text: I’m really a nice guy. I am a husband and father of two little girls and a boy. I love my family dearly and am a good provider. My friends and family know this, but most people do not. For I am a professional wrestling villain. You know me as “Man.” Not “The Man.” Not “Mountain Man.” Not “The Big Man.” Just “Man.” I wouldn’t have it any other way. Of course, like everyone I have a birth name. It’s Marvin. Marvin Manley. A good name and I like it. But it’s not a good ring name for a villain. I did not ask to be a villain. It was simply the way things worked out. The boss took one look at me when I walked into his office and said, “Man." That’s who you are. "Man." You’ll be one of the greatest heels of all time.” And that’s how my ring name became Man. It’s an apt name, I think. I’m six foot seven inches tall. I weigh anywhere from 340 to 350 pounds. My head is shaven, and I have tattoos up and down my arms. Though not built like an Adonis I am a big man. I have the voice to be a villain too. Not too deep. Not too soft. One of those that carry so that everyone can hear it no matter where they are. My voice goes over very well inside the ring and out in interviews. Fans can hear me from the last row when I growl or scream. When I speak into a microphone the people tell me to shut up while listening to every word I say. I find it quite amazing how I can do a complete 180 degree turn from being the nicest guy in the world to a total pain. I leave my home as Marvin. I kiss my wife, hug my kids then head out the door. Wherever I may be going, I will be away for a while and really do miss them. The time away is a strain on all of us and one of the things I least like about my job. On the plane flight to whatever city my performance is, I am quiet and reserved. I try not to be recognized, but that’s not easy at my size. I get looks from the other passengers. Some stop by to speak. Others, just look and move on. Some give me looks that if they could kill, I’d be dead. It’s all part of the show I know. Once I arrive in a city, I usually must go straight to the arena. There is a van that waits for us so that we all arrive on time and each man’s opponent is present. We talk a little. Laugh a little. Share our experiences on the road. Catch up on family. We’re a tight-knit group. We don’t all get along, but we are civil to each other for the most part. At the arena we go into the locker room and prepare for the show. This is when Marvin starts to become “Man.” The time in which I enter the ring depends on how important my match is. If it’s a grudge match or non-title fight, I’m in the middle of the card. If I’m fighting for a title or am the marquee matchup, I’m at the end. This dictates how long it takes to change my persona. Once I know when I’m on, I begin to change into my black wrestling one piece and began to become mean. I’m still reserved, but now in a different way. This reserved is a “Get out of my face,” persona. One that says. “I’m here to seek and destroy. To break my opponent and all his loyal follower’s hearts. And I dare anyone to stop me.” I’m on a mission. A mission to wreak havoc. I start to slowly pace the room. Slapping myself on the arms. Saying bad things about my opponent. Shutting out the rest of the world. I have a job to do. I must become “Man.” Then the moment, I’ve been waiting for. The call to the ring. I make my way down the tunnel toward the aisle. I can hear the crowd as they know I’m coming. Music starts to play, and the booing and hollering begin. I’m prepared for anything. I know I will be called names, spit on, have drinks thrown on me. Signs directed at my weight and intelligence. Dummies of me hung in effigy. Sometimes, if it gets too crazy, the police must escort me into and out of the ring. I’m hated that much. But the hatred fuels my adrenaline. There is nothing like causing a crowd reaction. Especially when it’s a packed house. Whether it’s cheering or booing, it doesn’t matter. It causes a rush that no drug can match. When the stakes are at their highest and you’re the main attraction, the title match, it can be almost overwhelming. Those who experience it can tell you they will never find anything outside of the arena to match it. I get to the top of the aisle. The crowd sees me and goes ballistic. I can see the hatred in their faces. And I give it back. I raise my hands to the sky and yell as loud as I can, “I AM.....MANNN!!” This ticks them off big time. I do not rush down the aisle. I take it all in. The yelling. The name calling. The wads of paper that hit me from time to time. I brush it all off. What do the fans know? They wouldn’t know a championship wrestler if they were picked up and body slammed by one. I get to the ring and step through the ropes. The crowd is in a full frenzy. They have come to see me leave with my head on a platter. To them, I represent everything that makes them angry. The boss who won’t give them a raise. The politician who they didn’t vote for but got elected. The policeman who gave them a ticket when everyone else was speeding too. The man or woman who stole their girlfriend or boyfriend. I am the enemy. Pure and simple. I eat it up. “Come on! Bring it! Is that all you got?” I bellow. I run at them in a fake charge, and they give it to me even more. This goes on for a few minutes and then my opponent comes out. Immediately to my dismay the attention turns to him. He is the golden boy of the moment. The man who is going to destroy me and right every wrong. The “real” man of the ring. As he makes his way down to the cheers of the crowd, my opponent hams it up. I don’t blame him one bit. There are few places where a person can find so many people in one place cheering for them. I would say at least ninety percent of the people in the world never do. So, when those moments happen, I don’t begrudge anyone for playing it to the hilt. My opponent steps into the ring and I glare at him. Of course, we know how the entire routine will work, but it still must be done. And it must be done in a way that people feel it. People get into it. People believe it. We are introduced to the crowd. Depending on who is the bigger name, I may be introduced first or second. It doesn’t matter as the crowd reaction is