The shopping center on King Street in Wigan, Greater Manchester has seen better days, from the empty brick and mortar Victorian style storefronts displaying nothing but leasing signs with a smattering of struggling businesses desperately clinging to life in between to the sparse number of pedestrians meandering about the day along the brick sidewalks and to the dull, overcast sky looming overhead. In what was once the shopping mecca of Manchester has now slowly degraded into a lonely vista serving no purpose other than for a backdrop for travelers to make their way to and from various citizen transport stations. A waft of cold air bristles through the empty street, the last gasp of winter trying to sink its talons into the skin of the people going about their daily toils.
Cat Riley shivers in her blue and white nylon track suit with her gaze scouting ahead past a clothing store flanked by a specialty tee shirt kiosk, and past an older style phone booth, finally settling on the Metro link center, another Victorian style building with its burnt orange façade and twin steeples standing guard over the entrance. Lazily swinging a black, nylon gym bag she casts a glance over her right shoulder to her Uncle, Ernie Riley walking along beside her. He zips his black windbreaker jacket up a notch in response to the rush of cool air and then thrust his hands into the front pockets of a pair of beige khaki pants. Following his lead she too zips the front of her jacket up a notch, with her matching blue and white high top sneakers squeaking lightly against the sidewalk keeping pace with him.
“So Uncle”, she says, while recalling their conversation the previous day regarding the differences between catch wrestling and its professional counterpart. “Yesterday you said you would tell me tomorrow what makes catch wrestling so different from the professional stuff. Well, tomorrow is now today”.
“So it is”, he observes dryly, casting his eyes up to briefly follow a flock of birds flying in a flock formation resembling an inverted V. I suppose I can do that, but to truly appreciate it, you need to understand the history of catch wrestling here in England”.
He walks onward as his mind rewinds to tales of his youth, tales passed on to him by his father and grandfather. Tales of a time when wrestling was the undisputed king of sports, from sideshow carnival attractions to sold out venues across the rolling English countryside.
“Back in the mid – 1800s wrestling was a lot different than what you see today”, he begins with the briefest flash of a smile brought on by the memory from his own youth, a memory of his father accepting the challenge of a carnival barker to face his ‘world champion’ in a match that was decided in less than a minute with his father claiming victory and treating his two young sons to ice cream with the proceeds. “For starters, styles were so diverse you would think them whores in Amsterdam’s red light district, and pretty much every swinging dick in town was ready to lock up at a moment’s notice to prove himself against another man. It was kinda like one of your martial arts movies that you watch on Saturdays, only it happened every day. Everybody, the Irish, the Americans, the Chinese and of course the British had their own unique style. The Irish and the Americans were probably most similar as they both favored a collar and elbow style, which is standing up. It was a lot like Greco-Roman wrestling in that you couldn’t grab your opponent below the waist. It was pretty weak if you ask me. Hell, it was softer than baby shit on a hot, rainy day. I mean you could grab your opponent by the jacket and win the match just by throwing them. What kind of buffoonery is that? Take your bleeding coat off you stupid berk! Best of all, the first American president George Washington supposedly excelled at this kind of wrestling. That tells me all I need to know about the yanks”.
Cat allows her thoughts to travel back to the time being described to her; a small, industrial era town in Lancashire replete with horses, buggies and a pub on every corner. Prostitutes line the unpainted porches and balconies of the pubs and hotels, catcalling to every shipman, miner, and laborer within earshot in hopes of enticing him to enjoy her company. The kerosene street lamp lit carriageways were paved with slabs of granite; the sidewalks remained wood with the alleys more often than not dirt. She could not imagine someone being able to see more than a few feet away at night in a town such as this, especially when skies are clouded.
‘In England” her Uncle continues,” the dominant style was called Lancashire wrestling. Now, the big difference between our wrestling and theirs was in the rules. To put it simply; they had rules and we didn’t. Ours was more of a throwback to the Pankration practiced by the ancient Greeks”. He drapes his right arm over Cat’s shoulder ensuring her further attention and continues, “now, wrestling was popular everywhere, not just here. You could go to Germany, Iceland, America or anywhere else and find it and it grew to the point that everybody started thinking that their style was the best and before you could bat an eye so-called champions started springing up like weeds after a good rain. These bunglers then took their show on the road, challenging every greenhorn they could find and thumping their chests like a silverback in heat, but the real fun started when these blokes made their way across the pond and came here”.
