Accepted

by Pat Patterson

  We got there early and Santos bought us each a sandwich. We were going to wrestle in the opening match even though no one knew who we were. That night, I walked into the ring in front of 6,000 people. It was impressive for someone like me; I’d only wrestled in front of much smaller crowds. We had a very good match — even though we were nervous — and the local promoter and Santos were happy. We went back to Boston right after the show. A few days later, Santos brought me a check for fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for one match? I was rich! Then Santos laid it out on me. “You have to pay me transportation.” So he took thirty-five dollars for himself and left me with fifteen. I had never owned a car or bought gas, so I had no idea how paying “trans” worked. He was screwing me, but I didn’t know that at the time. Later, when I was in Oregon, the wrestlers had a proper system where you paid between two and five cents per mile to the car owner.

  Earliest wrestling picture on record. I look good, don’t I!

  Santos was quite the character, even for a promoter, and he used all sorts of names for his wrestlers — like Bruno Sanmartino instead of Bruno Sammartino. Before the internet, something that simple was often enough to confuse fans into coming, thinking that the big star would be there. But it was always some sort of cheap copy played by an unknown.

  After Buffalo, all we ever did was wrestle in small buildings around Boston for no real money. Santos’s son, Tony Jr., brought the ring from show to show and I traveled with him and helped set it up. I was on the ring crew all the time.

  When I wasn’t wrestling I was enjoying life in a new city with new friends who were young like me; we talked and dreamt together about what our lives would be like. I didn’t explore Boston much, because I didn’t want to get lost. I mostly stayed in the Fenway neighborhood. All in all, not a bad place to discover the world.

  I got comfortable living in my building and began to have some fun at the expense of everyone there. Every Sunday morning we would all go downstairs one after the other and see the old man to pay the rent. Poor Ralph. He was quite the sight, always in a bathrobe. He had a dog named Jippy who followed him everywhere. I was doing OK, but I didn’t have much money for anything fancy like curtains for my windows. Ralph had beautiful curtains in his place, so one day, I told one of the guys to tell Ralph he was charging them too much.

  That made Ralph mad. “If you don’t like it, then get out!” Ralph yelled and got all worked up just like I wanted.

  While that was going on, I jumped on a chair, stole his curtains, and brought them up to my room. He never suspected me. For some mysterious reason, Ralph always liked me. He would curse everybody else, especially the drunken tenants, but he was always nice to me. I can’t believe how much I abused his faith.

  Cooking in my small apartment in Boston. I have good memories from that place!

  There was one tenant, a Japanese man, who never closed the door of his apartment when he went to the shared bathroom. So I would lock him out of his apartment, and he’d have to yell for Ralph to come up and let him in.

  Another time, I let the water run in the bathtub all night in the second-floor bathroom. Next morning, Ralph called out to me, “Patterson, there is some serious shit going on around here!”

  “What do you mean, Ralph?” I answered as if I was still half-asleep, playing dumb.

  “Let me show you.”

  He brought me over to his apartment. Water was dripping down the wall from the ceiling. It was goddamn Niagara Falls in there.

  “Patterson, you’re going to help me find out who’s responsible for that shit.”

  Then he brought me to the basement where there was a barbershop and there was water dripping everywhere. I started to get very nervous and hoped he would never find out I was the culprit. Thank God, he trusted me. I didn’t intend to cause damage like that, I just thought it would be funny. I was dumb, but I never did anything in my life that was mean-spirited; I just wanted to make people laugh and entertain myself with their laughter. Unfortunately for Ralph, I was just getting started.

  One time, we all took our feather-filled pillows and made the biggest indoor snowstorm of all time. The following day, there was Ralph trying to clean up our mess. He was almost done and there was a humongous pile of feathers in the middle of the lobby. Out of nowhere, I yelled, “Ralph, what’s up this morning?” and then I started to run downstairs.

  He yelled back, in hopes of stopping me, “Don’t go out the door. Please!”

  But I ignored him, opened the door, and in came the wind. The feathers went flying everywhere all over again! It was funny as hell for everyone — except for poor Ralph.

  One night, Ralph knocked on my door and told me everyone was complaining about the music coming from my apartment.

  “It’s not that loud and it’s only 10 p.m. I’m just playing the radio. Come on, Ralph. Let’s have a beer!”

  “I don’t drink beer,” he lied.

  “Come on, would one beer kill you?”

  So he comes in with his dog and sits down with me and my friend. We’re drinking beer and we’re telling all kind of stories. Then he takes a second beer. I was home free. By the third beer, he’s feeling real good. Suddenly he stands up and starts to look around my place, and he goes, “Where did you get those drapes?”

  I was so busted. But I decided to plead complete innocence. “They were there when I took the place, Ralph. What do you mean?”

  The Japanese guy saved the day by knocking on my door to complain that the music was still too loud. Ralph took his anger out on him and told him to go to hell, and he came back to party with us. Later, he got hot again about the curtains and said to his dog, “Jippy, let’s get out. This is no place for a gentleman.”

