Body Slammed!

by Ray Villareal

  “Yeah. He and my father are friends. Actually, TJ lives here in San Antonio.”

  Bucky tee-heed. “Well, since TJ and your dad are such good friends, maybe your dad ought to teach him how to wrestle.”

  “Yeah, maybe your dad ought to teach him how to wrestle,” Goose repeated in a high voice, mocking Bucky.

  Bucky gave him a dirty look.

  Goose passed around the Oreo cookies bag. Bucky and Jesse grabbed some cookies, but Wendell waved the bag away.

  A few minutes later, Monday Night Mayhem returned. Dan Greenberg stood in the center of the ring, microphone in hand, ready to introduce the next match.

  A loud train whistle sounded, followed by John Henry Sykes’s entrance music.

  “This bout is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, weighing in at two-hundred seventy pounds, from Louisville, Kentucky . . . John Hen-ry Syyykes!”

  The Georgia Dome crowd erupted with cheers as John Henry, a huge man with a chiseled, body builder’s physique, appeared at the top of the stage. He wore blue, pinstripe bib overalls, a red bandana and a pinstripe train conductor’s cap. He pumped his arm up and down as if he was tugging on the train whistle’s string and let out a fiery “Woo! Woo!” The fans mimicked him by pumping their arms and Woo! Wooed! along with him.

  “Man I hate that guy,” Goose said. “He looks like a big, dorky kid getting ready to play with his choo-choo trains.”

  Once inside the ring, John Henry stripped off his overalls, much to the delight of many of the females in the audience, who whistled and screamed at seeing his muscular body. Underneath his overalls, John Henry wore blue, pinstripe wrestling trunks and blue boots.

  The arena grew dark. Unharmonious organ music sounded, and the stage entrance filled with smoke.

  “His opponent,” Dan Greenberg continued, “weighing in at three hundred twenty pounds, he is the emissary from the lower regions of the Netherworld. Ladies and gentlemen . . . the Aaangel of Deaath!”

  A cannon-like explosion reverberated throughout the arena and flames on both sides of the stage shot up in yellow-orange columns. Then from out of the cloud he appeared.

  The guys cheered and clapped, but the Georgia Dome audience greeted the Angel of Death with a chorus of boos.

  The Angel of Death raised his scythe above his head. “Aaagghh!” he roared.

  More boos.

  When Jesse’s father returned to work after his accident, Frank Collins decided to turn him into a heel. He felt that the Angel of Death character needed to be revamped. Jesse’s father didn’t mind. He had often said that he preferred to play a heel rather than a baby face, a “good guy.” He had played a heel when he wrestled as the Annihilator. He had also started out as a heel when he joined the ACW and became the Angel of Death. Later, because of his popularity, he was turned into a baby face.

  The easiest way for a wrestler to turn heel is to attack the top baby face in the company. At the time it was Ice Man Jacob Sloane. On a Monday Night Mayhem show, while the Ice Man was being interviewed by Moose McGirk, the Angel of Death interrupted them, claiming that the Ice Man had something that belonged to him—the ACW heavyweight belt.

  When Sloane turned his back, the Angel of Death assaulted him with vicious punches and kicks. He lifted Sloane, flipped him upside down and drove him onto the floor with his finishing maneuver, the Death Drop Pile Driver. A series of title matches followed, but in the end, Sloane retained the heavyweight belt.

  The referee called the Angel of Death and John Henry Sykes to the center of the ring to go over the “rules,” which don’t actually exist in professional wrestling, since everything is scripted.

  The Angel of Death locked eyes with John Henry Sykes. Part of his gimmick was to gaze at his opponents until they became mesmerized by his hypnotic stare. While they were in a dazed state, he would strike.

  But John Henry was having none of it. He turned away and shook off the effects. Then he spun back and caught the Angel of Death with a forearm to the face. And another. He followed those up with a standing dropkick, knocking the Angel of Death through the ropes and onto the floor. John Henry climbed through the ropes and leaped off the ring apron with a flying elbow. But the Angel of Death caught him in a chokehold and slammed him onto the announcers’ table. While John Henry lay stunned, the Angel of Death grabbed a metal folding chair, but the referee jumped out of the ring and took it away from him.