“This American strongman by the name of William Muldoon got into the game. He was a fitness fanatic and an active wrestler but in my opinion his true gift was training others. He took this lad, a former boxer named John L. Sullivan and offered to train him, to teach him to wrestle and get back into shape. By the time Sullivan finally agreed to train with him he was on crutches and looking sloppier than a Jonah Hill movie that nobody wants to see about baseball statistics. He was so drunk upon arrival that his blood type was listed as whiskey. But this didn’t scare Muldoon and he took this chap, whose kidneys and liver were jumping ship like the first bitches on a lifeboat from the Titanic and got him down from 260 pounds of pudding to a rock solid 190 pounds. He then takes a bit more time to bulk Sullivan up to 210 pounds of muscle in preparation for a match under London rules. I don’t much care for the Americans and their training but credit where it’s due, Muldoon did a fantastic job on this man. He chased him through a seven day a week routine of wood cutting, weight lifting, club bell work, rope skipping, sparring and even plowing fields. By the time of the fight everybody and their dog said Sullivan looked like he was chiseled from stone”.
The pair pauses briefly to stare at a mother across the way scolding an errant child for stepping out into the street without looking. Never mind that there is no traffic to be seen other than a bicyclist clad in obnoxiously bright yellow spandex shorts and wearing a plastic white riding helmet with a black knapsack clinging to his back, Ernie could still appreciate the woman wanting to teach her child proper safety. Hawking up a loose pod of phlegm he spits it into the street and the pair continues on their way.
“Now, despite the fact that Sullivan’s trainer Muldoon was the first recognized wrestling champion for whatever reason.., I don’t know how that came to be, maybe it had something to do with that silly collar and elbow poppycock being as popular as those silly little fidget spinners every kid whose parents should have had a full on lobotomy screws around with for days on end. At any rate he was recognized and his name carried a lot of weight, even in England. Not that it mattered any because his boy Sullivan was playing by our rules, of which there were none which meant that he was in for a treat. You see, just like every other American bloke who fancied himself a champion and toured the countryside to take on all comers, we were doing the same. Our wrestlers were going into Germany, Norway, Russia, and all over Europe and bringing all of those fancy new tricks they learned back to England and with the whole of Europe at our doorstep we had a much larger sampling size than did the yanks. They weren’t ready, not in the least and Sullivan was mangled several times over”.
Stopping at a small, tin kiosk attended by a mustachioed older man with thinning grey hair sporting typical male pattern baldness Ernie buys a soda for himself and Cat. He pays the appreciative gentleman and resumes his trek, popping open the cold can and taking a swig of Coke Zero. His gaze falls to the can studying the contents which he reads to himself; potassium benzoate, acesulfame – whatever that is, aspartame, and phenylalanine. None of which he has ever heard of before as expressed by the scornful frown on his face.
“I’ll never understand why the Americans prefer to make their food in a bloody lab instead of growing it. You need a Ph.D. just to decipher the label! Now, where was I...” his voice trails off allowing for his mind to rewind to the last point in the conversation at hand. “Ah yes, to say that Sullivan and Muldoon were surprised by the sheer brutality of Lancashire wrestling was an understatement, because no sport since Pankration had ever allowed such freedom in the rules and literally no sport in the western world had heard actually encouraged the intentional disfigurement and maiming of opponents. Eye gouging was quite normal. Hell, some people were known to file their teeth and nails to sharp edges for the sake of winning a contest. Others were arrested and jailed for attempted murder during some of these matches. Needless to say things got pretty messy but fortunately they didn’t stay that way for long. The more intelligent types didn’t want to get killed in a simple wrestling match and after a while things like that were banned. The Americans brought our style of Catch wrestling to their side of the pond and worked on it while we continued to develop and enhance our own. We added elements of other styles to the Lancashire style, a bit of Scottish back hold, a touch of French flat hand wrestling, a dab of Japanese Jujitsu, and a smidge of German Kampfringen to round it out among others. The Americans took it a step further by adding striking elements to their game and finally bringing it on par with our own”.