  At some point, a fire alarm was installed in the building. And, of course, almost every night like clockwork, someone would pull the alarm . . . OK, it was almost always me, but everyone was laughing as we ran outside half-naked. Those were the crazy days. When you don’t know anything, you don’t worry about anything. I didn’t know you could get arrested pulling those kinds of pranks. I was lucky I never got into any real trouble.

  There were no phones in our rooms, so we went across the street to a phone booth to make calls. Ralph had a phone in the lobby, however, so one time I put shoe polish on the earpiece and then phoned from across the street. I disguised my voice and said the call was for Haystack Muldoon. Santos used Muldoon to confuse fans into thinking he was Haystacks Calhoun. Poor overweight Muldoon had to come downstairs from his top-floor apartment to answer the phone. I kept him on the line for a few seconds then hung up. When I re-entered the building, Ralph and Muldoon were both upset and had an ear that was shoe-polish black. I burst out laughing again.

  Ralph, you’ve been gone for a long time, but I just want to say I’m sorry. You had me laughing like crazy half the time I lived there. I still laugh when I think about you. Thank you.

  * * *

  While all of this was going on, I worked for Santos as much as I could, mostly small shows. Finally, he collaborated with another promoter to put on a big show at the Boston Garden on April 4, 1961. All of my wrestling gear back then was purple like my idol Kowalski’s. And who was in the main event that night? Kowalski! He lived in Boston for years, so it was only natural. I was in the same dressing room with him for the first time. My heart was racing very fast. I overheard Santos say to him, “Watch the kid work: he wrestles just like you.”

  I wrestled second or third, and Kowalski took the time to watch my match. Afterwards, he said, “You did all right, kid.” I was happy as shit. I asked if he remembered signing my picture at the Montréal Forum, and I was overjoyed when he said, “I remember.” Kowalski was a good guy, who never drank and always wanted to help the younger wrestlers.

  The Garden, just like Buffalo, turned into a one- or two-shot deal. But Santos took care of me and I often traveled with him. I was learning in th
e ring, gaining more experience but not learning much about the business side of wrestling. I was still naive with limited English, but my reputation as a wrestler was growing.

  I wrestled with everyone who was anyone in Boston — Frankie Scarpa (who was also known as Manuel Cortez), Bull Montana, and Bull Curry. Everyone wanted to wrestle with the kid in the purple trunks, because I would take crazy bumps for them. Bull Curry was quite the character, and definitely not pretty. He was known for two things: being crazy and being cheap. My first night in, he bought me a beer. I remember telling myself I must have made an impression.

  Boston wasn’t as wild as San Francisco was a few years later, but playing the bad guy still meant you might have to fend off an attack by fans. One night, a guy jumped in the ring and tried to strangle me with a rope. “Killer” Pat Patterson was about to get killed . . . Thank God I made it out alive. Other fans loved me. In Worcester, not far from Boston, a girl named Marika Niedzial started my fan club. Every week, I would see her at the shows. She would send fan club members the pictures she took of me by mail. She brought me gifts and all sort of things. I was freaking out: there was a Pat Patterson fan club. It was so strange for me to get all that attention just for doing something I loved.

  One time, Santos brought in “the girls” to wrestle the entire loop as an attraction. One of them was future WWE Hall of Famer Mae Young. Santos wanted me to ride with her, so she would know how to get to our shows. (Remember, there was no such thing as GPS in my day.) She showed up in a brand-new car, looking like a movie star, and she said, “Patterson, get in the car” while smoking the biggest cigar I had ever seen. She asked if I ever smoked and when I said no, she said, “If you want to be a top guy, you might as well start. Light it up for me.”

  Then I saw her wrestle. Holy shit! I told myself that I never wanted to get in there with her. It was a tag team match, and she was really beating the hell out of those girls. She looked like a star. After the match, she had me drinking beer after telling me I needed to do that too if I wanted to be a star.

  Let’s just say, she was a little rough around the edges. I would see her once in a while when she was in town and for a while she lived across the street from me. She even came by my apartment just to shoot the crap like one of the boys. By then, I had rented a slightly bigger place in the same building that included a little kitchenette, a bedroom, and a small living room for five dollars extra a month.

  One night around 1 a.m., I heard banging on my door. It was Mae Young wearing only her bra and panties with a martini in her hand. What the hell?

  “Patterson, let me in.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t worry, Pat, I just want to talk bullshit with you.”

  She kept on talking forever that night, telling me how good I was and how far I would go in the business. She finally passed out, so I put her in my bed and slept on the floor.

  The next morning, I had to help her get home since she was still in rough shape. When I got home, I realized she had pissed all over my bed. I don’t remember if I gave her clothes or if she left in the morning as half-naked as she had come in the night before. Still I never let her forget that she left that surprise in my bed. I loved her dearly.

