“You have to look on the bright side, even if there ain’t one.”—Dashiell Hammett
When we were kids, professional wrestling was a big deal. Television was new in those days and the three extant networks were scrambling for programming. The test pattern came on in the early afternoon, followed by kiddie programs, the evening news and a grab bag of variety shows. After the late news at eleven, the national anthem was played and that was it until the following afternoon. Boxing was big on TV in those days and baseball was bigger, but television needed something else to fill those idle hours. Enter professional wrestling with its first hero, the enigmatic Gorgeous George. The sport quickly exploded with its colorful performers, a clever flair for showmanship and a naive, easily manipulable public, unwilling to believe the whole affair was brilliantly—or sometimes not-so-brilliantly—choreographed.
The American sporting public did not appreciate, after all, prearranged results. When several players on the 1919 Chicago White Sox took money from gamblers to cede that year’s World Series to the Cincinnati Reds, they were scorned and despised for the rest of their lives. On November 14th, 1947, boxer Jake Lamotta threw a fight with Forgettable Billy Fox in order to earn a title match with Marcel Cerdan. Lamotta won the title but never recovered the respect of many boxing fans for his earlier dive.
The fans expected their competition to be on the level but the newly-minted World Wrestling Federation, sole promoters of the mid-century sport, thought that would be boring. They surmised the sport needed wild men, eccentrics, good guys vs. bad guys. And--trusting on American audiences’ reliable bent for xenophobia—a few dangerous foreign nationals to stir the pot. We got Russians, of course, a clatch of Japanese and a sprinkling of Hispanics. The most famous bad guy of them all was Killer Kowalski.
Killer Kowalski on a GOOD day.
Walter Kowalski, a hulking 6-7, 275 pound behemoth, was born in Canada of Polish parents. He was not a pretty man and if pretty is as pretty does, he was even less attractive, treating referees as mere inconveniences to be brushed off and ignored and utilizing whatever illegal tactics were necessary to win the day. Kowalski delighted in applying to opponents his patented Claw Hold, a powerful thumb squeeze to the solar plexus which left the poor sap groveling in the canvas resin.
One early ‘50s night in Montreal, then “Tarzan” Kowalski leaped off the top rope onto a supine Yukon Eric, dislodging his cauliflower ear, which went rolling across the ring. When Kowalski visited Eric later in the hospital, the sight of his 6-5, 280-pound opponent, head wrapped like a mummy’s, dwarfing the tiny bed, caused hilarity in the giant wrestler. Eric, himself, couldn’t help laughing and reporters outside the room promptly wrote “Kowalski Visits Stricken Eric And Laughs!” After that, it was “Killer” Kowalski, who might as well have been the devil, himself. Not long after the incident, a front-row fan threw a pig’s ear into the ring during a Kowalski match. On another occasion, a woman approached him as he left the ring, told him she was glad he wasn’t injured that night and then stabbed him directly in the back with a knife. Walter Kowalski got police escorts after that. He wasn’t the only victim of fan outrage, however. A Midwestern woman famously named “Hatpin Mary” was well known for attacking grapplers who had the temerity to challenge her own favorites and not a soul made any attempt to discourage her.
The actual wrestling matches, of course, were only a part of the show. Just as important were the interviews with a well-prepped announcer, during which a bad guy like Kowalski might disparage the local fans as ignorant bumpkins, pathetic sissies or worse. He once came over for a post-match interview on a Boston station and responded to the booing fans by excoriating their proud city. “This place is a dump!” Killer exclaimed. “Why don’t you clean up the streets?!? It’s nicer than this in China!” Kowalski’s antics, of course, sold out his every match.
One night, my old pal Tom Rys and I hitchhiked to the Boston Garden to see a major wrestling card highlighted by the famous Kowalski. Tom, his last name reduced by several syllables from the original, was Polish, himself, and felt a kinship to the giant. Truth be told, we had more than an inkling by that time that the matches were prearranged but we liked to tell ourselves otherwise. We had a sense of humor about the whole affair, however, and were stunned to discover nobody else did. Our co-fans were hard core fanatics who wanted no prisoners taken and believed every grunt was authentic. They were a scary bunch, cursing, screaming, demanding blood. When we filed out of the arena, Tom looked at me and said,”I think I’ll stick to the Red Sox games after this” and I nodded in agreement.
