Il Gran Mephisto used to be a top wrestler for the ACW, but neck injuries forced him to retire a couple of years ago. Rather than having him leave the business, Frank Collins offered him a job as a manager.
That’s when Scott Blanchard, a wrestler from the independent circuit, was brought in. He was given the gimmick of Prince Romulus, Mephisto’s nephew.
Il Gran Mephisto accompanies Prince Romulus to the ring for each match. His primary purpose is to rile the audience, have them boo and shout disparaging words. He also distracts the referee in order to allow the Prince to commit all sorts of heinous rule-breaking tactics—eye gouging, biting, choking—while the referee’s back is turned.
One of the coolest things about Il Gran Mephisto is that he can shoot flames from his fingers. Actually, he can’t really shoot fire. It’s done with “flash paper,” a chemically treated material often used by magicians in their acts.
At a certain point during the match, when Prince Romulus’s opponents are getting the upper hand, Mephisto whips out the flash paper and a cigarette lighter he’s secretly hidden in his coat. With sleight of hand, he ignites the special paper and flings a ball of “fire” into their faces. Romulus’s opponents fall down, writhing in pain from the “burns” they’ve suffered.
No one is hurt, of course. But that’s only because, like with all high-risk wrestling maneuvers, Il Gran Mephisto has practiced this trick a million times, under safe conditions.
Yet, despite all his colorfulness, Prince Romulus is not what ACW officials consider championship material. For one thing, he doesn’t have the size that they look for in a champion. Frank Collins prefers larger men as holders of the heavyweight belt. Also, in the opinion of the ACW, he lacks charisma. They feel he’s weak on the microphone. That’s one of the reasons they paired him up with Il Gran Mephisto. Mephisto, an old veteran of the business, does all the talking for him. He delivers some of the best interviews I’ve ever heard.
“We still haven’t worked out all the details yet, but I can tell you this much, Jesse,” said my father. “After the pay-per-view, the Angel of Death will spend the next four weeks out of the ring ‘rehabilitating’ from injuries suffered during his match. I’m going to do my best to make up for lost time with you and Mom.”
“Dad, are you serious?” I couldn’t believe it!
“As serious as a toothache, champ.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Get yourself ready. Your güelos will be here shortly. Then let’s go out and enjoy the day.”
“Will your injury in the match involve Il Gran Mephisto’s fire?” I asked.
“You never know,” he said with a wry smile as he left my room.
Unlike other sports, professional wrestling is not seasonal. Wrestlers perform all year long. The wrestling business doesn’t come with built-in vacations like most jobs, either. Often, when a wrestling superstar needs time off—usually to get some rest, but sometimes to undergo surgery to repair old injuries—Frank Collins and his team of writers work it into their story lines.
For example, a couple of summers ago, my father took a few weeks off from the ring. That was the time we drove to the Grand Canyon. At the time, the Angel of Death and Butcher Murdock were tag-team partners. The writers came up with a story line that called for my father to accidentally clothesline Murdock during a match against the Midnight Raiders. Murdock retaliated. The Angel of Death and Butcher Murdock then viciously fought each other, eventually getting disqualified. Later that evening, Murdock ambushed my father in the dressing room with a metal pipe, leaving him bleeding and unconscious. The paramedics were called in. They carried the Angel of Death away in a gurney to a waiting ambulance. It was horrifying to watch on TV.
Except that I knew it was all an act. I knew he wasn’t hurt at all. My father had warned my mom and me about what would happen beforehand. Don Murdock and my father were, and still are, good friends. The attack, however, helped explain the Angel of Death’s absence from television for the next several weeks.
The funny thing about that incident is that the ACW received hundreds of cards and letters from fans, wishing the Angel of Death a speedy recovery. They also urged him to get revenge on Murdock.
But as we stood taking in the magnificent, breathtaking beauty of the Grand Canyon, the last thing on my father’s mind was seeking revenge on his good friend Butcher Murdock.
Now that I think about it, that was the last vacation we took together.
About an hour later, my grandparents arrived.
“¿Cómo estás, Jesse?” my grandmother greeted me.
“Fine, Güela,” I said. “How are you?”
She turned to my father and complained, “Ay, Marcos, ¿Cuándo le vas enseñar español a este muchacho?”
“He knows how to speak Spanish, Ma,” replied my father. He winked at me and said, “Jesse, tell Güela how to say ‘four men in quicksand’ in Spanish.”
“Cuatro Sinko,” I said. Sara had told me that joke, and I’d been repeating it to everyone I knew.
Everybody laughed, except Güela.
The Alamo sits in the middle of downtown San Antonio surrounded by shops, restaurants, and hotels. To be honest with you, at first sight, I was a little disappointed.
The Alamo is not nearly as big as I thought it would be. It’s also hard to imagine that this is the battleground where, for thirteen days, two hundred or so Texans fought against an army of almost five thousand Mexican soldiers. But there it stood—a proud, dignified symbol of Texas independence.
We entered the Alamo. Inside, people spoke in hushed tones, out of respect for the old mission, as well as for all the men who died in it.