  As you can guess, I was still not into women. I hadn’t known how I’d live my personal life among new guys in a new city when I’d come to Boston. But being gay turned out to not be an issue at all. As long as I took five- and ten-dollar wrestling payoffs without complaining, the promoter couldn’t have cared less. There were even a few other wrestlers who were gay. I was lucky everyone liked me and I was accepted right away for who I was.

  One night sometime in the middle of all my early Boston experiences, Golden Boy brought me to a bar. And that’s where I met Louie Dondero for the first time. We kept staring at each other all evening. I remember he looked spectacular but I didn’t dare speak to him because he was with another man named Lee. The next day, I asked Golden Boy to set me up on a date with Louie. And who arrived? Lee!

  I said to myself, “What the hell! He’s not the one I wanted.” Lee was all over me because he thought I was interested in him. We only had a couple of drinks and I told him I was sorry but it wasn’t going anywhere.

  The next day, I asked Golden Boy why he had set me up with the guy.

  “You asked for Lee, didn’t you?”

  “I meant L-O-U-I-E.”

  I told you my English was really bad.

  Golden Boy called Louie this time and set me up.

  Louie picked me up in his brand-new Buick. I was impressed right away. A young guy driving a car like that was unusual. And did I mention he looked spectacular?

  We got drinks and we got quite a bit cozier than I’d been on my previous date. At that very moment, who came in the bar? Of course, it was Lee. It turned into a little argument, but Louie wasn’t bothered by it. We started to see a lot of each other.

  Louie came to see me every weekend and each Wednesday on his Harley-Davidson. He lived in Leominster, near Boston, and he worked in a slaughterhouse, killing chickens and earning good money. When I had time off, I would hang out with him or go to work with him. I would stay at his mom and dad’s place. They were Italian, and I discovered Italian food with them. I knew nothing about the world when I lived in Montréal; in Boston, I was getting my first real taste of it. Louie’s father was a chef and he introduced me to all kinds of delicious food. He made an incredibly tasty salad with everything in it — I was used to eating salad with just lettuce and some vinegar. I had never had so many good things in my life.

  As open-minded as his parents were, we still kept up the façade of just being friends. We didn’t open up about our relationship until years later when we brought them to visit in San Francisco. Louie has been gone for more than fifteen years now and I am still close with his brothers and his sister, as well as our nieces and nephews. They are my family. But all of this is for another chapter.

  Around this time, I got myself booked for three weeks in Montréal. I wanted to introduce my friend to my family, especially to my mother. We drove up in Louie’s brand-new car, so I wasn’t coming home with a bum. I was really proud of him. Even today, it’s difficult to write exactly how I felt about him. Bear with me — I will try to figure this out as we continue along this journey. I have just now realized how deep the camouflage of who we were extends. Can I truly ever be free to be who I really am?

  Louie didn’t spoke a word of French and my family didn’t know any English. Everyone made the best of it, and I translated things as needed. The whole family fell in love with Louie. He was such a great person. To this day, one of my sisters keeps a photograph of him, and when she needs guidance, she looks at it. “He helps me a lot,” she tells me all the time. I’m not sure I understand, but it makes me happy.

  Louie had that kind of long-lasting effect on everyone he met. It was good to be accepted, but it was always under the pretense that he was only my friend. We never introduced ourselves as in a relationship or showed affection in public. We were hiding in plain sight. Our unofficial cover for years was always: “He’s just a friend.” Friend is still the only way I feel comfortable describing him even though we were so much more. That just goes to show you how deep you needed to pretend back in the day. Even if things have changed since, that is one habit I still can’t completely shake off.

  Unless we were with our gay friends, like some of the wrestlers in Boston, we were in the proverbial closet. For work, I was in a double bind: I had to protect my personal home life and I had to protect the business. I was in two closets.

  Louie and I were young, carefree, and in love. We looked good, too!

  After returning to Boston, I got a letter from Maurice “Mad Dog” Vachon. He’d seen me wrestle and was impressed with how good I was becoming. In fact, he thought so much of me that he wanted me to go to Oregon to work for Don Owen, one of the most
well-respected promoters at the time.

  Maurice’s letter said I was booked in Portland in two weeks and that he was waiting for me. I was speechless. He wasn’t asking me if I was interested, he was giving me a starting date! Remember, this was very different era — all Don Owen knew about me was what Maurice had told him. I was dumbfounded, realizing the scope of Mad Dog’s confidence in my abilities.

  When Santos learned about the offer, he got me into his office right away for a big spectacle, designed to scare me into staying in Boston. He had the biggest desk I had ever seen, bigger than a kitchen table. He proceeded to unfold in front of me the biggest map in the world, at least that’s how I felt seeing such a thing for the first time. It was so big I was sure that the unfolding would never end. He showed me the distance between Boston and Portland and told me, “It’s coast to coast, kid. You’re going around the world. Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. Are you ready for this?”

  I knew nothing and I really thought I would be traveling around the world to get there. I was scared shitless. I didn’t have a car. Jeez, I didn’t even know how to drive. And I had no money, since I was barely making fifteen dollars a night in Boston.