really his cover for the fact that, like many before him, and many since, he couldn't part with the in-ring "Hitman" when he was outside as just plain Bret? Had he become a "mark" for himself, as they say in the business, to a point where he couldn't put anyone or anything before his own priorities? In other words, did Bret screw Bret?

Yikes! That ought to send a few folks dashing to the keyboards to rattle a few cyber-sabres in my direction. Maybe I should shift gears here. how about a different example now. How about Dusty Rhodes?

He's good for a number of reasons. Like Foley, he worked just about wherever he could, whenever he could. Like both, he paid his dues for a good stretch before he came into success for himself in terms of championships. Like both, he enjoyed several reigns as the champion at the highest level, being NWA champ 3 times, at a time when it still meant something. He took a Foley- esque body and a Bret-like love for his fans and their adulation and parlayed them into a highly succesful and influential career in promotions literally from coast-to-coast. He came to embody the "Everyman", a personality that any fan could relate. His son-of-a-plumber roots were a spring- board to national and international fame. As a performer, Dusty is an inspiration to anyone who feels like they just aren't perfect, making them realize that they, like he, can "do it".

Yes, as a performer, Dusty is a marvel. As a booker, however, Dusty's facade begins to crumble.

If this were the late '70s and you were Ric Flair, I would be tempted to tell you to chuck this whole wrestling jazz and get out while you can. WHAT?!? Space Mountain? The 16-time World Champion Ric Flair? You must be mixing your meds again! What ever could you mean?

Well.....

You see, Dusty had the honor of being the booker in the NWA and later in WCW. That means he got to decide who would win over whom and how. For the most part, the final decisions were Dusty's to make.....and his to make alone. It was at this time that Ric Flair began his rise to fame and fortune in the NWA and continue it into WCW. Ric was champion of the NWA on 9 occasions and WCW once from September of '81 through September of '91. Most of that time as champ was spent under the thumb of booker Dusty Rhodes. Surely a 10-time champ must be a man of great charisma. Yes. Surely he must be a man of great technical acumen. Yes. Surely this man could hold a crowd in his powerful hands. Yes. Surely the powers-that-be would make this man into a seemingly insurmount- able force in the ring..........surely..........hello?

Well, no. Dusty, in his inimitable way, went out of his way to make Flair look as impotent as a 10-time champ possibly could. From making him into the cowardly heel, begging off seemingly EVERY opponent on bended knee to creating conclusions to matches so convoluted that they are forever emblazoned in the topical lexicon (the good old "Dusty Finish") to jobbing the poor bastard to RONNIE GARVIN, Dusty executed a monumentally ingenious scheme; failure through success. His jaundiced booking eye nearly curtailed the career of a great champion (and this from a writer who still can't stand Flair), and it definitely prompted the demise of the old NWA.

So what, then, does this near ceaseless rambling get us. I don't know. I was just trying to come up with a good role model for aspiring sports-entertainers. I wonder now if one exists. A grand example, one who posesses the charm of Dusty, the grace and prowess of Bret, and the grit of Mick. Without all that other stuff. While I'm at it, I should wish for a pony, too. (that's it: I'll be a jockey when I grow up.)