When the legends die

No, this is not about that wonderful book of the same name by Hal Borland, which I first read when it came out in 1963. The story of Tom Black Bull stayed with me all my life. In fact, it’s on my bookshelf now. The other main love of my life besides literature is professional wrestling. Yes, I said it. My beloved late wife, Alberta (my truest love), never understood my love affair with the men who patrolled the squared circle. She would often ask, “How can an intelligent man watch that stuff?” Of course, watching what wrestling has become under the evil hand of Vince McMahon, I often ask myself the same question. “Sports entertainment” is not what first drew me to the sport. Sure, there were the flamboyant ones, the ranting interviews, the character angles, but the focal point was wrestling. It was what they did and what we watched.

My earliest memories (1950s and 1960s) are of watching wrestling from Memorial Auditorium in Buffalo, with commentator Chuck Healey, a local announcer and sports legend, and one of my earliest heroes. My favorite wrestler was Ilio DiPaolo. He was always “the face” (the good guy), fighting the local heels (the bad guys) and sometimes the visiting star (there weren’t superstars then other than Elvis (I know)). Our favorite villain was Fritz VonErich with his deadly iron claw hold. Ilio usually triumphed. Another popular wrestler was the Canadian Billy Red Lyons. There were no national programs at the time, so we never really got to see many wrestlers from many other federations or regions. I couldn’t afford to buy magazines in those days, so there was a larger wrestling world out there that I wasn’t aware of.

Jump ahead many years, through the military, living in Philadelphia, and then finally in South Florida. With the end of the 1970s and the advent of the 1980s and my marriage to Alberta, something new came into my life: Cable television! Now, there was a whole new world: Georgia and Florida Championship Wrestling. Thank God for Ted Turner and the Superstation (when the Braves really became America’s team). Several times a week, Gordon Solie, the dean of wrestling announcers, introduced us to the stars of Southern Wrestling and the NWA. What names they were: The Andersons, The Masked Superstar, “Wildfire” Tommy Rich, Mr. Wrestling 2, The Freebirds, Sting, Black Jack Mulligan, Kevin Sullivan, and so many others. By far, the two greatest and the fan favorites, were “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes, and “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair. My son, Christopher, shared my passion. Not only did we watch wrestling on television, we also went to see it live. We saw matches at War Memorial Auditorium in Ft. Lauderdale, the Sunrise Musical Theater, and The Hollywood Sportatorium. Chris was a fanatic about Ric Flair. Ric was an anomaly: He was usually the champion but was also the heel. And he was good at it. In those days, they really wrestled. Ric would wrestle for an hour, every night, and not against “opponents.” He would take on Dusty or Harley Race or Barry Windom or Sweet Brown Sugar. Many times, he would look like this was it—the title was going to change hands. Chris would nearly be in tears, urging Ric to get up, and then “the dirtiest player in the game” would rally and find some way to triumph. Wooooo!

At the same time, another regional group emerged on Channel 9 from NYC. We were aware of new names. My favorite was Bob Backlund. He had epic battles in steel cages with Superfly Jimmy Snuka. Even when he looked like he was finished, Bob would rally and pull off some spectacular finishing move. He had incredible wrestling ability. My favorite memory of Bob Backlund was his standing in a little booth in the Sportatorium signing autographs, shaking hands, and taking pictures with anyone who wanted it. Long after all the other “talent” had left, Bob was still there, making sure no fan was left unhappy. This was when Vince McMahon Sr. owned the WWF. When he died, his son took over, Vince McMahon Jr. It was hard to know that this was the beginning of the end of professional wrestling as I had known and loved it for all those years. Backlund lacked the kind of charisma that McMahon wanted. He lost his title to the Iron Sheik, though Bob never lost it—his manager, probably on Vince McMahon’s orders, threw in the towel. Eventually, another wrestler emerged, Hulk Hogan. Thus, the age of sports entertainment was born. Hulk was, and is, bigger than life. He was a worthy champion with saying his prayers and eating his vitamins. We went to see all his matches. He was our favorite wrestler in WWF. One of Chris’ happiest times was slapping Hulk on the back after a match and getting covered with his sweat.

