mtd memoriam: Sleep Well Iron Mike Sharpe

Goodnight and sleep tight to one of my favorite wrestlers of all time. Iron Mike Sharpe. I feel for the guy. I always did. He was fun. Loud. Grunting and growling all through his matches. He was simple. Not flashy. Black tights. Black elbow and knee pads. And the infamous black brace on his right forearm. Every match, without fail, when things appeared to be getting a bit too bleak for him, Iron Mike would wait until the ref's back was turned, and ever so undiscretely, twist his black forearm brace, which presumably housed some sort of foreign object inside, and as soon as he was able, whacked his opponent over the head. I loved it. It was so human. So flawed. And so devilishly desperate. Sharpe was never in the limelight. He was one of those guys the WWF used for all the up and coming WWF heroes to wrestle and inevitably beat. He was a stepping stone. But I liked him. I liked the futility. He was fun to watch. Funny. Gritting his teeth. Spitting through his teeth. Scratching. Poking. Cheating. Seemingly trying his damndest to win a match the powers that be were never gonna let him win. And I loved him for it. Sleep well Iron Mike Sharpe.

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