This is an exclusive Books & Biceps interview with author Rafi Kohan about his book, Trash Talk: The Only Book About Destroying Your Rivals That Isn’t Total Garbage
I love unique, awesome book ideas executed to perfection – especially when they’re about fascinating topics.
In this case, author Rafi Kohan does a brilliant job fleshing out the origins, traditions, stories, masters and uses of one of the best parts of sports and competition: trash talk.
Here’s a little inside baseball: writing a book like this is HARD. You’ve got a sprawling topic that covers everything, then you have to come up with a structure, do your research, interview a ton of people and weave everything around the main spine of your subject while hitting it at all angles with interesting stories and differing perspectives. I’m telling you, this one is impressive.
So impressive, in fact, that I wanted to talk to Rafi for us about some of my favorite parts of the book, how he pulled it off and, of course, trash talking. This is one of the most thorough, detailed, behind-the-book Q&As we’ve had here in Books & Biceps. And we end with each of us building our Frankenstein monster of trash talk (Larry Bird makes an appearance).
You’re gonna love this interview – and buy the book here:
FINKEL: Since this is Books & Biceps, I have to open on a question about a man whose nickname was The Beautiful Bicep. Actually, that was only one of his nicknames. Of course, I’m talking about Gorgeous George, the most famous, wealthy wrestling heel in the 1950s (who also plays an important role in my Macho Man biography) . What was his #1 trash talk trick to get audiences to hate him?
KOHAN: Oh, man. He had so many! But really, everything about the character of Gorgeous George was designed to get a rise out of wrestling crowds — to overcome them with a kind of lust to see him lose. He was haughty and garish and would flaunt his wealth in ways that not only flew in the face of modesty and humility, but also subverted people’s ideas of gender and machismo. He carried himself with a cocksure femininity, and he was decidedly NOT a man of the people. George would show up to new cities and take media interviews in beauty salons.
Just before matches, he’d appear inside the arena bowl dressed in richly-made robes and gowns, and accompanied by a tea-serving manservant who’d perfume the ring and lay out a patch of red carpet on which George would wipe his feet. These entrances could take up to twenty minutes to unfold, and you can imagine how much tension would build in that time. In response to hissing crowds, George would turn up his nose or spit out a dismissive remark, calling the fans “peasants.” But my favorite — and what I think served as a critical, nearly climactic piece of all this trash-talking foreplay — was what he’d shout when it was time for the ref to check the wrestlers for foreign objects, just before the start of a match. As the ref reached for George’s body, he would flinch back and shriek for all to hear, “Take your filthy hands off me!”
One section in your book covers the Monster Factory, a pro wrestling training center in New Jersey. In particular, you write about Missy Sampson trying to train the newbies on the fine art of cutting a promo and trash talk. They have 60 seconds to talk shit standing alone on a chair to the class. This is so raw and great. What was the best line you heard that day and do you have a mic drop line at the ready if you need it?
It was impressive how many students ripped off a decent line or two, given the constraints and pressures of performing on the spot like that. I’d say the best promo of the day was cut by a student who goes by Goldy. Even in the limited temporal and physical space of this exercise, he managed to exude a self-assured swagger that basically turned the box-jump platform on which he was standing into a full-on stage. (For what it’s worth, The Ringer had this to say about Goldy in an article about Apple TV’s 2023 docuseries on the Monster Factory: “[he] is one of the most technically sound wrestlers the school has produced, and he talked enough trash mid-match to make sure you know it.”)
During my visit, Goldy cut a promo in the guise of giving a fellow wrestler some advice. He said, “I’ll keep it real simple for you. W-W-G-D. What would Goldy do? Whenever you’re in that ring, think that. Because when you go up top, Goldy wouldn’t do that. When you do that flip, Goldy wouldn’t do that. And what have those flips, those tricks gotten you? Nada.” It was at this point that Goldy had a moment of perhaps too much self-awareness, though, as he added, in an aside, “Well, I just lost the belt to you, so…” The room broke apart as the mirage of promo was shattered and Missy dropped her head into her hands. Still, it was clear the dude had real talent on the mic, and that everything he said fit cleanly into the attitude of his character. I was very much along for the ride.
As for me, I don’t have a single mic-drop line, but I did think about this, in case I got called on to cut a promo (thank god I didn’t), and I decided that the most honest wrestling character I could develop would probably be a self-deprecating one. I’d undercut myself and build up my opponent, in hopes that it lowers the bar of expectations so much that I could walk right over it and maybe surprise a few people in the ring — that is, IF YOU CAN SMELL WHAT THE RAF IS COOKING!
