I really can’t get into the ultimate fighting craze that is so popular now.
I guess if it had been around when I was younger, I would have enjoyed it. Instead, I grew up as a fan of wrestling, or rasslin’, as we called it.
Every Saturday I watched the NWA wrestling show on Channel 17, hosted by Gordon Solie. And as a special treat, my dad took me a few times to a place called The Sports Palace, a fancy name for a metal building with some bleachers inside and a wrestling ring in the center.
They would usually start the night off with a “scientific match,” which was very boring, because nobody threw fire or snuck a lead pipe in their trunks or hit anybody over the head with a cowbell. Then it got to the good stuff.
One night, Mr. Wrestling No. 2, my favorite of all time, had already won his match and retired to the shower. In the last match of the evening, Dick Slater was battling Abdullah the Butcher, who as I’m sure you recall was part of Gary Hart’s Army, who were all bad guys. Abdullah was known as the Wild Man from the Sudan, but it turns out he’s actually from Canada, and now he runs a restaurant called “Abdullah the Butcher's House of Ribs and Chinese Food.” But back to the story.
In an incredible display of bad sportsmanship, just as Slater was about to whoop Abdullah, suddenly Gary Hart and The Sheik jumped in the ring and ambushed him, and began to beat and stomp him about the head and shoulders. We were all screaming at the referee, who somehow seemed not to notice what was happening! This was not right!
Then I heard a big cheer from the crowd, and out rushed Wrestling 2, fresh from the shower. I know this because he was covered in soap, even though he still had on his mask, trunks, and wrestling boots. Anyway, he jumped in the ring, and a couple of atomic knee lifts later, Hart’s Army was defeated.
By the way, the craziest fans there were middle-aged women who sat near the front and jumped and hollered and screamed and shook their fists and generally went berserk the whole time. Not unlike what happens at a Bon Jovi concert now.
My friends and I used to mimic the wrestlers’ moves, which was not a great idea. James Keith almost got his neck broken from a pile driver. I got in trouble for knocking the wind out of Ronnie Stephens, the nasty little boy who lived across the street, with an atomic knee lift to the gut. But he had it coming, cause he claimed the Spoiler would whip Wrestling 2. Puh-leeze.
Wrestling lost a little of its mystique when I learned that my friend’s father worked with either Mr. Wrestling 1 or Mr. Wrestling 2 at the General Motors plant in Doraville. I got a little older and I began to acknowledge that not all of the action taking place was real. Perhaps it’s not possible, I realized, to be hit repeatedly in the head with a lead pipe and not bleed. Or to get a pencil jabbed in your eye, but not lose your sight.
One night I was out with a couple of friends, and we ran into this guy who said he was training to be a professional wrestler, so I asked him, “Come on, tell me. Is it all fake?”
He took a long drink, looked at me thoughtfully, leaned in toward me in a conspiratorial manner, and said in a low voice, “Let me put it this way. I ain’t saying it is, and I ain’t saying it ain’t.”
Well said, my friend. Well said.
I guess if it had been around when I was younger, I would have enjoyed it. Instead, I grew up as a fan of wrestling, or rasslin’, as we called it.
Every Saturday I watched the NWA wrestling show on Channel 17, hosted by Gordon Solie. And as a special treat, my dad took me a few times to a place called The Sports Palace, a fancy name for a metal building with some bleachers inside and a wrestling ring in the center.
They would usually start the night off with a “scientific match,” which was very boring, because nobody threw fire or snuck a lead pipe in their trunks or hit anybody over the head with a cowbell. Then it got to the good stuff.
One night, Mr. Wrestling No. 2, my favorite of all time, had already won his match and retired to the shower. In the last match of the evening, Dick Slater was battling Abdullah the Butcher, who as I’m sure you recall was part of Gary Hart’s Army, who were all bad guys. Abdullah was known as the Wild Man from the Sudan, but it turns out he’s actually from Canada, and now he runs a restaurant called “Abdullah the Butcher's House of Ribs and Chinese Food.” But back to the story.
In an incredible display of bad sportsmanship, just as Slater was about to whoop Abdullah, suddenly Gary Hart and The Sheik jumped in the ring and ambushed him, and began to beat and stomp him about the head and shoulders. We were all screaming at the referee, who somehow seemed not to notice what was happening! This was not right!
Then I heard a big cheer from the crowd, and out rushed Wrestling 2, fresh from the shower. I know this because he was covered in soap, even though he still had on his mask, trunks, and wrestling boots. Anyway, he jumped in the ring, and a couple of atomic knee lifts later, Hart’s Army was defeated.
By the way, the craziest fans there were middle-aged women who sat near the front and jumped and hollered and screamed and shook their fists and generally went berserk the whole time. Not unlike what happens at a Bon Jovi concert now.
My friends and I used to mimic the wrestlers’ moves, which was not a great idea. James Keith almost got his neck broken from a pile driver. I got in trouble for knocking the wind out of Ronnie Stephens, the nasty little boy who lived across the street, with an atomic knee lift to the gut. But he had it coming, cause he claimed the Spoiler would whip Wrestling 2. Puh-leeze.
Wrestling lost a little of its mystique when I learned that my friend’s father worked with either Mr. Wrestling 1 or Mr. Wrestling 2 at the General Motors plant in Doraville. I got a little older and I began to acknowledge that not all of the action taking place was real. Perhaps it’s not possible, I realized, to be hit repeatedly in the head with a lead pipe and not bleed. Or to get a pencil jabbed in your eye, but not lose your sight.
One night I was out with a couple of friends, and we ran into this guy who said he was training to be a professional wrestler, so I asked him, “Come on, tell me. Is it all fake?”
He took a long drink, looked at me thoughtfully, leaned in toward me in a conspiratorial manner, and said in a low voice, “Let me put it this way. I ain’t saying it is, and I ain’t saying it ain’t.”
Well said, my friend. Well said.
2 comments:
Mark, great rasslin' story.
Now here's one of mine.
I saw a show in Carrollton and when the fearsome Ox Baker entered the ring the crowd was so intimidated everyone sat down and got quiet ... except for this one little, wormy old woman who stood up and gave Ox the finger.
There was an eerie silence, then Ox -- with a voice from hell -- dropped the f-bomb on the little old lady.
The crowd exploded in rage and screamed at Baker the rest of his match.
---
I wonder if the old broad was a plant?
My God. I had completely forgotten Ox Baker. I seem to remember he and Bill Watts getting into it one time.
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