Wrestling

I was pumped for the 1st day of wrestling practice. As I said before, I knew I had an advantage on the other guys because of my long involvement with the sport. I doubt if many of my peers could match the time I invested watching professional wrestling on TV.

I had the famous holds and moves down pat. I could perform the sleeper hold, which would render an opponent unconscious; the coco butt, the trademark of Bobo Brazil which would end any match, and my favorite, the claw hold. Fritz von Erich would apply the claw hold to the mid-section of his opponent and it would instantly gain his submission. We hated Fritz von Erich. He the did the Nazi goose step before each match, intentionally stirring the patriotic feelings of every American. If Hitler was still alive, Fritz was on a mission directly ordered by der Fürher (I later found out that this "Nazi" was born in Jewett, Texas). 

Now, forget that I had never actually used the sleeper hold on anyone except maybe my brother (and I think he faked a loss of consciousness so I would leave him alone). And I never really tried the coco butt, but it seemed to work well for Bobo Brazil. Of course, I was mildly curious how he could smash heads with his opponent and the poor guy would writhe in excruciating pain, but Bobo never seemed to feel anything. I guess his head was that hard.

But I did try the claw hold. I used it on my dad, but he never lost consciousness like the guys on TV. I tried it on my brother, but he was too ticklish for it to work effectively. Nonetheless, I had faith in these holds. The wrestlers who used them were all of the “scientific” wrestling school, so how could they fail? They had science on their side for cryin out loud.

Imagine my surprise when I went to wrestling practice for the 1st time. The coach demonstrated something that he called wrestling but was completely foreign to me. Was this a Russian, Commie invention to make girlie-men out of red-blooded American boys? I soon learned that such effective holds like the sleeper hold, coco butt and claw hold were illegal and would get me thrown off the team. To make matters worse, they didn’t even use a ring! It was all done on a mat. How in the world was I expected to jump off the turn-buckle and land my elbow into the throat of my writhing adversary? I wasn’t sure about this namby-pamby stuff.

I lasted for most of the 1st season. I just couldn’t get the holds and moves quite right. Every time I tried to use one of the “scientific” wrestling holds, Jack Price, my best friend and who was in my same weight class, drove me to the mat and pinned me. I may have lasted all of 30 seconds against Jack. I thought I had an edge in information and technique; he had muscle, skill, and little tolerance for fools.

I quit before the wrestling season ended having never competed in an actual match. My athletic career was not going well. But, then, my true calling beckoned. That’s a story for another time.

My Sports Career

By the time I reached 7th grade, I had sufficiently healed emotionally to take another stab at sports. If you have ever been an adolescent boy, you know how important sports are to your developing manhood. So, I needed to find an activity that would satisfy my inner desire to play on a team, develop skill and coordination, and most importantly, make me popular with the girls – a strange breed in which I was beginning to take a curious interest.


Though I was psychically healed from the baseball experience, I had, nonetheless, learned a valuable lesson. Therefore, I was looking for a sport that did not involve a ball of any kind. Naturally, that eliminated football, soccer (though I did briefly try this until I discovered that it was mostly running), volleyball, basketball, tether ball, and catch (although I don’t think that this was a scholastic sport. I wasn’t taking any chances, though). To my surprise, in 7th grade, my Jr. High introduced a new sport to our school: wrestling.

This was the mother lode. It met my 2 basic criteria: it did not involve throwing, catching, kicking or coming into any contact whatsoever with a ball and; it was sure to impress those strange creatures that made us all act goofy when they came around. This was the perfect juxtaposition of circumstances. Wrestling was the ideal sport for me.

Part of Saturday ritual from as far back as I can remember involved watching professional wrestling on TV. Sometimes we would watch at home, and sometimes we were at my grandparent’s house. But we never missed. My family was really into wrestling. My grandmother would get so worked up over wrestling that she nearly became another person. The first time I visited a church when they spoke in tongues, it was no big deal. Grandma did that while watching wrestling.

Actually, professional wrestling or studio wrestling was the first infomercial. “Wrestlers” would show up at the studio and there would be one hour’s worth of matches ending with a plug to buy tickets for the big show at the Civic arena. But as far as we were concerned, this was real stuff.

These were our local heroes: Lord Ethyl Layton, a former wrestler of British nobility, now emcee of the program; Killer Kowalski, Dutch Schultz, Bobo Brazil, and the one I loved to hate, Fritz von Erich. Along with these luminaries, every now and again, local viewers would be given a special treat: midget wrestling.

Mom and grandma loved midget wrestling. Forget that it was presented like a freak show that could have been at the county fair. It was great fun. But for grandma, the only thing better than midget wrestling was women midget wrestling. This combined the best of all possible worlds: there was the gratuitous violence of professional wrestling, the curiosity of watching people who were “not normal,” and the the particular form of brutality that is associated with a “chic fight.”

So, with this wealth of information gleaned from years of careful observation, I was ready to take on wrestling. I knew I could excel. I had the advantage over the other guys who would try out for the team. I was a student of the sport. I could almost sense the admiration that would come my way by the 7th grade girls, who were strangely different from the 6th grade girls they used to be. I needed to practice my moves, wrestling and otherwise.