always the same. Total hatred. I put my hand to my ear to hear it. I wave to the crowd to bring it on. When my opponent is introduced, I completely ignore it, or feign indifference. Let him have his time. I’m going to put a world of hurt on him. The seconds and emcee leave the ring, and it is only my opponent, the referee and myself. Three men in the squared circle. Millions waiting inside and outside the ring for the match to start. The moment has arrived. It’s time to put on a show. And I do. I bring the crowd to the edge of their seats with the dastardly things I do. Gauging eyes. Kicking. Throwing my opponent through the ropes. Then stepping through them myself to wreak more havoc. I grab my opponent and slam his head into the ring post. A padded ring post I may add. I love to see the look on the fan’s faces as they see their golden boy in trouble. Looks of absolute horror from some, distain from others. I throw my opponent back into the ring. I have the upper hand for most of these matches. Then the tide turns, and my opponent gets his second wind. He starts to get his licks in. Throws me off the ring ropes and I get the clothesline right below the neck. I’m dazed and shaken, and he dropkicks me to the mat. While I’m down I get an elbow or “soup bone” as we call it to the head. Then he stands me up and gives a good strong karate chop across the chest. I’m the one hurt now. I’m the one in trouble. The fans eat it up. This is what they came to see. They would love it if I didn’t walk out of the ring. If the golden boy put me out for good. If he chopped “Man” down to size. This back and forth goes on until either one of us wins by pin, which doesn’t happen until we’ve made enough money on the circuit for everyone, or someone is disqualified. If there is a disqualification, the feud continues to the next city. Either way, all involved whether in or outside the ring are totally exhausted when the match is over. When it is, I head back to the locker room defiant. Always defiant. There is no other way to be as a wrestling villain. If I’ve done something illegal, I don’t know what it is. If my opponent has beaten me and I’m taking the walk of shame, I think that there is no way it could have happened and vow revenge. If I’ve won, I shove it into the faces of all who are there. Time back in the locker room is spent coming down from the high of a fifteen to thirty-minute adrenaline rush. My opponent and I shake hands and congratulate each other on a good show. I get some fluids into my system. Maybe eat something then take a shower. Then it’s back into the van and off to a hotel or an airport to fly home or to the next city to fight again. But my wrestling world does not end there. Things get a little interesting outside of the arena as well. When people recognize me, it is usually okay, but not always. I can remember a little old lady seeing me in a grocery store. She came up to me eyes blazing swinging her cane. “How could you do that to that poor Ryan Rogers?!” she yelled. “You out to be ashamed of yourself you big moose! You’re no man you’re just a big bully and coward! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?!” She whacked me at least twice before the manager and her son could restrain her. Believe me, I have respect for that woman. She had guts to stand up to a man as big as me. And she packed a wallop with that cane. I’ve had people pull up, see me in my car and flip me the bird. Been yelled at in malls. I stopped going to the movies, because of the booing I get. Guys get pretty brave with their tongues when the lights go out and you can’t see them. I didn’t want to subject my wife to that anymore. In restaurants, people look at me as if I’m some animal in the zoo. They seem surprised that I can actually think and say a complete sentence. That I’m human. That I have a nice side. Some of the letters I used to get before social media were downright mean. How they wished my opponent would break my legs. How I am a disgrace to the sport. Many questioned my IQ and ancestry. Some said that if they were to meet me on the street, they’d tear me limb from limb, which I found very funny. The really brave ones signed their names and actually put a return address on the envelope. Now, people post their thoughts on social media under display names so all can see. Some make videos or post some of my matches online for viewing and commenting. The show has really grown with the advancements in technology. It’s good in that we get more publicity, but bad in that our lives are even less our own. It’s also bad in that I could hide the letters from my family, but social media is accessible to all. My family may not see it, but eventually will hear about it. But I know that this all goes with the territory. It’s all part of the show. However, not everyone is against me. The people who feel like they are villains in life cheer for me. They want to see the bad guy win every once in a while as Billy Preston famously sang. Especially if it’s against a pretty boy wrestler they don’t like. I’ve had my share of cheers too. Not many, but some. I remember a young black man with one of the biggest afros I’ve ever seen coming up to me one day. He was dressed dapper and smoking a cigar. “You that wrestler they call “Man,” he said. “I saw you at the Civic Center the other night. Man, you put on a show. And I’m glad you put a hurting on that guy Billy Ray Stone. I can’t stand that dude. I like your style. Keep it up brotha.” It was one of the coolest moments of my career. I’ve seen little boys wearing T-shirts with my picture and name on them. Which I always like, because unfortunately many of the little ones are scared off by my size. Fans have brought signs to the arena with my likeness and words for me to do bodily harm to my opponent. I’ve been quoted in movies by bad guys! How cool is that? Yes, I am “Man” in and outside the ring to most people. My wrestling persona is that of a mean and nasty villain. But I am a nice guy. Really, I am. Marvin Manley is one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet. However, “Man” is one of the meanest. In my book he IS the meanest. There is no greater villain in all of wrestling than “Man.” And I wouldn't have it any other way.