All of this history wasn’t really the point of this entry though it’s obvious I could write a book about this if I wanted to. I wanted to show the extent of my fanaticism. One further anecdote, not mine but my son’s needs to be told, though. Chris was now living in Clearwater, giving swimming lessons at the YMCA. A woman came in and asked about swimming lessons for her two children. She said sometimes their father would be bringing them. He was kind of a celebrity, so she wondered whether that would be a problem. Maybe he gave private lessons? His name was Terry Bollea, though most people know him as Hulk Hogan. Would Chris like to teach Hulk’s children to swim at Hulk’s house? Is the Pope Catholic? Needless to say, he loved doing it and having Hulk Hogan as a friend. Maybe he’ll write about it sometime.

As Bill Cosby used to say, “I told you all that so I could tell you this.” Last weekend (Sept. 11), The Wrestling Reunion, Legends of Wrestling, came to the Davie Rodeo Arena. Some of the great names from the past were coming to South Florida. My friend, Charlie, told me about it as I had seen no advertising about it. Apparently, many other people didn’t see the ads, either. There was a woefully small crowd there. No, it wasn’t because the wrestling fans are all gone, in jail, in homes, at the dentist, or can’t read (I have a doctorate). Jimmy Hart, The Mouth of the South, seemed to be the promoter as he did most of the talking.

Jimmy Hart, The Mouth of the South

The biggest name to be at the event was Mick Foley. Mick was there to be the special referee for the main event, a match between Dusty Rhodes and Terry Funk. Yes, Dusty was there.

Mick Foley, the Fan Favorite (at least in the beginning)

I know this is getting overly long, but remember the title? To get to the point, when many of the stars came out for their matches, the first thought was "Who are these guys?" "Why did they send their grandfathers out?" Yes, time has caught up with many of the legends. Years of flying mares, suplexes, leg drops, going through tables had taken their toll. Gravity has been unkind to some of the big men, like The Outlaw Ron Bass (someone suggested a breast reduction). The beloved Bugsy McGraw did his airplane spin around the ring but needed help from his opponent, the gigantic Warrior. A hip replacement will cut down on one's mobility. There were no snap mares or flying off the top ropes or trips into the turnbuckles. Mike Graham is a little, white-haired guy who doesn't quite have his moves anymore. Tully Blanchard makes me look like Lex Luger. Greg, the Hammer, Valentine and Tito Santana made a valiant effort to give us a show, but you could see they were suffering.

Tito leans on the ropes to hammer Valentine

One of the highlights was the reuniting of the Midnight Express, Beautiful Bobby Eaton and Dennis Condrey. Bobby didn't look great, but Dennis made David Crosby look good. The Midnight Express has beaten the best tag teams of all time, which they made a point of telling us. Their opponents, 3D (yes, we know they are the Dudleys, but Vince McMahon won't let them use the names, not even Bubba and Devon), are still in their prime and clear fan favorites. 3D performed well, carrying the Express and trying to help them through their moves. The fans kept yelling "ECDUB, ECDUB" in honor of their first federation, ECW, Extreme Championship Wrestling, which was the most hardcore of all wrestling until Vince McMahon bought and killed it. A table finally made it into the ring. It looked like one of the 3Ds might end up going through it, but then they got into their patented move (by McMahon, probably) and slammed Bobby through the table. As gentle as they were, I thought they almost killed him. Clearly, Dennis would not have survived it. After it was over, the artist formerly known as Bubba got on the mic and said how honored they were to have fought the Express. Bobby kept moaning from the mat, to which AFKAD said, "Stop whinning, I'm trying to put you over." 3D received huge cheers and brought a fan into the ring.

3D and one of their many fans

The Rodeo Arena is outside though it is covered by a tin roof, as are the seats. The floor is dirt. We sat in the bleachers. While most of this was going on, there was a huge thunderstorm raging outside. Eventually, the main event was due. "The Hard Core Legend," Terry Funk came out. He had been out earlier to create some heat with Mick Foley. He was antagonistic to Mick, as well as everyone else. Terry Funk is 61 years old. He looks it. He is scarred and gnarley. He's been through barb wire matches, branding irons, and a variety of chairs and other implements of torture. He has been the subject of documentaries, many wondering why and how he can continue to do this at 61. He always puts on a good show. He was out before the show signing his new book, which has a foreward by Mick Foley. Finally, The American Dream came out. Dusty is 59 years old. He has also been through every type of match. His body has always been less than spectacular, but it has served him well, and he has been a crowd favorite. He can talk the talk and walk the walk. Actually, most of the wrestlers of Dusty's era now look like him. He doesn't seem to like these shows. The last time he was here, he didn't spend any time with the fans. But, he does show up for the fight. He and Terry put on a good show for a while. Terry's head opened up first, but then Dusty started bleeding, too.