Football's Finished

It’s official; the football season for the Diminutive Native Americans is finally over. They were soundly defeated by the Miniscule Magenta Mythical Monsters (the fire-breathing kind) in their first playoff game on Saturday (note: I am using politically correct names for the teams involved at the advice of my legal counsel William F. (Bill) Perdieum). That game was ridiculous. Am I wrong, but aren’t game announcers supposed to observe a semblance of impartiality over the PA system? I know the guy had a kid in the game, but did he have to be the cheerleader (“Here we go mythical monsters, here we go…”)? And is it necessary to shout each time any kid gets the ball, “he-could-go all… the… way” in pathetic Chris Berman style? I swear, if I could have found some angry villagers, we would have burned down the concession stand where the announcer sat. Even my 11 year grandson said, “What’s with the announcer dude?” Insightful!


I for one am glad the season is over. I know that most parents were disappointed but not me. Maybe it has to do with my general apathy toward sports which I trace to my troubled childhood. Let me explain…

My first encounter with sports was little league baseball in the summer between 3rd and 4th grade. In those days, no one automatically made the team. Back then, people were not as concerned about damaging a kid’s fragile little psyche. Our team had 15 uniforms and 17 kids trying out. We knew from the beginning that 2 of us would not make the cut, but I never imagined it would be me. Sure, I couldn’t hit – in fact I nearly fainted the first time someone threw a ball at me. But I had a secret weapon – my arm. I could throw the ball far. I was in left field and I ingeniously figured out a way to keep from getting hurt, which was my primary goal. When the ball was hit to left field, I would allow it to drop safely in front of me so I would not get seriously injured if I tried to catch it. Imagine people purposely standing under a dropping ball! Then I would pick it up and, with my rocket arm, I would throw it to the infield so the play could be made at the plate. This, I thought, would increase the dramatic value of the game and make it more spectacular. I could throw the ball far and many times I threw it in the right direction and sometimes to the right person. I knew I was doing well because every time I let the ball drop and threw it in the infield, the coach would gesture some congratulatory body language in my direction.

I was one of the ones cut from the team. I was devastated. I vowed then and there to give up sports and pursue my hobby – comic book reading – with greater intensity. But then came 7th grade.

The Scouring of the Shire

In my small town, every Friday is like spring. Here’s why: on Thursday evening, we all set out our garbage to be picked-up during the wee hours of Friday morning. All the citizens disgorge their homes of sundry unwanted items, refuse and garbage. We set these things out at the curb as offerings for the gods of garbage. As the good folk of the town sleep, the garbage men descend upon the city to relieve the people of their burdens for another week.

I am amazed at the symbiotic underground economy that garbage day has created. It is an unwritten rule that we all place our detritus outside by dinner time, especially during the summer. Because in the evening hours, a new species of entrepreneurs scour the city looking for all manner of “stuff” – these are the junk men. They look for anything that may be recycled or reused. Now, I get the recycling part, but some of these people are really in need of help. Some junk men find items for their homes or (I cannot prove this but my spider-sense tells me it is so) to resell at yard sales and flea markets (I must admit that I have this illness in my family. I have seen items that have been proudly displayed as being found in dumpsters. This is a sickness that needs some kind of support group.)

There are several classes of junk men. There are the ones who spy a juicy prize, pull over and wipe off the spaghetti sauce, and place it in their truck. They will do their best to keep from disturbing the garbage pile. Another kind will see something they want and wrestle it from the pile of debris and place it on their truck, leaving a disheveled mess in their wake. This is so annoying. Some of us work hard at leaving our trash in such a way that the high priests of garbage can easily gather the sacrifices left for them. I don’t appreciate having to rake up coffee filters, spent packages of soy sauce, and ketchup covered corndog sticks.

And then there are those who come to your door and ask you before they take your items. These are the namby-pamby socialists. No capitalist would be that polite or thoughtful. I mean, the stuff is out at the curb for the trash. Do I need to give permission before you take it? If I wanted to keep it, it would still be in my basement growing mold! Do I expect the garbage men to knock on my door at 0 dark 30 and ask permission to collect my garbage? Just take it, for crying out loud.

I love garbage day and the cleansing it provides. It is cathartic when you see junk from your house hauled away. However, I have learned that there are some things that neither the garbage men nor the junk men will take. Here is a brief list of forbidden items:

• Anything heavier than 1 man can lift – yet most of that junk I hauled out of the basement by myself. It can be done. You just need to swear a lot.

• Branches or shrubs that are not tied together. Like I’m going to take the time to neatly organize my branches and tie them together. Hey, if I’m going to do that much work, I’m going to find some heretic to burn at the stake. Why not? The hard part’s done.

• Pets – Oh, come on. Like you haven’t ever thought about this.

• A 1986 Pontiac Fiero

• Paint cans – here’s the exception: lids must be off and the paint must be dried hard. Why would I set paint out that is usable? Some brain surgeon always fails to close the paint cans tightly so they always dry…, Oh, wait, that was me…Never mind.

• Children, either mine or the neighbors. I guess there is some lame city ordinance about that.