A Night Out with Big Ricky
Katy Goforth
Big Ricky wasn’t my actual dad, but he was what I had. My mom had married him in a rush and divorced him in a rage. But Big Ricky still loved me like I belonged to him. Said I reminded him of all my mom’s good parts. When he had a few hours off from driving his rig up and down the interstates, he chose to spend those hours with me.
Freshly popped popcorn and cigarettes mingled together, a comforting cocoon. The smells ignited my excitement. Big Ricky was home, and that meant one thing. An evening spent in the basement of the Spartanburg Memorial Auditorium coated in the sweat and swagger of the finest entertainers in the Southeast. The wrestlers of the National Wrestling Alliance.
We had a ritual on the two Saturday nights a month I spent with Big Ricky. I would stand in line for the tickets, and he would stand in line at the geedunk. This is what Big Ricky called the concession stand. I would secure two general admission tickets, and he would order eight hot dogs and two large gulps.
Those hot dogs would be fully dressed in chili, slaw, mustard, and onions and placed back in their original bag for safe keeping. Me and Big Ricky would get settled on the bench six rows from the bottom. Six rows was the ideal place to be able to see the action in the ring and be part of it when it left the ring. Just close enough to spit at the talent or be spit on.
Big Ricky rested the bun bag on his meaty forearm and doled out a chili-soaked dog for me. The wrestlers no one knew, the no-names, burst into the ring with music blaring and fringe flying. I whooped and hollered, my mouth full of meat, chili, and slaw. A smear of mustard already run across my Dusty Rhodes t-shirt. It was magic.
The real action took place to the side of the ring. Sharp dressed men in pressed suits held slim microphones to the lips of some of the greatest. The interviews and promos were taped here, and Big Ricky had us a special in on account of him knowing one of the camera guys. We would hustle over to a VIP area during a break between the no-name matches and the main events. I was so close to Ric Flair that I could still see the Aqua Net drying on his bleached mane. Witnessing his promos was like going to school for trash talk.
The night didn’t wind down. It amped up. Big Ricky would hand out the second round of hot dogs, and I’d have just enough drink left to wash them down. With my energy replenished, I was up on my feet for the finale. The big match.
Big Ricky picked me up and plopped me back down on the end. Giving up his prime spot to get me closer to the action. The Four Horsemen would amble up to the ropes with so much confidence that it oozed out of every pore. You could smell it from our seats.
My Dusty Rhodes t-shirt hung right at my knees and draped more like a nightshirt, but I paid no bother. He was my favorite on account of his accent and his lisp. Didn’t slow him down none. Just made him unique. A standout from the others. A star.
Dusty Rhodes would mosey out next. The common man’s wrestler. He knew exactly how the rest of us lived. You not only heard his words, but you felt them. Dusty looked like the rest of us too. Belly peeking over his wrestling shorts and three chins when he grinned.
Chairs and bodies sailed through the air. The match left the ring, and I was in on the action in my prime spot. One of the Four Horsemen picked up what was left of my big gulp and bathed the crowd with it.
When it was time to go home, Big Ricky would drop me off in the driveway. He wouldn’t come in.
He’d say, “See you in two weeks, Pudge.” I couldn’t wait.
Katy Goforth is a writer and editor for a national engineering and surveying organization and a fiction editor for Identity Theory. Her writing has appeared in The Dead Mule School, Reckon Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, and elsewhere. Her first job was being the Easter bunny at her local mall. She peaked early. She was born and raised in South Carolina and lives with her spouse and two pups, Finn and Betty Anne. You can find her on Twitter at MarchingFourth and katygoforth.com.
Katy Goforth
Big Ricky wasn’t my actual dad, but he was what I had. My mom had married him in a rush and divorced him in a rage. But Big Ricky still loved me like I belonged to him. Said I reminded him of all my mom’s good parts. When he had a few hours off from driving his rig up and down the interstates, he chose to spend those hours with me.
Freshly popped popcorn and cigarettes mingled together, a comforting cocoon. The smells ignited my excitement. Big Ricky was home, and that meant one thing. An evening spent in the basement of the Spartanburg Memorial Auditorium coated in the sweat and swagger of the finest entertainers in the Southeast. The wrestlers of the National Wrestling Alliance.
We had a ritual on the two Saturday nights a month I spent with Big Ricky. I would stand in line for the tickets, and he would stand in line at the geedunk. This is what Big Ricky called the concession stand. I would secure two general admission tickets, and he would order eight hot dogs and two large gulps.
Those hot dogs would be fully dressed in chili, slaw, mustard, and onions and placed back in their original bag for safe keeping. Me and Big Ricky would get settled on the bench six rows from the bottom. Six rows was the ideal place to be able to see the action in the ring and be part of it when it left the ring. Just close enough to spit at the talent or be spit on.
Big Ricky rested the bun bag on his meaty forearm and doled out a chili-soaked dog for me. The wrestlers no one knew, the no-names, burst into the ring with music blaring and fringe flying. I whooped and hollered, my mouth full of meat, chili, and slaw. A smear of mustard already run across my Dusty Rhodes t-shirt. It was magic.
The real action took place to the side of the ring. Sharp dressed men in pressed suits held slim microphones to the lips of some of the greatest. The interviews and promos were taped here, and Big Ricky had us a special in on account of him knowing one of the camera guys. We would hustle over to a VIP area during a break between the no-name matches and the main events. I was so close to Ric Flair that I could still see the Aqua Net drying on his bleached mane. Witnessing his promos was like going to school for trash talk.
The night didn’t wind down. It amped up. Big Ricky would hand out the second round of hot dogs, and I’d have just enough drink left to wash them down. With my energy replenished, I was up on my feet for the finale. The big match.
Big Ricky picked me up and plopped me back down on the end. Giving up his prime spot to get me closer to the action. The Four Horsemen would amble up to the ropes with so much confidence that it oozed out of every pore. You could smell it from our seats.
My Dusty Rhodes t-shirt hung right at my knees and draped more like a nightshirt, but I paid no bother. He was my favorite on account of his accent and his lisp. Didn’t slow him down none. Just made him unique. A standout from the others. A star.
Dusty Rhodes would mosey out next. The common man’s wrestler. He knew exactly how the rest of us lived. You not only heard his words, but you felt them. Dusty looked like the rest of us too. Belly peeking over his wrestling shorts and three chins when he grinned.
Chairs and bodies sailed through the air. The match left the ring, and I was in on the action in my prime spot. One of the Four Horsemen picked up what was left of my big gulp and bathed the crowd with it.
When it was time to go home, Big Ricky would drop me off in the driveway. He wouldn’t come in.
He’d say, “See you in two weeks, Pudge.” I couldn’t wait.
Katy Goforth is a writer and editor for a national engineering and surveying organization and a fiction editor for Identity Theory. Her writing has appeared in The Dead Mule School, Reckon Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, and elsewhere. Her first job was being the Easter bunny at her local mall. She peaked early. She was born and raised in South Carolina and lives with her spouse and two pups, Finn and Betty Anne. You can find her on Twitter at MarchingFourth and katygoforth.com.