This doesn't mean an indie ref's job is easier than a TV guy's (though the lack of crazy old men screeching in our ear every ten seconds is certainly a plus). Most indie shows draw anywhere from five to 500 people -- it's way more intimate than your average WrestleMania. So a silent, lethargic referee who's just there to count pinfalls will quickly stick out in an "oh right, this shit's fake" kind of way.

So when not asking for submissions or scolding muscleheads for breaking rules that they'll re-break 30 seconds later, I focus on being an active background character: making hand motions that subtly direct the action for the audience, intensely watching the action so I can quickly jump in and react when necessary, and constantly shifting position so I'm in the proper place should shoulders hit mat. If I'm not going to guide the action, I should at least make sure to not come across as a creepy stalker just hanging out in the corner.

East Coast Championship Wrestling
Here I am unleashing my greatest power: making women not listen to me.

I say all this because so few do the same.

This invisibility happens even when you do something that absolutely deserves attention. Back in 2011, I entered a show with a full head of long hair. During intermission, I had my head completely shaved as part of our company's cancer drive (also, it was scorching hot inside the building and I absolutely welcomed an air-conditioned skull). I then returned to work the second half, and my new look was slightly different:

Jose Lopez

Inter-Species Wrestling
The guy from Tool shrunk in the wash.

Did the crowd notice? Oh fuck no they did not. They likely just assumed I was a new guy (who had no clue how to tuck in his shirt), and that the redhead went to the hospital, since he looked like he was ready to puke in the center of the ring.

Then there was another show where I had to change out of my referee outfit and into another wrestler's gear so I could interfere in the main event and get my face smashed in. Since the Undertaker was unavailable to turn out the lights so I could rush to the ring in full costume, I needed to get under the ring and change at some point. I did so by crawling under during intermission and never coming back out, changing into my costume down there and then spending the next 90 minutes under a VERY LOUD ring waiting for my cue.

Mike Jas / Chaotic Wrestling
Ringin' in the ears
Stowin' away the time

And not only did nobody notice that I was still under the ring, they also didn't recognize me when I came out, even though my wig flew off and exposed my true identity as someone they'd seen many times before. But because I didn't fight or talk, I garnered about as much attention as the Super Bowl shark who actually knew how to do its job.

Oh, and that wasn't the only time I wasn't myself ...

The company declined to have me wrestle because I still had matches to referee. Also, I blow at wrestling. But years prior, another company I worked for had no such qualms. One of the wrestlers never showed, so the promoter asked me if I could go out there and get beat up for ten minutes. And if not for him accepting my convenient excuse that I didn't have a mask, I probably would've ended up dying that day. Knowing what I know now though, my maskless existence probably wouldn't have made a lick of difference to the fans. Ref one match, die the next, ref again 20 minutes later? It'd be far from the least realistic thing their favorite sport has asked them to swallow.

Especially since I'm apparently more intimidating and badass than even I know ...

The shit-starting barely-grappler probably could've broken free of me, but he was clearly a coward who didn't actually want to fight two guys twice his size. Plus, what if I was a secret MMA wizard able to triangle choke his pencil neck straight into the Pity Pantheon of ring warriors who got their asses kicked by referees? It made far more sense for him to go away, stew in his failure, and never bother anybody ever again.

I then spent the rest of the match alternating between officiating the action and keeping the wrestlers' focus away from cursing the offending promotion and yelling at them to get in the ring and fight. So for that one night, maybe I really was a director.

All these "Doinks" get advertised as the real thing (with WWF's version featured on the ads, naturally). And while they never drafted me to be a Doink, I did work with one several times. This Doink was 6'7", fat, incredibly hairy, chewed tobacco, and talked in a throaty rasp that was way more Krusty than Doink. In hindsight, they totally should've billed him that way.

John Jewell
"Where's Paunchy?"

Sadly, Matt Bourne, the wrestler behind WWF Doink, passed away in 2013. I thought that would spell the end of indie Doinks as well. Turns out I am just so adorably naive. Here's a show you can attend this April (or April 2015, if you're some kind of future monster):

Regional Championship Wrestling

Oh, I see. Now he's just "The Clown." You could move entire continents with all that respect.

As anyone who's watched even one of Botchamania's 250-plus compilations knows, the wacky world of pro wrestling is loaded with mistakes and goof-ups. On the TV level, most can be covered up under the guise of 20,000 people only paying half-attention because they're 200 feet away and piss-drunk. But on the indie stage, crowds are small and often very focused. Plus, budgets are strained and not everyone's trained, making the faux pas even sillier and far more embarrassing.

For one such moment, let's go back to the match where I impersonated another wrestler. After I got beaten up and bounced out of the ring, the show's security force (wrestlers-in-training with shirts that said "security" on them) would come to collect me. Except they totally forgot to. But I couldn't just get up and walk away -- I was unconscious, remember. So there I laid at ringside, dead to the world, on a cold-ass floor with no shoes or socks, for over 20 goddamned minutes until somebody finally remembered that I existed. I recall overhearing at least one fan ask if I was truly hurt, so I definitely earned my $0 that night.

Mike Jas / Chaotic Wrestling
Tightly gripping a guy's shoulders, just like all unconscious people do.

Then there was my first-ever show, where I knelt down to make a count and split my tattered old trousers in front of everybody. Remember earlier, when I said nobody notices the ref? Well, they fucking noticed me then, laughing their guts dry and completely forgetting about the match. Unfortunately (fortunately?) for you, nobody took a picture.

When I got to the back, one of the wrestlers noted I didn't look too interested in the match. I told him I was distracted by my pants slicing open, which prompted even harder laughter than the fans gave. The Benny Hill theme still plays in my head to this day. Since then, I've made damn sure to wear black underwear for every show, just in case my black slacks split again. It's the one paranoid superstition I will take to my goddamn grave.

As I hope I made it clear, I'm very awful at wrestling. I'm not even the best ref, judging by all the times I've been reminded to quit counting so goddamn slow.

Inter-Species Wrestling
But if I did, I'd be betraying my gimmick.

But the simple fact that I've technically been doing this for years is enough for young'uns to start asking me for advice, as if I'm some grizzled old cauliflower-eared veteran. It's rarely questions about refereeing, which would at least make sense. No, I've been asked if they're putting matches together right, how to be more dynamic for the crowd, and other skills I never came close to mastering. I more or less parrot what I learned during my training, because that school produced Triple H, Kofi Kingston, Damien Mizdow, and countless other major stars, so I assume it's good.

I assume this pseudo-veteran status will continue the longer I keep reffing, and I also assume it will never not feel weird. It's awkward enough to dole out writing advice, and that's the one job I'm actually good at. But I suppose the simple fact that I've stuck around and repeatedly seen what works and what absolutely doesn't means that at least a few lessons have tattooed themselves onto me, and that's enough for faces far fresher than mine to take my words as seriously as if I had suddenly morphed into Chris Jericho. Which is my goal, by the way ... not to obtain his level of skill, but to physically morph into the actual Chris Jericho.

World Wrestling Entertainment
Blue jeans and an untucked shirt? Damn rookie.

Of course, now that I've written this, some actual veteran who knows me will probably work my next show and tell all the kids to ignore me because, well, I'm a moron. Unless they need to learn how to break up a fight, naturally.

Follow Jason on Facebook and Twitter for information on upcoming columns, wrestling appearances, and where he hid your grandma's body.

For more from Jason, check out 5 Disturbing Messages That Always Show Up in Love Songs and 5 Kids' TV Shows That Would Have Caused the Apocalypse.

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