"American Dream"
Robert Libbey
In those days Tampa was a cradle of wrestling in the South, drawing in from all corners of the Sunbelt a rotating cast of rough-edged characters to its epicenter—the Fort Homer Hesterly Armory, in South Tampa—where live matches were held Tuesday nights for hordes of fans and arena footage + taped matches out of the Sportatorium on N. Albany were broadcast to the tube-ola on Saturdays under the banner of Championship Wrestling From Florida.
That was my bread and butter: even when pickings were slim in the pantry with a sole, squat can of Dinty Moore posted up against a duo of Chef Boyardee. Balls out hardcore fare: and all under the watchful eye of Gordon Solie—announcer extraordinaire—no northern WWF glitz with practitioners of the “sweet science” like Bob Backlund, or swarthy, hirsute strongmen like Bruno Sammartino or muscle-lunks like Ivan Putski.
Our lot was NWA clans out of Texas like the Funks: Dory Sr., Jr. and Terry; the Ortons; pairs of brothers—Mike and Eddie Graham or good arms of the law like the Briscos, Jack and Jerry—along with heels like Dick Murdoch, who teamed up with one Virgil Riley Runnels Jr., a curly-haired tub-a-guts who took a turn and went solo, recasting himself as Dusty Rhodes: “The American Dream” aka Son of Plumber, an apple-cap wearing, larger than life charismatic who won the hearts of many (including mine) as a fast-talking, working class hero with a lisp who broke the mold.
These guys weren’t alien to me, just amped-up versions of the men-folk on my block in Sulphur Springs: the territory where I spent my first stint in Tampa—during my late elementary school years—where we landed cause that’s where my dear old Stepdad had been hatched, the lair from which he fled but ever circled back. I didn’t mind. There were enough vets on my street to field a squadron at Ft. Benning, for the most part not ornery, typically waist deep into a truck’s cavity, maybe the Allman’s sweet Melissa floating out the speakers (RIP Skydog); the street awash with kids, so pick-up play was easy: Saturday mornings, especially after a rain, the storm ditches out front of our stucco ranches gorged we’d skitch across on pylon sheets or repurpose them as ramps to launch our Evel Knievel rocket cars over an imagined Snake River.
Diverted and carefree, in the sunshine of those days, who cared about eating until the spell broke and we each dashed in to get our fill of Dusty et al.
**
Have you ever crushed your nuts into a singlet or counted a handful of ice cubes as the sole source of your hydration? Cutting weight: 160 lbs. off-season, down to 138. The bane of my second incarnation in Tampa: decamped again, sophomore year, high school at Chamberlain. Wrestling: IRL.
My coach, a tough wedge of iron and former alternate at the Olympics, would have none of it; he’d tack on extra laps if we as much as feigned a bionic elbow or jokingly apply a figure four leg-lock in practice. I digested the harshness. And proved a natural on the mat. Despite coach’s scoffs maybe the Saturday worship, the hours glued to the tube had worked some magic osmosis.
So, I kept such thoughts zipped, endured the unending pangs of hunger, and posted a pretty respectable record.
My last match, sapped of all energy: I almost lost. But by then, I didn’t much care. The fun of it had been squeezed out.
**
Driving down Busch Blvd. through Temple Terrace coach summoned up reserves of the human, “treating you boys.” Fat Man’s Bar-B-Q: a buffet joint. Country style: butter-beans, fried okra, trays of brisket. Praise the lord.
Inside, I felt a second wind uplift me. Shut your pie hole coach, my mind thought as my body (passing from delirium to giddiness) left the booth, heading for the trough. Was the awning swaying or was it me? Holding on for dear life, but lips slathering and eyes fixed on slabs of meat, the ground went out from under me.
Lights out. “Hey, there hoss,” a voice, lisp tinged, strangely familiar. “Wake up.”
Dusty?!
Lifted up and spirited toward the door (without a bite to eat); all in a blur, but passing his booth, unmistakable: a little older, yes, but the curly blond clown wig, the giant fat pouch slung over the pants, sure; smiling, waving his fork toward us as we passed…was that his sworn enemy Terry Funk with him?
**
All veiled in the fog of memory. So long ago; worlds away. Me, way up north on the East Coast now, a cog in the corporate machinery. Seems like a dream.
Can someone help unstick me, help me summon the energy. How I long for a vestige of dignity, some upgrade, say a job cleaning bird crap out of cuckoo clocks. I’d be willing to take a cut in pay. I’d be willing to do just about anything to have someone who can tell me if I’m asleep or not. Someone, while there’s still time, to say: “Wake up!”
Robert Libbey is still looking for a way to contravene the space time continuum, until then he lives in East Northport, NY and spends his days as a cog in the machinery, and nights and weekends (thankfully) with the family unit. He is a reader with Literary Orphans and his words have appeared here and there in print and on the Innerwebs.