All the stuff Mrs. Petrosky had talked about in class suddenly came alive for me. As I studied the artifacts encased in glass cases, the names Travis, Crockett, and Bowie had new relevance. I thought of all the men who chose to remain here to fight, even against insurmountable odds, ultimately dying for their noble cause. I also felt sorry for all the Mexican soldiers who marched all the way from Mexico in the cold winter, only to die here under orders from a cruel and unmerciful dictator.
Walking around, I noticed some of the visitors pointing at my father and whispering. Oh, no, I thought. He’s been spotted. No one approached him, though. Not until we stepped outside.
“Jesse, stand in front of the Alamo next to your papi,” said Güelo, aiming his camera at us.
Before he had a chance to snap a picture, a man and a woman with two little kids approached us.
“You’re the Angel of Death from ACW, aren’t you?” said the man.
My father smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Is it all right if my wife takes a picture of you and me together?”
“Sure.”
The man, wearing an I ♥ SAN ANTONIO T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, stood next to him. He placed one arm around my father’s shoulders and shook hands with him with the other, as if he and my father were best friends.
“Young man, please move,” the man’s wife said, shooing me with her hand. “I’m trying to take a picture.”
Embarrassed, I slipped out of the way.
After his wife snapped the photo, she handed him the camera, and he took a picture of her and my father. Then another one of my father with the kids.
Other fans flocked around him. It was almost as if they had been waiting to make sure my father really was the Angel of Death and not just someone who resembled him.
It reminded me of the time when I was little and my mom had taken me to the mall. While she was trying on clothes, I played in the dress racks. I used to love running my face through all that fabric. As I poked my head through a wall of clothes, I saw my mom coming toward me. Quickly, I hid among the dresses. When she was right in front of me, I leaped out and grabbed her. Only it wasn’t my mom. A lady wearing a skirt similar to hers screamed and jumped about two feet in the air. She lost her balance and fell against a dress rack.
I never mistook someone else for my mom after that.
&
nbsp; I stood over to the side with my mom and my grandparents. Together, we watched the frenzy. There were more photos taken—dozens and dozens, it seemed like. Pens and slips of paper were shoved in my father’s face. And he signed each one of them.
A little boy asked him to show him his muscles. My father raised his arms and flexed his enormous biceps. The kid hung from my father’s arm like it was a playground jungle gym.
I know this is silly, but I had a strange urge to knock that kid down and say to him, “That’s my dad! Why don’t you go play with your own?” For a split second, I wanted to run over there and climb up his arm, maybe have him lift me onto his shoulders like he used to. But that’s stupid. I’m in the seventh grade. Still, I didn’t like it that my father was playing around with some other kid.
This morning, he had assured me that we were going to have a fun day. This was supposed to be a family outing. It was a family outing all right. My father with everyone else’s family.
The little boy punched him in the stomach as hard as he could. My father doubled over, pretending to be hurt, then straightened up and smiled. He tousled the kid’s hair.
“Is it always like this, m’ija?” Güela asked with concern.
My mom nodded and groaned, “Always.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, Molly,” Güelo told her. “It’s part of his job. He’s representing the company he works for.”
“I realize that, I guess. But there are times when I wish he had a job that didn’t bring so much attention to him or to us.”
My grandfather hugged her. “M’ija,” he said, “God didn’t make Marcos that size so he could sit behind a desk. He’s doing what he was meant to do.”
I watched as some teenage girls flirted with my father. The little boy tried to climb up his arms again. More people approached him for his autograph. Cameras continued to flash.
Is that what he was meant to do? Spend Saturday afternoons hanging out with a bunch of strangers instead of with his family? People he didn’t know? People he’d probably never see again?
Although I’d experienced this time and time again, the things he and my mom had been arguing about suddenly became clear to me. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my face, and I was seeing him in a new light. Despite what he’d told me earlier, I realized now that he would never stop being the Angel of Death. He loved it too much.
After he underwent his third knee operation a year ago, he swore he was going to retire then. But as soon as his knee got better, he returned to the ring, against my mom’s wishes.
“Mark, you’re thirty-eight years old, and you’ve got the legs of an old man,” she had told him. “You’re going to wind up crippled for life if you continue wrestling!”
Watching those people fawning over him, all that adoring adulation, I could understand why it would be difficult to give up being the Angel of Death. But what about us? Where did we fit in the picture?
My mind flashed back to all the important events in my life he’d missed out on—birthday parties, school programs, Christmases that had to be celebrated before or after the 25th because of scheduling conflicts. Even today. I’d been dumped—replaced by a bunch of nerdy wrestling fans.
The little boy squealed with delight as my dad lifted him and sat him on his shoulders. The teenage girls oohed and aahed as they touched his muscles.
I felt a thick lump grow in my throat. My eyes began to sting with tears as a sad realization sank in. You don’t love me. That’s why you can’t ever say it. They’re the ones you really love.
I glanced over at my mom. She sat on the ground, angrily tearing out blades of grass.
I don’t know if my father really believed they couldn’t possibly get divorced or if he had simply told me that to soothe my fears.
My grandparents sat patiently on a bench, waiting for the scene to play itself out. If Güelo didn’t notice the tension between my parents, Güela certainly did. Her wrinkled face filled with anguish as she swiveled her head from my mother to my father.
