I first heard the incredible news on the radio. If I were a diarist, it would have been recorded as one of the most important announcements of a lifetime.

I was 12 years old---and I thought at first my ears were playing tricks on me. My eyes often played tricks on me, so I figured maybe the eyes and ears were in cahoots, trying to pull a fast one. And maybe the nose was in on it too.

But it was no fake news, no alternative fact---it was true: Pacific Northwest Wrestling was coming to town---our town---live and in person!

To me, the news could not have been more monumental---bigger than if the circus, the Olympic games, the Beatles and the Pope were all coming in to do a show together. I was convinced that anything that happened in my life afterward would come up short---shorter than a pygmy marmoset monkey. That wrestled.

It all came flooding back to me last week when I heard about the passing at age 79 of George “The Animal” Steele. As you might guess, it was not his real name---he added the ‘George’ part to advance his career.

Steele was a hall of fame professional wrestler who was famous for having a green tongue. (The lesser-known Larry “The Gardener” Jenkins was noted for a similar colored thumb.)

“The Animal” may have been so named because of his penchant for tearing apart turnbuckle covers and eating the stuffing. (As you might guess, some wrestlers prefer mashed potatoes to stuffing.)

Steele was in the upper echelon of nationally prominent professional wrestlers like “Hulk” Hogan, “The Iron Sheik” and Randy “Macho Man” Savage. And while the Pacific Northwest version wrestlers may not have been as celebrated, they were very much major celebrities to kids like me.

There was “Tough” Tony Borne, “Haystacks” Calhoun, “Playboy” Buddy Rose, Lonnie “Moon dog” Mayne and “Dutch” Savage. [SIDE NOTE: Why don’t our U.S. Presidents have nicknames? Not just Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson---but all of them? Like, say, George “Tree Chopper” Washington, Abraham “The Beard” Lincoln and Donald “Trump” Trump.]

In the 1960’s and 70’s---before major pro sports were established in these parts---Pacific Northwest Wrestling---(aka “Big Time Wrestling” and “Portland Wrestling”) was the thing. It was on TV a lot---and Heidelberg Beer out of Tacoma was one of the advertisers, long before fervent young fans like me could even sample it.

Every week my friends and I watched large grown men pummel the tar out of each other. Most of the star pugilists did not look like the body builder type wrestlers of today. These guys were usually flabby, big-bellied behemoths with bad tempers and short fuses---heroes of the first order.

So when I heard that those very same wrestlers were coming to my small hometown---to throttle each other live and in person---I began lobbying my old man for a front row seat. Incredibly, he agreed.
It turned out that his Rotary club was the main sponsor of the wrestling event---and the morning of the big night, he let me tag along to the high school gymnasium where the Battle Royale would be held. Some other Rotarians were already on hand assembling the ring. “Notice how cushy the floor is?” My dad pointed out, “It’s so the wrestlers have soft landings---they don’t really want to hurt each other.”

I refused to believe it. I mean, I had seen these guys hundreds of times on TV---and they clearly did want to hurt each other. I could not believe how naive my dad was.

Hadn’t he watched the way the wrestlers smacked, punched, clouted, slammed, smashed, walloped, thumped and poked one another?

Didn’t he see the bloodied faces, watery eyes and grimaces of pain?

Couldn’t he hear the way the big guys threatened each other, boasted of what they were going to do and shook their fists at the TV camera? This stuff was real---and I could not believe my old man did not get it.
The contests that night did not disappoint. The wrestling stars were out---serving up all the pitiless barbarity and fiendish violence a fan could want.

“Tough Tony” Borne and “Playboy” Buddy Rose went at it like pit bulls with rabies. Afterwards, a bloody and battered Rose was carried off on a stretcher---while an unconscious Borne was…borne…on another---his hands looking shattered.

I glanced over at my dad. He looked unimpressed, almost smiling. I shook my head at his callous disregard for the magnificent human brutality we had just witnessed.

On our drive home, the old man said, “Hey, you want to stop and get something to eat?” I nodded, but was still perplexed by his nonchalance at the carnage we had just witnessed.

As we sat eating burgers at a counter of the local Denny’s, Dad gestured over to a booth on the other side of the restaurant. “Well would you look who’s here having dinner?” he said. I looked.

There sitting across from each other---eating and laughing---were “Tough Tony” and “Playboy.” Their faces and knuckles appeared to be completely healed---and the teeth I swore had been knocked out were now all back in their respective mouths. They appeared to be…friends.

I sat in silence.

It has been hard to believe in anything since.

pat@patcashman.com
Pat was a longtime cast member and writer on KING 5’s Almost Live---which continues to air in popular re-runs Saturdays following Saturday Night Live. He is a keynote speaker---and a fundraiser auctioneer---plus he co-hosts a weekly on-line talk show: Peculiarpodcast.com