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The wrestling was fake, but these stories are real

Posted: Jun 9th 2020 By: Jerry Linquist

All right, kiddies, gather round. It’s time once again for Uncle Jerry’s weekly memory piece straight from the rapidly-decaying mind of an octogenarian. This is Volume VI, where we prove just how low you can go. Call it “Walking Sideways Through Doors … But Is It Really Fake.”

During 47 years of spending a lot of time watching kids games and getting paid for it, you are bound to get sidetracked now and then. Not meaning to sound naive but, for the most part, sports are legitimate. Winners and losers are not predetermined — not counting major mismatches like Alabama 66, University of Richmond 0 in 1961 (more on that at later date).

Then there is professional wrestling, which is a sport apart. OK, so just about everyone knows the matches are scripted, and always have been, but that hasn’t kept 75-year-old Vince McMahon from becoming a billionaire.

McMahon is chief cook and bottle washer of World Wrestling Entertainment. Until McMahon took over the business from his father in 1982 and created a pro rasslin’ monopoly of sorts, the business was divided into territories throughout the United States and Canada. When I joined the T-D in the summer of 1959, a very large individual named Bill Lewis promoted grunt-and-groan every Friday night at the State Fairgrounds (now the raceway complex).

Outside the venue, once heralded as Richmond’s largest heated arena (approx. 2,500 seats, 10 stoves), the sign over the entrance read: “Cattle Show.” Believe it or not, we ran a short story listing the matches, with results the next day. And every member of the sports staff got a Thanksgiving turkey, courtesy of Lewis.

(Full disclosure: In the early days of television, rasslin’ was front and center, along with western movies and roller derby. Wrestling from Marigold Arena in Chicago was must-see TV Saturday night for this pre-teenager growing up on New York’s lower east side. One of my favorites was “The Bouncing Ball” Benito Gardini, who would be thrown by his opponent, hit the mat, and actually — or so it seemed —
bounce.)

It wasn’t long after I went to work that “Big Bill” Lewis was accused of unfair labor practices by a rival promoter. Tony Olivas, who had wrestled under the name “Elephant Boy,” said Lewis had intimidated wrestlers, keeping them from appearing on his occasional cards at the old Arena here. The National Wrestling Alliance, of which Lewis was a member, also was cited by Olivas. I sat in on the testimony, which saw a parade of rasslers appear under their real names. Richard Thomas Bryant (“Chief Little Eagle”) told the State Athletic Commission he was threatened with bodily harm if he appeared for Olivas. Joe Kirkland, who ran shows in Petersburg for Olivas, said he and his wife had received calls saying they would be “worked over” if he didn’t get out of the business. Six years earlier Kirkland was rebuffed by the commission after he charged Lewis and the NWA with a monopoly.

Suffice to say, it was a three-ring circus of three hearings held over three months at the old Hotel King Carter. Promoter Vincent McMahon, father of Vince, testified on behalf of Lewis, called a witness for Olivas “scum” and got a verbal shot from state Sen. Charles Fenwick, who presided. Lewis didn’t help his cause any by bragging that commission chairman D. Andrew Welch, as well as the sports editors of
The Times-Dispatch and News Leader, were personal friends. Because of that, Lewis reasoned, Olivas could kiss potential publicity from the local press goodbye.

In the end, Lewis had his promoter’s license suspended for 60 days, and he was put on six-months probation. “Big Bill,” who ran rasslin’ here since 1932, apologized. Nine months later Olivas was put on probation for three months for violating commission rules. The most serious? In his advertising, the Elephant Boy continued to use “champion” and “championship” after being told not to do so.

In 1964, Lewis asked if we’d be interested doing a story on Haystacks Calhoun, whose advertised weight was 601 pounds. Sure, said sports editor Chauncey Durden, “if we can weigh him first.” William Dee Calhoun arrived at our offices on Grace Street, wearing his hillbilly garb that included a real horseshoe — presumably once worn by a real horse — on a heavy chain around his neck. We took him down to the mailing room to get his exact weight on scales that began at 500 pounds. Then 30 years old, the 6-foot-4 Haystacks was so wide he had to turn sideways to get through the doors.

