In Texas: Wrestling with Good and Evil

By Adam Zagorin

The vast expanse of rolling scrub and farmland is still and dark. Dawn, when it comes, tinges the land red before a hot, white sun climbs in the sky, turning the dew to vapor that rises from the surface of the plain. This heartland, thousands of square miles, is central Texas. Bonnie and Clyde rampaged through the territory. Sam Bass, the outlaw, was gunned down in Round Rock, not far from the Santa Fe railroad. Today, Interstate 35 passes small and medium-size towns, ranches and farms. Huge trucks rumble into dusty, chalk-white depots to load crushed rock from local quarries. At intervals, as the road stretches across the land, a red, white and blue Lone-Star State flag flutters above a solitary dwelling.

When day breaks, church bells ring in Temple, Texas, founded in 1881 astride the rail line south of Waco and not far from modern-day Fort Hood, the largest military base in the free world. Temple's churches fill on Sunday, and as the white sun climbs higher, hymns are sung and sermons spoken. Down at the Frank W. Mayborn Civic and Convention Center, parishioners of Temple Bible Church finish their prayers and stream out into the noonday heat, and the bright light that bears down on the town, bleaching its low buildings against the prairie.

As the churchgoers file out, another kind of Sunday crowd lines up at the Civic Center ticket window. Men stand together quietly in their rough leather boots and clean work clothes; women, teen-agers and small children talk excitedly. A sign out front announces: LIVE WRESTLING.

Back in 1979, Temple's high school Wildcats clinched the state football title under Bob McQueen, the coach and town hero. The people of Temple do a lot of hunting in season, shooting doves with shotguns and deer with rifles. But for year-round entertainment, nothing in town beats professional wrestling.

Inside the Civic Center people are taking their places, even though wrestling won't begin until 2 o'clock. Loretta Lynn's soft voice drifts from loudspeakers embedded in the ceiling above a concrete floor set with row after row of red plastic chairs. In the middle of the arena is a blue canvas ring lit with bright, hot, white lights. In a corner stand armed security men. "Our job is to protect the wrestlers from the people," says a Temple guard. Finally a gong rings, and an announcer climbs through the ropes and into the ring.

Joe Blanchard, bail bondsman, former wrestler and promoter of the bouts, explains, "In wrestling, you've got to have good guys and bad guys." Blanchard has run matches around the state for more than 20 years. "We're selling entertainment and excitement," he says, gesticulating with large, powerful hands. In fact, wrestling's heroes and villains are the same as those in the real world, ebbing and flowing with the tide of world events. "We've seen Iranians after the hostage crisis, Russians, Germans and Mexicans with headdresses," says Blanchard. He mentions current Texas favorites: "Tully the Kid," "Wahoo" McDaniel, "Abdullah the Butcher," a gallery of rogues conjured from professional wrestling's fevered imagination. A fusion of morality play and Greek comedy, wrestling fires extreme emotions, building to the catharsis of victory of good over evil, of hero over villain.

Blanchard knows his business and his wrestlers. He says that wrestlers do well by developing strong ring personalities and by engaging in lengthy and hateful grudge matches that stir fan loyalties. Such disputes often begin on Blanchard's Monday wrestling television show and spill over into the arena, where more insults and slurs lead to head stompings and chair bashings. Not long ago, one of Blanchard's matches climaxed with a combatant dumping a large bucket of manure on his opponent's head.

The heavyset men now climbing into the ring are veterans. Bill Howard, in his 40s, from Milwaukee, is portly, tough and tanned, in maroon robes tied with a golden cord. He shows his anger with a slow, bull-like shaking of the head as he encounters "Cowboy" Scott Casey, in his late 30s, a hulking former hairdresser from Amarillo, wearing a white hat and boots stamped with red patches in the shape of the state of Texas.

The crowd loves Casey. They hate Howard. Howard is grimacing, hurling guttural insults at Casey, who pursues him with burly, outstretched arms. The bout has a plot as clear as that of any play. As the referee turns his back, Howard slyly removes a shining metal strip from his mouth. The crowd understands that Howard is about to gouge Casey with the metal now concealed in his hand. The crowd is on its feet, shouting to warn the referee, who takes no notice.

Then Howard grabs Casey by the head, holds him down and strikes him again and again above the eyes. The action looks faked, but no one seems to mind. Casey is down, in seeming agony, twisting his body like an animal buckling in a slaughterhouse pen. As his pain subsides, Casey gets up, his face filled with righteous anger. The crowd calls for retribution, for redress of grievances and victory for Casey. Suddenly Casey pins Howard. "Casey nailed that cheating bastard," avers a man in the front row. Justice is done.

Several rows back sits Elbert Seiter, 48. Seiter is a foreman for a trucking company. His face is deeply lined; an ironed shirt gleams white against sun-beaten skin. "I worked construction all my life, and it's rough," says Seiter. "This is a rough sport, and I like it." Karen Stoffel, a secretary with a finance company, is there too. She has come with her husband Gary, a trackman for the Atchison, Topeka and Sante Fe Railway, and their daughter Courtney, 6. A heavyset woman with round, cheerful cheeks, Mrs. Stoffel says, "Wrestling is a release from day after day of working. You come here and yell and scream and yell and scream and then go home. My daughter loves it." Little Courtney, in a red and white sailor suit, hides her face in her mother's lap.

Back in the dressing room, wrestlers are having a smoke and taping their limbs in preparation for bouts to come. Some smear on baby oil to avoid abrasion from the ropes and canvas ring. "Bruiser" Frank Brody, mid-30s, preparing to wrestle, unclasps his black hair from a ponytail, douses it under a tap and lets it hang limp and long about his huge shoulders. "I might work ten or 15 days in a row," he says softly. "I try to save money, live quiet and plan for retirement," he adds. Well-known wrestlers like Brody earn anywhere from $50,000 to $100,000 traveling around the U.S. and to Japan-extending their professional lives into late middle-age-but for hundreds of lesser known wrestlers, the work can be unrewarding. Earning little, they spend long hours in body building, cultivating images they hope will propel them toward stardom. Often their careers never get off the ground, and they end up as bouncers and floorwalkers in Las Vegas and other resorts. Still, they keep wrestling, and the spectacle remains popular. Declares Cowboy Casey: "You've got grown men over 250 lbs. engaging in the world's oldest sport. We're gladiators," he suggests. "People love to watch violence because it's just like real life."

Out in the ring, the bouts are drawing to a close. The final match has dissolved into pandemonium as two sets of burly wrestlers pound one another with knee drops, punches and head bashes. The crowd becomes a mob, chanting in unison, waving American flags, demanding more. Suddenly a gong rings. As the hot, white lights above the ring switch off, fans stream outside into blinding sunshine. Inside, the wrestlers pack up and leave for the night matches in Austin.

-By Adam Zagorin