Rocky Davis tried to help my father sit up, but it was no use. He lay on the mat, gritting his teeth, trying desperately not to cry out.
“Dad’s really hurt, Mom!” I said again. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
“Jesse, why are you getting yourself so worked up?” asked my mom. “Dad told us he was going to pretend to get injured during the match.”
“Yeah, but not like this. He was supposed to get burned by Mephisto, remember? Look at his foot! I–I think it’s broken.”
His boot lay twisted to the side, limp and lifeless, like the foot on a marionette.
The crowd was screaming for the Angel of Death to get up.
“Death! Death! Death! Death!”
“Death! Death! Death! Death!”
The noise was deafening.
My father rested his head against the bottom turnbuckle trying not to move his leg. Prince Romulus was at a complete loss as to what to do next. Rocky Davis pressed his hand against his earpiece, anxiously waiting for instructions from the back.
“Death! Death! Death! Death!”
My mom, oblivious to what was happening, cheerfully clapped and joined the chorus. “Death! Death! Death! Death!” she chanted.
I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I had to do something. Without thinking, I ran down to the ring.
“Dad!” I cried as I reached the security wall at ringside.
My father gazed down at me, his skeleton face crumpled in misery.
I scaled the security wall and jumped over. I didn’t get more than a few feet past it before a huge pair of hairy hands nabbed me by the collar of my windbreaker and yanked me backwards. A man in a yellow golf shirt with big black letters reading SECURITY across the back held me tightly against the railing.
“Where do you think you’re going, kid?”
“My dad’s hurt!” I struggled to get free. “That’s him, the Angel of Death!” I pointed to my father who remained sprawled on the mat.
“Yeah, sure,” the security guard said with a snarl. “Get back to your seat or I’ll have you thrown outta here.”
“Let me go!” I tried to pull myself free from his grip, but it was no use. “Dad!”
Suddenly I was five years old all over again, trying to jump into the ring to keep my father from getting hurt. Except that this time the danger was real.
“Let him go!” I heard my mom shout from behind the security guard. “He’s my son.”
The security guard scowled at her. I’m sure he had no idea who she was, particularly since she had been gone most of the afternoon. He didn’t recognize her face.
“Take him back to his seat, lady, and make sure he stays there, or I’ll have both of you hauled outta here.” He lifted me over the security wall. My mom took my arm and helped me down.
“Look at his leg, Mom!” I told her, pointing to my father. “It’s broken.”
She looked up at him. From her vantage point she could see that his foot seemed disjointed, almost separated from his leg. It was a sickening sight. At last she understood what I’d been trying to tell her.
“Oh, my god. Mark!” she shouted. “Mark!”
“Get back to your seats!” the security guard growled, pointing to the rows behind us. “Now!”
“But my husband’s hurt,” my mom tried to explain. “That’s him in the ring!” She dug through her purse, searching for her backstage pass. “I’m Molly Baron. My husband is Mark Baron, the Angel of Death.”
The security guard, jaded from having heard too many stories from fans who will say or do anything to get up close to see their favorite wrestlers, ignored her. He grabbed his walkie-talkie from his belt and muttered something into it. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I’m sure he was calling for backup to throw us out of Madison Square Garden.
“We’d better sit down, Mom,” I told her, finally regaining my composure.
Just then Prince Romulus delivered a swift kick to my father’s head. He clutched his left leg and pulled him away from the corner of the ring. With great care, he flipped him over on his stomach and clamped on the Procrustes Stretch.
My father struggled for a few seconds. Then, in what wrestling fans would later call “the most stunning upset in American Championship Wrestling history,” the Angel of Death tapped out. He slapped his hand on the mat several times, signaling that he was giving up. Rocky Davis called for the bell. Thankfully, the match was over.
“THE WINNER OF THE BOUT . . . AND THE NEW ACW HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION . . . PRINCE ROOOMULUS!” Dan Greenberg announced to the shocked and disbelieving audience.
Prince Romulus raised his hands victoriously. Il Gran Mephisto snatched the championship belt from the ringside announcers’ table. He climbed into the ring and proudly buckled it around his nephew’s waist.
“Booo!” yelled the angry crowd. “Booo!”
They hurled plastic cups of soda and beer at the newly crowned heavyweight champion and his uncle. The men exited the ring and hurriedly made their way to the back as debris continued to rain down on them.
The security guard completely forgot about my mom and me. He and the other guards scattered around the arena as they futilely worked to restore order. But the unhappy crowds grew rowdier and rowdier. “Booo! Booo!”
An instant later, two paramedics wheeled a gurney down to ringside. It was the gurney that had been stationed in the back that was to be used as a prop to carry the Angel of Death out after Il Gran Mephisto “burned” his face.
As the paramedics stepped into the ring and tended to my father, the near riotous crowd finally began to settle down.
Most of today’s fans know that professional wrestling is a “work.” Deep down, they realize that the injuries depicted in the ring aren’t real. It’s like watching a movie. Cops and robbers on TV shows don’t really shoot each other. When the director yells “cut,” the actors stop and walk away, unhurt.
