Summer of '82

Time stands still as I stare at white knuckled hands beginning the strenuous twist. Ten seconds slow to ten minutes. All eyes stare at my father strain. While the crowd chants, one woman can be heard over all others screaming support.

Turning my head left, I see my brother’s fascination. He turns toward me and screams, “Holy Shit!”

My heart races recognizing a memory in the making. This day, my father became a man and my brother began to swear.

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1982.

Ronald Reagan's, Rocky Balboa supporting, Communism hating America hummed onward prospecting at home, abroad and even into outer space—thank you Star Wars and E.T. The more hours the offspring of Baby Boomers toiled, the more boundless the opportunity. In my neighborhood, every adult worked. Every child played; many wearing a necklace of sorts holding the key to the front door of the unsupervised, pint-size, second generation, Levitt-town style house that our parents could barely afford. Why we earned the name X instead of “Generation Latch-Key” boggles the mind.

John William Holt, Deaf, 32, father of five, husband, left the house each weekday at 600 AM. Black domed, two metal buckled, Thermos storing lunchbox in hand, he religiously commuted, working two back breaking jobs only to return home after 1000 PM to prepare for the next morning’s worship of capitalism.  

As a Christian, his Sunday ritual required an early rise. Though thinning tussled hair usually hid under some combination of trucker hat or winter wool, once a week, he worked a plastic, black, flimsy toothed instrument to slick his righteously coiffed comb-over around the sides of his enormous head. Then, unrecognizable in his corduroys brown, wooden button, pockets sown on the outside, large leather patches over each elbow sport coat, that when buttoned, hid the true measure of the width of his polyester tie, he paraded past his children on a solo march to the neighborhood congregation. Along with every other regiment, after church, he returned as scheduled, ate a whole week’s worth of hot meals while sitting before the thirteen inch, rabbit eared, box of light waking up from a nap at the beginning of each new show, only to doze off soon after recovering from and preparing for the weekday crunch.

Saturday’s demands varied weekly, as long as breakfast and his favorite show remained uninterrupted.

For 6 days a week, breakfast consisted of warm gruel, porridge, creamed grain, wet oats or some other type of $0.03 per bowl serving of health created by the combination of something stone-ground, rolled or milled poured from a cardboard container into boiling water and stirred until edible glue formed. If well behaved, we also might receive a few drops of milk or a spoonful of sugar atop our cooling quicksand. The entire meal required quick consumption, for if the goo cooled to less than lava-like temperature, a gelatinous brick formed. Daily, someone’s Quaker-made cereal morphed into Spam right before our eyes, and mom dutifully hoovered close by to ensure the entire coagulation traveled from spoon to mouth.

Nevertheless, each Saturday’s breakfast rivaled Christmas. 

Excitedly, we gathered in the kitchen and watched our father disappear to a place of secrecy and return bearing gift boxes adorned with a tiger, a toucan, a honeybee, a leprechaun or three elves bearing onomatopoeic names. Once the boxes left his grip, ravenous creatures devoured every crumb like fire ants swarming a desert beetle. Watching us consume such delicacies must have comforted dad with a feeling of “this is how our underprivileged household keeps up with the Joneses”.

Though indulgent, that sugary session never rivaled our favorite moment of the week.

After cleanup, my dad assumed his living room position on his leather throne using the Archie Bunker lean to melt away backwards like marshmallows on hot chocolate. As a great cat of a royal court, I then crawled a circle on the carpet by his leg, before settling into a comfortable position close enough to ensure his large kingly hand could reach and pet my sandy colored unkempt hair. After we stationed ourselves, my older brother worked the television by dutifully pulling the lower power-on knob outward, then with pliers (we somehow lost the VHF and UHF dials on the front of the console) turned the channel selector locating the station broadcasting our chosen show.

“This is Mean Gene Okerlund welcoming you to another week of All Star Wrestling and the AWA.”

Professional Wrestling!