From Texas, although billed as coming from Moncks Corner, Ark., Calhoun was a good sport about the whole thing. He was easy going, a delight to interview. Oh, yes, he tipped the mailing room scales at 561 pounds. Maybe he was on a diet. Didn’t say.

That was the beginning of a series of sitdowns with rasslers who came to town. The weekly matches became monthly and moved to the Coliseum. Joe Murnick replaced Lewis under the Jim Crockett Promotions banner and gladly accepted the publicity even if it meant not concentrating on the
wrestling and its story lines per se. Oddly enough, only once did a subject refuse to stop his play-acting. Ernie Ladd, who played in four AFL championship games with the San Diego Chargers, stayed in his ring persona as a villain. Ladd, the “Big Cat,” was 6-9, about 300 pounds, so who were we to tell him to knock it off?

He did let down his guard for a moment to say, “It’s a tough life … but you know it’s worth it at the end of the year when you’ve made $150,000. It’s MANY times better than being a school teacher or a coach.” Ladd wrestled full-time from 1969 to 1986 and was inducted into the World Wrestling
Federation (later to become WWE) Hall of Fame in 1995.

Richard Morgan Fliehr was sitting in a Coliseum dressing room, talking with a reporter, when Murnick walked in. Until then Ric Flair had been real people, discussing the airplane crash that killed the pilot and almost killed him. Just like that, unaware that I knew the business — Murnick knew that I knew — Flair went into his cartoonish “Nature Boy” routine. So much for that one-on-one. At least I got what I needed. This was about a year and a half after that Oct. 4, 1975, accident in North Carolina. The small plane carrying five wrestlers ran out of fuel. Flair suffered a broken back and was told he’d never wrestle again. Eight months later he was back in action.

Having made his pro debut in 1972, the “limousine riding, jet flying, styling and profiling” Flair has retired a number of times, but just recently signed a new contract with WWE. He’s 71, with a history of heart trouble, kidney failure and alcoholism.

In the late 1990s, we were at the airport early one Saturday morning, bound for Atlanta or some other garden spot of the world. There, sitting by himself, writing on a yellow legal pad, was Dwayne Johnson. This wasn’t too long after he debuted as Flex Kavana then joined WWE in 1996 and was renamed Rock Maivia. Johnson, who played football at the University of Miami, wasn’t a fan-favorite until he became
“The Rock,” and later was a box-office smash in Hollywood, which he is to this day.

In Richmond for an appearance at the Coliseum fewer than 24 hours earlier, Johnson was pretty much unknown by the general public when I sat down for a brief chat. Polite, well-spoken, he was asked about his furious note-taking. “I’m working on my [rasslin’] character,” Johnson said.

Andre the Giant was perfectly named. He was REALLY big, although at 7-0, 520 pounds, the native of France was NOT as heavy as old Haystacks. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to weigh Andre Roussimoff on the mailing room scales. Among other wrestlers who played it straight were Wahoo McDaniel,
Johnny Weaver, Ken Patera, Pat O’Connor and Dusty Rhodes. “I was a kid who never had anything, the son of a plumber … but I had a dream: I was going to be the best at something — the American dream,” Rhodes said. He was 33 then (1981), and we talked prior to his match at the Arena — although the Elephant Boy was long since gone.

The golden age of pro wrestling likewise is long gone. The ’50s, ’60s, especially the ’70s, and early ’80s meant big business just about everywhere. It was all over local television via syndication, but none nationally — and hardly anyone was about to admit results were preordained. Breaking the illusion was verboten. And woe to the reporter who asked if the whole thing was fake. David Schultz punched out a TV type who dared and, unlike comedian Andy Kaufman’s feud with Jerry “The King” Lawler, it was — in rasslinese — a shoot (for real).

We were young and oh-so foolish in early June of 1962 when O’Connor came to town to face Hans Schmidt, your classic good-vs-evil matchup. From New Zealand, the 34-year-old was — in rasslinese — the baby face, and he liked being a good guy, O’Connor said. “This way I don’t have to kick anyone to
win.” OK, so tell us: Is wrestling rigged? “Definitely not,” he said. You think he heard the question before?