“Where does grandfather come into all of this”? Cat asks eagerly as the pair approach the Metro link station. They take a place in line behind a behemoth of a woman, a woman Cat speculates as being nearly as wide as she is tall. Short dark, curly hair, a red blouse and black slacks drape the rotund mound who attends a trio of loud mouthed freckle-faced children. The rug rats dance around their mother who fumbles mindlessly through her purse, each one seeming to try and out shout the other. “Oh my stars”, Cat mutters, before turning away from the trilogy of terror. Finally, the mother snaps at them to quiet down as she remembers placing her rail pass in her front pants pocket rather than her purse. She hands it to the attendant who stamps it and sends the obnoxious orchestra on their way, allowing for Cat and her uncle to step up. “I mean, he was involved in all of this, right”?
“For a kitty cat you have a surprising lack of patience”, he chuckles while paying the attendant cash for two fares. Waving them through the attendant autonomously turns his lifeless gaze to the next passenger in line. “Relax; we’re almost to the good part”.
“By this time Muldoon had returned to active competition and held onto the title for a long time…,”
“Wait a minute”, Cat interrupts as the pair steps into the loading area and starts to wait patiently along with a smattering of other passengers, each individual or group selecting their own personal space to sit out the oncoming wait. “You said Muldoon was a Greco Roman man, collar and elbow, how was he able to do this if collar and elbow was so weak”?
“You’re paying attention.., good”, he smiles and tugs gently on his niece’s back turned ball cap. “The reason was sheer strength. From 1880 to 1908 when George Hackenscmidt dropped the title to Frank Gotch it was strength alone that carried them through the day”.
“I knew wrestling was all about strength”! Cat exclaims. “I knew it and I said that I couldn’t bench press a..,”
“Don’t go pinching a loaf just yet Cat, I’m not finished”. The concrete floor beneath them rumbles, heralding the arrival of the train. The heavy steel braking system squeals painfully as it slows the mechanical beast to a halt allowing for the doors to open and the passengers to step into the waiting cars. “Catch wrestling was still in its infancy”, Ernie continues. “The better catch wrestlers were still learning from their mistakes against the musclemen and honing their craft and in 1908 it all came crashing down when the American champion Frank Gotch beat the Russian Lion. He was wise to the strongman tricks having watched so many of them do business and reasoned that if he could control the other man’s legs he could effectively take away his base of power so he did just that by weakening his ankles with toe holds and was also said to have used some sort of Vaseline on his body to prevent the big man from being able to secure a good grip”.
“Wasn’t that illegal”? Cat asks while her eyes roam the countryside zipping by.
“I don’t believe there was anything in the rules against it and if it’s not listed in the rules you have to assume that it’s legal. Now Gotch was no muscle head but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t in darn fine shape. You have to be if you’re gonna be able to hook those bastards. Still, you never saw him on your precious bench press. He conditioned himself with his own bodyweight. He focused on developing a fair amount of strength, dexterity and cardiovascular conditioning. Another thing he noticed about the bodybuilder types was that they tended to tire out rather quickly, so if he could last long enough until their strength started to fade he could take over the match. He was the type of guy who could wrestle three, four and five hour matches, the bloke just didn’t get tired, and he was just strong enough to make them work hard, and expend their energy so that they would tire out. They had finally discovered the way to deal with the meatheads and the jig was up”.
“Now this is where your grandfather comes in. Back in the 1930’s me and your dad’s dad Billy Riley worked as a molder here in Wigan. He worked with the miners all the time and started training Lancashire catch wrestling with them as it was the most popular sport in the region. Hell, it was the most popular sport in the whole bleeding country. But he didn’t learn from just one trainer. Your grandfather sought out everyone with wrestling knowledge he could find. He developed an insatiable appetite for the sport and practiced religiously every single day. With this work ethic he became rather notorious around Wigan as a devastating hooker after breaking several opponent’s arms and legs in matches. He had only been training for a year or so before going all the way to North Africa to win back the British Empire championship from Jack Robinson. After doing that he didn’t need to work as a molder any more, he was able to live by wrestling alone”.
“Those big matches were kind of few and far between, weren’t they”? Cat asks softly, her attention divided between the trip down Catch wrestling’s memory lane and the expansive rolling green countryside alongside the speeding train. “They were so hard on the body that he surely needed time to recover in between bouts, so what did he do in between”?
“Carnies my dear girl, your grandfather worked the Carnies”.
“Grandfather was a sideshow attraction”? She gasps. “What did he do, wrestle the bearded lady”?
