I stayed behind to hang out with my father. It was great to be able to spend time with him, something I rarely had a chance to do. We didn’t talk a whole lot, since he was visiting with his friends. But I didn’t mind, really. I loved listening to them swap stories.
“Herman,” said Red Lassiter, “Tell the boys about the time we got pulled over by the cops in Arkansas.”
Herman “Kronos” Berkowitz had smeared a greasy ointment over the welts on his face. His skin now glistened with an orange-red tone.
“Aw, most of da guys already hoid dat story.”
“Not everyone. I’ll bet Carlos Montoya hasn’t heard it. Have you, Carlos?”
“No, what happened?”
“You tell it, Red,” said Kronos. “You tell it better den I do.”
Red Lassiter jumped up on one of the packing crates and sat down. “You see, Herman and I had just finished a show in Little Rock. Even though we had already showered and changed, Herman insisted on putting his mask back on. He wanted to wear it until we drove away from the arena. You know, for the fans who were hanging around after the matches to catch a final glimpse of us. Well, we had just pulled out and were heading to the highway when, from my rearview mirror, I caught sight of flashing red lights. Apparently a taillight from our rental was out or something.” Red Lassiter chuckled. He hopped off the crate and paced around, gesturing with his hands as he told the story. “Anyway, one of the cops approached the car. The second he spotted Herman in his Kronos mask, he pulled out his gun and ordered us out. The other cop, watching his partner, bolted out of the squad car wielding a shotgun. They made us lie down on the asphalt street, face down. We tried to tell them we were wrestlers, but they wouldn’t listen.” His chuckling escalated into a hearty laugh.
“Yeah, I tried to remove da mask, but dey made me keep my hands behind my back,” Kronos said, joining in the laughter.
“They called in our driver’s license numbers,” said Red. “We checked out okay, but that still didn’t explain why Herman was wearing a mask. The cops then ordered him to remove it.”
“Dat’s what I’d been trying to do da whole time,” Kronos broke in.
“Finally, we convinced them we were wrestlers, and they let us go,” said Red.
“Tank god I won’t hafta wear dat rag on my face after tonight,” said Kronos.
At around three o’clock, Harold Becker, the head writer for ACW, met with my father, Prince Romulus, Il Gran Mephisto, and Rocky Davis, the referee who would be officiating their match, in one of the corridors.
“I want to go over the finish with you one more time,” Mr. Becker told them as he scanned his notes on his clipboard. “When Rocky gives you the signal, Angel, you’ll use an Irish Whip to send the Prince against the ropes. Prince, you’ll bounce back, and he’ll hit you with a clothesline. As soon as you fall to the mat, Angel will climb the turnbuckles and jump off with an elbow drop. Except that at the last second, Prince, you’ll move out of the way, and Angel will miss his target. At this point, Angel, you’ll roll out of the ring and land on the floor, holding your elbow in pain. Mephisto, this is where you come in. While the Prince distracts Rocky, you’ll sneak up on Angel and shoot your flames, burning his face. Rocky, you’ll catch him in the act and call for the bell. The match ends in a disqualification. No title change. At that point, while Angel is on the floor in agony, the both of you will attack him. Rocky will call for backup to separate you. After you’re sent to the back, the paramedics will rush out with a gurney. They’ll wheel Angel away to a waiting ambulance. The camera crew will capture the whole thing on film, and everyone goes home happy.”
Harold Becker and his team of writers generally map out the finish to each match. Sometimes the wrestlers will offer their input, but ultimately, Frank Collins makes the final decision on the direction of each bout.
The referees wear hidden earpieces. They receive their instructions from one of the ACW officials backstage that oversees the matches. When the time comes to end a match, the official speaks to the referee through his earpiece. The ref then gives the signal to the wrestlers, saying something like, “Let’s go home.” After that, they follow the script and end the match.
“Irish Whip, clothesline, missed elbow drop, flames, end of match,” Harold Becker repeated. “Any questions?”
The four men shook their heads.