Terry and Dusty give it all for the fans

Mick started getting involved in the match, too. At a certain point, many of the wrestlers from the back got involved. Gordon Solie would have called it a "Pier Six Brawl." Then the fight spread to the seats on the dirt floor. They finally made it to the walkway behind the bleachers. Charlie and I didn't run out to see what was going on. It was raining. This went on for quite a while. Mick finally came back to the ring and said it was over. He declared a "no contest." At this point, fans started booing and yelling at Mick like it was his fault. He noted that they had loved him when he first came out. He really ragged on a couple of people and then left.

It was over. Some people felt somewhat cheated though only a handful had paid for the $50 and $25 seats. They let the bleacher people sit in the expensive seats to make the crowd look bigger for the cameras (Clear Channel taped it). It was nice to see the old timers though sad. They did their thing for us one more time. Except, they didn't really do it for us. They did it for themselves. For their families. For their futures. This could be a whole other entry if I got into how little the industry has done for the talent. Some of the big names have done well. Hulk lives in a huge, beautiful home in Clearwater. Most don't. They have had no pension, no health care, no retirement. Congress has never had hearings for them like they have for boxing. There has been no movement for national regulation. Why? Because wrestling is not real? Because it is not sport? Wrestlers are not athletes? I would challenge doubters to go into a ring and even fall against the ropes and expect them to propel them across the ring. It won't happen. Climb up on the turnbuckle and land on your side, front, or back on that mat. See if you even get up. Do that for an hour, every day, for a week, a month, a year, 20 years, and then tell me if these people are not athletes. Oh, you won't be able to because you will be crippled or dead. What about merchandizing? All those T-shirts? Action figures? Hey, 3D couldn't even call themselves The Dudleys. There are several books on the subject that you might want to read if you care about your heroes. Check these out: Inside Out: How Corporate America Destroyed Professional Wrestling by Ole Anderson, Scott Teal; The Death of WCW by R. D. Reynolds; Wrestling's One Ring Circus: The Death of the World Wrestling Federation by Scott Keith.

Some fans have said they feel guilty now. They shouldn't. We follow it for the same reasons most of them go into this--we love wrestling. Hey, wrestlers have gone on to other things: Movies, governorships, corporations, among other things. Maybe the successful ones should feel guilty or at least not rest on their laurels or investments or bank accounts. The Rock was at the Republican National Convention. Maybe he should say something. Too bad John McCain isn't a wrestling fan. Maybe wrestling fans should write to their congressmen, local or state athletic boards. Keep attending the independent shows. Buy the pictures and autographs. That's not too much to ask for as much as they have given us.

Be Yourself!

One of the joys of a lazy Saturday morning for me here in sunny South Florida is puttering around at whatever diversion I can find and listening to our local smooth jazz station. Down here, it’s 93.9 FM, Love 94. Especially enjoyable is listening to the Dave Koz radio show, which runs from 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m., every Saturday, on Love 94. Dave is an incredible jazz saxophonist. His latest CD, Saxophonic, is a real treat to listen to. Many of the cuts play on the jazz stations throughout the day. Dave has a nice, friendly manner and is delightful to listen to. He also has special guests from the jazz world on his show. He seems to know everybody and gets them to talk about their work, their lives, and their influences. Dave sounds like one of those people that you just know you’d like if you could meet him in person. Check out his website to learn more about him.

Today’s show was a tribute to Luther Vandross. Smooth jazz is an interesting musical category as I often hear music on Love 94 that I wouldn’t have considered jazz, but when I really think about it, I’m not sure where you would categorize it. Of course, just as I say to my students when talking about literary theories and movements, labels don’t really mean anything. When Luther died way too soon this July, the headline of The New York Times article said, Luther Vandross, Smooth Crooner of R&B, Is Dead at 54. When I hear the word “crooner,” I think of Bing Crosby (To which my current students would say, “Who?”) but, again, what are labels? Luther was a great singer. He had a debilitating stroke in April of 2003 yet didn’t give up on his music as his wonderful song, “Dance With My Father” gave testimony to as a million seller a few months after the stroke. Despite his eight Grammy Awards, Luther may have been one of those singers we are aware of and whose work we admire but doesn’t really get the recognition he deserves. Listening to Dave’s tribute to Luther this morning, I was reminded of how good he was. I was also reminded of how often I had listened to him without always realizing it. There’s something so comfortable and comforting about his voice that you just go with its flow. When “Dance With My Father” came out, I found myself moved by it and even somewhat misty-eyed despite the fact that I never even knew my father (or maybe because of that—you can miss what you’ve never had). In an interview posted on CNN, Luther said that "It's not just about losing one's father, but about missing someone who is gone -- for whatever reason -- and the longing you feel for that moment in the past when you were together." Or for those times when you were never together.