Twenty years later, I was standing in front of my hotel in Lexington, Kentucky, relaxing after a day at the thoroughbred sale, when a strange phenomenon began to occur. Odd people in abnormal dress—bib overalls and the like—began appearing from all sides, slowly wending their ways in my direction. What the hell was going on? I looked up over my shoulder at the marquee affixed to the Rupp Arena which adjoined the hotel. “PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING TONITE!” it said. Two decades after Tom Rys and I had wised up and moved on to other pursuits, our old friends from the fifties were still carrying on with their strange obsession. I guess I understand. In wrestling, unlike the rest of life, it’s easy for even the bohunks to separate the good guys from the bad guys. They don’t have to read anything or listen to a bunch of windy debates or wish for powers of analysis they fail to possess. Donald Trump, the modern-day World Wrestling Federation as well as its good-guy competitor, understands all this. It’s him against the world for Xenephobe Champion of the Universe and his fans are rallying. Hatpin Mary is there, also the guy with a bucket of pig’s ears—and look over there—another fellow with his ears sewn shut, the better to hear no evil. It’s a salty lot, this gaggle of drones, and fans of the opposition must take heed of their surroundings. Meanwhile, Trump swaggers above it all, whip in hand, wearing the ringmaster’s smile. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
JFK To The Rescue
Like him or leave him, John F. Kennedy had a great sense of humor. His comic timing was impeccable and often even the skewered victim of a barb had to laugh. Political campaigns haven’t been very funny lately with the various candidates busily delivering—or dodging—nuclear strikes from their opponents. Our sole resort to humor has become Saturday Night Live, which blossoms with each gaffe by a candidate. For SNL, Donald Trump has become the motherlode of material, with Alex Baldwin’s portrayal of the Republican straight man almost on a par with Tina Fey’s earlier take on the bumbling Sarah Palin. For the most part, major politicians are a humorless crew, fretful and brooding, unable to take a joke. ‘Twas not ever thus.
Calvin Coolidge, nicknamed Silent Cal for his verbal reticence, was famous for his economy of speech, reluctantly handing out words as if they were twenty-dollar bills. But when he spoke, he was clever. Once, at a party, the hostess insisted he speak with her since she had made a bet that very day that she could get more than two words out of him. “You lose,” replied Coolidge in his usual droll manner.
Coolidge once wrote to his father, who had given him a puppy as a gift. “Your dog is growing well. She has bitten the iceman, the milkman and the grocerman. It is good to have some way to get even with them for the high prices they charge for everything.”
During the 1924 presidential race, Coolidge was asked by a reporter “Have you any statement to make on the campaign?” He thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said. The reporter was persistent. Can you tell us something about the world situation?” Again, the answer was no. “Any information about Prohibition?” Coolidge thought not. Then, as the reporter left the room, the President called out, “Now remember—don’t quote me.”
Despite constant pain from the polio which paralyzed his legs, Franklin Roosevelt was in the upper echelon of White House funnymen. Once, after sending legislation to the Congress to amend the Volstead Act and end Prohibition, Roosevelt looked around the room and told everybody, “I think this would be a good time for a beer.”
Jack Kennedy, of course, was the all-time champion in these matters, razor-sharp wit at the ready, lines always delivered with a benevolent smile. JFK delighted in scorching even himself. Once, when opponents complained about his wealth, Kennedy replied that he had just received a letter from his father, Joe. “Dear Jack: Don’t buy a single vote more than is necessary. I’ll be damned if I am going to pay for a landslide.”
When Kennedy appointed his brother Bobby to be Attorney General amidst cries of nepotism, he replied, “I see nothing wrong with giving Robert some legal experience before he goes out to practice law.” When a young boy asked him how he became a war hero, he gracefully responded, “It was absolutely involuntary. They sunk my boat.”
Other quotes from Kennedy:
“Dante once said that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in a period of moral crisis maintain their neutrality.
“Do you realize the responsibility I carry? I am the only person standing between Richard Nixon and the White House.”
“I do not think it entirely inappropriate to introduce myself to this audience. I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris.”
“I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.”
“I said I was not going to appoint ambassadors on the basis of campaign contributions. Ever since then, I have not received a single cent from my father.”
Where have you gone, John F. Kennedy? The nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
The Last Word
While Donald Trump has dispensed few verbal pearls and the prospect of his presidency is anything but funny, he at least has become an especially juicy target. Snoop Dogg once said, “Donald wants to run for president and move into the White House. Well, why not? It wouldn’t be the first time he pushed a black family out of their home.” James Corden of The Late Late Show reports that when Melania Trump was interviewed by Anderson Cooper she secreted a note into his jacket pocket. “Help me, please,” it read. I’m being held captive in a Palm Beach mansion.” Corden also advised that Ringling Brothers requested that people stop referring to the Trump campaign as a “circus,” complaining that it casts a negative light on their profession.
Jimmy Kimmel advises that Hillary Clinton won the Scholastic News Magazine mock election by a landslide, leading Trump to Tweet, “Children are fat and disgusting.” Kimmel also claimed that spending at Trump-owned properties is down 16 % from last year with increasing numbers of travelers canceling reservations at Trump resorts and avoiding restaurants on Trump properties. On the other hand, sales of red baseball caps are up.
Let’s wrap it up with a limerick:
On a long flight, Trump couldn’t refrain
From groping a girl with disdain.
He unbuttoned her shirt
And invaded her skirt;
Now there’s REALLY a snake on that plane!
That’s all, folks….
