“What was that all about?” Wendell asked.
“I, um, think that . . . Manny and them . . . want to beat me up or something,” I mumbled.
This was the part where all the guys at my table were supposed to jump in and say something like, “Don’t worry, Jesse. You’re our friend. We won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll take care of those punks for you.”
But no such luck.
Goose said, “Those guys are tough, man. I wouldn’t wanna mess with them.”
“Me either,” said Terrance. “One time they beat up Rudy Wilkinson because he wouldn’t let them borrow his CD player. They busted up Rudy’s CD player and Rudy. He was absent for almost a week.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Wendell.
“You could just sit here until lunch is over,” suggested Goose.
I shook my head. “I’ll have to face him sometime. I’ll see what Manny wants.”
We put away our trays and headed out to the black-top.
The gym is situated at the end of the school building. The back of it faces the teachers’ parking lot. Because it is shielded from the view of the rest of the campus, it’s difficult for teachers to see what goes on back there. Coach Johnson and Mr. Dennison, one of the assistant principals, patrol the area regularly. My only hope seemed to rest on one of them being there.
Reluctantly, I made my way to the back of the gym. Goose, Terrance, Wendell, and the others trailed behind, keeping a safe distance from me.
Leaning against the wall, in the shade of the noon sun, stood Manny, Chester, and Hugo. Along with them were three other guys, including a boy named Adrian Garcia. Adrian had befriended me on my first day of school. We’d talked about wrestling and other stuff. I thought he was a pretty cool guy, and we got along fine. But I guess he decided it was cooler to hang out with Manny than with me.
When we arrived, Manny glowered at me. “I didn’t think you were gonna show up, dork. I thought we were gonna have to go after you.” His gang laughed.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“What do I want?” Manny roared. “I told you not to mess with us, didn’t I? But you wanted to play the hero, didn’t you? Thought you’d impress the little girls.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The guys were standing about five yards behind me. They didn’t look like they were going to make any attempt to take my side. They were here to watch the onslaught, not unlike the spectators who pay to watch my father fight. Neither Coach Johnson nor Mr. Dennison was anywhere in sight.
I was going to have to fight alone.
Bullies are control freaks. They try to intimidate you into thinking that they’re tough. But once they see you’re not afraid of them, once they lose control of the situation, they generally back off.
“Let’s see what you got, dork,” said Manny. He gave me a hard shove.
To everyone’s surprise, I shoved him back, sending him stumbling. Hugo and Chester instantly flew to his side.
Take control of the situation.
“You want to fight me?” I yelled at Manny. “Fine, let’s do it! But it’ll be just you and me. No one else. If Chester or Hugo or anybody else jumps in, then you’ll be telling everyone here that you can’t beat me by yourself, that you’re not tough enough.”
“Oh, I’m tough enough to handle you, dork,” Manny replied.
Once they lose control of the situation, they generally back off.
“And to make sure no one interferes—from either side—” I said, peering behind me. Not that I thought anyone from my side would jump in. “I want everyone to leave. All of you wait in the front of the gym for us until this is over.”
Control the situation.
Manny suddenly seemed unsure of himself. Evidently, no one had ever spoken to him like this before.
“Go on!” I commanded. “Get out of here. All of you. It’ll be just Manny and me.”
Manny turned to his goons. They stared blankly at him.
“What do you say, Manny?” I said, with growing confidence. “Just you and me. By ourselves. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
To be honest with you, I didn’t know if I could take him. But we were about the same size and weight. I also figured that without his audience to cheer him on, he wouldn’t be so cocky, so bold.
Manny’s face twisted itself into what looked like . . . fear?
“I–It’s some kind of trick,” he said, his voice quavering. “That’s it, isn’t it. You wanna pull some weird wrestling stuff on me and you don’t want anybody to see you do it!” Turning to his gang, he told them, “You guys stay where you are.”
