If pro wrestling had a punk rock jukebox in a smoky East Baltimore bar, its top track would be titled “Hard Rock Ricky Blues.” Equal parts ring warrior and wandering novelist, William Perry Blake III—known to bloodied fans and bruised turnbuckles as Ricky Blues—carved out his legend one springboard dropkick, one crab-walked promo, one head-shaking indie saga at a time.
He never worked a WrestleMania. He didn’t headline Tokyo Dome. But in basements, bingo halls, and high school gyms with ceilings so low even Superfly Snuka would’ve felt claustrophobic, Ricky Blues was king. A cruiserweight pioneer. A DIY daredevil. A Baltimore-area icon.
Let’s dive into the glitter-stained ring jacket of the man who refused to be ordinary.
The Rise of the Sonic Express
Trained by Barry Hardy and Duane Gill (yes, that Gillberg), Ricky Blues debuted in 1990—during a simpler time, when a mullet wasn’t ironic and wrestling on public access TV got you booked more than a TikTok reel ever could.
Early on, he donned a mask and a name that sounded like a lost Street Fighter II character: Watsumi the Rising Sun. A martial arts–inspired high-flyer, Watsumi threw kicks and moonsaults before cruiserweights were even legal in the Carolinas.
Eventually, Ricky ditched the mask, the mystique, and became something more dangerous: himself. Pairing with Nick Tarentino as The Sonic Express, they were the Van Halen of the MEWF tag division—fast, flashy, and usually airborne. They bounced between the Mid-Eastern Wrestling Federation, World Wrestling Association, and various alphabet soup promotions across New Jersey and Pennsylvania, scooping up tag gold like mallrats grabbing fliers in a food court.
By 1993, they’d feuded with every generic heel team name imaginable—The Outrageous Ones, Leather & Lace, The Super Jocks—and survived. Tag belts around the waist. Street cred in the duffel bag.
The Godfather of Baltimore’s Light Heavyweights
Blues was more than just a tag guy. In a scene defined by barrel-chested brawlers and old-school hold-huggers, he flipped, dove, and glided through the air like a man who’d seen too much Ultimate Dragon and not enough health insurance.
He was crowned the first ever MEWF Light Heavyweight Champion in 1991. A few months later, he also became the first MEWF Heavyweight Champion, presumably while still being able to fit into the same pair of tights.
At one point, he held three cruiserweight titles from three different promotions simultaneously—an achievement only rivaled by college students who can juggle three part-time jobs and still graduate.
But while the belts were shiny, the bumps were real. He traded shots with names like Steve Corino, Adam Flash, Jimmy Jannetty, and even the Lightning Kid (a pre-Waltman X-Pac, before he found weed and DX). Ricky’s mid-90s feud with future ECW madman Balls Mahoney—then known as Abuddah Singh—may be the most tragically under-filmed hardcore ballet ever performed in Trenton, New Jersey.
MCW and the Retirement Tour That Wasn’t
By 2000, the Maryland indy scene split like a hotdog roll in a microwave. Creatively exhausted and contractually underpaid, Ricky Blues and half the MEWF locker room defected to start Maryland Championship Wrestling (MCW)—a promotion that once housed everyone from Joey Matthews to Mae Young, The Bruiser to Chastity from XPW. A place where you could see Gillberg in the main event and still leave satisfied.
Blues faced off against MCW champ The Bruiser, tangled with future Impact talent like Christian York and Joey Matthews, and had a wild feud with Adam Flash that involved no-DQ matches and possibly minor property damage.
He even headlined Legends Night with George “The Animal” Steele, Mae Young, and The Fabulous Moolah on the undercard. Think about that. Ricky Blues closed a show after a woman who once gave birth to a rubber hand.
By year’s end, he joined heel stable The Congregation with Platinum Nat and the Holy Rollers—then peaced out. His final promo probably ended with a mic drop and a sarcastic, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
Return of the Dad Bod Avenger
Just when fans thought he was done, Hard Rock plugged his amp back in.
In 2009, he returned to MCW at Legends of Maryland, beat old rival Agent Orange, and launched a short comeback that included tag matches with his son Ricky Blues Jr. (yes, you read that correctly). Father and son wrestled each other, teamed up, and then eventually feuded like it was some kind of mid-Atlantic Bloodline storyline without the beach houses.
And then… he was gone again. This time, for real.
Sort of.
Author, Archivist, and Alt-Wrestling Anthropologist
Outside the ring, Blues channeled his chaos into prose. His 2010 book To Kill The Town is a fictionalized insider account of Baltimore’s indy scene—a loving eulogy for bingo-hall legends, ring rats, dreamers, con men, and people who thought body slams were job security.
Then came PIN: Pioneers of the Independent Networks, a web series that became part documentary, part digital time capsule. A place for old war stories, grainy VHS clips, and tribute videos that smell like turnbuckle padding and Aqua Net.
When he was inducted into the Maryland Wrestling Hall of Fame in 2011, it wasn’t just overdue—it was essential. Ricky Blues wasn’t just a worker. He was a damn archivist, a chronicler of every cheap pop, every fire hazard venue, every moment that mattered before the cameras got HD.
Legacy: More Than a Mask, More Than a Mic
Ricky Blues didn’t chase clout. He chased moments.
He was a cruiserweight before there were contracts for them. A storyteller before every wrestler had a podcast. A guy who could take a bump off a scaffold and then explain the symbolism of it over a beer.
He’s a man who passed on fame for impact. And sometimes, when you’re remembered by the people who bled with you, trained with you, learned from you—and not by the folks counting YouTube clicks—that’s the kind of legacy you’d actually want.
The indie scene doesn’t need another Twitter blue check. It needs more Hard Rock.