  The Angel of Death climbed back inside the ring. He pounded his chest and roared triumphantly, drawing unbelievable “heat,” or negative response, from the audience.

  John Henry slowly got to his feet and staggered up to the ring apron. But the Angel of Death grabbed him by the hair and rammed his head against the ring post. Then he dragged him back inside the ring and applied a vertical suplex.

  “Yeah!” Goose yelled, hopping to his feet. “Get that dorky, choo-choo man!”

  The Angel of Death went for a cover, but Sykes kicked out at two. He went for another vertical suplex, but this time, Sykes blocked it. He punched him with rights and lefts, followed by a kick to the stomach and a DDT.

  The match continued for about seven minutes. Finally, after the Angel of Death delivered a devastating clothesline, he picked up Sykes, draped him over his shoulder and readied him for the Death Drop Pile Driver. But Sykes reversed it and turned it into a backbreaker.

  With his opponent down, Sykes went for his finisher, the Derailer. He put the Angel of Death’s head between his legs, hooked his arms around his and locked his hands together. Sykes lifted him, and then dropped to the mat, slamming the Angel of Death on his back. He hooked a leg and made the cover. The referee counted to three and that was it.

  “The winner of the match, in seven minutes, forty-three seconds . . . John Hen-ry Syyykes!” Dan Greenberg announced.

  The guys’ jaws fell open.

  “What happened?” Goose asked.

  “Yeah, what happened?” Bucky asked.

  Wendell sat up in his chair and gawked at Jesse. “Did you know that Sykes was going to win tonight?”

  Jesse stared at the television and nibbled on his Oreo cookie. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Has the ACW gone insane?” Goose cried. “Why did they have your dad job to Sykes?”

  “I don’t know,” Jesse lied. “It’s Frank Collins’s show. He can run it anyway he wants.”

  “The only way he’s gonna run it is to the ground,” Goose complained.

  “Yeah, the only way he’s gonna run it is to the ground,” Bucky repeated.

  John Henry Sykes exited the ring and slapped hands with the fans as he walked up the ramp. He was a rising star who was being given a tremendous push. By the time The Final Stand pay-per-view event rolled around, Jesse wouldn’t be surprised to see John Henry fighting for the heavyweight belt.

  As for the Angel of Death, his future didn’t look nearly as promising.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Early in the second quarter, the Deaf Smith Sidewinders were trailing the Jordan Jaguars, 7 to 3. As usual, Jesse was watching the game from the sidelines.

  “Hey, Jesse!”

  He looked up. TJ Masters had just arrived and was making his way toward Jesse’s grandparents. Jesse had forgotten that TJ had mentioned he was interested in coming to the game. At the time he thought TJ was just being polite. He didn’t really expect him to show up. Jesse waved and then turned back to the game.

  Riley King fired a pass to Alberto Chapa, but a Jaguars safety speared Alberto in the gut before he could bring in the ball. Alberto grimaced in pain as he slowly rose to his feet. Riley threw his hands up as if to ask Alberto, why didn’t you catch the ball? Alberto ignored him and made his way to the sidelines, holding his stomach.

  Since Jesse wasn’t doing anything, he walked over to say hi to TJ, who met him at the railing. “Thanks for coming, TJ. Sorry we’re not playing any better than this.”

  “Hey, no problem. Anyway, your drumline sounds awesome. Plus you’ve got some fine-looking che
erleaders.” TJ wiggled his eyebrows. “You date any of them?”

  “Nah,” Jesse said, trying to sound indifferent.

  “But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

  Jesse smiled shyly. “Maybe.”

  TJ nudged his head in the direction of the sidelines. “Who’s the screamer?”

  Riley was complaining to Coach García, one of the assistants. Riley pointed to the field, then to some of the players. His eyes bulged and his voice rose hysterically.

  “That’s Riley King, our quarterback.”

  “What’s his problem?” TJ asked. “His jock strap too tight on him or something?”

  “Riley gets pretty worked up on the field,” Jesse said. “But that’s only because we’re trying to make it to the playoffs.”

  “Hey, listen, how about going out for a pizza with me after the game?” TJ said, changing the subject. “My treat.”

  The guys had invited Jesse to eat at Taco Cabana, but this was a much better offer. “Yeah, sure, if my grandparents say it’s okay.”

