Wrestling in Mississippi is more than entertainment. It’s history.
It’s a fight for territory. A war between promoters. A culture that shaped the sport.
Sweat dripping. Fans screaming. Heroes and villains stepping into the ring as if they carried the whole town’s pride on their shoulders.
It’s mustard bottles flying in the Tupelo Concession Stand Brawl. A moment so wild it still echoes through wrestling history.
To understand wrestling here is to walk through decades of passion, chaos, and storytelling.
The Territories
In the early days, wrestling wasn’t national. It was regional.
The National Wrestling Alliance, formed in 1948, wasn’t a promotion. It was a governing body. A cartel of promoters who carved up North America into territories.
Each territory was its own world. It had its own TV show. Its own heroes and villains. Its own style.
But they all shared one heavyweight champion. That champion traveled from city to city, facing the top star of each territory. It gave local fans the feeling that their hero was stepping onto the world stage.
Mississippi joined the NWA system early. In 1952, Jackson promoter Billy Romanoff wrote to the NWA president about his shows in Jackson, Clarksdale, Meridian, Vicksburg, and along the Gulf Coast.
From the start, the state was wrestling country.
And the style that worked here was Southern “wrasslin’.” Simple, emotional storytelling. Clear good guys and bad guys. Big men who fought hard and looked like they’d fight you in the parking lot afterward.
The crowds were working people. They wanted grit, not glamour. They wanted action that felt real.
The Tennessee Connection
If you lived in Northeast Mississippi, your wrestling came out of Memphis and Nashville.
NWA Mid-America was the territory. Run by Nick Gulas and Roy Welch, it covered Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, and Mississippi.
The stars drove into Tupelo every week. Matches at the Sports Arena were a ritual.
But in 1977, the game changed.
Jerry Jarrett, the young booker in Nashville, broke away from Gulas. He was tired of Nick pushing his son George as a star when the fans didn’t buy it. So Jarrett formed his own promotion: the Continental Wrestling Association.
And he brought Jerry “The King” Lawler with him.
That move split the region. But in Tupelo, it made the town even hotter.
Every Friday night, the CWA brought its stories south down Highway 78. Lawler. Bill Dundee. “Handsome” Jimmy Valiant. The feuds played out on TV and ended in blood and chaos inside the Tupelo Sports Arena.
The fans weren’t casual. They lived it. They cheered for their hero like family. They booed the villains like enemies. Tupelo became one of the most passionate wrestling towns in America.
And in 1979, that arena gave wrestling one of its most famous moments: the Tupelo Concession Stand Brawl. Lawler and Dundee fought Eddie Gilbert and Ricky Morton into the crowd. They smashed mustard, ketchup, and popcorn over each other. Blood mixed with condiments. The crowd lost its mind.
It wasn’t a gimmick match. It was chaos that felt real. It became the blueprint for the hardcore style of the 1990s.
And it happened in Tupelo.
Mid-South Muscle
But not every Mississippi fan was watching Memphis.
In 1979, “Cowboy” Bill Watts took over the NWA Tri-State territory and turned it into Mid-South Wrestling.
Watts ran his shows out of Louisiana and Oklahoma, but Mississippi was part of his reach. Jackson. Greenville. Other towns across the state.
His style was different. Less flash. More fight.
He wanted believable athletes. Tough men who looked like they could win a bar fight. His stars included The Junkyard Dog, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, and Ted DiBiase. He introduced the Rock ’n’ Roll Express and the Midnight Express, two tag teams that changed the business.
For fans in Jackson, Mid-South was their brand. They didn’t see Lawler’s wild antics. They saw hard-nosed wrestling with a sports edge.
It split Mississippi into regions. Memphis drama in the north. Mid-South toughness in the center and south.
The Outlaws
Not everyone wanted to play by the NWA’s rules.
In 1977, George and Gil Culkin decided to do it their way. They launched International Championship Wrestling out of Jackson.
It was an outlaw promotion. Independent. Running against the NWA.
They had a TV deal, broadcast live from the Greenwood Sportatorium. They filled their shows with hungry young talent.
A young “Sugar Bear” Harris wrestled there before becoming Kamala, one of wrestling’s most feared monsters. Michael Hayes and Terry Gordy teamed there before becoming the Fabulous Freebirds.
For two years, ICW gave Mississippi fans something different. A homegrown promotion fighting against the system.
But by 1979, the war was over. The Culkins merged with Bill Watts’s Mid-South. Bigger stars came through, but the truly local flavor was gone.
The Legacy Lives On
Wrestling in Mississippi didn’t fade when the territories died. It changed.
The Sportatoriums and weekly loops are gone. But the passion remains.
Independent groups have carried the torch. None longer or stronger than EPW Wrestling in Booneville.
Since 2008, EPW has been the heartbeat of Mississippi wrestling. What started in small shows has grown into the state’s longest-running independent promotion.
The EPW Arena has become a proving ground. Every weekend, fans pack into Booneville to see local stars mix it up with national names.
Marko Harris built his reputation there. Local wrestlers turned into hometown heroes. Legends like Buff Bagwell, Tommy Dreamer, and Rikishi have walked through the doors to test the next generation.
The shows feel raw. Intimate. Fans are close enough to feel the impact of every chop, every slam. Kids scream for autographs. Grown men argue with heels like it’s 1979 all over again.
EPW isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about giving young wrestlers a place to sharpen their craft. It’s about community. A reminder that wrestling doesn’t need 20,000 fans in an arena to matter.
For nearly two decades, EPW has carried the same energy that once filled Tupelo. Different faces. Different names. Same passion.
Because in Mississippi, wrestling has never been a passing fad. It’s tradition. A blood-soaked, popcorn-stained legacy. From the NWA to Memphis to Mid-South to Booneville, the story lives on.
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