EDITOR’S NOTE: Jeremiah Plunkett writes a weekly column SlamWrestling.net, where he offers up stories of his travels in “Journeyman Journals with Jeremiah.”
Journeyman Journals: Journal Entry 11/25/2024: “A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Step” – Lao Tzu
Due to the holidays, my wrestling schedule isn’t as hectic or regular as usual. While I’m sure there are still promoters running shows on Thanksgiving and Christmas nights, it’s not as common as it used to be. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve prioritized spending time at home with family during the holidays—making memories that I probably missed out on in the past.
With that in mind, the next few weeks of Journeyman Journals will look a little different.
We’re stepping away from the usual travelogues because, let’s be honest, the day-to-day of a Thanksgiving or Christmas with family doesn’t exactly scream “wrestling action.” (Though, I’ll admit, I’ve seen some family gatherings get just as chaotic—if not more so—than the wildest matches.) Since this series is about taking you along on my journey, I thought it might be fun to dig into the archives and revisit some stories from my past.
And there’s no better place to start than the beginning.
Picture it: Sicily, 1914.
Wait, no—that’s The Golden Girls.
Picture it: Murfreesboro, Tennessee. 2005.
I’m a high school senior, fresh off my final football season. I had dreams of playing at the next level, but my body had other plans.
No, it wasn’t an injury—I just stopped growing. Turns out, very few college programs are interested in a lineman under six feet tall. Trust me, I did the research.
I got some interest here and there, but it usually came with strings attached: potential walk-on roles with no guarantees or suggestions to switch positions to linebacker or fullback after a career spent in the trenches.
My other sport, amateur wrestling, wasn’t much help either. I wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t great—I wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire.
Luckily, I was a decent student and received more academic offers than athletic ones. Still, I’ve always felt the need to stay active.
Through middle and high school, I found my outlet in backyard wrestling. It’s funny to admit now, knowing how much heat it would’ve gotten me when I first broke into the business. Back then, being a “backyarder” was about the worst thing you could be in the eyes of the veterans. Thankfully, times have changed.
Our little group, Boro Championship Wrestling (BCW), held events monthly or bi-monthly on a piece of land I still live on today. My dad, a carpenter, and my grandfather, a handyman and mechanic, helped us build a 14′ x 14′ wrestling ring reinforced with iron and permanently set into the ground.
It wasn’t the most forgiving setup. The padding consisted of a couple of rolls of carpet pad and some old carpet. The ropes? Black elastic cords from Home Depot. The mat was covered with a giant sheet of rubber to keep out water, topped with a black tarp that constantly tore and had to be patched.
But we did spring for legit turnbuckle pads—the first thing I ever ordered from HighSpots.com. Those pads were probably the single most expensive part of our ring.
Our entrance? A spray-painted tarp strung between two trees. Our tables? Random pieces of plywood, some of which mysteriously “appeared” from nearby construction sites. We might’ve been pioneers of alternative table spots, though doors never crossed our minds.
We weren’t just kids trying to hurt each other, though. Of the 10 to 20 people in BCW, a few had some level of actual training, and we practiced weekly or bi-weekly. For all its flaws, backyard wrestling gave me an outlet for my passion. But even then, I knew it wasn’t a long-term plan.
Wrestling was something I wanted to pursue seriously. Even if college football had been an option, my plan was always to find a way into wrestling.
So, it was time to find a trainer.
In 2024, you can just Google “pro wrestling schools near me.” But in 2005, it wasn’t that simple—or maybe I was just too naïve to think of it. My grand plan was to attend local indie shows with my friends Chris and Caleb (also from BCW) and ask wrestlers if they took on students or knew of a school.
Finally, at an NWA Main Event show in Columbia, Tennessee, promoted by Mike Porter, my persistence paid off.
We’d recently decided to up our game, figuring we didn’t stand out enough. So, we dressed up—button-ups, sport coats, and jeans. And, for reasons I still can’t explain, I made lanyards with the BCW logo, thinking it would make us look more professional.
After the main event, we were ready to give up when we decided to approach Mean Mike Woods. He gave us a strange look but said nothing.
As the show ended, we were about to leave when Mike stopped us and said, “Stick around. I’ll talk to you after the show.”
Mike tried to wait us out. We were the last ones left in the building for what felt like forever. Caleb—who would go on to wrestle briefly as KC Krucible—even sneaked into the ring to take a bump while we waited.
Eventually, Mike returned with Buzz Dupp, and they explained the costs, the process, and what to expect. After about a month of scraping together the down payment, we showed up at the home of wrestler Lee Condry. That’s where the real training began for me, Chris, and Caleb.
But that’s a story for next week.
Next time, we’ll pick up where we left off and head down the road to my first match. Until then, I hope you all enjoy Thanksgiving with your loved ones.
I’m thankful for my time in professional wrestling. I’m thankful for the opportunities given to me by the National Wrestling Alliance. I’m thankful for this column and the chance to share my journey with you. And most of all, I’m thankful for every one of you who’s taken the time to read this or come to a show.
Take care, and I’ll see you next week.
JEREMIAH PLUNKETT LINKS
- Jeremiah Plunkett story and column archive
- Jeremiah Plunkett socials via LinkTree
- NWA LinkTree