The most interesting part of the show was when Dave played part of an interview he had done with Luther. Dave asked him what advice Luther had for young, aspiring musicians. Luther said to be yourself. Be original. Don’t sound like or be like anyone else if you want to last. He felt he was distinctive and wasn’t the next anybody when he started. He thought today’s record labels were looking for people who sound like popular and current groups and singers. While that might bring some success, it will be fleeting. That reminded me of the story every Elvis fan knows (everything reminds me of Elvis) about when he first went to Sun Records to cut a record. The lady at the desk asked him, “Who do you sound like, son?” Elvis replied, “I don’t sound like nobody, Ma’am.” That’s the real secret, isn’t it? It’s also not easy. I’m sure my writing students may think at times that I’m trying to make them all write the same way. If that means knowing grammar, usage rules, and how to spell, they are right. If it means “sounding” the same, or sounding like me (not going to happen), they are wrong. I remember a student showing me a poem he had written and saying that he had finally made a poem sound the way he wanted it to. He had discovered his voice. It didn’t mean he could or should stop then. Our voices continue to develop, mature, change, adapt. That’s the challenge of writing. It’s also the joy. I think I’m using this blog to rediscover my voice. I haven’t done any meaningful writing in a long time. Maybe it’s beginning again.

Thanks, Dave. Thanks, Luther. “Always and Forever.”

'Tis the season!

If there were any further proof needed that the "end of days" is here, I was at Macy's earlier this afternoon shopping (a thing all men love). They had a large display of Christmas trees, many decorated with lights on. If that weren't bad enough, I then went to a Hallmark store to buy my daughter a birthday card. They had just put up their display of Christmas ornaments.

I always thought that after Thanksgiving was early enough to do this. So, if you are one of those people who likes to get your holiday shopping done early, you're already late!

Merry Christmas!

"Mere anarchy"

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."

-W. B. Yeats "The Second Coming"

Like Yeats, I, too, sometimes wonder "what rough beast. . .Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" What cosmic tsunami is headed our way that will put the finishing touches on our madness? Anarchy doesn't explain it though the media have used that word to describe what has been happening in New Orleans. This is even beyond chaos theory. This is beyond politics though many would say this is exactly what it is. Help has finally arrived, four days late. Finger-pointing helps no one. Speeches and photo-ops don't help, either. It's too early to be asking some questions, much less answering them. Should New Orleans be rebuilt? Will that once again be inviting disaster? Anne Rice has a very informative piece in the NYT about New Orleans. The title is "Do You Know What it Means to Lose New Orleans?" She asks at the onset, "WHAT do people really know about New Orleans? Do they take away with them an awareness that it has always been not only a great white metropolis but also a great black city, a city where African-Americans have come together again and again to form the strongest African-American culture in the land?" She reminded me of some things I had forgotten if I ever did know. A quick answer might be that, yes, we need to rebuild the city. But, maybe this time it would be the right way (if there is a right way).

Of course, first we need to rebuild people's lives. We had minor problems with Katrina in South Florida. Very minor. Who would have guessed that the not-even-category one hurricane would hit the Gulf and regroup into the monster it became? Apparently, not enough people. The human losses and suffering are almost unbearable. It is time for us as a nation to work together for our common good. I remember being hunkered down in Camp Lejeune back in 1968 and being told that the Marine Unit we (a group of Navy Hospital Corpsmen) were attached to might have to go to Gulfport if the hurricane (I don't remember the name) hit and our help was needed. We ended up not having to go. I thought about that last night and briefly considered whether I could still serve in that capacity to help up there. However, a lot has changed in 37 years, namely, me. Diabetes, clogged arteries, and failing kidneys might disqualify me from being recalled to active duty. Let's hope so, anyway. So, I made a donation to the Red Cross today and set up a link on my college webpage so students and others who visit it might also be inspired to help in whatever way they can.

In the meantime, a few prayers might help. They might help those who have suffered so much, and they might help forestall whatever it is that's out there that has it in for us.

Peace