Tietam Brown

by Mick Foley

  “Wow, that’s a shame.” Maybe not the most insightful of comments, but it’s the one I gave. It was a shame too.

  “Yeah, after that, somewhere around ’66, we went our separate ways. No hard feelings, just the way of the business. I went to work in Georgia, where I met my wife. Studying medicine in Atlanta. Tietam went north. Minnesota, New York, Indianapolis. But the knock on your father was always the same. Too small, no gimmick, wouldn’t get blood, no good on the mike. Really bothered him, that he never made it up north. Finally I heard that he went to Japan.

  “They have wrestling there? I mean I know they have sumo, but—”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t your father look good in those suits?” I smiled as Eddie sat back and breathed deeply; this conversation had tired him. I thought of my dad in one of those sumo things, even though many times I had seen him wear less.

  “Actually, Andy, wrestling is big business there. More of a sport, not as much of a show. Your dad had lots of chances, he just never would go. Which is crazy, because guys from Wigan were like royalty there. Lots of respect for their skills. Not like the States. But until ’66, for some reason, he just never would go.”

  “Why do you figure he changed his mind?”

  “Your dad, he was pretty tight with a dollar, pinched pennies so hard he could make Abe Lincoln scream. Good with investments too. Saved every dime and put it to use. Lots of other boys made more, but they went through it like water. Cars, women. Your dad had been saving since way back in England. Used to claim that if he could just have a couple good years, he could live off his investments for the rest of his life . . . if he kept his overhead low. He said that was the key.”

  “Like if he had a small house and a crappy car?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Suddenly my dad’s financial situation and lack of any noticeable employment made a little more sense to me.

  “Your dad called me some months later. Said Japan went well, though he didn’t like the people. Said he could pretty much write his own ticket there. He tells me he’s married, to a beautiful girl he met there. Says she’s just gorgeous, and better yet, she’s with child. I guess that child would be you? Andy, I’ll be real honest, until you showed up, I thought you were, you know . . . Asian. Then, next thing I hear, he’s working in Florida. Your mama died giving birth, sorry, and he doesn’t have you with him.”

  I nodded my head.

  “I’m still working in Georgia. Kind of their token Negro, I guess. I keep my mouth shut, and I keep my ears open. And I hear things, you know?

  “What did you hear?”

  “Well, I hear that Tietam’s changed.”

  “In what way was he different?”

  “He’d taken to drinking, and whoring around. Hooking guys in the ring. Hurting the boys, just ’cause he can. So your father gets fired. Catches on in Charlotte. Same thing there. Drinking, whoring, hurting the boys. Charlotte gives him his notice after only a week. All of a sudden no one will hire him. For some reason, he outright refused to go back to Japan, even though the door’s wide open.

  “Your father couldn’t find work because word had gotten around on him. About how dangerous he was. So he calls me, tells me he needs help, needs a place to work. Not so much for the money, by now he’s got plenty, but to take his mind off your mama . . . and you. So I make a call to the office, put in a good word for your dad. Except they’re not interested. Like I said, word had gotten around about him.”

  “So is that when he quit?”

  “No, but God I wish it had been. I put myself on the line for him. Told the office I’d look out for him, I’d talk to him, keep him in line.”

  “Did they go for it?”

  “Well kind of.”

  “Kind of?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well they said they would hire him, but they wanted to change his look to something more marketable.”

  “Like?”

  “Downtown Tietam Brown, kind of like a flower-power-hippie-type guy.”

  “They wanted my father to be a hippie?” I said, trying to picture something so ridiculous. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what promoters do, Andy. They take care of the guys that they need, but take advantage of the ones they don’t. Understand?”

  I tried to. But my dad as a hippie. He barely had hair, even back then.

  “You see, Andy, I think they wanted to be known as the guys that humbled Tietam Brown.”

  I thought I understood. “Well did he do it?” I said.

  “Yeah he did. Didn’t like it, though. As if the name wasn’t bad enough, they were beating him every night, trying to get your father to get blood for no good reason, except they know he hates it, thinks it turns the business into a circus.”