“No trick, Manny,” I said in a mild voice. “Just me. Alone.” I grinned impishly, hopefully giving everyone the impression that, indeed, it was a trick. That I was laying out a trap for Manny.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you!” cried Manny. “Well, I’m not about to fall for your stupid tricks.” He turned to his goons. “Vámonos.” Then to me, he shot a warning: “We’ll do this another time.”
They retreated to the blacktop, looking for all intents and purposes like a defeated army.
Somehow I got the feeling that there wouldn’t be “another time.”
The guys on my side went bananas. They whooped and cheered ecstatically. Wendell slapped me on the back. “That has got to be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”
“You got some nerves, man!” said Terrance.
“No fear!” added Goose.
I couldn’t speak. My throat had gone completely dry. I glanced down at my pants. I checked to see if I’d wet myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“How would you like to go to New York?” my mom asked when I got home from school.
“New York?” I tossed my backpack on the recliner and joined her on the couch.
“I spoke to Dad earlier today, and he wants us to join him in New York City to watch him wrestle at The Final Stand.
“Yeah? That’d be great,” I said. “When will we leave?”
“We’ll be flying out early Sunday morning. Just a quick trip. Dad will meet us there. He’s making all the arrangements.”
“But the show will end pretty late,” I said. “What am I going to do about school the next day?”
I’m not sure why I said that. Any other time, I would have been glad for a chance to miss a day of school. But after what happened with Manny, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Also, for the first time since enrolling at Lanier, I had finally begun to feel like a part of the school.
She shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to be out. I’ll write your teachers a note, explaining the situation.”
We don’t usually attend live events to watch my father wrestle. I suppose it’s like when parents take their kids to work to show them what they do for a living. It may be a treat to have their families there on occasion, but they don’t want them there every day. It’s the same with my father. For all of wrestling’s spectacle and pomp, it’s still just a job, and my father doesn’t need us there getting in the way.
I suspected his invitation to join him had more to do with him trying to repair his and my mom’s relationship.
“By the way, I’ve got something to show you.” My mom rose from the couch. She opened the foyer closet and pulled out a black guitar case. “I bought it this morning. I want us to surprise Dad with it when he comes home tomorrow night.”
“Wow!” I said. “Let me see it.”
She handed it to me. I sat it down on the couch and opened the lid. Inside was a shiny, cream-colored, steel string Yamaha guitar.
“I hope he likes it,” my mom said with uncertainty.
“Are you kidding? He’s going to go absolutely nuts when he sees it.”
I pulled the guitar out of its case and strummed it. It produced a dissonant sound.
“Maybe Dad can teach you how to play it,” said my mom.
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied. But I knew better. With the few days he spent at home, I doubt
ed he would ever make time to teach me to play the guitar.
I placed the instrument back in its case. “Mom, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited a few friends over tonight to watch wrestling. Is that okay?”
She smiled. “Yes, of course, sweetheart. I’m glad to know you’re making friends. Is everything else going okay at school?” Her voice sounded sincere, not accusatory.
“Sure. Oh, I almost forgot. Mrs. Petrosky wants to know if you’ve spoken to Dad about him visiting my school.”
She sighed. “Jesse, I don’t think he’ll be able to do that.”
I thought about Sara. That would be a perfect opportunity for her to meet him. “Dad says that he’ll be taking a few weeks off after The Final Stand. Maybe he could make an appearance then,” I told her.
“That’ll be up to him and the company,” she said doubtfully.
At about a quarter to eight, Wendell Cooley, Goose Guzman, Terrance Colby, and Ronnie Brisco showed up at my door.
“This is awesome!” exclaimed Wendell as they strolled into the den.
“Neato burrito!” cried Ronnie.
Like Mrs. Petrosky before them, they gawked at all the photographs hanging on the walls. I’ve been so used to living in the world of professional wrestling that it almost seems odd that people would be so awestruck by things I generally take for granted.
After they viewed the pictures in the den, I gave them a tour of my room. They were fascinated by my vast collection of wrestling action figures. Most of them were complimentary gifts from the toy manufacturing company that produces them.