Before WWE (WWF until sued by the actual WWF), WCW, NCW, Rick Flair, The Road Warriors, Rowdy Roddy Piper, The Rock, The Undertaker, Stone-cold Steve Austin, and Triple-H, the traveling circus of underground choreographed beefy ballet broadcast to middle-class America by way of the AWA.

Sergeant Slaughter, Crusher, Jerry Blackwell, Mad Dog, Mighty Igor, Andre the Giant, Mr. Electricity, Rock ‘N Roll, Wahoo McDaniel, Hulk Hogan, Rick Matel, Jesse “The Body” Ventura, Bobby Heenan, Super-fly, Baron von Raschke (the Claw) and other character exaggerations maneuvered and manipulated scripted engagements around the four-cornered, roped battlefield.

For sixty minutes each week, the AWA hypnotized television viewers with a few warm up matches, interviews and the week’s Main Event.  

Though Deaf, my dad excitedly leaned forward and hung on to each moment of his favorite portion of the show: the interview.

“Jesse Ventura, come on in.”

“Thanks Mean Gene”

“Tell us about the upcoming arm wrestling match between you and the Incredible Hulk Hogan. That should be some kind of amazing match up!”

“The Incredible Chump Hogan!” With pecs flexing, eyes locked on the camera, fists clenching, he continues, “It’s gonna be you and I, Chump, locked up, arm in arm to find out really who is the strongest dude in wrestling! You know what Incredible Chump? You’ve been running around the countryside saying Jesse V, The Body, is afraid of you; saying I duck you.” With more muscle flexes and points toward the camera, “Well Incredible Chump, you’re gonna find out different. Because you’re gonna bring up that twenty four inch python, and if you remember back around last August, I TORE THE PYTHON LOOSE! The only problem is, you went and seen some pretty good doctors and they managed to mend it back up again. Well Incredible Chump, this time, you’re gonna look across the table and you’re gonna look eye to eye with The Body!” Turning to Mean Gene and thumb-pointing at his sunglasses, “You know what Gene, I’m gonna wear these mirrored sunglasses!” Turning back to the camera and forcefully pointing, “Chump! I want you to be able to look into the mirrored sunglasses and see the look on your face when I hold your hand up there for a while—which I plan to do—and see the beads of sweat showing up on your face! And then, BOOM!” He pantomimes winning an arm wrestle, “I’m gonna bust his knuckles on the table, and all you goat-ropers and drug-store-cowboys will never see him again!” Jesse then turns ninety degrees and flexes into his scandalous “The Body” pose, made famous by Atlas himself.

“Alright, thank you, Jesse the…”

“Shut up!” Jesse V stomps out of view.

After flinching, “Thank you very much Mr. Ventura.”

Sometimes, at a commercial break, Dad asked one of us to sign the dialogue to him. My older brother, always the good guy, began the summary, “H-U-L-K, big arm, measure same snake P-Y-T-H-O-N, 2-4 I-N-C-H, wrestle J-E”

Shoving my nine year old way over, “Not Wrestle! Not Wrestle! A-R-M, hand-clasp (trying to pantomime my own version of homemade two handed sign language for arm wrestling)”

Elbowing me away, “H-U-L-K arm hurt before. Now weak maybe? Doctor try help.”

Jumping in front again I sign, “V body,” stopping to pose like him and enjoying the laughing howls from dad, “Angry! Have S-U-N glasses, force H-U-L-K see himself on V glasses. H-U-L-K sweat, maybe lose?”

“NO! NO! NO!” Using all of his eleven year old strength to throw me to the side, “H-U-L-K win always!”

Rather than continue the summary, I leap up, slap a sleeper hold around my brother’s head and neck. He counters by twisting down and out and somehow, and as every week prior, he manacles me in his full-nelson, holding tight until I cry.

“Enough!” Dad signs. He tolerated our fighting—until his favorite show returned from commercial break.

“Welcome back…” Mean Gene’s announcement always signaled the time for us to return ourselves to our television watching positions.