“Not quite”, her uncle responds with a healthy chuckle. “Touring carnivals were big business back then and they had many more attractions than just the bearded lady. Wrestling was a very popular attraction and any Carny worth its salt carried a troupe of wrestlers with it. You see, these chaps would charge wrestlers money to join their team and tour with them. In return they would set up matches against each other and challenges against local tough guys. Betting was commonplace and the wrestlers were allowed to participate in the wagering. But almost all of these matches were rigged; sometimes even the local boy doing the job was in on it. There was a bit of a hierarchy among the wrestlers as well, with terms that separated them by their ability. At the bottom you had the performers or journeymen. It was these folks who went out and put on a show for the crowd. They were fair wrestlers mind you, but their expertise was entertaining the people more than actual wrestling. Next you had the shooters. Shooters were legitimate tough guys who could hold their own with almost anybody and they were often used to deal with the performers who occasionally got out of line. Finally, at the top of the list you had the hookers. Hookers were bonafide catch wrestlers like your grandfather and they were most often used to settle disputes with other Carnies in addition to taking on the locals. They were the best of the best and only used when absolutely needed because their poor opponent was going to end up crippled”.
“In all of this My Dad saw an opportunity. He would visit these Carnivals wherever he could find them and challenge their best wrestlers, always placing bets on himself. He knew the matches were rigged against the local boy and that the Carny was going to send their best to face him and that was fine because they were expecting him to be some local tough guy with no real knowledge. But not only did he have knowledge, he had patience. He would sit back for days and even weeks and quietly watch the Carny wrestlers ply their craft while taking mental notes of each one. So he knew what to expect beforehand while they had no clue what he was capable of. He must have crippled a bit over two dozen of their best before they finally became wise to him. At first they got together to find the absolute best hooker from the whole lot to try and take him down only see their man end up with a broken leg or arm. They next tried to hire him to work for them but he was making more money doing things his way so finally they just blacklisted him. They banned him from their shows for good”.
“So what did he do then”? Cat inquires bemusedly, her mind picturing a broke man out of work begging on a desolate street corner for alms from uninterested passersby. “They basically cut off his stream of income. Did he just agree to their terms”?
“Not quite kitty cat”, Ernie answers curtly. “He was still making money from his big matches touring Europe and even America on a couple occasions so he wasn’t destitute. Instead he figured he would beat them another way, by teaching the local boys how to really wrestle and handle those Carny hookers. He opened a training school, The Snake Pit in Wigan, the same school behind my house where he could teach others how to wrestle and make a bit of money at the same time, and the same school where I’m going to teach you. Not only was your grandfather a tremendous wrestler, he also proved to be an equally good trainer. Billy Riley trained some of the biggest names in catch wrestling history, blokes like Billy Robinson, Karl Gotch, Billy Joyce, John Foley and Jack Dempsey – not the boxing champ mind you. To give you a bit of an idea just how far his reach was in catch wrestling Billy Robinson became champion in both America and Japan. Karl Gotch was nicknamed ‘Kamisama’ in Japan which means God of wrestling; he even trained Antonio Inoki who became a legend in Japan and did a darn fine job carrying on our legacy. He also continued the old tradition of touring other countries looking to fight their best. He fought karate men in Japan, Jujitsu types in South America, other wrestlers and boxers and never lost”.
The grey overcast sky of the outside world gives way to the pitch black of the tunnel leading to the rail station and the train’s next stop. The lights inside of the car flicker briefly indicating needed maintenance of the batteries used to keep them on as the car passes over the electric switches on the track leading to a small, young boy to cry out in fright, instinctively grabbing hold of his mother’s spring colored dress. He gratefully releases the fabric when the lighting returns almost immediately after going out. Cat and her uncle turn their attention towards the car door as passengers begin to file in front of it, anticipating their opening once the train stops. Getting in line with the rest of the crowd they slowly start to make their way to the now open door which allows them to spill out into the depot. Approaching a turnstile attended by a heavyset young man sporting a scraggly patch work dark beard which clashes violently with his bleached blond mop of shoulder length hair. With the interest of a bored teenager during a high school lecture he barely acknowledges the stamps on their hands, his hazel eyes hardly registering as he waves them through with a pestiferous yawn. Stepping out of the station and into the dreary, cold of the outside world, Ernie once more drapes his arm over Cat’s shoulder and draws her close.
