EDITOR’S NOTE: Jeremiah Plunkett writes a weekly column SlamWrestling.net, where he offers up stories of his travels in “Journeyman Journals with Jeremiah.”
Journal Entry 12/2/2024
Greetings from a surprisingly chilly Walt Disney World Resort in Orlando, Florida! The winter “vacation” continues—although calling a week at Disney a vacation might be stretching it. Imagine logging 12-15 miles a day on foot, navigating hordes of people, and hunting for something vaguely resembling healthy food. Not complaining, though. My wife loves all things Disney, and we’ve had some amazing trips on both coasts. Still, I often find I need a vacation from our Disney vacation.
But enough about Mickey Mouse and mileage. Let’s get back to the story we left off last week.
It’s February 2005. Our deposits had been paid, and we’ve received the address where our journey begins. Dill Lane in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. My first thought? Surely, this can’t be right. I was born and raised in Murfreesboro and lived in or around the area my whole life. Wrestlers live in Murfreesboro? Here? In my backyard? Never crossed my mind.
We pull up to what looks like a completely ordinary house. No arena, no gym. Just a house. Surely, we’ve made a mistake. But then we spot a familiar vehicle in the drive that belongs to Mikey Woods and Buzz Dupp. This IS the right place. Turns out it was the home of “The Outlaw” Lee Condry.
We park and are greeted by the trio—three wrestlers we’d regularly watched on Mike Porter’s NWA Main Event. Chris Norte and I rarely missed their show on local TV. We even made the pilgrimage to Sunday afternoon tapings at the Inferno Bar.
We arrived dressed and ready to train, but there was one glaring issue: no wrestling ring in sight. That’s when we got our first lesson in paying dues. Three times a week (weather permitting), we would set up the ring in Lee’s backyard for training and break it back down afterward. Turns out, starting in professional wrestling is a lot more work than wristlocks.
Our training was as informal as the location suggested. Mikey took on the role of head coach, though nothing was ever official. Buzz and Lee pitched in as assistant trainers, each bringing their own outlooks to the mix.
The first few months were filled with the basics—tumbling, falls, squats, and blow-up drills. Mikey believed in taking it slow. Painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that when Mikey couldn’t make it to class, Lee and Buzz would let us cut loose a little. That’s when the fun began.
Lee and I developed a bond over time, and he made me an offer: as long as I set up and tore down the ring, I could train with him anytime. At that point, my schedule was jam-packed—college full-time, part-time work, training three days a week with Mikey and Buzz, and another two or three days with Lee. Our late-night sessions under streetlights were where I began to find my footing and experiment.
Lee also ran a local promotion called American Championship Wrestling (ACW), which carried on the hardcore traditions of its predecessor, the Havoc Wrestling Association. One fateful July night, Lee booked me for my first match. It wasn’t just any match—it was the main event. A six-man tag: The High Rollers (Lee Condry and his partner, GQ) & White Trash versus the Black Stallions faction. When one of the Stallions couldn’t make it, I got the nod to step in.
Now, let me pause here to provide some historical context. The Black Stallions were an African-American heel faction. Their manager, 2-Bit, was … well, not African-American. In fact, 2-Bit was a white man in blackface. Yes, you read that right. In hindsight, it’s astonishing this ever saw the light of day. While I’m relieved there’s no footage of my involvement, I can’t rewrite history. I was there—fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and utterly oblivious to the PR nightmare this gimmick could have been. Luckily, it was a one-and-done for me, and my path would diverge elsewhere from there onward.
If stepping into the main event in my first match wasn’t enough, let’s add a few extra layers of insanity. This wasn’t just any six-man tag; it was tornado rules, no disqualification, and falls count anywhere. Welcome to the deep end. Hope you can swim, Kid.
Strangely, I wasn’t as nervous as you might think. Maybe it was youthful ignorance. Maybe it was adrenaline. Either way, I felt more excited than scared. I stuck close to Lee during the match because I trusted him to guide me—and he did his best. But with the chaos of the match stipulations, there was only so much “protection” to go around.
The highlights (or lowlights, depending on your perspective):
- I bled (courtesy of Lee).
- I took chair shots to the head and back.
- I was slammed and suplexed onto thumbtacks.
- And for the grand finale, I took the High Rollers’ “Pimp Juice” finisher—essentially a double swinging Uranage slam—through a bundle of fluorescent light tubes.
The bell rang, the match was over, and my first outing as a professional wrestler was officially in the books. I was battered, bloodied, and bruised … but I was also euphoric. I’d survived. I’d made it.
After a quick shower, I was still expected to—and did—tear down the ring. For the next two weeks, I picked glass shards out of my back, but it didn’t deter me. I trained harder, wrestled weekly for Lee, and soaked up every ounce of knowledge I could.
Looking back, my start in wrestling was anything but conventional. Yet, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Mikey, Buzz, and Lee didn’t just teach me wrestling moves; they taught me respect, hard work, and paying your dues. Without them, I wouldn’t be here today. They turned from coaches into friends, and I’ll always try to do right by their names.
Thank you, Mikey, Buzz, and Lee. Thank you for believing in a small-town kid who didn’t know a wristlock from a wristwatch.
And thank you, dear reader, for following this journey. Next week, we’re back in the ring and on the road. Until then, be well, stay safe, and Happy Holidays!
JEREMIAH PLUNKETT LINKS
- Jeremiah Plunkett story and column archive
- Jeremiah Plunkett socials via LinkTree
- NWA LinkTree
