That Time Dave Meltzer Wrestled

There isn't a self-respecting wrestling fan alive who hasn't heard of Dave Meltzer. For over three decades, the industry's most-reliable and well-connected journalist has been the primary conduit linking followers to events behind the scenes.

In addition, he's also considered the number one reference point for definitive opinion on match quality; Jim Cornette's 'snowflake' system was made ubiquitous by his analysis. It's not a massive exaggeration to say he's been just as important to the business over the years as Hulk Hogan or The Rock.

There is, however, one part of his career few are aware of: the time when he wasn't doling out stars, but seeing them - thanks to a pummelling from MMA supremo Steve Williams.

Well... kind of. California-based promoter Herb Abrams didn't take too kindly to constructive criticism, to put it lightly. When Big Dave laid into Herb's suspect business practices in his Wrestling Observer newsletters, the miffed booker responded with the least available humility: by having a hapless jobber, named in Meltzer's honour, be mercilessly flattened each week. 'Dr. Death' was just one of the goons ordered to pulverise the counterfeit critic, shoving a copy of the real Meltzer's dirt-sheet down the mook's throat as though it were one of his readers' letterboxes.

It was a futile riposte. The fall-guy's name was only faintly familiar to the majority of wrestling fans in the early-'90s, with just a tiny proportion invited behind the curtain by Meltzer's subscription-only hebdomadaire. Abrams' company's name, on the other hand, was far more well-known - but not for its own exploits. The 'Universal Wrestling Federation' had a certain level of prestige within the business, but more through Bill Watts' long-running Mid-South territory than the sham Marina del Rey equivalent. Yet, perversely, it was the latter which owned a legal trademark for the name. That's about as far as its sensible business practices went.

Registering the UWF name was a sign of Abram's frankly outlandish ambitions. A former clothier in New York, the childhood wrestling fan boldly declared at a 1989 John Arezzi convention his intention to bring wrestling back to its roots, with a federation that would wipe WWF off the face of the map. A prototype Eric Bischoff, with all the enthusiasm but none of the acumen, Abrams needed his own 'outsiders' to really send shockwaves through the industry. Some of the names he posited certainly fit that bill. Amongst his illustrious list of stars supposedly signed on to launch UWF were Blackjack Mulligan, at the time serving a prison sentence alongside his son for counterfeiting phoney bills, and Bruiser Brody - who'd been murdered in Puerto Rico two years earlier.

Not all of the hankering Texan's bluster was baseless. After the UWF's formation, Abrams was able to convince an assorted jumble of wrestling's forgotten legends and fading stars that his promotion was worthwhile. The likes of B. Brian Blair, Paul Orndorff, Ken Patera, and Bam Bam Bigelow all pitched up in Los Angeles' Westside, eager to start the old-school uprising - or take a handsome pay cheque from a crazy money mark. Even bona-fide industry icon Bruno Sammartino alighted in the UWF studio to assume commentary duties. Was this the start of something special?

Betteridge invoked, in short: no. Almost as soon as UWF opened its doors, Abrams' volatile nature was threatening to scupper his grand plans. Some of the big names brought in - luminaries such as Honky Tonk Man and Louie Spicolli - raised his ire from the get go, and the booker had zero qualms about hoodwinking them out of pay. News travels fast in the industry, and pretty soon he earned widespread ill-repute for his hermetically sealed wallet. It wasn't just the performers who'd find themselves out of pocket; Abrams had arrests on his record for skipping town before settling bills in states all across America.

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