  TJ Masters was six years older than Jesse, but he looked young enough to pass for a high school student. Jesse didn’t know him well, but he was flattered that TJ had asked him to hang out.

  “You’d better get back to your team,” TJ said. “And tell Old Yeller to take a chill pill.”

  With TJ in the audience, it was especially important to Jesse that he got in the game. He didn’t know if his father had spoken to Coach Blaylock, but to Jesse’s surprise, the coach said yes when he asked him if he could play.

  On first down, Jesse snapped the ball to Riley without blowing it. He also got in a good block, which allowed Riley to throw a completed pass to Mitch Maloof, and they gained six yards. On the next play, the Sidewinders picked up a first down. Then another. The offense traveled down the field for forty-five yards before stalling at the seventeen-yard line. The kicking team came on and Bucky scored a field goal.

  Coach Blaylock kept Jesse in the game for the rest of the half. At the start of the third quarter, however, the coach benched him and sent Sam Morales back in. The Sidewinders scored three more times in the second half and managed to beat the Jaguars in a close game, 27 to 24. Their chances for a district title had gotten brighter. Still, the Sidewinders would have to get past the Burnet Dragons, a team with a similar record, to become district champs.

  On the bus trip back to school, Jesse told the guys he was going out for pizza with TJ. He considered inviting them, but he didn’t know if TJ would mind.

  The school parking lot was full of cars with parents waiting to pick up their kids. Jesse hadn’t arranged a pick-up point with TJ, so he wasn’t sure where to look for him.

  Two short, car horn beeps caught Jesse’s attention. He turned and saw headlights flash on and off. TJ stepped out of a sleek, black car and waved.

  “Hi, TJ. Cool car,” Jesse said as he approached him. “What kind is it?”

  “A Dodge Challenger. Wanna drive it?”

  Jesse thought TJ was putting him on, until he tossed him the keys and said, “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”

  “But I’ve only got a learner’s permit,” Jesse said.

  TJ shrugged. “I know, but your grandma said you drive pretty good.” He came around the passenger side and got in.

  The only vehicle Jesse had ever driven was his grandmother’s Honda CRV. He wasn’t sure if he could handle TJ’s car. He slid in and strapped on his seatbelt. When he wrapped his fingers on the steering wheel, Jesse instantly sensed the power of the sporty, muscle car. He peered out the window, hoping the guys would see him.

  “Um, you’ve got to put the key in the ignition to make it go,” TJ teased.

  “I was just trying to get a feel for your car,” Jesse said. He turned on the ignition and drove toward the exit.

  When TJ saw the cheerleaders and drill team members getting off their bus, he told Jesse, “Honk at them.”

  Jesse gave the horn a couple of beeps. Claudia Gutiérrez turned and stared at them. She started to wave, but then stopped and squinted, not sure if that was really Jesse behind the wheel.

  Jesse pulled up to the parking lot entrance. “Which way?”

  “Turn right. At the second light, make a left.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just drive. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  The speed limit was thirty-five, but Jesse drove a little under it, afraid of wrecking TJ’s car. He had driven at night, but only on the quiet streets in his neighborhood. Out here, because parents were picking up their kids, the traffic was heavy. But TJ didn’t appear worried about Jesse’s driving. He upped the volume on his car radio and tapped out the beat to “Money” by Pink Floyd.

  Jesse made a left on Hanson Road, where the speed limit increased to forty-five. He had never driven that fast. Cars seemed to zoom toward him at a hundred miles an hour. The road was sparsely lit, and Jesse was terrified that he would crash.

  After about fifteen minutes, TJ said, “Slow down. We’re here. Pull over to the right.”

  Jesse drove into the parking lot of a brown, brick building with a yellow neon sign that said ROMO’s. Below the restaurant’s name, orange neon lights in the shape of a pizza blinked on and off. The parking lot was covered with gravel rocks that crackled under the wheels of the car.

  When Jesse and TJ entered the restaurant, they were immediately met by a strong scent of garlic and oregano. Soft Italian music played in the background. The tables were made out of thick wood and had benches instead of chairs. A few customers were scattered throughout the dimly lit room.