“All right, good luck to all of you. Let’s give the fans a good show.” Mr. Becker left to visit some of the other wrestlers. Rocky Davis accompanied him.
I followed my father as he, Prince Romulus, and Il Gran Mephisto made their way to the ring, which stood in the middle of the cavernous arena, to go over some of their moves. Except for a few crew members who were still setting up, the place was empty. Mephisto and I sat down at ringside while my father and the Prince entered the ring.
Although this was the first time they would meet in a televised match, my father and the Prince had wrestled each other in house shows on numerous occasions, so they were familiar with each other’s styles.
Methodically, they practiced each hold and move— body slams, arm bars, ankle locks, drop kicks, and suplexes, as well as my father’s finishing maneuver, the Death Drop Pile Driver, and Prince Romulus’s submission hold, the Procrustes Stretch.
Only the endings of the matches are scripted. The wrestlers are free to call their moves as they see fit. Throughout their match, they talk to each other, calling their spots. For instance, while my father has Prince Romulus wrapped in a headlock and the Prince is wailing in pain, my father might whisper something to him like, “Irish Whip, body press, drop kick.” The Prince then knows to throw my father against the ropes, and as the ropes fling him back, the Prince will fly up and sail his body against my father’s, knocking him down to the canvas. When my father stands up, the Prince then jumps up in the air, and with both feet, he’ll kick him, sending him back down to the mat. At that point, the Prince may try to pin him. My father will kick out, of course. The Prince then grabs my father in a headlock of his own, where they’ll have an opportunity to call the next spot. Because of the loud, raucous crowds, no one hears what the men are saying to one another.
After about twenty minutes, my father and the Prince were done. Il Gran Mephisto handed them towels to wipe off the perspiration they’d worked up.
“About those flames, Mephisto,” my father said, warily, “are you absolutely positive they don’t burn?”
At breakfast this morning, my father had expressed his concern about having fire thrown in his face, even though he’d seen Il Gran Mephisto perform the stunt countless times.
“Don’t worry, Mark, it’s perfectly safe,” Mephisto assured him. “Watch.” He flung his arms out and launched a yellow-orange fireball, as if by magic, from his hands.
“Aaah!” yelled my father. He jumped back, stumbled on the ring steps, and fell.
I gasped and ran to see if his face was burned. Il Gran Mephisto and the Prince howled with laughter.
“I told you it was safe, Mark,” said Mephisto as he reached out to pull him up.
My father gave an embarrassed chuckle as he stood. He rubbed his cheeks to check for any signs of pain. I was relieved to see that he was all right. That fireball looked frighteningly dangerous.
“Man, that scared the devil out of me, Mephisto,” said my father. “Why didn’t you warn me you were going to do that?”
“That’s what it’ll look like tonight, Mark,” replied Il Gran Mephisto. “It’ll happen that fast. Be ready for it.”
It would be something to watch, I thought. But no matter what Mephisto told my father, I knew the flameshooting trick wasn’t as safe as he claimed. Even with years of practice doing that stunt, there was always a chance that something could go wrong. I just hoped that tonight wasn’t the night when it would happen.
My father and I returned to his dressing room. He took a quick shower. Then he dressed in his black leather Angel of Death outfit.
“Dad, you look like Zor
ro,” I told him. “All you need is the mask.”
“I think you’re right, champ,” he said, gazing at himself in the mirror on the dressing table. “Maybe after the Angel of Death gimmick plays itself out, I’ll become Zorro for a while.” He picked up his scythe and swung it in the air.
“Wherever there is injustice, wherever wrong and inequality reign, the tyrants shall fall by the edge of the sword, when Zorro shall ride again!”
As he whipped his scythe to form a Z in the air, he accidentally struck and smashed the dressing table mirror.
“Dad!”
He dropped his scythe, sending it clanging to the floor. “Uh-oh. I guess I’d better stick to being the Angel of Death,” he said, blushing. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But what about the mirror?” I asked, aghast. “Won’t you get in trouble for breaking it?”
