Shaun Horgan does not believe that professional wrestling is a spectator sport. In fact, the mere act of watching an event with him often becomes a sport of its own.

Hogan’s usually the loudest person in the section, if not the arena, and has a deep knowledge of wrestling history. He loves to trumpet old-school references anytime there’s a quiet moment during a match, especially if one of the wrestlers has been around or assumed a slew of different identities. 

Hardcore Holly, for instance, would hear “Sparky Plugg."; Goldust would hear “Hey Dustin, hey Dustin”; and Tony Atlas, on this night was serenaded with “Samba Simba” and  “Tony, you still eating fried baloney?”

I’m told Mr. Atlas made an appearance on MTV several years back when he was down on his luck in the gym league circuit and said he ate baloney every meal.    

But attending this week's ECW/Smackdown taping seemed like it might be a little different. For starters, the ride into Bridgeport, Connecticut, from northern New Jersey, is not a fun one during rush hour.  After a brief run of dark highway, we quickly found ourselves immersed in a sea of brake lights that showed no sign of easing up.

In the backseat, Vessie started making quick calculations as to our estimated time of arrival and he frantically tapped his GPS looking for alternative routes. The device answered in a steely Bristish accent, telling us that Route 15 ran parallel to I-95 and might be a quicker option to get to the Arena at Harbor Yard.

After a quick pee break in front of WWE Headquarters, we took this route, only to find that half of Connecticut was already wise to the Route 15 shortcut.

We finally arrived in the muddy parking lot around 7:15, quick to sneak in a few shots of Bacardi and Jack Daniels in order to get a leg up on the high arena beer prices. Inside, our seats took us about 25 rows behind newly crowned Slammy Winners Matt Stryker and Todd Grisham.

We took a moment to settle in. Vessie was off to the surprisingly reasonably priced beer stand, and Horgan was already off down the aisle to the front of the barricade where Finlay and Hornswaggle were battling Mark Henry and Tony Atlas.  It didn’t take long for Horgan to get comfortable.

“Hey Tony Atlas, hey Tony Atlas, where did you get those tights? Where did you get those tights?” he yelled, as some heads started to peer away from the action and onto our row.

My attention from this was temporarily diverted as I noticed the old man in the row in front of me, blazing eyes, sternly cursing at what I was assuming was one of his kids. “Stop it. I want you to stop it right now,” the man shouted.

There was a giant slam in the ring, and before I knew it, Mark Henry was holding his hands up in victory—and ECW was over. Vessie returned with beers, and Horgan sat back and surveyed the setting, proud of his ticket score. I sat back for a moment myself and took a sip off my Guinness.

“What the hell are you doing to my back? What, are you pulling some kind of funny business?” the ill-tempered old man in front of us said, shooting his eyes at Vessie.

“No, I think you’re coat fell off the back of the chair. I was just putting it back,” Vessie calmly explained.

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