  I thought of the steakhouse, where my father had bled. He hadn’t seemed to mind it. Even liked it, I thought.

  “Now some boys loved bleeding, we called them ‘queer for the blade.’ But Tietam won’t do it, won’t let anyone else do it either. Says if they want him to bleed, then they’ll have to do it hard-way.”

  “Hard-way?”

  “Hard-way is done with hard shots to the eyebrow. Punch it till it splits. Dangerous as hell. But Tietam would tell the boys that if they wanted juice, they’d have to get it the hard way. And he’d let ’em, too. He’d just stick that face out, let them try to bust that eye. Take shot after shot. Sickening to watch.”

  I shrugged with disgust. Why would he allow that to happen? I thought of the thick scars that zigzagged through his eyebrows, and wondered how many blows it must have taken to earn them.

  “Well those first few weeks weren’t so bad. It was good just to see him. The South had changed just a little, so us riding together didn’t seem quite as strange. But your father was different. Not just the pain of losing his wife. That I expected. But something was different. He started bringing home girls. Every night he’s bringing home girls. We always split rooms so we could save money, so I have to lie there listening to him, and watching this new ritual with a deck of cards and some beer.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ve seen him do it.”

  “Okay, then, less said about those cards the better. I got to a point where I just couldn’t take it. Don’t even want him around me. The straw that breaks the camel’s back is in August, at one of those little no-name motels he likes to stay in. He comes in late, two, three in the morning. I can’t see the girl, but I sure smell her. Perfume. Alcohol. Money. Then I hear punches, figure he’s snapped, is beating the girl. Except he’s not. She wonders why he’s sweating so much, because the room’s kind of cool. Except he’s not sweating. He turns on the light, and that rich girl is just covered in blood. Blood on her chest, her face, pooled up in her neck. And she sees this and goes nuts. Crying, screaming. Tietam, he couldn’t be calmer. The whites of his eyes are just peering out of all that blood running down his face. His eyebrow is swollen like an egg from where he’s been hitting himself.

  “The girl grabs the bloody sheet and runs out into the parking lot screaming murder, and me and Tietam rush out of the room, fire up the car, and we’re gone, leavin’ town just as the police hit the scene. Never did come after him. He always paid cash, never gave a real name, but he tells me he’s gonna start using a tape player to record his girls from then on.

  “Andy, I tell you, it was the hardest thing I’d ever done, because your father was like a brother to me and I felt truly bad about what had happened to your mama. Truly bad about what happened to you. But I told him I couldn’t be around him anymore. That my wife and I had a Christian home, and he was no longer welcome.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “He said he understood. Didn’t blame me. Just sat in the car as calm as could be, blood sticking to his face, that stale iron smell stinking up the car. He said he was leaving the very next day, after our big show in Atlanta. Says he wants to do the right thing for business on his way out.

  “That next day should
have been fine. After all her hard work, my wife was finally done. A doctor at last. We made plans to go out. To celebrate. To even have a drink or two. I said I wouldn’t be home late, I wrestle early on the card. That this would be a night we’d never forget.

  “Well, I get to the building and Tietam’s not there. I’m thinking he’s no-showed, just left a day early. But he shows up as the first match is hitting the ring. Promoter’s hot as hell, decides to make Tietam look bad. Pulls him aside and starts giving him hell, tells him he’s going to lose, which is nothing new. But then he says he’s pushing a new guy who’s debuting that night. Former ballplayer. Young guy, maybe twenty-six. Tells Tietam not to do one single thing on offense, just make the kid look good.

  “So Tietam puts on his gear and he heads to the curtain. He sees this big kid, must go three hundred and ten, he’s got a huge cowboy hat, and a fringed vest that says ‘Texas.’ Been in the business a whole month and a half. I see Tietam’s face, and I should have known there was going to be trouble. So many times I wish I could have gone back in time and prevented it all.”

  “What happened, Eddie?”