He stared at the shattered glass and shrugged. “Only if you believe in the superstition of having seven years of bad luck.” He smiled and tousled my hair. “Besides, lots worse damage has been done to dressing rooms than this. Come on, let’s see if we can find Connie.”
Connie Herrera heads the makeup department for the ACW. Some wrestlers require only a touch of make-up to bring out the color of their faces or to remove the shine that results from perspiration. One of Connie’s assistants does that job. With my father, however, with his intricately detailed skeleton face design, the task is much more complicated, and Connie handles that responsibility herself. A partitioned area in one of the corridors made up the makeup room.
While Connie worked on my father, I sat down and read through a copy of American Championship Wrestling Magazine, the program that would be sold later at one of several souvenir stands. Most of the magazine was actually a catalog where fans could order ACW merchandise, but it also contained articles about some of the wrestlers, as well as a list of tonight’s matches.
I was reading an article about Tashira Nagasaki, a Japanese wrestler who would be facing El Azteca Dorado on tonight’s card, when I heard Connie say, “All done, Mark. You are one handsome creature, if I do say so myself.”
I glanced up from my magazine and stared at my father. My mouth fell open. He rose slowly from his chair and walked toward me. His immense presence cast a deep shadow, blocking out the light.
“Aaagghh!” he roared, thrusting his arms in the air. His eyeballs rolled back until only the whites were visible.
“D–Dad?”
“Echoes of vengeance cry out in the night; the Angel of Death hath emerged. To vanquish thee, Prince, and restore what is right, thine existence shall forever be purged! Aaagghh!”
My insides bubbled with both jitters and joy. It had been a long time since I’d seen him in full costume up close. He was an amazing sight.
Maybe I didn’t have the perfect father. Maybe things at home weren’t as ideal as I wished they could be. But at that moment, I felt a tremendous sense of pride. This was my father . . . the Angel of Death.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shortly after we left Connie’s makeup area, my father cut a promo for television that would air later in the show, just prior to his match. Penelope Precious conducted the interview. Before my father spoke, Penelope Precious, an occasional on-the-air personality, who in reality is Frank Collins’s wife, Terri, explained to the viewing audience that she was substituting for Moose McGirk, the regular interviewer, while he recovered from the serious burns he had suffered at the hands of Il Gran Mephisto.
“On behalf of everyone here at ACW, I want to take this moment to wish Moose McGirk a speedy recovery from the horrendous and despicable attack he suffered last Monday night,” she said somberly before the camera. “Get well soon, Moose. Our thoughts are with you.” Penelope Precious’s voice cracked, and she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
I had to do everything I could to keep from laughing. Moose McGirk was standing a few feet away, talking with Harold Becker. The Moose appeared to be in perfect health. There were no burn marks anywhere on his face.
Like my father, the Moose had requested, and had been granted, some time off. Penelope Precious would fill in as Simon Graham’s commentating partner until the Moose returned.
My father’s interview was his basic shtick, bad poetry and all. In his gravelly, monotone voice, he promised to send the Prince’s soul to the depths of the Netherworld.
When he was through, he returned to his dressing room to do some stretching exercises. I strolled around the back, hoping to run into my mom. I figured she’d be returning any moment.
“Gimme back my comic book!” I heard Kronos yell as I neared the “ready room.” The door was open so I peeked in.
“You don’t know how to read anyway,” retorted Ice Man Jacob Sloane. He was holding a Batman comic in the air, away from Kronos’s reach. “You can have it back when I’m through with it.”
“Give Herman back his comic book,” Karl Nelson, a.k.a. the Black Mamba, ordered. He reached out, grabbed Sloane’s arm, and twisted it into a wrist lock. In the ring, wrist locks are applied without much force. Wrestlers are careful not to hurt each other. But this wasn’t a staged fight; it was a shoot, a real one.
“Aaahh! Let go of my arm!” screamed Jacob Sloane.
“Give him back his comic book and I will,” Black Mamba replied with eerie calmness. He had a four-inch height and seventy-pound weight advantage over Jacob Sloane.
Sloane released the comic book and let it drop to the floor.
