(Enlarge) A choke hold is firmly applied to the neck of Eastern Wrestling Alliance’s David John “DJ Hyde” Markland during a recent EWA match. The arm belongs to Bob “Bobby Shields” Gendler. (Staff photo by Alex Stawinski)

Jim Hardwick has carried on a mad affair with professional wrestling since a childhood spent watching his hero Bruno Samartino body slam bad guys such as Nikolai Volkoff or lifting and dropping 600-pound bumpkin Haystacks Calhoun in the early 1970s.

Hardwick is bringing some of that madness to Tall Cedars hall in Parkville this month with a 12-Man Double-Ring Ladder-Match.

Growing up in Baltimore and later Fort Howard, Hardwick and his older brother, Wes, couldn't wait to get out to the backyard and practice some of the moves they had just seen on TV.

"The neighbors would call the police, thinking we were killing each other," Hardwick said.

Hardwick is pushing 50 now and has worked as a financial adviser at MetLife since 1986, yet he is deeper into pro wrestling than ever. At 6-foot-2, 220 pounds, he can still mix it up in the ring -- although audience catcalls such as "Geritol" and "bald spot" are increasing -- but mostly he concentrates on his Eastern Wrestling Alliance, a one-stop shop for younger guys in Maryland with a likeminded thirst for cartoonish mayhem.

Wrestlers -- some built like tanks, others kegs -- gather weekly to train at the EWA's The Pain Factory Pro Wrestling School in Middle River. Housed in a nondescript unit at an industrial park, the Spartan environment smells of the dried sweat of constant struggle. There the men, almost all younger than 30, climb into the battered ring for Hardwick to put them through their training regimen. There is nothing fake about it.

"Come on, guys, give me 50," Hardwick barks. Without complaint, 12 wrestlers get down to business, starting with sit-ups. Then come 200 squats, 200 jumping jacks, 100 push-ups, more sit-ups and "criss-cross" drills, where they run back and forth across the ring and slingshot off the ropes.

Hardwick started the school nine years ago with two other trainers because they grew tired of what they saw as degradation on the major pro wrestling circuits. Anyone who has seen the film "The Wrestler" has a pretty good idea about the dark side of the sport: epidemic steroid abuse, gratuitous bloodletting and the melding of sex and violence. Hardwick, who wrestles and appears at shows as religious good-guy-turned-bad Jim Christian, wanted to shape a cleaner game and bring it back to origins that emphasized personalities, performance and athletics.

"I don't like the other organizations, like the WWE and TNA; they're into porn and steroids," he said. "These guys here don't do steroids. I don't deal with that."

The EWA wrestlers, even the finest specimens, do not exhibit the startling muscle mass of a body ripped on drugs. Yes, they would like to make it big someday, but they believe in Hardwick's program and pay $2,000 a year to train with him.

"I put everything I have into it," said Ryan McBride, 24, of Pasadena, a wrestler who works days at a car auction. "I have been a wrestling fan since Wrestlemania 12 (the 'Iron Man' match between Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels in 1996), and once I got my first bump, I was in love."

McBride has developed his character -- "the hometown babyface" -- and has become a favored good guy at shows the EWA promotes at the training center and larger venues around the state.

"I get paid a few places I go, but it's not about that," he said. "I didn't get into this to make tons of money. I just like performing in front of people."

Pumped up and geeked out

When the wrestlers, in action or training, writhe in agony from phantom blows, whine about perceived slights and threaten everyone from opponents to fans to their own tag-team partners, you can't help but notice the inherent nerd aspect of the game.

"You've got your 'Star Wars' geeks, you've got your 'Star Trek' geeks, and everybody has what they identify with and fall into," said Raphael White, 30, of Middle River, who wrestles by the name D Block. "If I have a debate with all these guys about the greatest wrestlers and someone saw us who wasn't into it, they'd say, 'You guys are a bunch of geeks.' There might be a level of dorkism and fanboy-ism, but we like it. This is what we do."

The violence and pain in pro wrestling may be fabricated, but the moves are real, dangerous choreography.

Chris Landis, 22, a 150-pound beanpole from Pikesville nicknamed "Jesus" because of a certain likeness, broke another wrestler's leg in a battle royale-type event recently. Wrestlers must study each other's style, agree beforehand what might be executed in a match, and exercise an almost-telepathic intuition of an opponent's thinking.

"I called a spot and threw him in the corner," Landis said, recalling the leg break. "I had told him to take a knee to his face, fall to his butt and spread his legs as wide as he could for a move called the hesitation drop-kick. I hang in the air and drop-kick him while he's in the corner. As I'm in the air, at the last minute, I'm uncontrollable. He bends his knee at a 90-degree angle, and my 150-pound frame lands directly on his leg. He's screaming in agony, his leg fractured in two places, which I'm not particularly proud of."

Accidental injuries happen, and the sport is governed in Maryland by the state athletic commission. There are, however, no EWA matches in which people shoot nail guns into each other's torsos like in "The Wrestler." There also is no cursing.

In fact, the EWA is so family-friendly it recently began offering birthday parties at the training center, with cake, ice cream and body slams. Order in advance for the Wrestling Clown.

Sticks and stones

On a recent Friday night, The Pain Factory hosted a pro wrestling card for an audience of about 50, which was taped for broadcast on cable TV stations in Baltimore and Harford County.

In one match, Landis, as "Jesus," went against EWA Maryland champion Chase Rawlings, who is accompanied to the ring by Hardwick, acting as his manager, Jim Christian.

Rawlings is enormous compared to Landis, who was introduced deceptively as weighing 175 pounds.

Even before the non-title, one-fall match with a 15-minute time limit began, Rawlings mashed his championship belt into Landis' face, while the referee, ahem, attempted to pull him off.

Rawlings then drove Landis into a corner and slugged him in the head.

"What about that?" he asked. Landis slugged him back.

Rawlings put him in a leg lock, but Landis escaped and scored a reverse.

The crowd yelled at Christian. "Geritol! Geritol!"

Rawlings then pounded Landis relentlessly with blows to the chest. Landis climbed up on the top rope in a corner and launched like a human flying squirrel. It was no use; Rawlings crushed him.

"Chase Rawlings can do whatever he wants to do," Christian scolded the referee. Moments later, Landis was pinned and then, rolling out of the ring, sprawled on the floor.

The public-address announcer interviewed Rawlings, who said, "As far as I'm concerned, the rookie can go to hell," and then turned his attention to his manager. "You take your bald spot someplace else and get out of my face."

Half the crowd hurled its own abuse. A couple little kids appeared to be contemplating the eternal question "Is this real?" And for a Friday night in the dead of winter at an industrial park, the wrestlers were putting on a heck of a show.

The Eastern Wrestling Alliance presents Evolution 2K9 on Saturday, March 21, at 7:30 p.m. at Tall Cedars Hall, 2501 Putty Hill Ave., Parkville. Ringside tickets cost $15, general admission $12. Call 443-858-2755 to reserve. The league's Web site is at ewamaryland.com.

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