  “Oh God, let me see. Well for a minute or so things weren’t going so bad. But then the kid nearly takes Tietam’s head off with a clothesline, breaks your dad’s nose, blood’s pouring out. As your dad’s getting up, I see this kid get down in a three-point stance, like he’s back on the field. And—boom—this kid just drives your dad to the mat with an unbelievable shot. Like a big football tackle, and the crowd all goes ‘Ooh.’ So I’m thinking your dad is gonna be hot, that he’s gonna get up and hook this poor kid. But instead he stays calm, and I can kind of see him say something. He talks to the kid. Says, ‘Good good, one more. But harder this time!’ So the kid goes to the corner, he signals with his finger, you know, saying, How ’bout one more. And the kid gets in his stance, waits for your dad to get up. Up comes your dad, and the big kid takes off, fires out of his stance like some kind of a rocket. And your father, he . . .”

  Eddie’s voice trailed off, and he swallowed real hard. Once, twice, three times, in obvious pain. Pain of the body, but more so the mind, as he struggled to tell me the rest of the tale.

  “So the kid, he’s charging, he’s charging full steam. Coming in low and fast, gonna spear Tietam’s gut . . . But your father gets ready, and he starts to move, and he shoots up his knee . . . and I swear as I sit here that the sound of that kid’s face as it exploded was like a shot from a gun. It drove him straight up in the air, all three-hundred-plus pounds, landed him back on his butt, and the kid can’t move, because his body’s in shock.

  “His teeth are all gone, at least most of them are, his nose is smeared all over his face . . . and his eye . . . his right eye . . . it’s just hanging there . . . dangling down from its socket.

  “I see your father get up, I’ll never know how, because his knee’s all swelled up, like a big basketball. And sticking out of his knee I see pieces of teeth . . . just sticking there. And I want to help, but . . . I can’t . . . I just can’t. I just stand there staring at the teeth . . . in his knee . . . and the eye . . . hanging there. But your father gets down, down on his knees, and again I’m thinking about the teeth stuck in there. But he’s down on his knees, in front of the kid, surveying the damage, and the whole world is still. Crowd’s just a blur, no one’s moving a bit. Except for your dad, who balls up his fist . . . and with one brutal punch . . . he crushes the kid . . . crushes his eye . . . against his very own cheek.”

  I felt my throat tighten, and I tried hard to talk, but nothing came out. Poor Eddie looked bad, and I felt a twinge of great guilt, like a spear in my side for making him take part in this taxing ordeal. He took several deep breaths and then forged ahead.

  “It gets worse, Andy, your father gets worse.” He paused, let that fact register inside my shell-shocked mind. “Do you want me to continue?”

  I nodded, whispered a weak “Yes.”

  “I tried to make some sense of it, Andy, I really did. Impossible, though . . . it really was. I just stood there in the locker room while he pulled those teeth out of his knee. Just dropped them to the floor. Didn’t even care. And I tried to talk some sense into him, I really did . . . and he just stood up, blew some blood out of his nose, right where those teeth were, and said he didn’t need advice from some Bible-thumping . . . nigger . . . I was in shock, Andy, tell the truth, everyone was. All the boys in the back, crowd, everyone. Then Tietam walks out, blood still pouring from his nose, no shirt, just his stupid hippie trunks and boots. Just walks out to his car, bag over his shoulder. Turns to me and, of all things, asks me if I want to grab a beer. Of all things, a beer. I tell him, I’m going to the hospital, gonna check on the kid, who at this point is being loaded into an ambulance. He gives me a nod, says he’s hittin’ the road. Makin’ a quick stop and then he’s hittin’ the road. He shuts the door and off he goes.

  “Well Andy, not too many of the boys made it to the hospital. Kid was new, hadn’t had time to make any friends. But I stayed out in that hall, praying, waiting for news. No one from the office showed up, probably figured they can’t make money off him, so why bother. I call home, tell my wife to expect me late. Tell her we’ll celebrate another time. She sounds kind of funny. Not mad, just different, understand?”

  I nodded.

