The Night the Bruiser Came to Town
by Jim Burns
1963 was a good year for Sylvia Plath (until she killed herself)—her novel The Bell Jar was published; for George Wallace, who was sworn in as Governor of Alabama; for Wilt Chamberlain, who put up 67 points in an NBA game against the Lakers (though small potatoes in comparison to the 100 he had scored against the Knicks a year earlier); for the Whisky a Go Go, which opened in Los Angeles; for Jim Thorpe, who was elected to the football Hall of Fame; and for William Fritz Afflis, otherwise known as Dick the Bruiser, who headlined the debut of professional wrestling in the gymnasium of my high school.
The Bruiser appearing in my little Indiana hamlet was a big deal. Having been born in another small Indiana town and stayed in-state and played football at Purdue University, Afflis could have reveled in the glory of the hometown hero, but instead went over to the dark side and was one of professional wrestling’s great villains.
His opponent that fateful night was at the other end of the spectrum. Cowboy Bob Ellis, master of the bulldog headlock as his devastating finishing move, was one of pro wrestling’s prettiest of pretty boys, a guy so nice he probably devoted time he could have spent training to helping old ladies across busy streets (though not in my tiny burg, the absence of which could only have put him in the nasty mood requisite of anyone going up against The Bruiser).
My class of ’63 turned out in force for this battle, as did a large proportion of the rest of the town, and after a few warmup matches between wrestlers whose names time has forgotten, Cowboy Bob and The Bruiser finally clashed, the latter resorting to his usual underhanded tactics such as employing hard or sharp, or both hard and sharp, objects hidden in his trunks to blind or maim Bob, who nonetheless held his own.
The match finally reached a boiling point when an old woman wielding a knife went after The Bruiser, who had been thrown from the ring by our hero. Who was this avenging angel? She was recognized by no one, and just about everyone recognized everyone else in a town of around 1,000 souls. Was she just that, an avenging angel aiming to send the villainous Bruiser to a place not known for its angels? A loony? An excitable girl? An object of Cowboy Bob’s previous charity when hobbling across a busy street? A plant? Nah, couldn’t have been part of the show. Whatever her origin, she was disarmed and The Bruiser climbed back into the ring to battle Cowboy Bob to a draw. (Or did he lose via disqualification? Odd that who won remains forgotten.)
Whatever the outcome of the match, The Bruiser wasn’t done making small-town headlines, as having worked up a thirst exchanging blows with Ellis and fleeing the knife, on his way out of town he purchased a six-pack, which he sipped, or perhaps chugged, as he drove into the night and to his next venue and, somewhat altered, missed a curve south of town and took out a road sign warning of said curve. News of this spread like wildfire, and I was among those journeying the eight or ten miles to the site of the accident, which became a kind of local shrine proclaiming that Dick the Bruiser had come to town.
Jim Burns was born and raised in rural Indiana and now resides and writes in Jacksonville, Florida. He spent most of his working life as a librarian and after retiring began writing in hopes of keeping his mind at least nominally sharp. As of now it seems to have worked, but if it hasn't would he realize it? No use to go down that rabbit hole, so he keeps on writing.
by Jim Burns
1963 was a good year for Sylvia Plath (until she killed herself)—her novel The Bell Jar was published; for George Wallace, who was sworn in as Governor of Alabama; for Wilt Chamberlain, who put up 67 points in an NBA game against the Lakers (though small potatoes in comparison to the 100 he had scored against the Knicks a year earlier); for the Whisky a Go Go, which opened in Los Angeles; for Jim Thorpe, who was elected to the football Hall of Fame; and for William Fritz Afflis, otherwise known as Dick the Bruiser, who headlined the debut of professional wrestling in the gymnasium of my high school.
The Bruiser appearing in my little Indiana hamlet was a big deal. Having been born in another small Indiana town and stayed in-state and played football at Purdue University, Afflis could have reveled in the glory of the hometown hero, but instead went over to the dark side and was one of professional wrestling’s great villains.
His opponent that fateful night was at the other end of the spectrum. Cowboy Bob Ellis, master of the bulldog headlock as his devastating finishing move, was one of pro wrestling’s prettiest of pretty boys, a guy so nice he probably devoted time he could have spent training to helping old ladies across busy streets (though not in my tiny burg, the absence of which could only have put him in the nasty mood requisite of anyone going up against The Bruiser).
My class of ’63 turned out in force for this battle, as did a large proportion of the rest of the town, and after a few warmup matches between wrestlers whose names time has forgotten, Cowboy Bob and The Bruiser finally clashed, the latter resorting to his usual underhanded tactics such as employing hard or sharp, or both hard and sharp, objects hidden in his trunks to blind or maim Bob, who nonetheless held his own.
The match finally reached a boiling point when an old woman wielding a knife went after The Bruiser, who had been thrown from the ring by our hero. Who was this avenging angel? She was recognized by no one, and just about everyone recognized everyone else in a town of around 1,000 souls. Was she just that, an avenging angel aiming to send the villainous Bruiser to a place not known for its angels? A loony? An excitable girl? An object of Cowboy Bob’s previous charity when hobbling across a busy street? A plant? Nah, couldn’t have been part of the show. Whatever her origin, she was disarmed and The Bruiser climbed back into the ring to battle Cowboy Bob to a draw. (Or did he lose via disqualification? Odd that who won remains forgotten.)
Whatever the outcome of the match, The Bruiser wasn’t done making small-town headlines, as having worked up a thirst exchanging blows with Ellis and fleeing the knife, on his way out of town he purchased a six-pack, which he sipped, or perhaps chugged, as he drove into the night and to his next venue and, somewhat altered, missed a curve south of town and took out a road sign warning of said curve. News of this spread like wildfire, and I was among those journeying the eight or ten miles to the site of the accident, which became a kind of local shrine proclaiming that Dick the Bruiser had come to town.
Jim Burns was born and raised in rural Indiana and now resides and writes in Jacksonville, Florida. He spent most of his working life as a librarian and after retiring began writing in hopes of keeping his mind at least nominally sharp. As of now it seems to have worked, but if it hasn't would he realize it? No use to go down that rabbit hole, so he keeps on writing.