“We’re almost there”, he says brightly. “Your aunt Beatrice is gonna be so excited to have you around”.
“Now, the big difference between what I teach at The Snake Pit and that stuff you see on the idiot box is that a lot of the bunk on the telly is done for show”, he says while taking Cat’s hand into his own as the pair descend a row of concrete steps leading from the depot center and filtering out into a spacious plaza below. To the left the older man glances towards an outdoor restaurant patio. He notes a trio of snappily uniformed staff members hurriedly closing the table umbrellas installed to protect patrons from the sunlight which prompts him to turn his gaze skyward. He notes a soft rumble appearing to emanate from the thick, dark cloud cover overhead causing him to remark, “Looks like we’re going to get a spot of rain. We’d better pick up the pace”. The duo increases their stride in anticipation of inclement weather, and walk through the plaza briskly. They pass by a beefy young man clad in stained blue overalls driving through the open area in a mini truck collecting trash from scattered waste baskets. “At any rate”, he continues, “They place a heap of interest on pleasing the audience, doing things that aren’t necessary, silly things like jumping off of the top rope, spending small fortunes on elaborate costumes and entrances, running their pie holes and entirely too much pandering. None of that does any good in my view. The crowd pays to watch the match and wrestlers get paid to wrestle. They’re not bloody actors and this isn’t Broadway. Flipping yourself off the top rope like a monkey won’t accomplish a damned thing if you miss, unless you enjoy hospital food. Leave the bloody high spots to the birds and just wrestle. If you win the crowd will love you no matter what and if you lose you would be better invested in improving your game than jumping off more objects”.
Walking alongside her uncle Cat’s mind wanders as he goes into more detail about the differences between pro-style wrestling and catch wrestling, harping on the lack of ‘hooks’ in the modern game compared to how it used to be. He notes how many pro matches end after a wrestler botches a high spot and how today’s grapplers are comparatively careless. His voice drones on, hammering on the aforementioned points with examples and juxtaposing to the golden era. Exiting the plaza they turn onto Wilshire Street, a relatively lively two lane road lined with small diners, post offices and other small businesses and continue onward, working their way through gaggles of other pedestrians who quietly go about their day. Several minutes pass, with her uncle continuing his diatribe before they turn right onto a less busy avenue, a street lined with older homes, many of them sporting freshly painted picket fences, green, neatly trimmed lawns and well-kept bushes lining the sidewalks leading to the front doors. Just ahead on the corner she spies a small grocery store which she recognizes as Grandma B’s, a popular place with the locals known for its cheap prices, short lines and expedient service, much like a 99 cent store only specializing in foodstuffs. Outside is a group of people filtering in and out of the store. Some are checking their pockets to make sure they brought enough money while others are checking their receipts and conducting a brief inventory of their bags. Among the pack she notices a teenaged girl, roughly the same age as her sporting mid-length brown hair, thick and wavy with a rosy complexion. The girl is about the same height she is only much heavier on the order of 25 to 30 pounds. The girl stops at the edge of the sidewalk fumbling with a cell phone while waiting on an older man, perhaps in his mid to late 30s with like colored hair carrying a brown paper bag filled with groceries. He pauses to check his receipt while the chubby girl thrusts her phone back into the pocket of her two sizes too small blue jeans and then tugs at the hem of her brown turtleneck sweater. As the approach to near earshot Cat stops in her tracks, an audible gasp escaping her lips as she makes the girl to be Darla, the leader of the trio of bullies responsible for attacking her yesterday.
“And I wouldn’t give two pints of pigeon piss for..,” Ernie stops short, noticing his niece has stopped prematurely. Turning around he notes the combination of surprise and fear etched across her face. “What is it kitty cat, what’s wrong”?
“That’s her,” she stammers, pointing a shaky finger in the direction of the pair. “That’s Darla, one of the girls who beat me up yesterday”.
“Oh really..,”? Ernie asks, stopping as well to remove his jacket. “This is gonna be a better day than I thought”, he says while handing his jacket to Cat who dutifully stuffs it into her bulging gym bag.
“Uncle Ernie wait”, she cries watching the older man make a bee line towards the duo. “I think that man is her father, and he’s half your age”.
“Then I’ll just hit him twice as hard”.