“Uh-uh. Pick it up and hand it to him,” Mamba ordered, still gripping the Ice Man’s wrist.
Reluctantly, Sloane stooped down, retrieved the comic book, and handed it back to Kronos.
“Now let’s try to act like gentlemen back here, okay?” said Mamba.
Sloane silently slithered out of the ready room, massaging his wrist.
Evidently, Carlos Montoya wasn’t the only one who had grown tired of the Ice Man’s antics.
“Tanks, Karl,” said Kronos, “but I coulda handled that joik myself.”
“I know, but believe me, Herman, the pleasure was all mine,” Mamba said with a smile.
Top stars like my father are often provided with an individual dressing room. But most of the wrestlers share a large locker room that is commonly referred to as the “ready room.”
The wrestlers in the ready room had already changed into their wrestling attire, although Kronos hadn’t slipped on his mask. He would probably wait until right before his match to do so. But El Azteca Dorado, the Black Mamba, and the Blue Dragon already had theirs on.
I walked around the ready room and greeted the wrestlers. Most were pretty friendly and said hello, but a few, like Lars Price, a.k.a. Dr. Inferno, merely grunted without looking up at me.
Sean LaRue of the Midnight Raiders sat at a table playing chess with Kid Dynamo. Gorgeous Gordon Gnash listened to music through his headphones that were plugged into his iPod. Bruce the Bruiser Brannigan quietly read his Bible. And Jason Cage, Red Lassiter, and Bulldog Max Myers played a video game on one of the TV monitors. Kronos settled himself back in his chair with his stack of comic books.
“Hey, kid, come here,” a voice called out. I turned around. “Give this to your old man. I think he’s gonna need it.”
Demented Devlin Dredd handed me my father’s scythe.
What was he doing with it? I wondered.
Devlin Dredd apparently read the baffled expression on my face. “I needed something to sharpen my pencil with.”
I glanced down and spotted a crossword puzzle on his lap.
“By the way, kid, you know a five-letter word for enclosure?” he asked.
I shook my head.
Sean LaRue looked up from his chess game. “How about pound? Which is what Angel’s gonna do to you when he finds out you took his scythe.”
Dredd, ignoring LaRue’s warning, jotted down the answer on his puzzle. “From the looks of Angel’s dressing room mirror, it looks like he’s already done a bit of pounding. There was glass e
verywhere when I went in there.” He gave me a mischievous smile. “You know anything about that, kid?”
“Um, you’ll have to ask my father about that.”
Carefully holding the scythe upright to avoid striking anything or anyone with it, I retreated to my father’s dressing room.
He was on the floor doing pushups when I entered. The glass on the dressing table had been cleared off. He looked up. “What are you doing with that?”
“Devlin Dredd had it, Dad,” I told him. “He told me to bring it back to you.” I hoped he didn’t think that I’d taken it.
He rose to his feet and took the scythe. “What was Dredd doing with it?” My father rolled it in his hands and examined it.
“He used it to sharpen his pencil,” I said. “He was working a crossword puzzle, and his pencil point broke, so I guess . . . ”
“To sharpen his pencil?” My father shook his head. “Go back and tell Devlin Dredd that being demented isn’t just a gimmick he uses in the ring. Tell him . . . ”
Suddenly the national anthem blared from inside the auditorium.
“Never mind. The show’s starting.” He leaned his scythe against a wall. “Go in and watch it.”
“But Mom’s not back yet.”
“Don’t worry about her. I’ll have her meet you as soon as she comes in.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Every seat in Madison Square Garden was sold out. Luckily my father had reserved a couple of them on the third row for my mom and me.
Boisterous and rowdy fans decorated the auditorium with handmade signs and banners they’d brought from home to show their enthusiasm and support for their favorite wrestlers, as well as to show their displeasure for those they hated.
The cameras panned the room for crowd shots. I thought about Wendell and the guys sitting in his living room watching The Final Stand. Every time the cameras were pointed in my direction, I jumped up and down and waved my arms like a maniac, hoping they would see me on TV.
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