“Hey, this one sort of looks like you, Wendy,” teased Goose, holding up a toy of Jumbo Jefferson.
“And this one looks like your grandma,” Wendell retorted, grabbing a toy of Butcher Murdock.
These guys are all right, I decided. Except for my friend, Eric, in St. Louis, it had been a long time since I’d had friends over to the house.
I turned on the TV. A few commercials later, the symphonic music of the ACW sounded and the colorful red, white, and blue words, AMERICAN CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING, flashed on the screen. Instantly, they burst in a fiery explosion. As the flames died out, the words were replaced with MONDAY NIGHT MAYHEM. The guys cheered with excitement, bouncing up and down on the couch.
The commentators, Simon Graham and Moose McGirk, wearing the company-issued blue blazers, white shirts, and red ties, welcomed the television audience to the show. They gave a rundown of the evening’s matches, including an interview with the Angel of Death. The guys applauded loudly at the mention of my father’s name.
My mom served us Cokes and a plate of store-bought raisin oatmeal cookies. Ronnie Brisco told my mom that he was allergic to raisins and asked if she had any other kinds of cookies. When she said no, he took a cookie and carefully plucked out the raisins before eating it.
The first match featured Jumbo Jefferson against Bruce the Bruiser Brannigan. Bruce Brannigan is a former ACW heavyweight champion. But he is forty-five years old and too many in-ring injuries have considerably slowed him down. The Bruiser, while still fairly skillful, is nevertheless used primarily as a jobber to push the younger guys.
“Get ‘im,” Bruiser!” shouted Goose, when Bruce Brannigan fought back after Jefferson’s initial attack. Then, “One . . . two . . . ” he counted along with the referee when Brannigan tried to pin Jefferson. Before the ref slapped the mat for a third time, however, Jefferson managed to kick out.
The two large men put on a great show, given their size. But most die-hard wrestling fans could’ve told you that Jumbo Jefferson was going to win the bout even before it began. Jefferson would be fighting Bronko Savage for the Iron Fist title on Sunday. The ACW was not about to have him lose a match on the last televised show before the pay-per-view event.
The guys didn’t seem to know it, though. Since Bruce Brannigan played a face, they were rooting for him to beat the established heel, Jumbo Jefferson.
Finally, Jefferson got the upper hand, and after bouncing off the ropes, he plunged his 450-lb. body on his now helpless opponent. The referee counted to three and the match was over.
“Booo!” the guys shouted.
Watching wrestling through their eyes was fun. I hadn’t enjoyed myself like this in quite a while. My mom passed by a couple of times to see if we needed anything. Despite the noise we were making, she didn’t appear bothered by it. She was glad for me to have friends over.
Match after match, the guys made hilarious comments about the wrestlers. When Deuce Fargo, an aging, bald wrestler with a sagging chest was introduced, the guys chanted: “WHERE’S YOUR BRA? WHERE’S YOUR BRA?”
They broke into a chorus of barks when Bulldog Max Myers wrestled Kid Dynamo.
They jeered at the referees as they repeatedly failed to catch the heels, who were clearly cheating.
“What’s the matter? Are you blind?” Wendell shouted at a referee who didn’t see Gorgeous Gordon Gnash’s feet hanging on the ropes for leverage as he illegally pinned Jumping Jackie Martin.
“They should get Bulldog Myers to serve as the ref’s seeing-eye dog,” joked Terrance.
I became a little nervous and embarrassed when Goose howled, “Aooohhh!” as Spirit made her way to the ring to face Andromeda, the women’s champion, in a nontitle match. The rest of the guys joined him. Soon, our den sounded like a wolf convention. I worried that my mom would come in to investigate what all the howling was about and see Spirit on TV. Fortunately, the match didn’t last very long. Andromeda pinned Spirit’s shoulders with a quick roll up, ending the bout.
“Booo!” yelled Terrance. “I told you Spirit can’t wrestle. Tell your dad to get her back as his valet.”
I shot a quick glance toward my mom’s bedroom door, hoping she hadn’t heard him.