Part of the fun in watching wrestling is that fans can temporarily suspend belief. For a couple of hours each week on Monday Night Mayhem, the Angel of Death does come from the darkest regions of the Netherworld. Prince Romulus is a member of a wealthy and powerful Italian family.
Wrestling fans can also differentiate between a staged injury and a legitimate one. Wrestlers are careful not to hurt each other. But real, often serious injuries do occur in the ring.
The fans at Madison Square Garden could sense that the Angel of Death was genuinely hurt. The arena grew silent. Everyone watched while the paramedics assessed the situation. After a brief examination, they lifted him from the canvas and slid him onto the gurney.
The crowd stood and applauded to show the Angel of Death that they respected his efforts at having entertained them. They wanted him to know that they hoped he was all right.
As he was wheeled past us, my mom called to him in a quavering voice. “Mark?”
My father offered a faint smile. His foot seemed to be torn off his leg, held together only by his boot. I could only imagine the pain he must be suffering.
My mom and I dashed up the stairs and headed backstage. All the way, I prayed that he would be all right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Where is he?” my mom cried as we shoved our way through the crowded corridor outside the first-aid room.
“Over here.” Butcher Murdock took her by the arm. “But you’d better brace yourself, Molly. It doesn’t look good.”
A wave of fear swept over her face. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled a heavy gush of air. We entered the first-aid room.
My father lay on a navy blue vinyl bed. Frank Collins, the two paramedics, and the physician in attendance, a man named Dr. Fielder, surrounded him.
The doctor had already removed my father’s boot. He had to cut it away from his foot with a pair of sharp scissors. Earlier, the boot had been black. Now it was painted red with blood. From the upper part of his foot, a bone jutted out of his skin. It looked like one of those gruesome, ru
bber Halloween gags. Except that this was no gag.
“Oh, Mark,” my mom cried. She rushed over and wrapped her arms around him.
“Hi,” he whispered. He kissed her forehead. “Hello, champ.”
I kept my eyes on his, avoiding looking down at his foot.
“How bad is it?” my mom asked, turning to the doctor as he worked to stop the bleeding by pressing firmly on my father’s foot with a clean dressing.
“Compound ankle fracture, from the looks of things,” Dr. Fielder replied without looking up. “But we won’t know the extent of the injury till we get him to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” said my mom.
“He’ll likely need surgery,” Dr. Fielder said somberly. “It’s a pretty bad break.”
“How long before he’ll be able to wrestle again?” Frank Collins asked with concern.
The doctor shrugged. “I hope you weren’t planning to use him on your show tomorrow night.”
“Does it hurt a lot, Dad?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Only when I breathe, champ,” he whispered with a slight smile.
“It’s getting a bit cramped in here,” Dr. Fielder told us. “I’d appreciate it if you folks would wait outside until I’m done.”
We stepped out of the first-aid room. One of the paramedics shut the door behind us.
“How is he?” Carlos Montoya asked. He had been standing outside the door waiting to hear the news.
“His ankle’s broken,” my mom said, her voice cracking. “The bone . . . pierced . . . ” She swallowed, then broke into tears.
Carlos Montoya reached out and comforted her.
“Carlos, I want to ride in the ambulance with Mark,” she said, brushing away her tears. “I was wondering if you could drive Jesse back to the hotel for me.”
Before Carlos Montoya could answer, I exclaimed, “I don’t want to stay by myself in the hotel room, Mom. I want to go with you to the hospital.”
She sighed. “No, Jesse, it’s very late. I’ll probably be there all night.”
“Your mami’s right,” said Carlos. “Stay with my wife and me tonight, Jesse. You can sleep on the couch.”
“Come on, Mom,” I protested, ignoring his offer. “Let me go with you. Please? I want to be with Dad, too.”
My mom’s face was ashen white. Her eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into their sockets. She looked as if she had aged ten years within the last ten minutes. I wondered if my face looked as pale as hers.
This, of course, was not the first time my father had been hurt in the ring. Throughout his career, he’s suffered countless injuries: a separated shoulder, a broken arm, broken fingers, broken collarbone, numerous concussions, neck injuries, tears to his knees, you name it. But this was the first time I’d been there when it happened. And seeing his bone sticking out of his bloody foot was an image I’d probably never forget.
My mom hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly agreed to let me go with her. “Thank you all the same, Carlos.”
“De nada,” he answered.
A few minutes later, the paramedics rolled my father out of the first-aid room. His leg was wrapped up and immobilized in a splint. He was still in costume and in full makeup. He looked creepy lying there dressed in black with his skeleton face paint, like a horror comic artist’s portrayal of Death in a coffin.
“Hey,” he whispered in a raspy voice, taking my mom’s hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
She turned to one of the paramedics. “We’re riding in the ambulance with him.” It wasn’t a request. She wasn’t asking for permission.
The paramedic turned to Dr. Fielder. The doctor nodded to show his approval.
We followed the gurney to the waiting ambulance. The paramedics lifted it, folded the wheels, and gently slid it into the back. A paramedic helped my mom in. I climbed in after her.
