"Ladies and gentlemen, at 225 pounds, here is the Crazy Canadian: Mad Dog Vachon."
Even on the flickering screen of the Emerson portable, the sight of Mad Dog Vachon sends a wave of first-rate terror through my fifth-grade heart. The spotlight dances across his bald head and plays devilishly on his goatee. He struts about, shaking his fists at the spectators and cursing in French.
"Now entering the ring, weighing 260 pounds, his opponent: Baron von Raschke."
Oh, my nine-year-old soul. Mad Dog is bad, but the Baron is double-bad with cherry bombs on top. He goose-steps around the ring, face drawn into an insane grin.
He slowly raises his hand toward the camera, fingers extended. The crowd screams at the Baron's preview of his lethal maneuver:
The Claw.
It is the most vicious hold known to professional wrestlers. Once The Claw is attached to your face, down you go. You crawl like a dog, banging your fists on the mat and begging for mercy. But the Baron will not let go, and even a team of referees cannot pull The Claw from your face.
On the T.V., the bell rings and the battle begins, a vicious test of Mad Dog’s skill and the Baron’s brutality. Who will win? I’m not sure.
I do know this: someday I will be able to take on Mad Dog Vachon. As Frank Fury, Man of a Thousand Pinches, I’m already making a name for myself around the playground. My Tweak of Death is widely feared, and first-graders cower when I stomp through the sandbox.
Now, I’m not stupid. I’ll never go within a mile of Baron von Raschke and The Claw.
But I can envision myself someday in the ring with the Crazy Canadian, towering over him, my Tweaks of Death driving him to the mat.
I'll lick you, Mad Dog Vachon.
- - - - - - -
Saturday, August 2, 2003When you're passing through central Iowa on your wedding anniversary, you don’t complain that you can’t afford Scotland or France this year. You skim through the Weekend section of the Des Moines Register and look for something to do that doesn't involve watching tractors pull things on dirt tracks.
That’s why my wife and I are at The International Wrestling Institute, just off Route 14 in Newton. Today, they’re inducting new members into the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame.
Sounds like a second honeymoon to me.
The auditorium is filled, so we’re standing outside the door, mingling with the rest of the overflow crowd in the museum. It's filled with mementos of professional wrestling. We examine a poster for a long-ago match between Gorgeous George and Haystacks Calhoun, displayed on a plexiglass rack that looks suspiciously like a converted salad bar. Much of the decor of the International Wrestling Institute hints at a previous life as an International House of Pancakes.
A thundering burst of applause signals the end of the ceremony, and the auditorium door bursts open. Into the museum marches a parade of middle-aged women, kids with autograph books, and quivering codgers with goose-wattle necks. A rotund, old duffer hobbles past us, propped up by a black cane and a helpful attendant.
"Wow," I think, "some of these fans are ancient."
"Look," says my wife, "it’s Mad Dog Vachon."
I blink, and realize she’s right. Same bald head. Same goatee. This ancient fatso isn’t a fan--he’s the Main Event. Mad Dog Vachon, the chief despoiler of my childhood's mental health, is now a semi-ambulatory, liver-spotted geezer who'd be a half-foot shorter than me if he stood up straight.
Mad Dog’s assistant ushers him to a table where he sits and signs autographs with fellow Hall of Famers Billy Robinson and Jesse Ventura. Soon, Mad Dog stands up, and his assistant helps him across the room to the bathroom. It's obviously a chore for this obese man in his seventies who shuffles with a cane.
A fellow fan is whispering to me that Mad Dog has an artificial leg, due to a hit-and-run accident. But I hardly hear. Old, forgotten dreams are springing to life. My body vibrates with the electricity of a growing realization:
I can lick you, Mad Dog Vachon.
Go ahead, big boy, bring your cane into the ring, I don’t care. I’ll even give you extra time between rounds to go to the bathroom. But it won’t help you.
Frank Fury is on fire.
Bursting with newfound power, I'm ready to take on anyone in the house. I’ll face Mad Dog and Billy Robinson as a tag team. I recognize a grey-haired codger in a string tie as Dick Hutton, master of the abdominal stretch and atomic drop. Well, stretch this, pal, and we’ll see who drops their atoms.
And I can whip that bent-over great-grandfather posing for photos, though it wouldn't be fair; something about him isn’t right. He's grimacing, as though in pain. I hurry closer, wondering if he may need help.
A fan next to me points a camera at him. Slowly, a twisted expression crawls across the old man's face. He raises his hand and extends his fingers.
It’s Baron von Raschke. He’s threatening me with The Claw.
I fight to control my bladder. Sensing my panic, my wife pulls me away. I dash to the bathroom, but it’s locked because Mad Dog Vachon is inside with his caregiver and wooden leg. At the age of fifty-four, I’m about to wet my pants in a pancake house full of professional wrestlers.
I run out the door and jog across the parking lot to the Perkins Family Restaurant, and find the men's room. There’s an old guy drying his hands at the sink, but I'm safe. He's just the regular kind of geezer who thanks you for holding the door instead of hoisting you up on his back and twirling you around in an airplane spin.
Whew.
Over coffee, I calm down and realize that one of the pleasures of maturity is no longer having to prove yourself.
Mad Dog Vachon is a decrepit, waddling senior citizen.
I’m Frank Fury, Man of a Thousand Pinches.
I could whip him, sure, but I don’t have to. Knowing I can do it is enough.
To bring the dream to life would be to take the life out of the dream.
Now, I’m not stupid. You couldn’t pay me enough to charge back across the parking lot and face Baron von Raschke and The Claw. I’m a realist.
But, I can lick you, Mad Dog Vachon.
"Man of a Thousand Pinches" was first published, in a slightly different form, by Suite101.com.
Copyright 2003 Frank Mullen III
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