Six foot two inch, three hundred seventy five pound Austrian Otto Wanz, new to the AWA, delighted dad with the “Steamroller”. A move that required Wanz to bend down, bury the top of his head into the abdomen of the opponent and then somersault forward placing all his weight into the core of the other wrestler. When carrying that weight, the other wrestler ALWAYS screamed and threw all limbs upward in gasping surrender. Off to the side, each week after a Steamroller, we often heard growly giggles and even squeals erupt from the leather chair. I never could tell if the theatrics of being squished or the ridiculousness of using your head to become human construction road-crew entertained dad more. Sometimes when trying to get his attention, dad quickly shushed, or even slapped us on top of the head, as a reminder not to interrupt The Dance Of Otto Wanz.

In summer of 1982 Wanz challenged Nick Bockwinkel for the AWA World Championship Belt: Throwing his opponent into the ropes and watching him return on the rebound, Wanz lifts his leg. “Otto’s got ‘em with the knee.”

Wanz grabs Bockwinkle by the elbow, throwing him to his back and setting him up. “The Steamroller! And another one!”

Dad blows laughing air between pursed lips making flatulence noises. I slap my brother. “Dad’s gonna smell that one!” While trying to slap me back, Bruce “dad” Lee grabs his elbow, flips him backward and with a look dares me to contend. I quietly lean back toward the side of the chair.

All eyes watch the television show Otto jump backwards into the ropes for momentum, “Here comes the big foot. Oh! No! Bobby Heenan grabbed him from behind! Heenan grabbed Otto Wanz’s leg!“

Otto falls face forward into the mat. Recovering, the champion rolls Wanz over and sprawls his body over Otto. “Now Nick goes on top for the pin, One! Two! Three!”

The referee leaps up and waves off the third count. “Oh no, only two! I thought he had him!”

Peering sideways, I could only see dad’s legs as the rest of his body sat back buried in the chair. I noted his raised heels, calves flexing showing the concern he felt for Otto.

The match went on for a few more minutes. “Bockwinkle just going on sheer instincts!”

The announcer continues as the current champ places Otto into a potential pile-driver. “Oh, no way! Can he do it?”

Otto bends at the knees and uses his massive body to stand upright, flipping the champion backward onto his back. “A reversal!”

Otto falls backwards onto Nick, cuing the referee to begin the count. “One! Two! Three!”

Otto jumps to his feet and begins circling the ring, fists upward, cheering. “Holy Smokes! This place is going crazy!”

Earthquake waves shake the floor as dad erupts from his chair, belting out his own primal scream! Out of no where, my brother snatches my collar, yanks me to the floor and steamrollers me until my sternum meets my spine.

“Enough!” Dad signs and yells. We quickly respond to the prompt, calm down, turn off the television and begin whatever activity that Saturday provides.

Two weeks before winning the championship; however, Otto Wanz performed a feat endearing himself to my dad and created a moment etched forever in my memory.

Prior to the Main Event, the camera showed Otto Wanz standing behind five copies of yellow page and three copies of white page telephone books stacked on a table. After an introduction, Otto grabs the first book, takes a deep breath, gripping it along the binding and begins to tear it in half. “Holy Smokes! Look at this ladies and gentlemen! Picking up the phone books one right after the other, Otto Wanz is tearing right through the yellow pages! How about that?”

Before Otto had a chance to begin on the second stack, my dad leaps to his feet, grabs the TV Guide by the binding and begins to grunt. Time stands still as I stare at white knuckled hands working the strenuous twist. Ten seconds slow to ten minutes. All eyes stare at my father strain. While the crowd chants from the television, one woman can be heard over all others screaming support.

Turning my head left, I see my brother’s fascination. He turns toward me and screams, “Holy Shit!”

“AAAAARRRRRRRRRRGH!”

Turning back we see the breathless silhouette of triumphal dad holding half of the TV Guide in each hand above his head.

August 1982, my father, mightier than any superhero, defied all odds parting a magazine before our eyes. Though we have tried for years, still to this day, we have never replicated that feat.

“Please don’t tell dad I swear?”

“Please never Steamroll me again?”

“Deal!” We chant in unison and turn our attention to the television emitting the grounding voice of Mean Gene Okerlund.

“Welcome back…”