The show went to a commercial break. When it returned, the screen darkened and the Angel of Death’s music began to play. The explosive pyrotechnic effects sent flames shooting into the air.
“Death! Death! Death! Death!” the guys shouted wildly.
My father, in his black attire and skeleton face makeup, appeared from a cloud of smoke and sauntered down the aisle.
I’ve got to admit that as many times as I’ve seen his ring entrance, I still get chills whenever I watch him. He stepped into the ring where Moose McGirk was waiting to interview him. As the music faded, the arena lights came back on.
“On Sunday night, at The Final Stand, you’ll be defending your heavyweight title against Prince Romulus,” said Moose McGirk. “Give us your impressions of the match.”
My father rolled his eyeballs back into their sockets until only the whites of his eyes showed.
“From the depths of the darkest regions the Angel of Death shall appear, and Romulus shall rue that day. He will know the meaning of fear!” he bellowed in his deep, bass, robot-like voice.
My father delivers some of the cheesiest lines ever given in an interview. My mom called him a great poet, but Robert Frost, he definitely isn’t.
“The ultimate price, O Prince, shall ye suffer, the Angel of Death doth command; prepare thee now to lose thy soul when we meet at The Final Stand! Aaagghh!” he roared, thrusting his scythe in the air.
The guys were completely “marking out” for my father’s speech. A “mark” is a fan who believes that everything in professional wrestling is real. At least, they were accepting it as real for the moment. I hoped Sara was watching this.
Prince Romulus’s music then blared from the sound system. The Prince, accompanied by Il Gran Mephisto, suddenly appeared at the top of the stage.
“Lose thy soul?” Mephisto cried into his handheld microphone, mocking my father. “Lose thy soul?” he repeated. “Listen to me, you putrid, rancid, walking carcass. Sunday night will be your final stand. When the Prince is finished with you, not only will he take away your title belt, he will send whatever’s left of you back to the rotting, molding depths of the Netherworld. For good!” Prince Romulus smiled menacingly and no
dded, rubbing his hands together.
With an air of confidence and arrogance, the two of them marched down the aisle. They climbed into the ring and faced my father.
“Tell us, Mephisto,” said Moose McGirk, “How does your nephew plan to counter the sheer physical power of the Angel of Death?”
“Power?” Mephisto’s voice thundered. “Power? Feel my power!” Il Gran Mephisto launched himself at my father, his hands extended, and hurled his flames at him. The Angel of Death ducked out of the way, but the fire caught Moose McGirk straight in the face.
“Whoa!” cried Terrance.
“¡Hijo!” yelled Goose.
“Awesome!” shouted Wendell.
“Eeeee!” shrieked Ronnie Brisco, covering his eyes.
“It’s okay! He’s not really burned,” I told Ronnie, even as Moose McGirk fell to the canvas, grabbing his face, and bellowing in pain.
My father smacked Prince Romulus with a clothesline, flinging him over the ropes and onto the floor. He kicked Il Gran Mephisto in the stomach with his thick boot. Then he flipped him upside down and planted him on the mat with the Death Drop Pile Driver.
Simon Graham hysterically screamed, “Oh, my stars! Oh, my stars! Someone call the medics! The Moose has been shish kebabbed!”
The show cut to a commercial.
“How did he do that?” asked Wendell, aghast. “How does Il Gran Mephisto shoot fire from his fingers?”
I smiled. “If I tell you guys how he does it, do you swear you won’t tell anyone?”
“Yeah,” they promised eagerly.
“It has to be kept secret. It can’t leave this room,” I said in a hushed tone.
“I won’t tell,” said Goose, making the sign of the cross over his heart.
“Me either,” said Terrance.
“Tell us,” said Wendell, impatiently.
“All right,” I said. “This is it.” They huddled around me, as if they worried someone else might hear. “The reason Il Gran Mephisto can shoot flames with his hands is because . . . ” I paused to let the suspense build.
“C’mon,” cried Wendell. “Tell us.”
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 9