As the kid cheerfully bounced up and down on my father’s shoulders, I thought, I hope you fall!
CHAPTER TEN
On Sunday morning we attended my grandparents’ church. Although he didn’t say anything about it, I knew my father had agreed to go as a way of making up for the ruined trip to the Alamo the day before. I didn’t particularly want to go either, since the service was in Spanish.
But I didn’t need to be a fluent Spanish speaker to understand that the pastor, Reverend Dominguez, was giving my father the “star” treatment. During the welcome, he had him stand. Then he rattled off something about lucha libre. I knew that had to do with professional wrestling because I’d heard Carlos Montoya say it when he talked about the time he wrestled in Mexico. When the pastor finished, the congregation applauded enthusiastically. That wouldn’t have been so bad if they had also clapped for the other visitors as well. But they were basically ignored.
The rest of the service was pretty incomprehensible, although I managed to catch a phrase here and there that I understood.
After his message was over, Reverend Dominguez extended an invitation of prayer. My mom rose and walked down the aisle. She dropped to her knees at the altar to pray. Soon, Güela accompanied her.
Even through the pastor’s booming voice, the piano and organ music, and the congregation singing, I could hear them sobbing. I wanted to go to them, join them in prayer, but I felt awkward doing so. My father sat next to me, his head buried in his hymnal, singing softly. I felt like I would be abandoning him, taking sides, if I went forward.
Instead, I sat there and tried to pray in my head. I wasn’t sure if that would be acceptable to God. Did I have to say the words aloud in order for Him to hear my prayer? Or could God read my mind and know my thoughts? I decided that since God can do anything, He’d know what I was thinking. So in my head I prayed, Dear God, please don’t let my parents fight so much. And please don’t let them get divorced.
When the service was over, as expected, autograph hounds mobbed my father outside the church. He signed church bulletins and even a Bible.
After that, we drove to my grandparents’ house for lunch.
We were met at the steps by Pollo, a light brown, mixed Labrador. My grandfather named him Pollo, which means chicken in Spanish, because as a puppy, he was terrified of their cat, Gremlin. Even though Pollo has now grown to three times the size of Gremlin, he still stays out of the cat’s way whenever it walks past him.
Inside their house, the walls, much like ours, were covered with wrestling memorabilia. There were photos of my father in various stages of his career, from his Mangler and Annihilator days, to his current persona. Mrs. Petrosky would be in wrestling fan heaven if she saw all this.
Lunch was carne guisada, a type of beef stew, with rice, beans, and tortillas.
While we ate, my grandparents reminisced about the days when my father was young.
“He was always big for his age,” said Güelo. “That’s why the coaches at his school got him involved in football.”
“Sí, but that’s also when he stopped taking piano lessons,” Güela lamented.
I looked at my father, astonished. “I didn’t know you play the piano.”
He smiled. “I don’t, champ. Not really.”
“Of course you do,” said Güela. “Don’t let him fool you, Jesse. Your papi plays quite well. Did you know he also plays the guitar?”
“Ma, don’t start with that,” said my father, now blushing.
“When he was in high school, he and his friends formed one of those rock and roll bands,” she said. “They used to practice in the garage, singing and playing night after night.”
My father broke out laughing. “Ma, we were horrible.”
“They were horrible,” Güela said. “Especially that muchacho with the long, wild hair. When he sang, he sounded like someone was killing a pig!”
Everyone laughed.
“But you were good, Marcos.
You were the only talented one in the bunch.” My grandmother pushed her chair back from the table and imitated playing a guitar. “His fingers moved so fast, they were just a blur.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ma,” said my father, chuckling.
My mom smiled. “You did play the guitar. I’d almost forgotten that. In fact, that’s one of the things that I found attractive about you.”
“You mean it wasn’t the football uniform or the way I sacked quarterbacks?” my father joked.
She turned to me. “Jesse, all through college, your father used to carry his guitar case around with him. We’d sit under a tree on the university campus, and he’d play some of the most beautiful love songs.”
“What happened to your guitar?” I asked.
My father sighed. “Money was pretty tight in those days, champ. So I sold it to one of the guys on the team who wanted to learn how to play the guitar.”
“But we still have the piano,” said my grandmother. “Marcos, after we finish eating, I want you to play something for us.”
“It’s been a long time, Ma,” my father said. “I’m not sure I can play anything anymore.”
“Of course you can,” she insisted. “Music is a natural talent for you.”
After lunch, my mom and grandmother cleared the table. Güelo and I sat on the couch. He leafed through the Sunday newspaper while I read the comics page. My father sat at the piano—an old, black, upright Wurlitzer. He played a few chords, just a warm-up. But I was surprised he had that much skill. I never knew he was musical.
A few moments later, my mom and Güela joined us.
“Play that song you wrote for me, Mark,” said my mom.
My father looked puzzled. “What song?”
“The song that made me fall in love with you.”
“Dad wrote a song for you?” I asked. I was amazed by all this new information. He played the guitar and the piano. And he composed songs, too. Funny, but all my life I’d never thought of him as anything but a wrestler.
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 7