Can you give us a tease about “Who’s Your Daddy Dempsey”? It’s an all-time name and I don’t think most people know his story, his lineage and how he made a name for himself in the fight game with his angles and attitude.
You’re right. Honestly, I’d be shocked if anyone reading this is aware of this guy’s story. I certainly wasn’t! Basically, Josh Dempsey — whose real name is Josh Gormley (he claims to be a descendent of the boxing champ Jack Dempsey, which is why he competed under that name) — was very likely the first person to talk serious shit in the world of MMA. That’s how I stumbled on him at least. I was interviewing the UFC ref Herb Dean, asking about Chael Sonnen, who’s widely regarded as a trash-talk pioneer for bringing a pro-wrestling style of self-promotion to the world of MMA, and he was like, Nah, man. Dempsey’s your dude.
The thing to remember is that, in the earliest days of MMA, the scene was largely defined by ideas of honor and respect, which reflected the individual martial arts that were cobbled together to create this new sport. But Dempsey, who came to MMA after working for years as a professional boxer and while simultaneously striving to build a pro-wrestling career (for a time, he was a classmate of John Cena’s at Ultimate University), was no longer satisfied to let his fists do the talking. He decided the best path to combat-sports stardom was to talk a whole lot of shit — that’s how he’d make his name.
Though he never fought for the UFC or any major stateside wrestling promotion outside of Rick Bassman’s Ultimate Pro Wrestling, Dempsey got to briefly live his dream as a fighter and wrestler in Japan. The whole thing was a whirlwind, but for a time, he was a genuine phenomenon. He was aggressive to the point of abuse. He’d spit on fans, break cameras, and at times get arena crowds to chant with him, “Fuck Japan! Fuck Japan!” It was masterful heel work, and the country’s fight fans ate it up. But there was a dark side to Dempsey, too: he became as out of control as many thought he was only pretending to be. Drugs were involved, and things took an even more severe turn when he returned to the States. I won’t spoil the whole thing, but I’ll say that Dempsey’s story — a kind of American tragedy — would make a great movie, and he’s not done writing that story yet, either. Dempsey is alive and well, and he’s now trying his best to be a force for good in the world after so many years of spewing toxic, violent negativity.
I grew up watching 90s NBA hoops and Reggie Miller was always trash talker #1 or #1A with Gary Payton, who you also cover in this book. BUT, you do a deep dive on the real Miller who could talk smack and back it up: Cheryl. You had several conversations with her for this book. What was the most surprising thing she told you about her one-on-one battles with Reggie when they were growing up?
I’m with you. It may just be because I’m a Knicks fan and I absolutely hated him, but Reggie Miller was definitely the type of guy who’d most get under my skin. Gary Payton would come at opposing players with a largely straight-ahead style of aggressive antagonism. But Reggie knew how to needle in ways that would infuriate and linger. Really, I think he was such a great pest because he had so much experience annoying his brothers and sisters — and being annoyed by them. After all, nobody knows how to torment you quite like your siblings.
Getting to spend so much time chatting with Cheryl Miller was one of the thrills of getting to write this book, for sure. Not everything we talked about went into the manuscript, of course, and our conversations went pretty deep at times. At one point, Cheryl even said to me, “Why do I feel like I’m going through therapy?”
In terms of her battles with Reggie, Cheryl would dominate those games, which isn’t the surprising part. She’d also talk plenty of shit to her little brother while she was beating him, which isn’t surprising, either. The thing I was most taken aback by was Cheryl’s admission that Reggie could basically cut her as deeply — if not even deeper — as he did guys like John Starks. Specifically, the thing that Reggie could say that’d get under Cheryl’s skin was calling her a girl. “You’re a girl. You’re a girl and you play like a girl,” he’d say. Cheryl would often respond by increasing her aggressiveness. She’d say, “Okay, Reggie. When I put this elbow in your neck, am I girl? Do I hit like a girl? Do I drive like a girl?”
Cheryl was never one to run away crying — she responded on the court — but she can still remember the feeling of genuine hurt that burned inside of her when Reggie would say these things. As I write in the book, this had nothing to do with not wanting to be a girl; it had everything to do with actually being one. With his verbal digs, Reggie was essentially telling his sister he rejected a part of who she was, labeling it contemptible and insult-worthy. And as a young woman grappling with all sorts of social and biological changes, Cheryl says, “that was hard.”