One of the keepers of the old flame is Jim Cornette, a former manager, wrestler, promoter, writer, booker, TV commentator, even owner (Smoky Mountain Wrestling). Now making beaucoup de bucks with podcasts and peddling memorabilia, the 58-year-old Kentuckian has a million-plus stories about his career while railing about what the profession has become. “Everything has become a gimmick, so
there are no gimmicks,” Cornette said during one of his profanity-riddled rants.

In truth, it’s difficult to argue with him. He thinks — make that KNOWS — pro wrestling was better when there was some doubt. Are these guys really trying to injure each other? Certainly looks that way, Mabel. In September of 1981, Abdulah the Butcher butchered McDaniel in a syndicated television bloodbath that was so gory viewers actually complained to WTVR-6. “More than we’ve ever had before …[and] from responsible people who were appalled,” said John Shand, the station manager. One viewer said she couldn’t convince her 13-year-old son “it’s phony [because] I’ve got a brother who thinks it’s real.”

A week or so later, McDaniel was in Richmond and looked fine. Without giving anything away, he admitted, “It was something that got out of hand … It embarrassed me, too.” That apparently wasn’t one of them, but there have been times when rasslers go off script for assorted reasons. A friend, no longer with us, worked at the Coliseum for wrestling shows and told of real fisticuffs behind the scenes. “They get mad and start throwing punches in the dressing room,” he said. “You should have seen what Wahoo [McDaniel] did to ...”

You should have seen what some angry fans did to tag-team partners Bob Orton Sr., and The Great Malenko in a post-match melee in the “Cattle Show” barn here in 1968. Orton was hit over the head with a chair, resulting in 34 stitches. Malenko was knifed in the right side to the tune of 27 stitches. In those glorious days of yesteryear, it wasn’t unusual for spectators to get involved. Maybe it was be cause most arenas were up-close-and-personal. So intimate, and unlike today, there were no barriers to keep the great unwashed away. Also, roles are changing constantly, so today’s baby face is tomorrow’s bad guy — and vice versa. Who can keep up?

Oldtimers, who remember the glory days, see what today’s creative geniuses have done to the business and throw up … their hands. McMahon reportedly has ordered all hired hands to refer to their craft as “entertainment” and not “wrestling.” Cornette once worked for WWE and has a certain admiration for what McMahon has accomplished (i.e., making a lot of money.) Still. McMahon, who attended Fishburne Military Academy en route to East Carolina University, also single-handedly killed the illusion once and for all. He came out and acknowledged rasslin was more entertainment than sport after losing a court battle with the World Wildlife Fund. It also freed the WWE from having to pay fees
as a legitimate sports franchise.

Is rasslin’ fake? Depends on your definition. There’s nothing phony about the bumps the sport’s practitioners take. The body has always taken a big beating which has led to drugs and alcohol to reduce the pain and, in many cases, led to a shortened life span. Haystacks was 55 when he died
in 1989; Dusty 69 (2015), Ladd 68 (2 007), Wahoo 63 (2002), Andre 46 (1993). O’Connor was an exception. He made it to 85 (1990).

Somewhere in rasslin valhalla, Big Bill and Murnick are looking down and shaking their heads at what the game’s become. Nowadays, in the ring (sorry, squared circle), they do more with their mouths than they do with other body parts combined. The TV announcers also assault your senses with screaming and non-stop chatter. On YouTube a match from Chicago back in the day included this comment from
commentator Russ Davis: “I might be talking too much. I’ll step aside, and let you watch.”

Cornette, who made his living by being obnoxious mostly outside the ring, critiques WWE and the upstart All Elite Wrestling weekly. He watches AEW’s popular high-flyers obviously pulling punches, issuing instructions — on the fly — what to do next and thereby insulting his senses as a rasslin’ purist. “It’s stupid. It’s fake,” Cornette, 58, said on a podcast recently. “It’s not wrestling.”

Until next time ...