“I’ll meet you over there,” said Dr. Fielder as he shut the doors behind us. The paramedics took their places in the cab of the ambulance, flipped on the flashing lights and the siren, and we were off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
For a while we rode in silence. My father had his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or if he was trying to block out the pain. Finally he spoke.
“This is it, Molly. I’m through. I can’t do this any longer.” His eyes were still shut. His voice was slurry. I figured the doctor had given him something for the pain.
My mom brushed back his hair from his face. It was caked with white face paint. “Don’t think about that right now, Mark,” she said. “Wait and see what the doctor has to say.”
“No. I should’ve quit a long time ago.” He took her hand from his forehead and kissed it. “I was stupid to have agreed to come off the top turnbuckle the way I did. I’m too old to be attempting that high-risk stuff.” He paused and glanced around, taking in his surroundings. “You know, all along I’d been worried about blowing out my knee again. I never thought it’d be my ankle.”
We arrived at the emergency room. Dr. Fielder pulled up behind us. He opened the rear ambulance doors, and we climbed out. The paramedics rolled my father out and wheeled him into the hospital. Dr. Fielder spoke briefly to the nurse at the admitting station. After that, my father was taken down a corridor. He and the paramedics disappeared behind two gray metal doors.
My mom filled out some forms while I sat in the waiting area.
There was a TV set hanging from the ceiling across from me. It was airing an old I Love Lucy episode, but I wasn’t interested in watching it. A disturbing thought had been running through my head during the ambulance ride to the hospital, and I couldn’t shake it loose.
Back in my old school, we read a short story called “The Monkey’s Paw.” It was about a soldier who had given a husband and wife a mummified monkey’s paw. He claimed that the paw could grant its owner three wishes. As things turned out, the wishes did come true, but not in the way the couple expected. The husband in the story, not really believing the legend of the monkey’s paw, casually wished for two hundred British pounds. Later the couple learned that their son had been killed at the factory where he worked. While the company was not assuming responsibility for the son’s death, in consideration of his service, it presented the boy’s parents with a certain amount of money as compensation—two hundred pounds! Later, the wife demanded that her husband wish for their son back. The man knew it was a terrible wish. The boy had died when he was caught in a machine at the factory, and his body had been badly mangled. The man realized that if he wished for their son back, he would return in that same mutilated condition. But his wife was insistent, and, ultimately, he gave in. Soon there was a sound outside their house, and the wife knew it was their dead son, risen from the grave. In the end, the man wisely wished his son back into the grave before his wife had a chance to see him.
I had forever been wishing that my father would be able to spend more time at home with us. Now, through a horrible circumstance, it appeared that he would. I’d cursed my father with a monkey’s paw wish!
My head was throbbing again. It had begun to hurt when I struggled with the security guard at the arena, then it eased up. But it continued to return in spurts.
After she finished filling out the forms, my mom joined me. I nuzzled up to her. She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Her sweater felt warm against my face, and it seemed to soothe my headache. I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost twelve-thirty.
On TV, Lucy had gotten herself locked in a walk-in freezer. When Ricky found her, she was frozen stiff, with icicles hanging from her face. It was a funny episode, but neither one of us laughed. We sat there quietly and stared blankly at the screen.
“Mom, Dad’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I asked. After seeing his foot torn the way it was, it didn’t seem possible he ever could be.
She played with my hair, curling strands of it on her fingers. “Of course he is, sweetheart.
I know it looks bad, and it is. But I’ve seen your father go through injuries like this before. He’ll come out of it all right, trust me.”
“Do you really think he’s going to quit wrestling?”
Her fingers stopped twirling. She shifted uneasily in her chair. I sat up. She slipped her arm from my shoulders.
“Jesse, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished that your father would leave the business. His being on the road so much has been a tremendous strain on all of us. When he first started wrestling, I tolerated it because I knew it was something he wanted to do. I thought he’d wrestle for a couple of years, get it out of his system, and then go into some area of law enforcement. Then he became the Annihilator. Even then, things weren’t so bad because he usually wrestled in nearby arenas. And since he wore a mask, no one ever recognized him in public. We could go out and enjoy ourselves in peace. But in our wildest dreams, Jesse, neither one of us ever thought that his career would skyrocket the way it did. Now, the Angel of Death is one of the most popular sports figures in the world. There’s an incredibly high demand for him, and Frank Collins is all too happy to give the public what they want.”
I Love Lucy ended. It was replaced by an infomercial. A man was offering a set of eight stainless steel, dishwasher-safe steak knives for only $19.99, two more if you called right now. I wondered how many people had a need to buy steak knives in the middle of the night.
“The other day, Dad told me he wasn’t going to wrestle much longer, that he was going to retire as soon as his contract expires,” I said.
My mom snickered.
Immediately, I felt as if I’d said something dumb.
“Jesse, your father’s been singing that song for years. Every time he gets hurt he talks about leaving wrestling.”
“So, you don’t think he was serious about quitting?” I asked.
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 13