So there you are, standing on the deck of a pool at the Naval Air Station Key West watching some Green Berets go through the Combat Diver Qualification Course. One of your subjects, Andy Morgan, said, “It’ll make you anxious just watching.” I loved this part of the book. What was the most stressful exercise you witnessed?
You know, by the time I got to stand on that pool deck, this particular group of dive students had already gone through so much stress inoculation that it was hard to gauge how stressful the activities really were, because they’d been trained to handle it. Which is definitely not to say they weren’t engaged in objectively very stressful tasks. At times, they had to work through problems underwater while being deprived of the ability to breathe. Other times, they were strapped to closed-circuit scuba rigs, known as rebreathers, which are much more technical and dangerous than standard scuba gear. Any missteps with the rebreathers can result in serious trouble, like passing out underwater, oxygen toxicity, or third-degree burns to one’s mouth, esophagus, and lungs (because of how the rig’s chemicals react with saltwater). I promise, I would have panicked instantly!
From a purely outsider perspective, though, I found it much more viscerally stressful to watch groups of Special Forces candidates up at Fort Bragg when they were put through an early-morning “stress event.” For this event, groups of would-be Green Berets had to memorize a slideshow’s worth of information, go through an exercise circuit in the gym, perform a rifle-shooting drill, and then recite back as much of the initial information as they could recall. The groups were timed and scored on their performances, and there were additional constraints, as well. For example, one member of the group had to hold a plank at all times during the workout portion, or else the group would have to start all over. Things like that.
According to Brian Decker, a former Green Beret who now works in the NFL, the best way to stress a person out physically is to stress them out mentally — and, oh boy, some of these guys had so much stress they were basically vibrating. None of the tasks were particularly difficult, mind you. But when a person is overwhelmed by stress, even little things can become nearly impossible. A couple of the groups had multiple guys planking simultaneously in two different areas of the gym, because they failed to properly communicate. Others were so frantic that they picked up the wrong guns during the shooting exercise, or they failed to go through the safety procedures at the end, as instructed, which led to point deductions.
There’s a saying in the military that ten seconds can save you ten minutes. But when you’re so stressed out, it’s hard to slow down. The shooting instructor told me it’s easy to see who’s experiencing the most stress because they’re just buzzing all over the place. “They’re not slowing themselves down,” he said. I felt bad for some of the guys, because I knew their hearts and minds were absolutely zooming into overdrive. The stress was completely overwhelming them, and they just didn’t know how to handle it yet.
BONUS QUESTION: If you could go in a lab and create the perfect trash talker, what parts of the greatest trash talkers of all time would you use?
I think for me, I’d take Kevin Garnett’s intensity with Larry Bird’s insults and Connor McGregor’s cockiness. Man, that would be one insufferable human to go up against.
Ha! I love this, and I certainly wouldn’t want to compete against your Frankenstein’s monster. I’m going to get a little wild with mine. Let’s start with Satchel Paige and his otherworldly confidence. Paige would not only tell batters what pitch was coming and dare them to hit, but would also at times raise the stakes even higher by calling in his fielders, knowing he’d strike out the side. On top of that, let’s layer Sean Avery’s creativity. Avery was a legitimate menace on the ice, obviously. But I want him for his creative mind: Avery came up with so many novel ways to fuck with guys during games that they had to write new rules to counteract his tactics. Next, let’s go with John Randle’s research skills. In the days before the internet, Randle left no stone unturned in his effort to uncover personal info about his opponents that he could then unleash against them on the football field. Got divorced? Had a DUI? Recovering from offseason surgery? Randle knew allllllll about it.
I also want Philip Rivers’s vocabulary. Rivers was an infamous and pretty damn intense trash talker — he just never said the word “damn.” A god-fearing man, Rivers never cursed, and his aggressively G-rated trash talk was in many ways even more distracting for opponents. “Get ready for daggunnit,” opposing coaches warned their players. Finally, to round things out, I’ll take Gary Payton’s relentlessness (“When you’re done [playing against Gary], you just want to go find a library or something, someplace totally silent,” former teammate Michael Cage once said), longtime NBA heckler Robin Ficker’s booming voice, and Jackie Robinson’s mental toughness. To be a great trash-talker, mental toughness is paramount, and there may be no athlete who was asked to demonstrate more mental toughness or a greater ability to focus under pressure than Jackie Robinson. Plus, in his later years, Robinson became a pretty good bench jockey in his own right.
Should any athlete ever come close to approximating this unholy combination of trash-talk abilities, you’ll probably find me hiding in the library, too.
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