Terry Funk vs. Jerry Lawler in an Empty Arena Defy Genre and Definitions

Laugh and weep for Funker, but feel for him regardless.

What actually is a wrestling match?

It’s a question with a seemingly obvious answer within the confines of pro wrestling kayfabe. A match is defined as the athletic contest held the boundaries of the bell ringing. It seems simple, but the further one gets into examining the history of pro wrestling, the blurrier the lines get. From a critics standpoint, for example, just where does a “match” begin and end? Confining one’s self strictly to the bell-to-bell can change up one’s view of a bout drastically, especially when some matches operate as simply pieces of a far more complete package. The lucha de apuesta illustrates this conundrum well—many of them feature wonderful bell-to-bell action, yes, but there’s something lost in the conversation upon ignoring the pomp and circumstance before and after the official bout.

There’s more examples that blur the line further. Take the Rush vs. LA Park match from Arena Mexico, a match most famous for everything that happens after the final bell rings. There’s the Tupelo concession stand brawls, a post-match physical skirmish that still often gets held up as a formative “match” in the development of the hardcore style of the 90s. One might even consider the extended fights between Ricky Steamboat and CM Punk, most of which centered around traditional wrestling action structured in a classic shine-heat-comeback form, but without any ring bells or pinfalls to come with it.

Then there’s Terry Funk vs. Jerry Lawler in an empty arena.

Here’s a confrontation that refuses to be easily categorized. Narratively, the word “match” never even gets brought up in either the build or the presentation itself. Instead, this comes as the result of Terry Funk accusing Jerry Lawler of benefiting from favoritism in Memphis. In Funk’s words, everyone in the city is on Lawler’s side from the fans to the cops (a shockingly prescient insult there). As such the only way to have an even playing field is to eliminate as many people from the confrontation as possible. The only people given clearance for the bout are famed announcer Lance Russell and cameraman Randy West.

As for the fight itself, there’s no neat start and end to any of it. If one were to be incredibly strict about things, one could argue that the match starts when the two competitors finally get into the ring together and ends when Lawler leaves as Funk wails in covered in blood. But that simply doesn’t capture the absolute totality of the production that we have on hand.

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Lance Russell is one of the keystones here. Perhaps more than in any other match in pro wrestling history, Russell’s role as the announcer here is invaluable. The absurdity of everything gets grounded in Russell playing the perfect straight man. His delivery remains professional and collected through everything, remaining strictly dedicated to the moment at all points. The match would be incomplete and adrift without his presence.

But the real money is, of course, Terry Funk.

Much like the match itself, Terry Funk’s performance feels boundless. It’s an expansive, all-encompassing, vacillating rapidly between extremes of emotion, sometimes within the space of a second or two. This takes the form of one of the more verbose performances of his career, seamlessly blending the heat of a brawl with the manic shittalk of a psychopath.

Funk gives so much life to this, a tall task given that there’s no packed Mid-South Coliseum for him to feed off of. But the Funker’s energy fills that empty space with ease. His charisma’s this living, breathing thing that’s powerful enough to make something out of nothing. It’s almost like watching real time alchemy.

The man is relentless here, and he is hilarious. There’s a million different great lines in this, but none of them hit quite so well as Terry Funk ending Jerry Lawler’s life before the latter even steps into the ring. Jerry Lawler in a crown and cape, slowly sauntering out to the ring without his hoards of faithful cheering him on, gets destroyed in just a few seconds.

“Don’t you realize that there’s nobody here?” says Funk. “You jackass!”

The action itself, probably isn’t much on its surface. But there’s a real sense of less is more here where they do just enough to engage with the reality of their environments. Things like Funk getting thrown into the ringside seats, bolting like a coward out into the stands, or breaking up a section standard to beat down Lawler with. The simplicity of the action allows for all the individual setpieces to stand out on their own, all of which are given even greater emphasis thanks to the empty space around them.

Lawler’s performance is minimal to say the least. That’s not (entirely) a slight on his contributions. He plays the role of the pissed off babyface indulging a crazed opponent well. He comes to deliver an ass whooping and does so with cool efficiency, a nice balm to the scorching force of Funk. But this isn’t the setting for Jerry Lawler. Funk’s promos speak their own truth, Lawler really does need that crowd, firing up with every punch and popping when the King pulls his strap down. Still, this more stoic performance from Lawler does speak to a certain versatility of character that does him credit.

The “finish” of the match comes when Lawler blocks an attempt from Funk to stab his eye out with a broken off piece of wood. Lawler kicks Funk’s elbow, inadvertently sending the shard of wood into Funk’s own eye. Wrapped up in this moment is a lot of the morality of classic American TV wrestling, and Funk’s own career up to this point especially. Funk was the one to escalate the violence and even introduce the wood to the match in the first place. At the end, Lawler doesn’t even stab Funk’s eye outright, it’s more an accident that Funk’s hoist by his own petard. In the footage we see, Lawler even spares the Funker further damage. It’s Dusty’s arm in a cast all over again.

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It’s the post-match where Funk’s performance somehow elevates even higher though.

The man’s left as a quivering, bloodied worm in the ring. The way he clutches at his busted up eye, one gets the impression that he thinks it’s about to fall right out of its socket at any second. He whimpers and begs for help, his big Texas bravado finally dropping as he pleads for Lance Russell to find him a doctor. For a moment, the whole dynamic of the character shifts. There’s a very real, piteous humanity to him here.

Frankly, he’s pathetic. One feels actual embarrassment on his behalf. Maybe if he’d shut his mouth, eaten his share of Tennessee humble pie, he wouldn’t have been brought so low.

Then, the coup de grace.

The Funker returns to screeching his obscenities. “Lawler, you yellow pig!” he cries. “Pig!”

In the blink of an eye, the Funker’s the rightful subject of derision and mockery again.

It’s one of the most enduring images in pro wrestling, a battered Terry Funk crying to the heavens that Jerry Lawler’s a coward, all the while trying to keep his eye from popping out and begging for a doctor. Few are the performer in any medium who could capture such a broad range of humanity as beautifully as Terry Funk.

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IS IT BETTER THAN 6/3/94? To many, 6/3/94 represents the peak of a particular time and style of professional wrestling. In spite of my issues with the match, I think that’s a very fair piece of praise to give that match. Kawada and Misawa create something special on that night that acts as its own statement about a particular vision of professional wrestling.

As for Lawler and Funk though, much like many transgressors before and after, they create something that challenges the very ideas of professional wrestling that we think to be obviously true in the first place. Do we need a crowd? Do we need a ring bell? What is a match? Funk and Lawler raise those questions and provide answers in one of the most entertaining pieces of television ever. There’s something far more transcendent about challenging a medium than there is to simply epitomizing it. The Funker scores another point against the King’s Road.

Rating: I don’t give a damn, I came up here for a purpose, to prove some son of a bitching thing (or ****1/2, whichever works for you).