  “When I come home, my wife’s up. Acting kind of funny, tipsy kind of, she’s drinking a glass of wine—probably just one of several. I tell her I’m sorry, explain about the kid’s eye, how they can’t save it. Kid’ll never use that eye again. My wife, who’s usually the nicest person in the world, doesn’t seem to care. She’s distracted, acting funny, like she’s drunk. Or something else.

  “Then I see it, Andy. It’s hidden, but I see it. On the television set. Behind our wedding picture. A deck of cards. Your father’s deck.”

  I thought of my father. Hated his guts. I looked at Eddie, expecting pain or fatigue, but saw only resolve.

  “The days went by. I never said anything, but I guess she suspected I knew. We stopped talking much, just passed by each other. The best of friends turned into total strangers.

  “One night, my wife is working. I’m home. Home as usual, wishing for the old days, wishing I’d never met Tietam Brown. Hatred is just consuming me. Then I look at her picture, that one right up there, and I swear, Andy, it was like a lightning bolt from up above. Strikes me right in the heart. I get up from my chair, grab my old Bible. This Bible here. Without even thinking, I just open it up. Close my eyes, and I open it up. Put my finger down on a page. Open my eyes. Luke 6:37. ‘Forgive, and you shall be forgiven.’ Simple as that. The Lord spoke to me. Simple as that.”

  December 31, 1985 / Evening

  I spent three days in New York with Eddie Edwards, seeing the sights and helping out with the homeless. On New Year’s Eve, I caught the 5 p.m. Greyhound heading back north, where an uncertain future lay waiting for me. I thought of my father, and whether he cared that his only son had been gone for over four days. I’d left a short message on our new answering machine, just to let him know I was fine. I did not mention Eddie. I just said I was fine.

  The kid next to me, from New York to Middletown, had long hair and drank beer, and lent me some tapes to help pass the time. Zebra, I think, and some Blackfoot too. And a band, I forget, with a real ugly singer who sang “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” which made me think of punching my dad.

  He offered me pot, which I politely refused, and much to my amazement, no one said a word, as cannabis hung inside of that bus like thick cumulus clouds.

  I gave back his tapes when his turn to leave came, and I sat back and enjoyed what I later realized was a good contact high as the snow blew by my window at an ever-quickening pace.

  When that bus pulled into Cortland and I stepped into four new inches of snow, I was high on life and secondhand weed, and was raring to go. Which was a good thing for me, as I had quite a bit of walking to do. A walk that would take me through the last t
wenty minutes of 1985 and into the New Year, which I hoped to befriend.

  I passed by Frank ’n’ Mary’s and gave a wave as I went. I put my head down, and my collar up, and thought of Bob Dylan in an old picture I’d seen. Something about “freewheeling,” except he’d been in New York, with a girl on his arm, and I was in Cortland, and my arm was free.

  Funny how quiet it was, without the college kids there. Just a few happy drunks ringing in the New Year. The Dark Horse was near empty, not like those times when I walked home from work and saw lines snaking outward, into the night. Lines of drunk students hoping to meet the girl of their dreams, at least for one night.

  I’ll never know what made me look there, for I seldom did. Pontillo’s Pizza, the best slices in town. But look there I did, and once I did, I just stared. At Clem Baskin and Terri, the two holding hands and sharing a Coke with one glass and two straws. I should have just left, but I was unable to move, as if the sky had dropped big globs of white glue instead of powdery snow. And I saw her look up, and her green eyes met mine. And my heart, my poor heart which just one week earlier had been broken in two, was now smashed to dust by the mere sight of her face.

  January 1, 1986

  I came home that night about twenty to two, feeling as lonely as a boy can get, thinking of forgiveness but finding it an empty concept I was unable to believe in. I saw a red light flashing on the answering machine.

  I pressed PLAY, and heard her voice. Terri. Compassionate, yet determined. Soft, but not weak. Saying, “Andy, it’s me. I know you’re hurt, but you’ve got to understand. Clem is a Christian. He and his parents gave themselves to the Lord on Christmas Day. I need that right now, for me and my family. Andy, I’ve asked God to forgive you . . . and maybe one day I will too . . . Good-bye.”