Robert Libbey
In those days Tampa was a cradle of wrestling in the South, drawing in from all corners of the Sunbelt a rotating cast of rough-edged characters to its epicenter—the Fort Homer Hesterly Armory, in South Tampa—where live matches were held Tuesday nights for hordes of fans and arena footage + taped matches out of the Sportatorium on N. Albany were broadcast to the tube-ola on Saturdays under the banner of Championship Wrestling From Florida.
That was my bread and butter: even when pickings were slim in the pantry with a sole, squat can of Dinty Moore posted up against a duo of Chef Boyardee. Balls out hardcore fare: and all under the watchful eye of Gordon Solie—announcer extraordinaire—no northern WWF glitz with practitioners of the “sweet science” like Bob Backlund, or swarthy, hirsute strongmen like Bruno Sammartino or muscle-lunks like Ivan Putski.
Our lot was NWA clans out of Texas like the Funks: Dory Sr., Jr. and Terry; the Ortons; pairs of brothers—Mike and Eddie Graham or good arms of the law like the Briscos, Jack and Jerry—along with heels like Dick Murdoch, who teamed up with one Virgil Riley Runnels Jr., a curly-haired tub-a-guts who took a turn and went solo, recasting himself as Dusty Rhodes: “The American Dream” aka Son of Plumber, an apple-cap wearing, larger than life charismatic who won the hearts of many (including mine) as a fast-talking, working class hero with a lisp who broke the mold.
These guys weren’t alien to me, just amped-up versions of the men-folk on my block in Sulphur Springs: the territory where I spent my first stint in Tampa—during my late elementary school years—where we landed cause that’s where my dear old Stepdad had been hatched, the lair from which he fled but ever circled back. I didn’t mind. There were enough vets on my street to field a squadron at Ft. Benning, for the most part not ornery, typically waist deep into a truck’s cavity, maybe the Allman’s sweet Melissa floating out the speakers (RIP Skydog); the street awash with kids, so pick-up play was easy: Saturday mornings, especially after a rain, the storm ditches out front of our stucco ranches gorged we’d skitch across on pylon sheets or repurpose them as ramps to launch our Evel Knievel rocket cars over an imagined Snake River.
Diverted and carefree, in the sunshine of those days, who cared about eating until the spell broke and we each dashed in to get our fill of Dusty et al.
**
Have you ever crushed your nuts into a singlet or counted a handful of ice cubes as the sole source of your hydration? Cutting weight: 160 lbs. off-season, down to 138. The bane of my second incarnation in Tampa: decamped again, sophomore year, high school at Chamberlain. Wrestling: IRL.
My coach, a tough wedge of iron and former alternate at the Olympics, would have none of it; he’d tack on extra laps if we as much as feigned a bionic elbow or jokingly apply a figure four leg-lock in practice. I digested the harshness. And proved a natural on the mat. Despite coach’s scoffs maybe the Saturday worship, the hours glued to the tube had worked some magic osmosis.
So, I kept such thoughts zipped, endured the unending pangs of hunger, and posted a pretty respectable record.
My last match, sapped of all energy: I almost lost. But by then, I didn’t much care. The fun of it had been squeezed out.
**
Driving down Busch Blvd. through Temple Terrace coach summoned up reserves of the human, “treating you boys.” Fat Man’s Bar-B-Q: a buffet joint. Country style: butter-beans, fried okra, trays of brisket. Praise the lord.
Inside, I felt a second wind uplift me. Shut your pie hole coach, my mind thought as my body (passing from delirium to giddiness) left the booth, heading for the trough. Was the awning swaying or was it me? Holding on for dear life, but lips slathering and eyes fixed on slabs of meat, the ground went out from under me.
Lights out. “Hey, there hoss,” a voice, lisp tinged, strangely familiar. “Wake up.”
Dusty?!
Lifted up and spirited toward the door (without a bite to eat); all in a blur, but passing his booth, unmistakable: a little older, yes, but the curly blond clown wig, the giant fat pouch slung over the pants, sure; smiling, waving his fork toward us as we passed…was that his sworn enemy Terry Funk with him?
**
All veiled in the fog of memory. So long ago; worlds away. Me, way up north on the East Coast now, a cog in the corporate machinery. Seems like a dream.
Can someone help unstick me, help me summon the energy. How I long for a vestige of dignity, some upgrade, say a job cleaning bird crap out of cuckoo clocks. I’d be willing to take a cut in pay. I’d be willing to do just about anything to have someone who can tell me if I’m asleep or not. Someone, while there’s still time, to say: “Wake up!”
Robert Libbey is still looking for a way to contravene the space time continuum, until then he lives in East Northport, NY and spends his days as a cog in the machinery, and nights and weekends (thankfully) with the family unit. He is a reader with Literary Orphans and his words have appeared here and there in print and on the Innerwebs.