  Two huge, middle-aged men who looked like ex-pro wrestlers sat at the bar drinking beers. The men waved at TJ, who returned their waves with a soldier’s salute. A woman wearing a red-and-white checkered shirt, tight jeans and cowboy boots welcomed them.

  “Hello, Mona,” TJ said. “Say hi to Mark Baron’s kid, Jesse.”

  Mona’s face lit up. “Well, hi, sugar. You look just like your daddy.”

  Jesse hoped Mona had seen his father without his skeleton-face make-up. She led them to a table and handed them a pair of menus.

  After Mona left, Jesse asked TJ who the men at the bar were.

  “The one with the shaved head is John Romo. He owns the place. Mona’s his wife. John used to operate the Southwest Wrestling Association before it folded, so he’s got a soft spot in his heart for pro wrestlers. A lot of the ACW boys like to eat here whenever they’re in town. The guy with him is Bulldog Danny Lane. He wrestled for John Romo years ago.”

  Jesse glanced around the room. Dozens of wine bottles hung from the ceiling. A large mural of a Tuscany vineyard was painted on the back wall. A number of black-and-white photos, including one of boxing champ Rocky Marciano fighting Archie Moore, covered the wall behind them.

  “I know, I know,” TJ said, as if he could tell what Jesse was thinking. “This place is a rat’s nest. But they’ve got the best pizza in town. Coldest beer, too. Want one?”

  His question took Jesse by surprise. “TJ, I’m not old enough to drink.”

  TJ sat his menu down. “I didn’t ask if you were old enough, Jesse. I asked if you wanted a beer.”

  “I . . . I’d better not,” Jesse said, hoping he hadn’t offended TJ by his refusal. Jesse had a birthday coming up in December, but he would only be turning seventeen, far from the legal drinking age. Besides, he didn’t think the restaurant would sell him a beer without checking his ID. The Romos weren’t going to risk losing their business by selling alcohol to a minor. Jesse had a feeling TJ was testing him to see how he would react.

  “Have you ever had a beer before?” TJ asked, again catching him off-guard.

  Jesse wasn’t sure if he could trust TJ with his secrets, but he didn’t appear to be the snitching type. Bending his head toward him, Jesse said softly, “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell my father?”

  TJ raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Okay . . . once
.”

  TJ sat his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his fist. “Well, don’t just sit there, Jesse. Give me the details.”

  Jesse looked around, wondering if anyone could hear him. Then he cleared his throat. “My uncle Larry had a birthday party at his house one night. There was an ice chest full of beer in the kitchen, so my cousin Monty and I . . . ”

  “Y’all ready to order?”

  Jesse gasped. The waitress’ voice almost jolted him out of his seat. She smiled, realizing she had startled him.

  TJ gave the menu a quick read. “Pepperoni sound good to you, Jesse?”

  “Sure. And I’ll have a Coke.”

  TJ ordered a large pizza, a Coke and a beer.

  After the waitress left, Jesse finished telling TJ the story of his first drinking experience.

  “A man should be able to have a beer if he wants,” TJ said. “As long as he drinks responsibly.”

  Jesse agreed, except that legally, the State of Texas didn’t recognize him as a “man.” Their conversation soon turned to football.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” TJ said when Jesse explained why Coach Blaylock wouldn’t let him play. “You aren’t gonna get better by standing on the sidelines. Look, Jesse, I play a jobber on ACW, right? But at least I get to wrestle. I can’t learn my craft by standing at ringside, with my hands in my pockets. I’ve gotta step inside the ropes, even if I have to go up against guys like Solomon Grimm, who like to wrestle stiff.” TJ rubbed his chest, as if he could still feel the effects of Grimm’s brutal chops.

  The waitress returned with their drinks.

  TJ took a sip of his beer and continued. “The problem with your team, Jesse, is that it has no sense of unity. There’s no discipline. First of all, you’ve got the screamer, who’s allowed to pitch his little tantrums. Second, you’ve got a coach who doesn’t know how to rotate his players. Sure, you’ve got an okay record, but if your team is serious about winning a state title, it’s gotta fix those things.”

  Jesse nodded. There was nothing TJ told him that he didn’t already know. “It doesn’t matter, TJ, because I’m not planning to play football next year.”