I Was A Pro Wrestler (For A Day): A Tale For National Pro Wrestling Day

Continuing my “For A Day” series: moments from my past that defined me, whether bad or good. A particular time when, for a day, just a day, I was more or less than I desired to be. Here is a tale that goes all the way back to elementary school. A not so pleasant account from yesteryear, but one I’d hate to lose when my memory finally begins to fail. I call this collection’s recollection selection:

I Was A Pro Wrestler (For A Day): A Tale For National Pro Wrestling Day

Franklin Elementary School, East Chicago 1977

Fourth grade. A time when I was eager to impress the girls I considered cute, but definitely not by my yet-to-exist masculinity.  By this point, I had only participated in the intramural basketball team, which mainly required speed, awareness and most importance, accuracy. Thank God strength was not a factor.

I was one of the three skinniest kids in my class, whose wrist, Danny – our class’s strongest – took great pleasure in wrapping his hand around.  He thought it funny, making his middle finger touch his thumb to show the girls how small my arm was in circumference.  I often wanted to punch him in the throat, but since he did it to the other two string beans, I knew it wasn’t a case of a bully targeting the weakest.  Besides, Danny wasn’t malicious like that, and I would not have allowed a new antagonist like that in my life. My days of victimization were behind me.

If you read Teacher Appreciation Week “Teacher Feature” about my 4th grade Science teacher Stuart Gurevitz, you might remember that he also coached the Franklin Elementary School Wrestling team.

Mr. Gurevitz was extremely influential and so much fun to be around that when he asked me if I was interested in participating, I all but jumped at the opportunity. Even though I couldn’t fight my way out of a wet paper bag with a hatchet.

Still, as little as I knew about the sport, I took comfort in knowing that I didn’t have to contend with sweaty, hairy behemoths, jumping off of a turnbuckle, onto my frail frame.

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Training was difficult, learning offensive maneuvers in addition to the appropriate defensive tactics to employ when and if I found myself on the receiving end.  But I caught on rather quickly, despite my inability to outmaneuver any larger opponent who placed me in the Half- or Full-Nelson.

Since one of the other members of our class “skinny trinity” joined the team with me, sparring wasn’t always troubling because between him and myself, I won some and I lost some.

It was time for our first competition and, if you know my family, you know that the Davis crew supports any and EVERYTHING in the bloodline: high school jazz concert, they’re there, Boy’s Club Ping Pong tournament, they’re there – class chess match – they’re right there.  It wasn’t until later that work and health issues impacted the turnout, but that was cool, the celebration at home was always grandiose. 

So it was no surprise to learn that three cars following behind the yellow bus to the competition were packed deep with spirited members of #TeamDavis.

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Calumet City, IL

When Coach Gurevitz put his hand on my shoulder I knew I was up. It being our first formal competition against wrestlers other than our own, our raw talent, speed, strength and acquired skill were finally being put to the test as I had watched my teammates rise and fall during their own respective challenges.

It was my time, and mom, dad, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins (even my pet turtle – just kidding) all sat eagerly in the stands to watch.  Lifting my calf-length socks to match each other in height, I stood up just in time to bump face first into the open jar of honey Coach G put in my face.  Dipping in, I took a two-fingered scoop and swallowed it down for that quick burst of energy before my big debut.

“He’s not ready for you,” Coach encouraged.  “Let him know.  Get angry.”

Adjusting my itchy, red and white uniform, I narrowed my eyes as my fist clenched. Coach spoke again.

“Angry!  Get ANGRY!  GROWL!”

“Groooorrrwww!!” I roared softly before repeating, even louder.  I sounded like baby Simba in The Lion King. The second time, I dropped my shoulders as I looked in the direction of my opponent’s team in the stands.  “Come down here!  Come down here NOW! I’M READY!  LET’S BOOGIE!”

I continued for several moments, rocking back and forth, yelling towards the other side before their coach walked over to the referee, whispering briefly in his ear.  The ref then walked over to Coach Gurevitz, who grabbed me by my wrist and held it high yelling triumphantly, “THE WINNAH!!!!”

There was a moment’s pause before my team and eventually the crowd, responded in thunderous applause.  My opponent was so frightened by my raging challenge that he refused to come wrestle.  I had won, by forfeit, but I had won, advancing to the second of four single-elimination rounds.  By the way my family was standing and cheering, one would have thought I had won the national spelling bee.

“That’s my nephew!” I could hear my Uncle Bill yell, undoubtedly drunk at that time of the morning.

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It was eventually time for match #2.  A good of time had passed, but despite the fact that my adrenaline had waned, I was still eager to get my first bout in.  There I was, the only advancing competitor in the gymnasium who had not clocked a single moment of grappling.  The only sweat I put on the mat was from jumping around.  But that was fine, it was my time.

I approached the situation same as before:

A heaping helping of honey, and a whole lotta hilariously hateful hollerin’. 

Bouncing on my toes, I glanced back at coach as he looked at me with a convincing wink. We were going to run this kid off too.  By this time, it seemed I had become a crowd favorite, thanks to the hilarity of the previous episode. 

But this kid emerged from his team, head high, shoulders squared, eyes directly on me.

I did everything short of foaming at the mouth as we met on the mat, shook hands and stood facing each other.  I hadn’t had the benefit of an opening match. And even though he was on his second, with experience, I was confident that the gym would be cheering for me yet again, sending me to my third match…

He pinned me in less than 20 seconds.

Other than the cheers from his camp, the gym had fallen flatly silent as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what happened.

Moments after the referee held his hand to confirm his victory, I stumbled slowly towards our team’s section, where my fellow warriors waited, stunned, but supportive.

Halfway to my destination I stopped, grabbing coach’s shirt. He paused in mid-step, repositioning as he planted his foot back towards me.

“Coach,” I said weakly as I half-looked into his kind face. “May I go to my family?”

“Sure, Kenneth,” he answered, firmly gripping my shoulder.  “Go on ahead.  I’m proud of you, son.”

Unable to look directly up at him, I nodded briefly before scurrying around the perimeter of the gym floor to the main spectator side, where my family waited, halfway up the bleachers. I could hear small phrases and looks of consolation amidst the parting crowd as worked my way the stand steps to the Davis cheering block. I had no idea what I would say or do. All I knew was that I just wanted to be with family.

I reached the group as they all sat silent, heads cocked with smiles of support, pride and love. I looked at my mother, who quickly stood up and threw her arms out to receive me without a single word.

And that was all it took.

I threw my head back with a different roar, a howling of tears of pain and shame as she enveloped me to the collective sounds of “awwwwww” and applause from the neighboring groups of families.

Momma held me for what felt like an eternity as my father and everyone else told me how proud they were of me, calling me “little lion”, “warrior” and “pro wrestler in the making”.

I never returned to the gym floor to be with my team, although we stayed throughout several other matches to cheer on the rest of my teammates. Up until such time as we decided to leave, I sat snuggled under my mother. The pain of defeat gradually subsided as I enjoyed the piece of that heavenly sweet potato pie wrapped in aluminum foil that she pulled from her purse, in addition to the change of clothes she had for me, despite the fact that my other clothes were still with the team.

I would have to wait for a later weekend before actually winning my first physical match in Mishewaka, but it didn’t matter. Win or lose, I knew my family was always with me and would be…

…no matter what I did in life.

And win or lose, I would always be mommy and daddy’s little champion.

And for a day, their little pro wrestler.

National Pro Wrestling Day

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