Hey arsehole,” he calls out to the man as he approaches them. The man and Darla stop and stare at him questioningly. “Yeah I’m talking to you, how many arseholes do you see? I only see one”.
“I really hope that you are joking”, the man mutters, and turns to face Ernie after handing his bag of groceries to his daughter. The two men inches apart, their eyes locked in a glowering trance as they quietly size each other up. The younger man stands perhaps an inch taller with the stocky frame of a fitness aficionado. Handing off the sack of groceries to his daughter, who stares smugly at Cat, he then removes his open faced brown leather jacket to reveal of pair of vascular arms protruding through the short sleeves of a tight fitting black tee shirt He clenches his fists and rapid fire motions and bounces his pectorals in a subtle effort to intimidate the heavyset 68 year old, But Ernie Riley remains unimpressed as evidenced by the smirk creasing at the corner of his lips. Cat on the other hand is intimidated the man’s muscular physique and gently tugs at her uncle’s arm hoping to pull him from the confrontation to safety but he merely pulls her hand off and steps closer, nose to nose with the other man. Behind her father Darla casts an angry glance towards Cat who shies away from her, mouthing some unheard threat.
“This little shit you call a daughter needs to be taught some manners”, Ernie says, his stance unwavering in the slightest. “She’s been getting together with her school mates and beating up other girls”. He gestures to Cat’s still swollen eye and continues. “Now you either teach the little gobshite her manners or I’ll debag her and do it with my belt”.
Without waiting for another word the man swings furiously at the brash older man but Ernie proves surprisingly quick and agile for a man of his age and ducks under the intended right cross, pivoting around behind the young man. He catches the free hand of his would be assailant and twisting it at the wrist brings the arm behind his back into a hammer lock. Before Darla’s father can gain his bearings the wily Mr. Riley has clinched his neck with his other arm, turning it painfully far to his right side while sliding his other arm through the hammer lock, trapping his attacker’s arm between his chest and the other man’s back and manages to clasp his hands together and secure a devastating combination arm bar and neck crank. The athletic younger man drops instantly to his knees, whimpering in pain between heavy, belated breaths. With her father fully under control Ernie lifts his gaze to meet Darla’s mortified face.
“Now you listen good chippy”, he growls at her, tightening his grip briefly to draw an agonized groan from his victim. “If I ever hear of you and your chums messing with Cat again, I’ll rip off your dad’s arm here and beat the bloody lot of you with it. I don’t even want you to say hello to her. Do I make myself clear”?
With her face red and eyes bulging in frightened disbelief Darla quietly nods her understanding. He tightens his grip once more on the squirming casualty and draws another groan. Satisfied, Ernie releases him and shoves him away towards his daughter and then points a stern finger to him.
“Now get out of my sight before I lose my temper”.
The man pauses for a moment, absently wringing his arm and staring at Ernie as if contemplating a second go around, ignoring the newly gathered crowd of onlookers as well as the pleas of his daughter. Sensing his intent Ernie takes a step towards him, leering with a perverse enjoyment. Discretion quickly proves the better part of valor and with a burdensome murmur he reticently turns and begins to walk away. Darla tries to hand the bag of groceries back to her father, hoping to get back to her cell phone but the disgraced man declines, leaving it in her listless hands while rolling his neck to work out the soreness.
“That was amazing”, Cat utters softly while relinquishing his jacket back to her Uncle. She looks up at him through astonished eyes, her expression conveying a sheer amazement over what she has just witnessed. “What is that move, what is it called”?
“It’s nothing”, Ernie cackles while reapplying his wind breaker jacket. “It’s a simple three-quarter face lock, rookie stuff. I learned that my first week at..,”
He is cut off by the sudden and tight embrace of his niece who pulls him into an affectionate bear hug.
“Thank you Uncle”, she says softly as a tear from streams gently from the corner of her left eye. The old man returns the affection, running his hand along the girl’s silken blonde plait and offering a tender kiss on the forehead before breaking the embrace.
“You don’t need to thank me for nothing”, he says. “I’ll do anything for the kitty cat”.
“Is that the sort of thing you’re going to teach me”? She asks as the pair resumes their trek.
“Hah”, Ernie laughs raucously. “That little three-quarter face lock is softer than Bambi’s vagina compared to what I’m gonna teach you”.
