WRESTLE-MANIA

Before my hormones kicked in and I started chasing boys, I spent part of my Saturday evenings watching "Championship Wrestling" with my big brother Bobby Bore, also known as Beans. We'd sit mesmerized before the black and white console, tuning in to KOTV-Channel 6 out of Tulsa, Oklahoma, knowing it was all el fake-o but enjoying the drama of it all, nonetheless.

We'd do a blow-by-blow commentary with the TV station's Danny Williams and Leroy McGuirk, who, although a monotone speaker, was still amazing at his craft because he was blind. Imagine that. Danny Hodge was always the local favorite, but my personal hero was Argentina Zuma. He'd do cartwheels across the ring, leap onto the ropes, then dive bomb his opponent into submission. My kinda guy.

One night a week of wrestling was never enough violence to satisfy us, so Beans and I would oocasionally sanction our own wrestling matches in his bedroom. "In the north corner, wearing a sleeveless blue blouse and polka dot pedal pushers, weighing 60 pounds, Nanny Goat Nan! And in the south corner, her opponent, wearing cut-off blue jeans and a holey white tee-shirt, weighing in at 125 pounds, the defending champion, Billy Goat Bob!"

Before ripping into each other, we'd have to go through a list of rules: no eye poking, no Indian wrist burns, no Dutch rubs, no tickling, and no pulling back fingers. Everything else was fair game. Having a slight weight disadvantage, like 60+ pounds, I never had a prayer, of course, but I was still a scrapper. Before long, though, Beans would get me in a headlock or hammerlock and have me begging for mercy.

"I give!"

"Say, uncle!"

"Uncle!"

"Say you're a monkey's uncle!"

"I'm a monkey's uncle!"

"Say you're a monkey's uncle and your feet stink!"

This banter went on and on until I screamed so loudly that Mom would be forced to save my life, or until I got in a cheap shot, broke free, and ran like hell to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, laughing all the way.

Man, those were the days!