Gruntin' and Groanin'
                                 

         This story is about one of my true uncles, or to pin it down more specifically, a great uncle. His name was Watson Wilkinson, but to family he was “Uncle Watt.” And this story, unlike the preceding ones, will involve some people who are very much alive and kicking. Do the names Jerry Atwell and Mason Ayres ring a bell?

         Uncle Watt was Jerry’s grandfather. He was a sports fan, but a single-minded one. A devotee and dyed in the wool wrestling buff best describes him. Many years ago wrestling was a big drawing card in Narrows. Those matches were staged in the gym of old Narrows High School, and brother let me tell ya’ those groaners and grunters, who posed as human but were ugly as gorillas, could liven up the old place.

         I’ve often wondered about the promoters who sponsored the matches and brought those “wrasslers” through these parts. Just where the devil did they find them? Most certainly at a place where they grew em’ big and ugly.

         Now please understand. The following paragraph is not to belittle anyone. Rather, it’s a grouping of cold, hard facts.

         I’ve never staked a claim to being pretty, good-lookin’, handsome etc. My profile is definitely not in league with the Barrymore’s and those matinee-idols who cause girls to swoon. They really shouldn’t feel threatened. I often go longer than I should between shaves---that little chore requires one to gaze into a mirror, and I don’t like what’s reflected therein.

         But compared to some of the wrestlers who traveled thru here in those days, I place myself right up there with those mega lover-boys, Clark Gable and Cary Grant. To put it in a nutshell, compared with those ring personalities---why hell fella’, I’m durn good- lookin.’

         They were the meanest, orneriest, ugliest hunks of humanity ever born on the face of bluewater earth. Gave me the weak trembles just lookin’ at em.’ Words of description could never do true justice to their repugnancy. Quite often to this day, 45 years later, I awake from a fitful sleep in a cold and clammy sweat having nightmares. These terrifying interruptions are spawned by recollections of those gorillas posing as human-beings in that old gymnasium. And tough!---like a pineknot.

         Uncle Watt wasn’t scared of em’ though. Or for that matter, anyone else. In the timeframe of this story he had snow-white hair, was 85 years of age, and relied on a sturdy cane for help in getting about. But even at that advanced stage of life he remained a feisty old bird. He would climb into your hair at the drop of a hat. One of “them wrasslers” found that out,

         They were staging a match over there one night, with the action slated to get underway at 7 o’clock. Uncle started forming the line at 2:30 that afternoon. He liked to sit up close, therefore had to “form” the line. Why attend a wrasslin’ match if forced to sit “way back yonder in the back.”

         The first contest was underway, and Uncle had picked out the wrestler he wanted to win. For a while it seemed he’d made the right choice; his man was sure-enough getting the upperhand. Uncle Watt sat there and rooted him on, but only for a short while. Then things went sour.

         That durn villain was slowly but surely staging a comeback; the tide was turning in his favor. He was a long-time veteran of ring warfare and would show this young gladiator what the profession was all about.

         An old-fashioned clobbering was being dished out to Uncle’s favorite. The young grunter was being kicked, gouged, punched and stomped somethin’fierce. Slammed unmercifully to the mat, he found himself being bounced damn near to the rafters of that old gymnasium. Murder and mayhem was being committed right before the eyes of those paying spectators.

         And Uncle’s sharp mind  formed an opinion at the speed of light---it was being allowed to happen with the scheming connivance of that dirty no-good referee! If truth be known, he and that durn villain wrestler were in cahoots.

         Uncle Watt didn’t like what was happenin’, nary a bit. This villain was undoubtedly the dirtiest wrestler to ever climb thru the ropes. The ref, nearly as horrible lookin, had evidently thrown the rule book away. Most certainly it wasn’t being abided by.

         Uncle looked up to see his man making yet another descent from the rafters. Good Lord!--- his fella’ was fast being killed! Deciding something must be done, he could no longer sit idly by and watch this scene unfolding before his eyes. Action came swiftly!

         Rising from his chair, Uncle’s cane began swinging wildly thru the air. Then he threw his chair into the ring, hopefully to bounce a heavy blow to the noggin of that despicable villain. Thirdly, he attempted to follow his chair into the ring. Uncle Watt very much desired to get his paws on that “dirty wrassler,” and some of the conniving ref’s hide at the same time. For by now there could be no doubting the unholy duo were in this seedy plot together.

         The security guards and police reached him just as he started thru the ropes. It required 7 of their number to restrain the old man, and additional manpower had to be mustered to get him back to his seat. The crowd also needed calming down. They had become restless and the eruption of a full-scale riot had been narrowly avoided.

         The wrestling match resumed 30 minutes later .It had taken that long to get Uncle and the rambunctious crowd quieted down.

         And wouldn’t you just know? His favorite in the ring returned to form and won that match hands down. He beat his opponent to a pulp, and made it look easy in the process.

         Since that long-ago night I’ve always felt the villain took a “dive.” He “throwed” that wrasslin’ match. Someone whispered in his ear that, should he win, then the “crazy old man” would be waiting outside. Quite possibly a sturdy hickory cane could make contact with his bullet-shaped head.

         Having seen enough of the old one at ringside, the bruiser wanted only to get out of town in one piece. He feared no other living “wrassler” but didn’t want to tangle with canes. Hell, those things are a deadly lethal weapon, easily capable of creating a painfully sore and knotted head featuring lotsa’ discoloration.

         But even from life’s worst experiences comes a smidgen of good. No promoter living could talk him into making a return engagement to this place. Of all the towns he’d ever “wrassled” in, the fans in this one were undoubtedly the looniest…